The Voting Machine

Stages of Recovery

The glow of candle flames created flickering shadows on the ceiling overhead. I was flat on my back, pushed against a floor mat as if I were on some other planet where the force of gravity had doubled. It took me a minute to realize the room was familiar. It was the place I'd peered in on earlier, watching from the alley way as Annabelle consoled a grizzled, wheelchair-bound addict.

In the middle of the room there was a whiteboard covered with writing in a black, sharpie marker. I lifted my head, curling my heck in an arch, squinting until the letters in the message were clear.

STAGES OF RECOVERY

1. REGAINING A SENSE OF SAFETY

2. COMING TO TERMS WITH PAST ABUSE.

3. RECONNECTING WITH THE WORLD

My head fell flat against the floor again, my body exhausted from that tiny, simple action. I realized how important it would be to conserve my energy for the challenge ahead. A hinge squeaked as the door swung open and Annabelle entered the room. She was wearing black tank top and yoga leggings, her shoulders bare, exposing the rose tattoo from her private school days.

She had changed clothes since I saw her earlier and I wondered why. Her face was soft and sad in a way that brought out her beauty. She was a well-known now as an heiress, activist and philanthropist, her patronage and affection coveted by many people for many reasons. But when it was just the two of us together, the trappings of title and reputation seemed to melt away. I had been there during some of the most vulnerable moments of her life. When we were alone, you could feel that history hanging in the air like a cloud.

"We thought you OD'd," she said. "The paramedics came. The cops came. They were ready to haul you off in a gurney before they realized you were fine."

"I'm fine?" I couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"I mean there's no trace of drugs in your system. They said you suffered from low blood sugar and lack of sleep but that's it."

"I am glad they let me stay here at the clinic."

"What happened, Temo? You jammed a needle in your arm right out on the sidewalk in front of the clinic. We saw you from the window."

"I know you did."

"So what the hell happened? I don't understand it. Neither did the cops. They seemed genuinely freaked out about the prospect of the notorious Temo McCarthy finally checking out during their shift on Skid Row."

"I guess that would've meant a lot of paperwork."

"This isn't a joke, Temo. Some of those cops, when they are cornered they don't act rationally. They found a kid in the alley past Seventh Street."

"Little Man?"

"I don't know what they did but they got him to confess that he sold you mud. He says you ordered a kill shot."

"They arrested him?"

"They couldn't. You weren't in possession. They're not going to press charges without evidence no matter the kid told them."

"It's good they let him go. He's had enough trouble this week."

"So did you order a kill shot?"

"I did."

"Where is it?"

"In a trash bin behind the parking lot."

"Then what did you shoot in your veins?"

"Saline. I took it from my wife's hospital room. They had spare packets and needles lying out by her bed stand.

"What the hell's the matter with you? Why would do a weird stunt like that?"

"I needed to make sure I had your attention."

Her jaw dropped in astonishment. She took a deep breath to compose herself and sat down cross-legged on the floor beside me.

"Well you have it now."

"I need your help, Annabelle. I need it like I've never needed it before. You're the only one I can turn to."

She took my hand and held it in her lap, her touch sparking the memory of our first night in Las Vegas when I found her hidden stash and tossed it in the alley, when she kissed me and held me tight for one mistaken night of intimate confusion.

"I have always been here for you," she said.

"I am sorry for the stunt."

"That was really bad. The cops. The ambulances. We get enough bad publicity on a normal day without the extra attention."

"You have to trust me. I had reasons for what I did. I needed to make sure I had your undivided focus. And I needed to make sure the police knew exactly where we were, so anyone who might try and hurt us would know they were being watched."

"What is this about, Temo?"

"It's about putting an end to all of this. Reaching a final explanation. We're the only ones who can solve it."

She frowned. "This is about my father isn't it? Are you going to ask me to betray him? That's what Emmanuel Stevens wants. He told me you visited my father. The FBI won't let anyone in there, not even me or his attorney. And yet they let you in. They must have had a reason. Stevens believes that my father sabotaged Chet Castle and orchestrated his downfall. He thinks my father and Chet were involved in a sort of proxy war, that they ordered all the killings that have happened over the past week. You know my father, Temo. Can you honestly tell me you believe he would do that?"

"I did until I met him in prison last night. Not anymore. Now I know he had nothing to do with it."

Her eyes widened with surprise. "Really?"

"I have new information now. It's like he's been saying all along, he is just a white collar prisoner who has been isolated in a cell for the past twelve months, disconnected from all the violence and plotting. Before that, he was Chet Castle's banker. Nothing more, nothing less. If you want to protect your father, then I need your help confirming my theory about what really happened."

"Whatever you need," she said, pressing her hands against my open palm. I could feel her pulse jump with excitement.