Found at the Library (9 page)

He took another large swig of the smooth liquor. “Not that I fell in love with him, but I could have. The possibility was there, and I know better.” He shut his eyes against the pain thrumming through him and murmured, “I could have.”

***

It took five days for Tommy to read through the journal Mac had left in the shop. It was filled with anecdotes about his customers and surprising insights about his merchandising as well as ideas for future product lines and marketing. In the middle of all the facts were little snippets of humor that were purely Mac.

With every line he read, Tommy wanted to know more about the enigmatic man. He even broke down and visited his author website, but that had been a mistake. There were pages and pages of text that were simply too much for Tommy to get through. Instead, he focused on the publicity pages that were filled with photos of Mac at different events. A lot of the time, Mac was alone or with an attractive, blonde woman. It didn’t look like the man dated much.

The book series page overwhelmed Tommy. Counting the covers on the page, Mac had written over twenty books. That right there told him all he needed to know. Someone that prolific and into writing could never be happy with someone who could barely read a menu. But that didn’t stop him from doing a search of the titles on his audiobook account where he then downloaded eight more of Robert McIntyre’s novels.

Tommy closed the browser and rubbed at his eyes. He’d become obsessed with Mac and didn’t know what to do with that. The guy was so far out of his league he was in another country, but at the very least, Tommy owed him a thank you for helping out. He also did want to discuss a few of the ideas that Mac had written in the journal for clarification.

He’d picked up the phone to call Mac to see if he would be willing to meet for coffee or dinner or something, but the phone rang before he had a chance. He didn’t recognize the number that came across the caller ID.

“You’ve reached Typecast. This is Tommy.”

“Hello, is this Mr. Garrett?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“This is Dr. Ernest Phillips from Cornerstone Hospital. Your brother, Ryder Garrett, is in our facility, and there’s been an incident.”

The rest of the conversation came across as white noise as Tommy’s stomach clenched and heaved in panic and grief.

Twenty minutes later, Tommy stood in the reception area of the hospital, his heart still racing.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Garrett,” the reception nurse said, “but our rules are clear. You’re not allowed to see your brother until the doctor gives clearance for that. He hasn’t done it, yet.”

“I don’t care what your rules state,” he glanced down at her name tag, “Darcy. Dr. Phillips called me, and my brother is hurt. I am not leaving here until I see how bad it is. If I have to, I will call the police. The next call right after that will be to my lawyers, so I can start the lawsuit on my brother’s behalf. So I suggest you get someone down here with more authority than you before I make sure you and every staff member in this place no longer has a job.”

The young nurse glanced at him warily like she thought he should be the one checked in here instead of his brother.

Christ. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to find some inner calm. She’d be more willing to help him if he didn’t threaten her. “Please, just call Dr. Phillips.” He gave her his most disarming smile.

That seemed to work as her stance relaxed a little. “Okay, I’m not supposed to bother the doctors, but since he’s already talked to you, this sounds like it’s a special circumstance.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He sank down into one of the waiting chairs. The muscles in his legs were so shaky they didn’t want to hold him up again.

Within minutes, a harried older man in a white coat strode into the reception area. He homed in on Tommy and came right over. “Mr. Garrett?”

Tommy stood and took the man’s handshake. “Yes, are you Dr. Phillips?”

Dr. Phillips pressed his lips in a firm line and nodded his head. “Yes. Let’s go to my office where we can talk in private.”

“Good.”

They took the elevator up to the fifth floor of the massive hospital, and Dr. Phillips led Tommy through a rabbit warren of halls and turns before he arrived at a closed door with his name on it. Below his name, his title said “Behavioral Psychologist.”

That sounded more serious than Ryder warranted. God, he hated that Ryder even had to be here at all.

Tommy’s first impression of the room was cold and sterile. As a state-run hospital, the lack of funding was obvious in the lack of amenities and decor. Cold linoleum tiles, fog grey walls, cheap industrial metal furniture. When he’d considered going to a therapist—not that he’d ever been to one—he’d always assumed they did things to make the patient feel comfortable. Nothing about this stark room said comfort.

