Fallen Angel - TOC

Chapter 55

"Stefan!" Laura's voice betrayed her rising panic.

Stefan was walking towards Nikolas' bedroom and stopped to turn toward his wife. He frowned when he saw the expression on her face as she raced to his side and placed a hand on his immaculate, gray Hugo Boss suit. "I can't find Nikolas anywhere, and the servants haven't seen him all day - not even for breakfast. I just got off the phone. The school said he didn't show up for classes today." Laura's eyes were wide with fear, and she held a hand over her heart.

Stefan turned toward Nikolas' door and gestured. "He's not in his room?"

Laura shook her head. "Of course not.  It's the first place I checked."

"He's missing?" Stefan questioned in disbelief.

Laura nodded frantically. "Should we call the police?"

Stefan held up his hand. "We haven't investigated this thoroughly. The police will wait. I want to search his room." Laura followed Stefan into Nikolas' ornately decorated yet tidy room. The bed was made and all pieces of furniture and items were in order as usual. Their son was a very neat young man, much like his father in that regard, and the servants kept the room dusted and swept.  Stefan marched into the bathroom and checked out the shower. "It's totally dry. It hasn't been used today," he noted. "He left last night." Back in the bedroom, Stefan searched through Nikolas' desk and nightstand, hoping to find a clue to his son's whereabouts, but everything was neat and orderly with no unusual items for clues. Stefan grew nervous and worried as he stepped up the pace of his search. Laura's eyes filled with tears as she watched her husband searching the room. "He's gone," she said forlornly. "Why would he run away?"

"This has something to do with Frankie," Stefan said decisively. "Nikolas was acting strangely about finding his brother on the stairs. I meant to ask him about it last night, but I thought the subject would wait until today." Stefan's face fell. "I was wrong." Laura rushed into his arms, and the two hugged each other tightly for a minute before separating. A determined look invaded Stefan's face. His son wouldn't outsmart him. He'd find him and bring him back home.

"What if he's been kidnapped?" Laura squeaked out.

Stefan shook his hand. "No ransom note, no evidence of a break-in or contact from a kidnapper. The boy took off somewhere."

"The Island?" Laura guessed. "He's always asking to visit."

Stefan's green eyes glittered intelligently. Follow the crumbs, he thought.

~*~*~*~

Sly swung his legs up and down as he sat on an upholstered chair in the Wyndemere study and looked around the room that was filled with expensive books and endless bookshelves. Minutes ago, Laura had introduced him to his personal study area complete with a small desk, cleared off section of a nearby bookcase, and laptop computer. He looked down at his schoolbooks and sighed as his fingers casually flipped through the pages. There was no way he felt like studying after witnessing his brother holding a gun to his head only an hour earlier. Sly ran his index finger over the whirls of wood grain on the desktop, soothing himself with the repetitive circular motion. What had been more shocking to see - the gun held at Frankie's temple or the cops handcuffing him and dragging him protesting and struggling out the door? Sly ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it down and blinking back his tears. He finally succumbed to the rising feeling of despair in his heart and laid his head down on his outstretched arm.  

"Sylvester!" Sly raised his head at the sharp sound of his name. "Mr. Cassadine?" An intense looking Stefan was standing in front of him with a tearful Mrs. Cassadine beside him.

"Sly, we need to talk. It's important. Let's sit over here." Stefan pointed toward the leather couch by the window, and Sly followed him with a face that betrayed his confusion.

"What's the matter?" Sly was a little afraid that he was in trouble from the dark look on Stefan's face.

Stefan took in a deep breath to relax. He manufactured a makeshift smile as he could tell he'd made Sly nervous. "It's about Nikolas. It seems he's run away from home. We wanted to talk to you and see if you had any clues as to why he might have left or where he might have gone."

Laura wrung her hands and sniffed. "Please try hard to think," she said tearfully.

"Okay," Sly said in a small voice.

"Frankie had a problem last night," Stefan continued. "He had too much to drink." When Sly looked stricken, Stefan laid a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. "Frankie admitted it. It's out in the open. You don’t have to worry about betraying his confidence. We know he has a problem with alcohol."

