187Thanks to max2013, Caranath, TaoTheCat, EvergreenDreamweaver, sm2003495, BMSH, p9119, Penelope Jadewing, Xenitha, Paulina Ann, hlahabibty, and Barb for the reviews and follows. Thank you also to those who read but didn't review. I appreciate you all. There are four completed chapters of the story so far, with the fifth mostly done. I will post one a week until those are up. After that, updates may be more sporadic as RL dictates…
Now, to find out what has Joe so ticked!
Even in his sleep, Joe could tell something wasn't quite right. He shifted slightly, slowly becoming aware that a) he was being watched, and b) he was lying on his back. Which couldn't be right. The only time he ever slept on his back was when he was sick or when he was...
Crap.
He cracked his eyes open and forced them to try to focus on what was around him. Things were blurry, but if he squinted he could make out unadorned pastel-colored walls, florescent light fixtures, and rails flanking the sides of the bed.
A hospital. Definitely a hospital.
This can't be happening, he thought, letting out an annoyed breath. Tell me this isn't...
"Welcome back, little brother."
He shifted his eyes to the side of the bed where the voice had come from.
Frank sat in a chair leaning over the railing, his facial features somewhat out of focus but his expression definitely torn between worry and amusement as he watched the rapid-fire change of emotions on his younger brother's face.
Joe shook his head, pressing his hands to his eyes. "No. No, no, no, no, no. This is not happening." He tried to push himself up to a sitting position, but the motion made the room spin violently, and he fell back on the pillows, closing his eyes so he could try to get his equilibrium back under control. "Damn!"
"Is this a common reaction?" The voice – pitched low, but definitely female with a noticeable Latino accent – came from the curtain behind Frank. Joe didn't recognize it. A nurse maybe?
"Just let him get it out of his system," Frank said, turning slightly in her direction. Joe could hear the concern under the dark humor in his brother's voice. "You won't get anything out of him until he's done."
Joe dropped his hands to his legs and felt a thin, cotton blanket covering the crisp sheet pulled tight against his thighs. It smelled faintly of bleach.
Damn. If I can smell that, it isn't a dream.
His shoulders sagged deeper into the mattress. He sighed and opened his eyes again, noting everything around him was still hazy.
"How long have I been out?" he asked, not really wanting to know the answer. "And what happened?"
"A while," Frank said. "I've been here almost four hours."
Joe squinted down by the floor and saw what looked like the outlines of at least three large, disposable cups in the trash can next to the curtain. His eyes widened. This was an indication of how worried Frank really had been. Even for a caffeine addict like Frank that was a lot of coffee in a relatively short period of time.
"We're pretty sure you were drugged. They're not sure how much time passed before you were found. The gallery owners found you unresponsive and tied to a chair. They thought you were dead. Scared the hell out of them." He pushed an unsteady hand through his dark hair and let out a long breath. "Me, too," he muttered.
"I'm fine. Just pissed off." Joe banged his head on the pillow. Something seemed to be off with Frank, but he pushed the thought away for a moment and tried to focus on what was happening. "At least tell me the 'art'" – he raised his hands to make air quotes – "is still there."
Frank twisted around, nodding to someone Joe couldn't see. "And this is where I turn the proceedings over to someone else."
A woman ducked through the curtain around the bed, moving like a large blur into Joe's field of vision. It was a little hard to tell, but she appeared to be of average height, Hispanic, probably in her early forties, with short, dark hair and a what he thought looked to be business-like expression on her face. Her dark blue suit had probably seen better days, and the pockets of her pants seemed to bulge slightly, something that was verified when she pulled a small wire-bound note notebook from one of them. She then retrieved a pen from the inside pocket of her jacket and appeared to nod a greeting.
"Mr. Hardy, I'm Detective Susanna Rodriguez of the NYPD. I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances." Her tone was disinterested and business-like. "I'm investigating the theft of several large works of art from the Michaels Gallery. Can you tell me what happened to you?"
Joe put the heels of his hands back over his eyes, hoping this would help them focus when he opened them again. The persistent blur was starting to give him a headache.
"No, I can't," he grumbled. "Why don't you tell me?"
"Joe..." Frank's voice held both understanding and a note of warning.
"I know. I know." Joe waved his hands at his brother then turned his head, eyes still shut, back in the detective's direction. "I'm sorry. I'm still a bit foggy. And this wasn't how I was expecting this night to end." He cracked his lids up and turned back to Frank, annoyed that his brother's features were still hazy. "Wait, you've been here four hours? What day is it?"
"Friday." Detective Rodriguez answered the question. "Around three in the afternoon."
"What?" Joe's voice rang out in the tiny room. "What the hell time did von Ormond get there?"
Rodriguez flipped the notebook open and glanced down at it. "Mr. von Ormond said he got to the gallery at nine-thirty this morning."
"He was supposed to meet me there at eight," Joe growled. He turned to Frank again. "I told you I didn't have a good feeling about this job. I told you..."
"Mr. Hardy." The ice in the detective's voice brought the temperature of the room down about twenty degrees. "What happened?"
Frank's hand came to rest on Joe's shoulder. "Detective, my brother has just regained consciousness." His voice was steel edged with protectiveness. Joe could feel his grip tightening incrementally with each word. "He is understandably disoriented. He'll answer your questions, but you will need to be patient."
The words were more an order than a request, aimed – Joe realized – at both of them.
