Unmaking Marchant

12

MARCHANT

“Right this way, Mr. Radcliffe.”

I follow the nurse down a long, white hall, and force my legs to stay steady as she slides an ID through a card reader beside a stainless steel door. It makes a soft clicking sound, and she pushes it open, revealing a small, white room dominated by a wide hospital bed and several large machines.

“We’ve spoken with your regular psychiatrist.” She motions to the bed, and I climb onto it. I’m so exhausted I can hardly see straight, so it’s an effort to keep the damn gown shut. “She said you’ve experienced a lengthy manic phase that’s likely winding down. Are you sure you want this?”

I shake my head. “I need this. I’m sure.”

I think about the day I flushed my Lithium down the toilet. March 15. I think about March 15, 2007, and I’m sure.

She nods. “Okay. Just try to relax. I’ll be back soon.”

I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. I see a golden casket. I feel the cool leather of the squad car seat behind my back. My memory thrusts me back in time, several hours earlier, that day, and I remember breaking the arms of another man in a white coat.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, you motherfucking murderer!”

I remember, hours before that, the phone call from Marissa. Telling me what had happened. Telling me what she’d done. Sobbing.

“You told me to! You told me to do it Marchant!”

I squeeze my eyes more tightly shut, and I try to remember the words I said that changed the course of both our lives. But I never can. Because I was manic. Because I was possessed.

I’m tired of being manic.

I’m tired of being me.

I’m tired.

When the nurse returns, she’s got a couple of other nurses, and two doctors, with her. The doctor in charge hands me the paperwork, and I skim over the risks and side-effects.

Memory loss. I pray for that. I pray for that as I sign consent and they begin to prep me.

“You’ll do several treatments. We’ll decide on an exact number based on how you respond to this first one.”

I nod.

One of the nurses grabs my arm, and I have to struggle to keep breathing regularly.

“I’ll make the injection fast, okay?”

I nod again. Then I shut my eyes, relax my arm. Force myself to look straight ahead, rather than into the nurse’s face.

The needle sinks into my arm, and darkness claims me. The last thing I imagine before the curtain falls on everything is Suri Dalton.

“You should have told me sooner.”

I nod. I want to say, “I know,” but I can’t get my mouth to work. I guess this is how it is, getting back on my meds. I’m also taking something new they gave me at the hospital.

I lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Somewhere far away, I’m aware that Rachelle has walked into the kitchen. I’m alone in my room, for the first time since I ran from my garden house toward the fire.

I still kind of want to die, but it’s not as bad anymore.

Probably because I just don’t have the energy.

Sometime later, I hear Rachelle say something to me and I turn my head toward her. She’s standing by my bed, holding a tray bearing a bowl of soup and a sleeve of Ritz crackers. I blink a few times at her. Make enough circuits fire to say, “Thank you.”

I’m hoping she will go now, but she doesn’t. She lies on the bed beside me and shares my pillow. I can smell her perfume: Stella. Her head nudges my shoulder, and I feel her eyes on me. “You okay, M? Really?”

I nod.

“I’ve got your pills, okay? Libby will be back in two days. She told me in the meantime, we can cut way back on Diazepam. You seem pretty out of it.”

I nod. It’s for the best that I’m sedated.

“I’m going to fourth it tonight, okay? You’ll be left with just your Lithium. I think you’ll be fine. There’s nothing in this house that should bother you. I took care of it.”

She means the knives and guns. And tempt me, not bother me. “I’m sorry, Rachelle.” My voice sounds thick. Not like mine.

Good. I don’t want to be me anymore.

“This isn’t your fault, Marchant. None of it is. Maria has OCD, remember? I understand how these things work.” Maria is Rachelle’s partner.

I nod again.

“Do you remember what happened with Jesus Cientos?”

I shake my head. I know I shot him, but I don’t really remember it.

“You did a lot of people a service.”

I blink a few times. I don’t have the energy to think of that.

“Good,” I say. And then, “I want to start rebuilding.”