Sly's face visibly relaxed, and he sighed audibly. "I didn't want to tell on him," he said. "It worried me, though, because he was angry a lot, and the drinking made it worse."

Stefan's intense green eyes bore into Sly's "Do you know where he obtained the liquor?" he asked firmly. Stefan had an idea, but he wanted confirmation from Sly.

Sly fidgeted in his seat and looked around the room to avoid Stefan and Laura's gaze. He felt like he was in a hot, bright spotlight with nowhere to run. This was becoming a long, hard day. He ran a hand over his neck and looked down without saying anything.

Stefan knew he'd hit the jackpot and probed further. "We're interested in Nikolas' safety," he intoned. "We must know why he ran. Will you please help us?"

Sly glanced at Stefan and then said, "Okay. Frankie was blackmailing Nikolas. Nikolas had to keep him supplied or Frankie would tell. That was the arrangement. They fought about it a lot."

"Is that how you got your black eye?" Laura asked as she smoothed her hand over Sly's cheek.

Sly nodded. "Frankie was aiming for Nikolas, but I got in the way."

"Why was Frankie blackmailing Nikolas? What was the nature of the information?" Stefan questioned.

"Athena," Sly said. "Frankie found out about Athena."

Laura glanced nervously at Stefan who was shaking his head in disapproval. "What about Athena? She's Nikolas' cousin."

"I know," Sly answered. "But she's also his girlfriend. She and Nikolas are really tight."

Laura held a hand over her mouth, which had made a surprised 'O' shape. Stefan's features tightened. "Let's call the Island and determine if Athena is missing," he said as he rose abruptly from the leather sofa. Stefan clapped his hand on Sly's back. "Thank you, son. You've helped immensely. Don't worry. No one is in trouble because of the information you've given us."

Sly took in a deep breath and nodded. "Good." What else could go wrong now? Frankie had tried to kill himself and was arrested. Nikolas ran off. What next?

~*~*~*~

Agent Richards glared at this companion as he smoked another cigarette. "I wouldn't complain again about the smoke, the booze or the bar." He slammed his whiskey down on the wooden table and crumpled his small, white bar napkin in an angry fist. "Your incessant whining is becoming a liability to me." Agent Richards' watery blue eyes bore holes into Agent Samuel's head. "You know what happens to liabilities, don't you?" He drank down his whiskey and grimaced in pleasure at its harsh assault on his throat.

Agent Samuels looked around the area nervously. "I just don't want to be seen in public," he explained as he hiked up his gray trench coat until it covered his ears and partially hid his face.

Agent Richards chuckled mirthlessly. "Public is the safest place. No bugs, no mikes."

"Still."

Agent Richards slammed his hand onto the table, making the glasses ring soundly and causing Agent Samuels to flinch. "Enough." He sat back in his booth seat and lit up another cigarette, causing a toxic cloud to envelop his aging, wrinkled features.  "Our mobster prodigy has predictably run into some trouble. There was a shooting today, orchestrated by none other than La Cosa Nostra."

Agent Samuels' eyes bugged. "He's not...?"

"No. He wasn't seriously injured. It's almost unfortunate because we've infiltrated the hospital now. With the Mafia off of Junior's back, he'll relax and think he's in the clear. If he were admitted to the hospital, we'd snatch him immediately."

"Where is he?"

Agent Richards laughed merrily as he blew out a long rope of smoke from his pursed lips. "In the local pokey. Kid must be shitting his pants. He's never been arrested. Neither he nor his poor dead papa."

"What are we going to do? We can't walk into a jail and demand the kid."

An evil, grinch-like smile creased Agent Richards' timeworn face. "This is where it gets interesting." He cupped his hands around his empty whiskey glass, staring into it as if it were a crystal ball.  "I've found his weak spot," he whispered knowingly with a slight nod of his head. "We'll give him a little time to let his guard down again." The man's watery blue eyes narrowed. "Then we strike."

