Little Lamb Lost (32 page)

Chapter Thirty

I floated into a semiconscious state. Came
to the realization that I was lying on my right side, on a mattress of some
sort. A blanket over me. I wasn’t dead.

Then I felt the pain. A headache worse
than any I’d ever had in my life. Searing. No hangover had ever been this bad.

I forced my eyes open. I was looking at
some kind of plastic railing. On the railing was a keypad. Up. Down. A red
button with a cross. A clear plastic tube went from my arm to an IV bag.

I was in the hospital. If I was in the
hospital, I was safe. I had vague, fuzzy memories of the last several hours. I
remembered flashing lights, shouting. A dim recollection of a ride on a
stretcher. Then nothing but darkness.

“She’s awake.” Dad, sounding relieved.

I struggled onto my back and tried to
sit up. A gentle male voice said, “Hang on, I’ll help you.” It was strange to
hear that voice in person. Chris, my brother.

He came to my side and worked a button.
The bed under my back rose until I was upright.

My gaze focused on the faces in the
room. My father, baggy-eyed, stubble rough on his face. Grant, frowning with
concern. Mac, with that exasperated expression I knew so well. Chris and
Royanne.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

My brother the nurse knew exactly what
was about to happen. Chris shoved a pink banana-shaped plastic tray under my
chin just as I gave a mighty heave and spewed out a thin, vile stream of
greenish liquid.

The first wave passed and I looked at
the crowd, their worried expressions now layered with disgust. “Can I have some
privacy please?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Everyone left except Dad and Chris. The
second wave of stomach cramps hit and Chris left to get someone. When the
nausea subsided again, I asked Dad, “What happened? How’d they find me? Who
found me?”

“Maybe you’d better rest. We can talk
about this later.”

“No. I want to know what happened.”

“Your boyfriend —”

“He’s not —”

“Well, if he’s not he damn well should be.
He saved your life. Him and some guy named Jimmy Shelton.”

“What? Jimmy —”

“Just listen, okay? When the alarm went
off, Grant tried to call your cell phone, then your phone at home. When you
didn’t answer, he raised all hell. Called 911 and had the police meet him at
your house. At the same time another 911 call came in. It was that Jimmy guy,
saying that two men had broken in. When the police got there and busted through
the door, they were discussing what to do with your — with you.”

“With my body.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick with
emotion. “They were talking about how to make your death look like a suicide.”

I remembered Dad’s revelation about his
client twenty years ago. And his grief over my mother’s death. I didn’t want to
think about what he would have gone through if I hadn’t been rescued. I was
suddenly flooded with such sadness and guilt I could hardly stand it.

“Dad, don’t. Please. I’m all right.”

He cleared his throat and pulled himself
together. “Anyway, the two guys were arrested. The cops called an ambulance and
you were brought here.”

“Where am I?”

“St. Vincent’s.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Almost fourteen hours.” He checked his
watch. “It’s ten twenty Friday night now. Those two guys injected you with a
huge dose of Valium. They also had pills and a bottle of booze, to leave with
your body.”

Chris and a nurse with a cute haircut
and apple cheeks came in. She had a syringe in her hand, and the sight of it
made my stomach tighten. But there was no needle, just a port that she plugged
into my IV cord. As she plunged the medicine in, I asked, “What is that?”

“Phenergan. For the nausea. It’ll make
you sleepy.”

“Oh, good, I need more sleep.”

She laughed, tossed the syringe into a
red trash can, and left. Dad said, “Detective Brighton also stopped by. He
wants to meet with you when you’re feeling a bit better.”

Grant peeked in the door. “You okay? The
nurse said she gave you something to help.”

I nodded and held my hand out to him. He
came in and took it.

“Thanks,” I said. And here I thought all
heroes looked like Indiana Jones.

He kissed my hand gently as I fell back
to sleep.