“Have a seat, Mr. Garrett,” Dr. Phillips instructed.

“If it’s all the same to you, I don’t want to sit. I want to see my brother.”

“He’s been sedated for the evening, but I’ll let you look in on him in a moment. I promise you. First, I want to tell you what happened tonight so you can decide how to proceed from here.” Dr. Phillips took a deep breath and rubbed between his eyes. “This is a state run hospital. As such, we have some very extreme cases and never enough money to do all that we need to do. Unfortunately, two of those extreme cases got Ryder in their sights and were able to get him alone. Rest assured, we are working to figure out how that happened because, even here, that is not acceptable.”

Dr. Phillips shuffled some papers on his desk before finding some brochures that he passed across to Tommy. “Mr. Garrett, your brother doesn’t need to be here. I took the liberty of pulling some fliers of several other hospitals that would be better suited for his needs. He’s a kind soul who’s simply hit a troubled patch. I don’t want him to end up in worse shape when he leaves than when he arrived and right now, that’s what is going to happen. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I care for my patients and want what’s best for them, even if it endangers my job.”

Tommy shuffled through the brochures as he tried to settle his mind enough to think clearly. “I appreciate your honesty. I won’t say anything to anyone. But right now, I’m most concerned about Ryder. Is he okay?”

“Yes, one of our security guards arrived before it got too far. He’s bruised and upset, but there was no sexual penetration.”

Tommy reared back and his arms tingled as his blood stopped cold. “Wait a minute.” He shook his head. “Are you telling me they were trying to rape him, like he was in prison or something?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you understood. Yes, they planned to sexually assault your brother. I can assure you, it won’t happen again. Now that we know, we will keep him separated from the other patients for the next few days. I’m hoping that gives you enough time to make alternative plans.” The doctor nodded to the brochures that Tommy clutched. “Unfortunately, the criminally insane tend to be extremely smart and manipulative bastards.”

Fear radiated in the doctor’s eyes. Suddenly, Tommy had a completely different view on the man and worried for his safety also.

“We keep requesting more funding for better security, but money is tight in the state government system. Now, put those brochures inside your jacket so I can keep my federal pension, and then I’ll show you to your brother’s room.”

Fifteen minutes later, Tommy stood outside in the swirling snow, trying to press the numbers on his phone with his shaking hands. One of Ryder’s eyes had swollen shut, and Tommy would have sworn his jaw was broken if the doctor hadn’t continually promised that it wasn’t. There were dark purple bruises of individual fingers that had held him by his wrists as he’d obviously struggled. And those were the visible bruises. Who knew what the sheets and hospital gown hid? How had he allowed this to happen to his little brother?

The armed guard and heavily bolted door reminded Tommy much more of a prison than a place to help Ryder heal. He had to get him out of that place. Tonight.

Tommy pulled up the Minton Galleries phone number on his cell phone. His head pounded, but he had no choice. Not anymore. Ryder’s well being came before anything else.

“Minton Galleries. You’ve reached Stig.”

“Stig? This is Thomas Garrett. I need you to contact the guy who wanted to buy the McIntyre piece. Whatever you can get for it, I need you to do that, and if you could do it tonight, that would be even better.”

“What’s going on?” Stig asked. “You were so dead set on not selling that piece no matter what.”

Tommy gave a bitter chuckle. “I was given a harsh reminder tonight about what’s important, and I need the money so I can make sure I take care of what’s important in my life.”

“Okay. I’ll give the prospective buyer a call, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

Tommy closed his eyes and rested the phone against his forehead. One step down, only a million more to go. He’d mourn the piece being gone later, when Ryder was safe and okay.

He opened the contacts in his phone and dialed Franny’s number.

“Hello?” Her sweet voice did something to soothe the turmoil inside of him.

This was the right choice. Thank God, she’d had the foresight to have him put her information into his phone.

“Hi, Franny. This is Tommy Garrett from Typecast. I’m calling to request a huge favor. I need your help and wondered if you could come over tonight. I’ll feed you dinner.”
Please let her say yes.
He needed her help to read through the brochures and sort through the information to find a new hospital for Ryder.