~*~*~*~

Frankie did the best he could to strut his innate superiority as he was led through the mean corridors of the Port Charles jail. Unfortunately, the legs to his man's size small orange jumpsuit had to be rolled up three times, and his strut was reduced to only a hop and shuffle combo. His expression was hard and mean, and the injuries to his face only served to enhance his carefully constructed tough guy image. He carried his head high and stared straight ahead with darkened eyes that glittered maliciously.

If Mac had hoped that a 'scared straight' experience would change Frankie into a compliant, mild-mannered suburbanite kid, he was mistaken. Frankie's air of superiority and criminality followed him like a trail of expensive bootlegged cologne. This was a boy who had been raised around adults only - and these adults had been pretty tough customers - hit men, enforcers, blackmailers, and every type of crooked businessman that had been invented. Frankie had two years of experience keeping the hierarchy in the Frank Smith organization. A few drunks and ne'er do wells didn't bother him, but his presence sure had plenty of effect on them. Frankie's fears had fled as soon as he had the attention of an audience, and he was certainly playing to the crowd that exclaimed their surprise as he was led by their cells to his own private cell at the end of the corridor.

Frankie paused outside his cell when the guard opened the door and gestured inside. "Phone call," Frankie intoned firmly. "I get my one phone call. Dey forgot about it upstairs. I want my phone call," he said with fierce eyes and flared nostrils. The other prisoners grew silent, watching the show and wondering what was up with the kid. He didn't seem afraid to be in this place that he obviously didn't belong.

"Aw, get him outta here!" one prisoner called hoarsely. "He's juvy material."

"This one's too important for juvy," the guard laughed. "Mobster junior here needs an adult-sized lockup. Isn't that right, Mr. Frank Smith Junior?" The guard snorted. "Sir," he added as a sarcastic afterthought.

"Ay!" Frankie called out over his shoulder to the other prisoners. "Who makes da best pizza in dis freakin' town?"

The prisoners were enjoying this unusual respite from their mutual boredom, and they called out several names of businesses until there was a general accord that DelVecchio's was the best. One drunk burped loudly and leaned his flabby, red face against the metal bars of his cell door as he licked his lips in anticipation of something warm and tasty to fill his empty stomach.

"I'm gonna order some pizza," Frankie called out. "Triple meat and extra cheese?" he questioned. He nodded with satisfaction when the men cheered and whistled as they banged on the bars. Frankie looked up at the guard with one eyebrow raised. "Phone?" he asked politely as he imperiously held the guard's gaze. Frankie always had to be the leader in a crowd, and he instinctively began taking over this motley crew. Maybe this guard could be a good person to befriend - and use.

The guard shrugged. "What the hell," he muttered. "One phone call won't hurt. Back to the desk we go."

Frankie smirked as he swaggered back down the corridor, walking with assistance as his bad leg dragged beside him. One man held out a hand, and Frankie gave him a high five. "Pizzaaaaa!" he sang out as he approached the desk.

"Are you really planning on calling for pizza?" the guard asked with a laugh. This unusual prisoner was beginning to tickle his funny bone."What happened to calling your lawyer?"

"Dat would be my stepmother," Frankie answered. "Upstairs," he said with a hand gesture. "Don't gotta call her. I'm hungry." Frankie looked appraisingly at the overweight guard whose stomach stretched out his uniform. "Want your own personal pizza?" he asked nonchalantly. "I can use my credit card number. It's no problem."

The guard's eyebrows rose in anticipation of a hot, gooey pizza, and he nodded. "Why not?"

~*~*~*~

Luke and Alexis were waiting for Dr. Hill to show up at the station, and they were cooling their heels in the small alcove that served as a visitor's area. Luke was looking down into his paper coffee cup with a sick look on his face while Alexis looked wearily around the station, still trying to think of ways to free Frankie permanently after his bail was set the next day.

"I'll call that Harry Jamieson attorney tomorrow," she said to Luke. Luke nodded without speaking. He was feeling a weight upon his shoulders that refused to budge. Over and over in his mind he saw his son with a gun to his head and the totally lost look that he had on his face as he was escorted into the Processing area of the jail. That look had stabbed Luke in the heart almost as badly as when he had thought his infant son was burning to death in a flaming cottage fourteen years ago. Had he lost his son for good now - just when they were becoming father and son again?