I woke up nine hours later when the
nurse came in to get vitals. I felt much better. The headache and the nausea
were gone and I was ravenously hungry after almost twenty-four hours with
nothing to eat. I ate the hospital breakfast of eggs, bacon, grits, and a
biscuit and sent Dad to the cafeteria for more food. The doctor discharged me
Saturday afternoon. I spent two nights at Dad’s, he and Chris waiting on me hand
and foot as I rested in my old, familiar bed.

Monday morning I drove myself downtown to
Police Headquarters. A large mural covered the side of the brick building,
depicting four children of different races, arms draped around each other. The
Birmingham Pledge against racism was painted next to the children.
I will treat
all people with dignity and respect
, it said,
knowing that
the world will be a better place because of my effort.

I asked for Brighton at the desk. I was
taken to a narrow room. The walls were stark white and the only furniture was
an old, coffee-ringed table and some plastic and metal chairs. Brighton met me
there and taped my statement about what happened the day I was attacked,
including what Grant and I had discovered about BaxMed and Global Holdings of
Birmingham. Then he asked me to wait. He returned with a typed transcript of
what I’d said and had me sign it.

In the hallway after the interview, I
saw a uniformed officer escorting Ashley to the room I’d just left. She stopped
next to me and rested her head briefly on my shoulder. It was the closest thing
to a hug she could give me, considering the fact that her wrists were
handcuffed in front of her. I waited until she finished talking to Brighton.

While I waited, Zander arrived. He
looked miserable. Pale. Ill. I wondered if he was detoxing. He went in after
Ashley and gave his statement. Afterward, the three of us met in the hall.

“Are you okay?” Ashley asked me.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I tried to
warn you.”

“I know. Let’s not talk about whose
fault it was. I should have listened to you. Told the police. Backed off.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. Now they got them,
and they can’t hurt no one else.”

“Why did Michael die?”

“I went to work Friday night, to clean
BaxMed. I finished the lobby and went down the hall to do Trey’s office. I knew
Trey, see. He and Zander were friends. When I was usin’, we all used to hang
out together. Anyway, that night I heard Trey arguing with his father. They’re
fighting, so I go into the office across the hall to clean instead. I tried not
to listen, but I could still hear them. Trey’s daddy said something about the
money not covering it all, and Trey said well, what do you want me to do, Dad?
I’m doing the best I can. Then his dad said they needed to step it up. That’s
what he said, step it up. Trey said the new nightclub would help. They’d be
able to distribute more G and X that way.

“Trey said he would bring in more money,
and to give him time. His daddy left, and I guess after that Trey heard me
cleaning in the other room. He asked me how much I overheard, between him and
his dad. I said I didn’t hear nothin’. He said I better not have and if I
didn’t want to die I’d keep my mouth shut. I wasn’t going to say nothin’ to
nobody. I knew he meant it. But then, Tuesday, my son died. I was supposed to
die too. They didn’t want no one knowin’ where the money to support their
company was comin’ from.”

I said, “So Trey Baxter was
manufacturing GHB and Ecstasy in BaxMed’s lab?”

She nodded. I looked at Zander. He
added, “I knew Trey was dealing. Lucas sold the stuff for him at Kaleidoscope,
and some of Donovan’s other bartenders did the same at his other places.
Donovan didn’t know about it, but I think he suspected something. Then Trey
used the profits from his dealing to boost BaxMed. He funneled the money
through a company called Global Holdings of Birmingham. Get it? GHB. He used to
brag about that. He thought it was funny.”

I asked, “You knew he killed Michael?”

“Trey came over to my house on Monday.
He had some G and some vodka with him. We had a few drinks, I did the G, then
he waited until I passed out. I think he took my keys, and my car, to Ashley’s
and put the GHB in the juice.”

“Zander, why didn’t you tell someone?”

He pressed his lips together. “Trey gave
me shit for free. I needed — I wanted the drugs. Ashley was clean. They
couldn’t control her like they were controlling me. She would have turned them
in, too, if they hadn’t threatened her, right?”