“Tonight? Yes, I think I can do that, but I already have homemade vegetable soup simmering on the stove. How about I bring dinner with me?”

“That sounds amazing. Thank you.”

***

Mac frowned down at the caller ID on his phone. Why was Stig calling him this time of night? Whatever it was, he could not deal with Stig’s cutting wit today with this hangover. He wasn’t up for it mentally or physically. He let the call go to the old-style answering machine in the library. He liked using it so he could screen his calls.

He ran a hand across his face. What had he been thinking yesterday by drinking so much? It hadn’t helped anything and just made him feel like utter crap. The older he got, the less his body accepted abuse. Today, it screamed at him with every nerve ending it could.

Stig’s voice rang out over Mac’s office. “Mac, I know you’re there. Pick up the damn phone. This is important. The artist has changed his mind and wants to sell you the book.”

Wait a minute. What? Mac lifted his head off his desk and looked over at the offending phone as Stig rambled on.

Mac grabbed the handset. “What do you mean he wants to sell? Why would he do that?”

“And hello to you, too, Mac. It’s so lovely to hear your cheery voice.”

“Cut the crap, Stig. What’s going on with Tommy? Why has he suddenly changed his mind?”

Stig let out a gusty sigh. “I have no idea. If he knew what an insufferable jerk the buyer is, I’m sure he’d change it again, but I never told him you were the one who wanted to buy the piece. All I know is that he called me, sounding rather desperate to close the deal as quickly as possible.”

Something had to have happened. Mac’s head spun with the possibilities, but they all centered on the idea that something bad had happened with his brother. Regardless of whether Tommy wanted his help or not, he still felt that overwhelming need to do something. “How much, Stig, for the entire collection? Whatever hasn’t already sold.”

Stig choked and then began coughing. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes, I want it all. After the gallery showing is over, I want all of it—except my book—delivered and donated to the Denver Public Library.”

“Oh my God. You’re really serious. Mac, not that I don’t want to bleed you dry, but at the posted prices, that’s over a quarter of a million dollars.”

“Yes. I’ll have to call my banker, but expect a money wire into your account tomorrow. And Stig, no dragging your feet on this one. Turn Tommy’s money right around to him as quickly as possible.” Another thought occurred to Mac. “And I’ll pay your fees on top of my costs. Don’t take that out of your check to Tommy.”

Silence over the phone. “Wow.” Stig’s voice turned thoughtful. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Mac scowled at the phone. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re smitten.” It was a sweet old-fashioned word, but when Stig said it, he sounded a little hurt.

This is why it was better for them not to talk. Mac didn’t want to hurt him anymore, and that seemed to be what always happened when they were around one another. Instead, he tried a bit of deflection. “Smitten? Who uses words like that?”

“I don’t know, Mac. You’re the one who’s supposed to be the wordsmith.”

“Okay.” Mac sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given you a hard time. Do we have a deal?”

“Yeah, we do,” Stig said, sounding tired. “What do you want me to tell him? Do you want to keep your name out of it?”

Mac winced as he imagined the variety of reactions Tommy could have to the news that Mac bought his entire collection, and none of them were good. “Yeah, tell him that a patron of the library bought them and would like to remain anonymous.”

***

Three days later, Mac finally came up for air. That late night call from Stig had prompted him to get off his ass, stop feeling sorry for himself, and get to work. As a result, he had fifteen thousand words written on book six and had the rest plotted. Only sixteen days to write the other seventy-five thousand words. No problem. Shit.

But now he needed a break before his retinas became permanently damaged from staring at the computer screen for too many hours straight.

Before he even had a chance to second think it, he’d dialed Tommy’s number.

“Typecast. Tommy speaking.” Even sounding out of breath, nothing had sounded better to Mac’s ears than Tommy’s voice.

“Hi, Tommy, this is Mac—Robert McIntyre. I’ve spent thirty-six of the last forty-eight hours staring at my computer screen and hoped you’d save me from myself. Would you join me for coffee tonight after Typecast closes?”