Luke and Alexis both glanced up at the two men who were escorted into the station and herded to the interrogation room. The short man with slick curly black hair wore an annoyed look on his face as he protested police brutality, and his spiky haired companion smiled at himself in the two way mirror as he passed it by. He frowned when the short man slapped his leather jacketed arm.

Alexis leaned in to whisper in Luke's ear. "That's Sonny Corinthos and Jason Morgan - small time Port Charles mobsters. Frankie sold his business to them."

Luke's eyes narrowed as he stared at the backs of the two men. "Were they involved in the shootout?" he asked Alexis.

Alexis shook her head as her brown eyes watched them. "No, I think that was the Mafia, like Frankie suspected." She frowned. "Do you think that spiky haired guy has lipstick on? His lips look awfully red and moist, in kind of a fake way."

Luke snorted as he nodded. "He's your basic transvestite mob lowlife. They ought to loooove him in prison. Why do you suppose they're being questioned?"

"It's the same case," Alexis hypothesized. "The commissioner is trying to wrap the case up as quickly as possible because of its public nature."

"So he can keep his job and come out the hero," Luke gritted out angrily.

"Something like that," Alexis agreed. "But lower your voice, honey."

Luke's face set into a grim expression, and he remained silent for a moment. "I know this is mostly about his daughter and my son. I can't believe this."

Alexis rolled her eyes. It was going to be a long, long evening. She could tell.

~*~*~*~

Stefan hung up the phone in his study and shook his head at Laura. His face had become very worn and haggard with the events of the day, and this information had done nothing to elevate his mood. "I spoke to Athena's mother. She's run away as well. She left no note, nothing to indicate motive or destination."

Laura's face fell. "I can't believe Nikolas would leave without any word. No note? No explanation? That's not him. He's his father's son. He..."

Stefan interrupted Laura as his eyes sharpened. "Email," he said decisively as he abruptly pulled his laptop across the surface of his desk. For the first time in twenty years, Stefan's desk was in disarray. Papers were rifled through and left where they'd fallen in Stefan's haste to discover his son's whereabouts. He opened the laptop and logged onto his personal email. He remembered that Nikolas had mentioned he didn't even own a pad of paper anymore since he was fully outfitted with the latest PDA's and accessories. In fact, he and Stefan had disagreed as to whether or not Cassadine Industries were wasting money retaining paper backup files. Stefan was a cautious man, not adverse to technology, but unwilling to forgo other methods of recordkeeping. Nikolas was in favor of a paperless society.

Stefan received few personal emails, so his eyes brightened when he saw a message in his inbox. There was no subject title, only yesterday's date at 11:30PM.

Father,

By now you've discovered that I've left Wyndemere. I wouldn't be surprised if you also know that Athena is missing from the Island.

This will be the last communication from me until next year when I turn eighteen.

Please don't try to find me. I have been very thorough in covering my tracks. You taught me well.

I truly love you and mother. I don't want you to think that I don't. But, life at Wyndemere has been strained for some time. The arrival of Frankie was the final blow. I know that you don't consider me worthy of running the Cassadine Empire, and that is why you have kept me from the business. I have a right and an obligation to make my own life. I've decided that Athena is my life, and that we will be together. Don't say you approve because I know you don't. It's obvious that your goals for my life are not my own. Would a discussion with you have made a difference? Is a discussion possible? Have we ever had a conversation lasting more than ten minutes?

In case you don't know, Frankie has a drinking problem. He was blackmailing me about my relationship with Athena. With his fall tonight, it was obvious that it was time to leave. It was my fault as I allowed him to bully me into giving him liquor. I am sorry about that.

Mother, Father, have you ever noticed me? Can you honestly describe what is important to me? Or did you only pat me on the head for a good grade or a sports trophy. As long as I didn't cause you trouble, then you paid me no mind. I felt lonely in that huge mansion, and you didn't notice or care. Maybe I should have been more like Frankie - then you'd be forced to notice.

