Hocus

Samuel frantically punched the intercom button. “Get the fuck away from him!” he screamed into the mike. “Get the fuck away from him now if you want to live, you son of a bitch!”

Frank lifted his manacled hands in the air, backed awkwardly away from Bret. He couldn’t see the camera, so he turned toward the voice. “He fainted,” Frank said. “He’s okay, he just fainted.”

Samuel’s breath was coming hard, painfully. “Stay away from him,” he repeated, nearly in tears, but now he could see that Frank’s hand was bleeding. The blood. That’s what must have made Bret faint.

“What did you do to your hand?” Samuel asked.

Frank didn’t answer, just looked around for the camera.

“I asked a question. Answer me!”

“I pulled the IV out,” Frank said.

Bret moaned.

“Let me help him,” Frank said.

“You go near him, I’ll kill you. Go into the bathroom,” Samuel ordered. “Go in there and close the door. If he sees the blood, he’ll faint again.”

Reluctantly, looking down at Bret as he passed him, Frank moved into the bathroom and closed the door.

With shaking fingers Samuel entered the code, then hurried down to Bret. He rearmed the alarm, noting that the keypad had blood on it. He’d have to wipe that off later.

Bret’s eyes fluttered open.

“Samuel?” He tried to sit up.

“I’m here. You’re still pale. Let me help you.” When he had situated Bret on the stairs so that he could sit more comfortably, Samuel said, “Are you hurt anywhere? Did you hit your head when you fainted?”

“No, I think Frank caught me.” He looked around. “Where is he?”

“In the bathroom. It’s okay. Just relax. Don’t look over there — I’ll clean up that mess. You just put your head down.”

“Embarrassing,” Bret said, putting his head between his knees.

“No, it’s not. Don’t worry about that. And forget about him. The fan runs when the light is on, so he can’t hear us.”

“Maybe you should see if he’s all right. He was bleeding.”

“Not that badly,” Samuel said. “He’ll be okay. He can rinse it off in the sink, wrap it in a towel. He’s smart enough to do that.”

“He broke the morphine bottle. Pulled his IV catheter out. Tried to enter the alarm code.”

“I should have waited, made sure he went under.”

“He pinched the tubing shut. I don’t think he got any of it.”

“Son of a bitch,” Samuel growled, looking toward the bathroom.

“I don’t blame him,” Bret said.

“What?”

“I don’t blame him. And every time I hear those manacles—”

“Relax, relax,” Samuel soothed.

“I would go crazy, Samuel. If someone did that to me, I’d go crazy. I couldn’t take it.”

“Shh. It’s all right. No one has hurt him, Bret. Not really.”

“We have. The morphine — it’s just like the chains. It’s a chemical chain, that’s all. He knows it. It makes him feel helpless. And when he thought you had shot his wife, it must have been just like—”

“When he thought I had what?”

“Shot his wife. Did you shoot her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Irene Kelly. That’s who’s in the building.”

Samuel stared at him in silence. “You lied to me,” he said, incredulous.

“Yes. I’m sorry if that hurts you.”

“If it hurts me? Of course it does!”

“Just sit with me here for a minute, Samuel. Just sit with me. Like we used to, when we were silent.”

Samuel almost rebelled, but something in Bret’s voice worried him. So he didn’t say anything.

Within a few minutes he was calm. The silences always did this for him. In school, when they were younger, if someone made him angry, Bret could calm him in this way. And he was reminded that Bret would not have asked for one of these shared silences unless, ironically, there was something important to be “said.”

After a long time Samuel spoke. “It was because of Faye.”

“Yes.”