Rachelle, who’s lying on her side now with her head propped on her palm, is frowning at me. “You already found a contractor. Before you left the hospital. You offered to pay them double if they finished fast.”

I nod. I don’t remember, and I wish I hadn’t promised double the money, but, “Good. I want the same floor plan. But I think I want to change up everything else.”

“We need to hire someone for the aesthetics, obviously.”

I stare up at my ceiling and say the name that’s always on my lips these days. “Suri Dalton.”

Rachelle hesitates only a second—I don’t look at her, but I know she’s giving me a look. “You want me to set up a consult?”

“No.” I’m not going to ask her.

“Okay. Just keep me posted.” Rachelle gets up. I think she says some other stuff, but it’s hard to make myself listen. So much easier to just lie here.

Eventually she says, “Should I show myself out?”

“Sure.”

She groans. “Come on now, March. Sit up and eat your soup.” I sit up slowly, and under her watchful eye shove a spoonful into my mouth.

She waves her cell phone. “Call me if you need me.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

Sometime later, I blink down at my uneaten soup and swing off the bed. I should lock the door behind her.

I’m walking back to my bed when I get the text: Hope the insurance money comes in soon.

It’s from an unknown number, but I know who it is. Hawkins.

Maybe the fire wasn’t for Missy King after all.

SURI

When Cross, Lizzy, and I were in high school, we climbed a barbed wire fence around a few hundred acres of valley vineyard belonging to a former Hollywood stuntman named Bonnie McFarland. Word was, Bonnie had suffered one too many concussions and had gone a little crazy. We knew for sure that he had a pack of Dobermans. But Cross had made a bet with a guy in the grade above us about who could steal the flag Bonnie flew above his wine cellar first—so over the fence we went.

Lizzy had a trash bag full of meat and eggs to distract the Dobermans, and I had a can of mace, but the moment my feet hit the ground on the McFarland side of the fence, I heard the Dobermans snarl and I seriously thought I might stroke out.

That’s how I feel right now, as I park my rented silver Jeep Grand Cherokee beside the charred ruins of what was the largest of the Love Inc. buildings.

I’m doing something risky—something that scares me. I’m here to look for Marchant Radcliffe. Because I want to have sex with him again. Scratch that. I want to fuck him again. Because that’s what we did. We fucked. It was dirty. It was rough. And…I liked it. A lot.

But it’s not just sex. Since he left me in the bathroom that night, I can’t stop thinking about him. The person. I wonder, over and over, what happened to put him in the bottom of a pool. I wonder what the tattooed date means.

It’s stupid. Yes. I know. Maybe he isn’t worth my attention, but I’m intrigued, and for once, I’m single. Free. The risks are low. I’m not chained to him like I was Adam. If something goes wrong, there aren’t any messy details to deal with: I just walk. If things went well…maybe I could find out who he really is.

So before I fly back home tomorrow, I decided to drive to the ranch and see if I run into him. If I do, I’m giving myself permission to do something crazy. Something stupid. I’m in charge. I can handle it. If I don’t, I’ll go back to L.A. feeling just a little freer.

My cover story is that I’m here to find my grandma’s ring, but that’s not true. I’ve already hired of team of experts to pick this place apart tomorrow.

I’ll give a cursory look, but the truth is, I want to end up in Marchant’s bed.

It’s been six days since I last saw him. In the six days since, Lizzy told Hunter about the pregnancy, and he hauled her off to Napa, where he thinks she should rest. Cross has gone there, too, so he can re-open the motorcycle shop he shut down after his wreck. Merri’s going to help him while she gets her life sorted out. They’ve hired a body guard to keep her safe, but she also has an FBI handler.

Just two days ago, I found out Adam is moving back to Napa…and in with Brina. It’s weird, but I can’t say I’m jealous. Adam and I were never meant to be together. Still, the thought of him with Brina is…unnerving. But I guess that’s another reason to hook-up with Marchant: so I don’t have to go back home quite yet.

It’s five-thirty on a Thursday, but there’s a big cement truck parked just in front of me, and I see a surprising number of workers milling around the beginnings of the new building. I don’t know who else is here, or if anybody is.