My only regret is that I will miss seeing my baby sister. I am sorry. I would keep in regular contact, but then you'd find a way to locate me, and I can't allow that to happen.

Please tell Lulu that I love her and give her a kiss for me.

Your son,

Nikolas

~*~*~*~

The raucous snores of multiple men taking naps after gorging themselves on pizza echoed throughout the holding cell area. Frankie had made a good impression on the bored men with his liveliness and willingness to spend money on them, so they'd decided to adopt him as a mascot of sorts. His alleged crime of murder only further enhanced his status in the jailhouse hierarchy. A few of the men had heard of the Smith organization, and they whispered nervously about the meanest, toughest mob on the eastern seaboard.

Satisfied that he had the situation under control, Frankie grew silent while the men continued to sleep. He tried to pace the length of his cell to avoid thinking - he'd do anything to avoid thinking about his present situation - but the oversized shoes with no laces and his medical predicaments made walking almost impossible. The cell was bright enough in a fluorescent overhead lighting way, but a persistent chill was working its way up Frankie's spine as the smallness of the room crept up on his nerves, reminding him of places he'd rather forget. What would he do when they turned the lights off for the night?

Frankie lowered himself onto the thin, rickety metal cot with only a threadbare, stained mattress covering it. He was on suicide watch and had been denied the comfort of shoelaces, sheets and blankets. He'd have to make do with a cold, lumpy mattress that was barely two inches thick. Frankie leaned forward as he held his breath, trying to ignore the persistent pain running over the length and breadth of his back. The thick, scratchy orange jumpsuit material rubbed with irritation against his tender, bruised skin, and there was no way to relieve the fiery sensation. Frankie wearily held his head in his hands and jumped up with a curse when his fingers brushed the stitches on his temple. He tripped over his large, clownish shoes and landed with a solid thud on the concrete floor. His bad hip throbbed mercilessly, joined by the chorus of nerves in his kidney and head. 

Frankie lay still on the floor, not bothering to get up and try again to make himself comfortable. The morphine that Dr. Hill had given him back at Ruby's diner had worn off an hour ago, and he had an inkling of what the fiery pits of hell might feel like. No one had mentioned giving him his medications, and he fervently wished that the small revolver hadn't misfired. Stupid! Why hadn't he fired again? His hot temper had gotten the best of him yet one more time, and he actively regretted throwing the gun away in a fit of anger.

Frankie's stomach was tied up in tense knots that twisted and burned. The smell of the pizza had rendered him permanently nauseous, and he'd refused a piece of his own purchased food. The guard said he'd receive a sandwich later on for supper, but food was the furthest thing from his mind. Controlling his panic was number one. He crawled to the bars of his cell and rested his hot face against their metallic coolness. His fingers wrapped around the gray, cylindrical metal one by one. I'm leaving behind fingerprints, he thought morosely. He noticed that his fingers felt wet and realized after the fact that he'd been crying. Frankie sniffed and ran the coarse orange fabric against his scraped cheek. Mess up da face, please. Mess it up, blow it off. I shoulda done it when I had da chance.

A cold, gray cloud enveloped the boy and drew him further into its grasp. I gotta think, I can't think no more. Harry Jamieson. Have Alexis call him. Frankie's fingers loosened from the bars, and his hands fell onto the dirty concrete floor. The concrete seemed to absorb and emit a dense coldness from the jail's lack of natural light and fresh air, and Frankie shivered inside of his jumpsuit. He scooted back toward the bed without a plan in mind. His head was exploding with pain, and flashes of violence splattered a series of pictures in his mind, pictures of events that he'd rather not revisit. He gagged and coughed as he fancied the slick, wet iron smell of flowing blood, blood from vanquished hitmen, traitors and the man he'd called father. On his palms Frankie could feel the thick, wet moisture obliterating Frank's expensive business suit. He leaned against the leg of his prison cot with a forlorn look on his face as he looked down at his hands. "Dad," he said aloud, flinching at the lonely, ringing sound of his voice in the jail.  His mind shifted to another man he called Dad, and the image of Luke crossed his mind. "I want my dad."

