Hard Beat

Suck it up, Thomas. You were played. Now man up and get over it.

“Fuck,” I sigh out into the empty room, feeling so out of place in my own home. Setting my empty beer bottle down, I shift on the couch so that my head is on one armrest and my feet are on the other. The problem is when I look up toward my ceiling, the cracks I’m so used to tracing as I work through my thoughts aren’t there. Restless, I move onto my side so that I can look elsewhere, when something jabs my rib cage. Shifting again, I reach down to find my cell phone there, but when I pick it up to toss it on the table and glance at the screen, my heart stops for a beat.

It was all a lie and none of it was a lie. —Rookie

It takes me a moment to really believe that the message could be from her, but I can’t deny she’s the only person I’ve ever called that nickname. I slowly exhale the breath I’m holding. Just when I’ve decided to get the fuck over her, she comes and slaps me in the face. No, not a slap in the face. She’s given me something to go off, and in Rylee’s book that’s a sign I can start fighting for her.

Damn. I guess it’s time for Prince Charming to learn how to ride a horse.

Chapter 26

S

everal times in my career I’ve heard the saying, “Ideas pull the trigger, but it’s instinct that loads the gun.” Until the moment I walked through the Kansas City International Airport, I never thought it would pertain to me. Or have led me to this moment.

I was disappointed but not surprised when I called the cell phone number that texted me, only to find that the call went unanswered and there wasn’t a voice mail. A quick Internet search told me the number was most likely from a disposable cell phone, meaning it was untraceable.

And even though my gut reaction was to immediately call her back, I was still confused. If she didn’t want me to come after her, why did she text me? Why send me a cryptic message instead of just letting me be?

I’m a reporter, someone who asks the tough questions in situations that are not easily answered. She had to know I’d go apeshit over having a clue to something that I couldn’t figure out. Was that her point? Was she in trouble and needed help, or was she just trying to tell me she was sorry in some fucked-up way? Or even worse, was she toying with me again to see if I’d come running and play right back into her hands?

I hated wondering as much as I hated thinking she needed me but was playing me at the same time.

The whole thing didn’t sit well with me. So after I had spent days calling in favors and being put on the back burner, one of my old military liaisons turned federal agent turned source took pity on me. Well, pity mixed with the delivery of a rare bottle of aged Macallan for the Scotch aficionado. Regardless, he attempted to trace the cell phone number for me.

And three days later I may not have had much more than that it was a disposable cell phone with no contract or traceability, but there was a single ping off a cell tower that occurred when the text went out. A single black dot on a map that gave me a triangulation range and let me narrow down a general location of where she was: the Kansas City area.

Something about it fit for me. The funny look on her face that first time we met up with Omid when I said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” tells me that I’m in the right place. But my problem is that I don’t have much more to go on than intuition, a determined heart, and a pocketful of hope. On top of that, the pocket has a hole in its bottom, an hourglass of sorts, and I’ve promised myself that this time around, when the hope bleeds out, I’m done.

My gut tells me that I need to visit the hospitals, need to work that angle because she was transferred to a U.S. hospital and will need to continue with her care even if she’s been sent home already. It’s a long shot at best, but she gave me an opening, and if I don’t follow through with it, I’ll always wonder what if. I’ll always question whether she was my once-in-a-lifetime and I passed her up.

By early evening I’m wiped out and feel like I’ve exhausted every existing avenue. I’ve been to all of the hospitals – Saint Luke’s, University, North Kansas City, Select Specialty, and even Kansas Heart – trying to leave no stone unturned. But not a single person recognizes her picture; nor will anyone confirm or deny that a Beaux or BJ Croslyn has been or is a patient. I’m so desperate to find her that I’m willing to try Children’s Mercy just to make sure that all of my t’s are crossed and i’s are dotted.

With my head back against the headrest of my rental car, I debate what to do next. Should I just say fuck it and catch a flight home? I mean really, what the hell am I doing here, looking for the pot of gold that doesn’t exist? Desperation doesn’t look good on anyone, least of all on me, and I reek of it these days.

Sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall, I glance at the map in my hand with the circles around the hospital icons as I set it down, unsure where to go from here. I was so gung ho when I got here and now just feel pathetic. The radio drones on, and I switch the station out of boredom, stopping when I come to a Cardinals baseball game and just leave it on for background noise as I debate my next move.

The smart thing would be to get a hotel, wait for shift change, and then head back to the hospitals, flash her picture, and try with the different employees. If I’m here, I’d better satisfy my need to be thorough when investigating a story, because that’s how I’m trying to treat this, like it’s a story. It’s the only way I can approach the Beaux situation and consider the possibility I might not get the outcome I want. Put the filter up, turn the emotions off, treat it like the hard beat I had in the Middle East.