Rodriguez puffed out a breath, glared at Frank, then shifted her gaze back to Joe. "I realize this is a confusing and traumatic experience for you, Mr. Hardy." The words, mechanical and completely lacking both in sincerity and empathy, made Joe snort." But I need you to answer the question. What. Happened?" She enunciated the last two words clearly.
Joe felt a squeeze from Frank's hand and knew what his brother was silently telling him.
Answer, but just what's asked. I can do that.
He let out a breath and counted to ten in his head before answering. "I don't know. Not exactly. The last thing I remember is turning off the main lights and going to von Ormond's office to get a chair."
"And what time was that?"
He thought for a moment. "The staff hadn't been gone that long. Maybe fifteen minutes." He let his eyes relax and stared off into the blur for a few seconds. "The gallery closed at nine. Staff did some clean up. So, maybe nine-thirty?"
"And then?" The detective's voice was hard.
"I don't know. I told you. I went into the office to get a chair and then… I don't remember." The room suddenly felt crowded and close. Joe's stomach turned over, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Joe?" Frank's face swam in front of his.
"Bucket," he said through gritted teeth and fingers, his other hand reaching out. "Now."
Detective Rodriguez skin turned a sickly green, and she cleared her throat. "I'll check back with you later, Mr. Hardy. I hope you feel better." She ducked behind the curtain as Joe retched into the trash can Frank managed to hand him just in time.
When his stomach finally calmed down, Joe reached out for the damp cloth Frank was holding out, chagrined that it took him three tries to get it in his hand. As he wiped his face, he could feel Frank's eyes on him, not needing to see him to know they held a question.
"Well, if that's all it took to get rid of her..." he joked, then grimaced as his insides clenched again for a moment. When the spasm passed, he lay back down feeling completely wiped. "Okay, we need to find out what the hell they gave me so I can never, ever have that in my system again."
Frank disappeared into what Joe guessed was the bathroom and came out a moment later with something white in his hand. "I'll make sure we get the results of the tox screen." As he got closer, Joe could see it was a cup. Frank helped him lift his head, then held the cup to his lips allowing him sip the cool liquid without choking. "That better?"
Joe nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."
"Any time, little brother. Any time." There was a faint tapping noise as the cup was placed on a table, then a 'poof' sound as Frank sat back down on the chair. "Okay, so what did happen?"
"That's the frustrating part. I don't remember. Anything." He let out a growl, raised a hand to rub the back of his neck, and squeezed his eyes shut. "And right now, I feel like crap. Every muscle in my body aches, I'm completely exhausted, and my vision's off."
"Off?" Frank's body stiffened in the chair, and he leaned forward, pressing something on the wall by Joe's head. "What do you mean off?"
"Wonky. Everything's kinda blurry. I'm sure it will go back to normal in a minute or two." Joe moved his hand from his neck to his face and rubbed his eyes. Again. Then he opened them and blinked a few more times, hoping this time his vision would clear.
What's that they say about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome? Ah, never mind.
The door creaked open, and a different female voice said, "Is everything all right, Mr. Hardy?"
Joe turned his head in the direction of the speaker, but before he could open his mouth, Frank spoke.
"Can we get the attending physician to take a look at my brother? He says there's something wrong with his vision."
"He's awake?" Surprise was evident in the speaker's voice. The curtain was pushed aside, and Joe could see a black-haired, dark blue blur in the doorway. "The detective didn't say anything about him being awake."
"Well, I am, and I want to go home now. Can you make that happen?" He started to sit up, but Frank's hand pushed down on his chest, forcing his head back onto the pillow.
"Not until you've been looked at." The voice was firm, but there was a hint of a smile in the words.
The blur moved closer, and Joe could make out dusky skin and a surprisingly vibrant purple eyeshadow, although the nurse's features were still indistinct. What he had thought was hair turned out to be a headscarf of some sort.
"Nice to see you awake, Mr. Hardy the younger," she said, grabbing his left hand and flipping it over so she could take his pulse. "So, what seems to be going on with your eyes?"
"Just call me Joe," he said, smiling up at her. "Please."
He could just make out an answering smile on her face.
"Nice attempt at redirection, Joe. I'm Sarai." She placed his hand back down on his chest. "Now, tell me what's going on."
Feeling his brother's eyes on him, he repeated his symptoms to Sarai.
"Muscle pain?" There was a puzzled tone in her voice that he didn't like. "You weren't by any chance at a bar or a party were you?"
"No." He started to shake his head, stopping when it rekindled the queasy feeling in his stomach. "I was at work."
"But I thought the police detective was here because..." Sarai's voice trailed off. "Well, never mind."
"Rohypnol?" Frank's voice was subdued.
Sarai lifted her face to Frank's. "Your brother's complaints are consistent with what we've seen from other victims."
"Wait, are you saying I was roofied?" Joe could feel the anger rising in his chest, burning away the nausea and the aching muscles.
"We won't know until your screen are done," she said, then cleared her throat. "Have you been checked for any signs of assault?"
"What? No!" Anger was giving way to outrage. "Nothing happened!"
Frank laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You don't know that, Joe."
Joe shook his hand off, scowling. Frank shrugged and moved his hand to rub at his own eyes, a mirror image of the motion Joe had been making. Even though he couldn't make out the details, Joe could see how was tight the motion was, tight enough for him to realize how tense his brother was. And there was still that something else going on that Joe couldn't put a finger on.
When Frank spoke again, his voice was softer. "You just said you don't remember what anything. We need to get you checked out."
Joe took a deep breath and counted to ten before speaking. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "Do what you need to. Then I'm going home."