Frankie tried to lift himself to the bed but remained on the floor as the muscular strain accentuated the agony of his recent wounds. He pulled off his shoes and lined them one on top of the other to form a makeshift pillow. He curled himself into a fetal position and closed his eyes.

~*~*~*~

Laura entered the study and sat down by Sly, who was leaning his head on the arm of the leather sofa and staring at the billowy clouds outside the window. "Honey, Nikolas has run away," she said softly. "The information that you gave us helped out so much. We now know for certain that he's with Athena. Thank you."

Sly lifted his head and looked into Laura's blue eyes. "I'm sorry. I've always liked Nikolas. I hope he'll be okay."

Laura nodded. "Nikolas' father is searching for him now. He's very good at research. I'm sure we'll find him soon and bring him back home."

Sly's eyes filled with tears and soon he was sobbing out loud. He tried to cover his eyes with his hands, but it was a futile gesture that didn't hide his emotions. Laura looked at him worriedly and instinctively pulled him into a hug, rubbing his back and whispering reassurances to him. She rocked him for a minute, and he seemed to calm down. When she hugged him again, he lifted his head and ran the back of his hands across his cheeks.  "Everything is so messed up," he said tearfully. "Frankie's gone to jail, and Nikolas has run away. I finally have brothers and they...it's my fault." Sly hung his head. "If I'd told you sooner, maybe Nikolas wouldn't be gone. I don't know about Frankie. I tried to be nice to him, but he hit me, and I was mad so I didn't talk to him. Maybe that's why he drank and was upset. I don't know." Sly sniffed loudly as the tears welled up again. "I want them to be home. I want us to be a family. I want a family, and I can't have one."

Laura's eyes teared as she watched Sly and felt his pain. He looked like such a sad little boy to her, reaching out for love and feeling like everyone else's problems were his fault. She rubbed his arm and looked him square in the eye. "Honey, these problems are not your fault. Nikolas and Frankie like you so much. This has nothing to do with you. I know your feelings are hurt, but don't dwell on it too much, okay?"

Sly nodded, but he was still unsure inside.

Laura's face reflected the fact that her sons were in serious trouble, and she felt powerless to help them. Had she been such a terrible mother to Nikolas? Was her love inadequate to soothe her youngest son's emotional pain? Just when it had seemed as if their lives were coming together, everything had shattered. She shook her head. All I know is that I have to try. I'll find Nikolas, show him how much I love him. Whatever it takes. I'll make sure that he knows. And Frankie. I'll be there for him when he gets out of jail tomorrow. We'll give him the help he needs.

~*~*~*~

"Dinner!"

The guard banged on the bars to Frankie's cell and frowned. "What are you doing on the floor?" he asked with exasperation. "That's what you have your bed for. Come and get your dinner."

Frankie's eyes opened, but he didn’t move.

"Get up," the guard repeated.

"I can't," Frankie gritted out in a hoarse voice. He flexed his hand and moved his arm, but otherwise remained still.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," the guard grumbled as he laid down Frankie's food tray on the floor and reached for his keys. He entered the cell and lightly kicked Frankie with his shoe to see if he were faking it. When Frankie didn't move, he bent down and shook his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Frankie took in a sharp breath of air, but he stopped himself from screaming out in pain. "Don't," he said in a choked voice. "Don’t touch me. Please."

The guard recalled his colleagues in Processing exclaiming how beat up the kid was on his back, so he stepped away from Frankie.

"I want my mama," Frankie said tearfully. "I want my dad, too." Frankie had forgotten his former bravado, and he now longed to be rescued, cleaned up and placed in a clean bed with a fluffy pillow - after he'd had a hefty dose of his pain medication. "Where's Johnny?" he asked with confusion. "Where is dis?" Frankie moved his head around to inspect his quarters, and then laid it back down on his shoes. "Oh," he said after a minute. He recalled the events of the past few hours and realized he was still in jail. He curled up tighter, but it didn't relieve his persistent physical pain or sadness. He'd messed up so badly.

