Page 8 of Mason's Run

“No…” I moaned, grabbing the man’s hand. “Please… don’t… don’t go…” I cried, his fingers slipping away from mine. I could handle dying, I just didn’t want to do it alone.

“I have to, Mason, I’m sorry, but… I’ll see you soon, I promise.”

The sound of sirens got louder, but it was as if the sound was swallowed up in the darkness that finally overtook me.

When I woke many hours (or was it days?) later, I was in a hospital room with two people. One was a man in a suit jacket who looked vaguely familiar and the other was an older African-American woman. I saw the man, a coffee cup in one hand and pad of paper and a pen in the other. The woman looked at me in surprise as I started to move, and I noticed she had startling blue eyes, just like Zem’s.

“Zem?” I asked groggily, trying to sit up, but the agony in my body kept me from moving far.

The woman reached over and patted my arm, brushing a stray curl back from my forehead.

“Zem’s fine, dear,” she said. “Thanks to you. I’m her grandma, Tira Graham.”

The pain was making everything kind of white around the edges and I was panting like a woman in labor, waiting for the spasm to pass. My ass was on fire and my arm felt like white hot pokers were running through it.

“She… she made it to you?” I finally managed to whisper. Tira nodded.

My glance flicked to the man in the sports coat. He was probablyabout my height but had to have a good thirty pounds on me. All of it looked to be muscle, if the thighs that strained the seams of his pants and the way his shoulders filled out his suit jacket were any judge. He was hot, but in an understated way.

“I’m Detective David Jarreau, Mason. I work on the City of Milwaukee’s human trafficking task force. I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened at the hotel.”

Jarreau.

“The beat cop…” I whispered, not realizing I had spoken out loud until I saw the confusion cross his face. He was the one who had sent me back to CPS years ago.

“What?” He asked.

I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry. Tira offered me a sip of water from a cup on the bedside table. I didn’t think anything had ever tasted as good as that water did right then. She cautioned me not to drink too much, then set the water back down and let me speak.

“You bought me a burger and took me to the hospital after I got bit by a rat,” I rasped.

I could see Jarreau sifting through years of memories before recognition dawned and I saw his skin go a little paler.

“Shit, kid,” he growled, running a hand over his tired face. “I tried to find you, but CPS said you had moved with no forwarding address.”

I swallowed hard. I’d always regretted not telling him what had really been going on. There was a kind of quiet strength about Jarreau that made mewantto trust him, but I’d learned the hard way that trusting cops was never a good idea.

“I… I don’t remember anything,” I said, looking away and feeling my cheeks heat in embarrassment as I said the words, unable to hold the detective’s gaze.

“Really? I haven’t even asked a question yet,” Jarreau said, a sad smile on his face, like it was the answer he had expected me to come up with.

He moved closer to the bed and sat in a chair beside me. Our heads were almost the same height now, and it was easier to look at him.

“Ricky’s dead, Mason. He can’t hurt you any more,” he said. I closed my eyes in relief.

“I know this is hard, kiddo, but do you know who killed him? A friend? A rival?”

“I don’t remember anything,” I said, wishing I could escape back into the darkness. Confirmation that Ricky was dead was a balm to my soul, but I also knew it wasn’t over. Dreyven was still out there.

“Are you saying you don’t rememberanything?” He asked again. “The smallest detail might be the clue we need to put these guys away. And anything you say would be held in the strictest of confidence,” he said.

I shook my head. No way. No fucking way was I painting that bullseye on my back. Ricky might be dead, but Dreyven wasn’t.

“So, whatdoyou remember?” he asked. “Because that little girl had quite the story to tell about being rescued from an evil monster with, and I’m quoting here, ‘four hands, eight legs and at least six butts,’ he smiled gently and quirked an eyebrow at me. “She was very specific about the butts.”

I started to chuckle, but the pain turned it into a groan. Tira stood. “I’m going to go find a nurse to give this poor boy some pain medication. Don’t you tire him out, David,” she said, shaking a finger at the detective.

“No, Ma’am. I will do my best to make sure he’s able to have some peace,” he replied.