Ashley nodded again.

I had lots of questions. “Why’d they
need the money from illegal drug dealing? Why couldn’t BaxMed just find a
sponsor? An investor? A large drug company to help with costs?”

Zander said, “No drug company would’ve
picked them up. The trials of the ADHD medicine weren’t going well. Not that it
harmed anyone or anything, it just wasn’t any better than what’s already out
there. Trey knew it, but he wanted to keep BaxMed going. His dad had already
sunk his life savings into the company. And I think Trey wanted to be
legitimate, eventually. Produce a drug that really could help people.”

I asked Ashley, “I don’t get what Jimmy
had to with any of this. Why was he threatening me? Why’d he slash my tires?”

“He didn’t. I think that was Flash. He’d
been callin’ me again, trying to get back with me. He hates you. He blames you
for breakin’ us up. It’s stupid, ’cause you saved my life. I wanted to save
yours. I made Jimmy promise to protect you. I knew you were gonna be stubborn
and not give up. Jimmy was supposed to keep you from getting hurt.”

“And you let me believe he was out to
kill me. Ashley —”

“I wanted you to be scared. I wanted you
to quit. Now, I’m glad you didn’t. Now my baby has justice.”

I studied Michael’s parents, seeing them
together for the first time. I realized that Michael had been a perfect blend
of the two. He’d had his father’s hair and eyes, and his mother’s cheekbones
and fair skin.

Zander buried his head in his hands. “He
killed my son. I was his best friend, and he killed my son. I should have
stopped him.”

I didn’t know what to say to that,
except, “I’m sorry.”

Kirk got his story. Several, actually, in
the weeks after we were interviewed by Brighton. I secretly filled in the
blanks, on occasion, in exchange for his not using my name. He kept his word.
He wrote about the systematic dismantling of BaxMed and the FDA investigation.
He covered the investigations and indictments of Trey Baxter, Dr. Walter
Baxter, and Lucas Grayson. The long list of charges against them included
murder and attempted murder. Attempted murder of me. I could barely get my head
around that.

I met with Mac and Dr. Pope on my first
day back at work and related the whole story. I assume that Dr. Pope had a word
with the state office, who quietly had a word with the attorney general. That’s
what I guess, anyway, because nobody ever told me anything. The only clue I had
that the official investigation was over was when I got an e-mail from Mac that
said to close the Hennessy file and send it to the file room. Business as
usual. I was grateful to still have my job.

Ashley got out of jail and she and Jimmy
sent me a wedding invitation a week after her release. I went, huge gift in
hand, and thanked Jimmy in person for saving my life. Al and Dee were at the
wedding, all smiles. Al couldn’t take his eyes off the decorated box set out to
collect cards and cash for the newlyweds. I never found out if the box made it
home with Ashley and Jimmy. I suspect not.

A week and a day after I nearly died,
Grant and I went on the dinner-and-a-movie date we’d planned forever. He stayed
the night, but not in the guest room.

The evening after that, Kirk called me
ahead of press time and read the next day’s headline to me over the phone. SON
OF PROMINENT LOCAL BUSINESSMAN FOUND DEAD OF OVERDOSE, it said. Kirk said the
paramedics found a crack pipe lying next to Zander’s body, along with an empty
bottle of stolen pills.

Dad and I went to Zander’s funeral,
along with Jimmy and Ashley and hundreds of others, at St. Luke’s Episcopal
Church. Karen and Alexander Madison both shook our hands like robots as we
arrived. The only member of the family who showed a hint of emotion was
Zander’s little sister, Kaylin. She cried throughout the whole service.

As the priest eulogized Zander, it gave
me some comfort to picture him with his son in some sort of heavenly afterlife.
In a green meadow, perhaps. With a pond. Feeding the ducks like Mikey loved to
do. Holding hands and playing together. Neither of them lost any longer.