If Frank were alive, he'd never let him come home after screwing up like this. Stay out of jail and don't get caught. Don't ever leave behind evidence or witnesses. That was the prime directive. Frank had hinted that he might not allow Frankie to live if he became too much of a liability. What would Luke do? He might not kill him, but Frankie was sure that his father would disown him and send him back to Atlantic City, anywhere other than the house that he'd just bought. That was for Sly anyway, wasn't it? Sly wasn't dirty. He'd never killed a man or... Frankie's thoughts trailed off, and he sighed. Mama had Nikolas and Lulu. She didn't need him either. He was too screwed up for Stefan to want. It was hopeless. Johnny was going to be a paramedic, and Mrs. DeMarco said she was going back to New Jersey in a few days. Maybe he could live with her. She always seemed to like him even though he was in the mob. But with Joseph gone, perhaps that had changed. She was sure to want all reminders of the mob out of her life for good.

Frankie's logic was short-circuiting, and his thoughts became exclusively negative and gloomy. They could stick him in prison forever if they convicted him of murder. He'd never see Maxie again. After Mac had arrested him, that was it. Frankie's face fell. No more girlfriend.

The guard felt anger whip through him. Damn that hot shot commissioner. Why is he doing this to a kid? He doesn't belong here. He looks like he should be in a hospital. It's ridiculous. I have a mind to tell him myself.  He walked outside of the cell and came back with Frankie's food. "Your tray is on the floor if you want your sandwich," he said, moving the tray beside Frankie. He stepped out of the cell and closed the door behind him, locking it with his key. I'm calling up there. This is ridiculous.

~*~*~*~

The guard directed Dr. Jeremiah Hill to Frankie's cell. As the two men walked down the corridor, the prisoners stared out of curiosity. Dr. Hill was dressed in plain clothes - khakis and a polo shirt - but he carried a large, black medical bag, which made him seem highly unusual in the atmosphere of a small city-county jail.

"Hey, what's up?" one man called out from his bunk.

"Mind your own business," the guard yelled back. The man made a face and flopped back onto his bed. "Just asking a question," he muttered.

Dr. Hill was feeling grim as he walked alongside the guard and surveyed his surroundings. Luke and Alexis' descriptions of what had occurred in the Emergency waiting room had been a shock to his system. Dr. Hill had gone to his office on another floor of GH while Luke was talking to Frankie, and he felt a sense of guilt at not being there. His presence might not have made a difference in the boy's behavior, but now they'd never know one way or the other. Jerry's eyes roamed around the jail, and he definitely did not approve of Frankie's incarceration there regardless of the charges or the circumstances. The boy belonged either in the hospital or the safety of his own home, not in a rundown jail with leaky pipes, cold drafts and inadequate medical care.

Dr. Hill wasn't prepared for the sight of Frankie curled up tightly on the hard, cement floor with bare feet and shoes for a pillow. There was a tray with an uneaten sandwich beside him. Frankie's fist was curled near his scraped face, and he appeared no older than twelve, a boy who had perhaps fallen out of bed and promptly gone back to sleep. When he entered the cell, Dr. Hill knelt by Frankie and took his hand.

"Hey, Frankie. It's Dr. Jerry. I want to talk to you for a minute."

Frankie opened his eyes, but didn't move. He smiled at the sight of a familiar face. "Hi, Dr. Jerry."

"What's the matter? Why are you on the floor?"

"I tripped and fell. I can't get back up. It hurts too much. I tried, but I'm tired." Frankie laid his head back down on his shoes and sighed.

Dr. Hill looked at his watch and calculated that it had been over seven hours since Frankie had last had his medications. He must have been in serious pain for at least three hours. The doctor felt the rising, cold damp of the concrete floor under his fingertips and cursed lightly. This is no good. If he stays on this floor, he'll catch pneumonia - or something worse.