According to Lizzy, Hunter hasn’t been able to track Marchant down since the night of the fire. The most he could get out of Rachelle was that Marchant went on some sort of “vacation,” but she wouldn’t say when he would be back.

Hunter suspects he went to rehab. I’ve wondered for days now if it’s true. For some reason, I have a difficult time imagining Marchant in rehab. I guess I just can’t see him taking orders from anyone. Then again, I have trouble imagining Marchant doing drugs—despite the many signs he likely does.

After a few minutes checking my hair and make-up in the visor mirror, I get out of the Jeep and face the ruins. It’s really bad. Everything has been knocked to the ground, where it’s a big pile of basically…trash, to the left of the pool. In front of the pool, poured over charred ground that looks as big as half a football field—or maybe even bigger—is a cement foundation. And over the cement, the plywood scaffolding of a new building. I hope it gets finished soon. Not because I’m a fan of what goes on here, but because no one deserves to lose their business.

I pull my rented metal detector out of the back of the Jeep, turn it on, and start around the cement truck. The workers wave at me, and I wave back. I hold my breath when I near the pool and walk quickly past it. I don’t want to remember that part of my night with Marchant. I’ve metal-detected my way almost to the pond when I notice, in the low light of dusk, one of the girls waving at me from near the maze. I squint and see it’s the nicest one, Loveless.

I wave back, and she jogs over, meeting me in the soft, shin-length grass surrounding the pond. “Hi. How’s it going?” I ask her as we meet beside the sunset-streaked water.

“March gave us the week off, but I wanted to check on him before I left.” She smiles. “And I hear we have you to thank for his continued existence. You’re a hero.”

I shake my head. “It was fortune, I think. I had lost my grandmother’s ring, so I was hanging around trying to find it.”

She nods at the long wand in my hands. “Still looking?”

“Yep. And I wanted to see your maze again. I do interior design, but I’ve got a client on the books in May who is interested in a formal garden. I figured I might walk through it another time.”

“That thing makes me nervous.”

“Nervous?”

She laughs. “Have you ever seen ‘The Shining’?”

I nod. “I guess I see how it could be creepy.” I look in that direction, seeing the cottages beyond the maze. “So is the brothel shut down? There’s another one in town, right?”

Loveless nods. “A few of the girls are taking clients out of the cottages, but it’s mostly shut down. We don’t do business in town. It’s a different place.” A less exclusive one, from what I’ve heard. “I’m going to visit my Dad, now that everything’s more settled here.” She glances at the cottages and bites her pretty, glossed lip. Then her eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry to be nosey, but do you know Marchant very well?”

I shake my head.

She shrugs. “He keeps to himself, but he’s a good boss. I feel sorry for him, losing so much. He’s worked hard to make this place what it is. You want to walk with me to his cottage?”

“I think I’ll do a little more searching before it gets to dark.”

I do, but I don’t find the ring. Not that I ever stood a chance. If it was in the house, it’s under tons of rubble. I put the metal detector up and wonder if I should go. I had hoped—stupidly, I guess—that I’d bump into Marchant, but since I didn’t, I’ve got to decide if I feel brave enough to knock on his door.

Feeling like Little Red Riding Hood, I head back past the pool and pond, aiming toward the cottage I heard was his. As I walk through the oak grove, I see Loveless on her way back to the parking lot.

“How is he?” I ask.

She shrugs. “He didn’t answer his doorbell.”

“Oh. Well, have a safe trip.”

“You too.”

“It was nice meeting you.” I’m surprised to find that’s sort of true. I sit by the pond until she’s gone, and then I stand up and watch the workers as they move about the cement truck. I’m not going to see him. Obviously. I was probably stupid to think I would. I should probably just go, but seeing how bad this place looks, learning that Marchant is probably in rehab, I feel compelled to leave a note.

I pull a notepad from my purse and write:

Marchant—

I’m sorry about what happened. I hope your re-building process is as quick and painless as possible.

Suri Dalton.

I’m tucking it into his door when it opens.