"I'm going to lift you to the bed," Dr. Hill said. "You need to sit up so you can take the pills that I brought you." Frankie cried out when he was moved, and the other prisoners cringed at the sound of a hurt boy. Some of them had kids at home not much younger than Frankie. What in the world was an injured kid doing in here?

"You're creaky," the doctor said as he helped Frankie unfold his legs inch by inch. "The floor is too hard. You're bent up like a pretzel." Dr. Hill frowned when Frankie didn't reply in his usual chatterbox manner. Frankie's head hung down, and he wore a blank, worn expression. Dr. Hill sat down on the cot beside the boy and rested his hand on his shoulder. "You seem pretty sad," he said. "Want to talk about it?"

Frankie shook his head slowly and didn't respond.

The doctor reached into the bag and pulled out Frankie's prescriptions. He filled a cup with water and handed the pills to the boy. Frankie hesitated. He plopped the pills back into the doctor's hand and said, "It don’t matter. Don’t want 'em." 

"Take them anyway," Dr. Hill replied firmly. He handed them back to Frankie and watched as Frankie swallowed them down with water. "Stick out your tongue and let me see to make sure they're gone," he stated. Frankie stuck out his tongue and turned away.

"What happened at the hospital after I left?" the doctor questioned.

Frankie shrugged. "Dey arrested me. Here I am."

Dr. Hill noted that Frankie didn’t mention the incident with the gun. "What about the gun?" he asked point blank.

Frankie brought his hands up in the air and slapped them on his knees. "Aw, fuck!" he said harshly. His eyes flashed as he looked at the doctor. "Dey're my guns! It's my business."

"Your parents are worried about you," Dr. Hill replied. "They're very upset that you wanted to hurt yourself."

"Frank said dat I should use da gun if dey try to capture me, okay?" Frankie's chest heaved with emotion. "I got caught. Okay? If Frank knew I sold da businesses for chicken shit and den had dose eyewitnesses after dat, den he'd he'd..."

"Frank is dead," Dr. Hill pointed out. "He doesn't have an opinion anymore."

Frankie flinched and hung his head as he ran his hands over his hair repeatedly. He felt like he couldn't catch his breath. "I know, I know, but...I'm confused. I can't think right. I'm tired. I just want it to end. I’m never gonna see my girlfriend again. I don't know if I can send her flowers from da prison. I dunno what ta do no more." Frankie hugged his knees as he stared at the floor.

"Your father is upstairs with your stepmother," Dr. Hill pointed out. "They've been here the whole time. They'll look after you. You'll be out of here after they post bail for you tomorrow."

"I dunno," Frankie repeated sullenly. "Dey have Sly. Dey don't need me."

"No one is replaceable. They want both you and your brother."

"I dunno."

Silence filled the cell, and Frankie shivered. "I'm cold and dey're gonna turn out dose lights in two hours. Dat's what dey said. What am I gonna do? I can't be in da dark like dat. Not in dis place. It's like, um..." Frankie's face whitened at a three year old memory of being locked up in a small, cold and dark place. "I gotta get outta here," his voice shook. "I can't be here like dis. I'm gonna freak out or somethin'." Frankie's hands shook, and he ran them over the back of his neck. "It's my fault," he whispered tensely as his eyes darted around the room in panic. "It's my fault," he repeated two more times.

"I'll talk to the guard and have him bring you a warm blanket and pillow," Dr. Hill said. He opened his medical bag and rummaged around for a syringe that he'd brought for Frankie depending on the condition in which he found his patient. "Give me your arm. I want you to take this injection before I go." Frankie pulled his jumpsuit over his shoulder and offered up his arm with no protest, but he grimaced as the needle entered his skin. Dr. Hill sat with him for a few minutes until Frankie's eyes grew hooded and his head nodded from the force of the powerful sedative that had been in the syringe. Frankie didn't protest when the doctor helped him lie down, and he closed his eyes peacefully.

When the guard returned, Dr. Hill said, "I gave him something that should help him sleep through the night and maybe longer. It's safe to bring him a blanket. He's cold, and it's better for his health if he has one. He won't wake up or harm himself, but will you please check on him regularly and call me if needed?"

Next chapter...