Chapter Nine
 

Heath's eyes flew open. "Nick!" he choked out. "Nick! Where are ya?"

Luke shook him hard. "Lucky! Lucky!"

"No," Heath said, shaking his head. "Get yer hands offa me!"

"Luke!" Bobbie cried. "Leave him alone! He's not Lucky. He said his name is Heath Barkley. He's injured. Don't manhandle him!"

Luke frowned, took in a deep breath and stepped back, flexing his hands. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Where's my boy?!"

Heath removed his oxygen mask. "What boy?" he asked weakly.

Luke's eyes flashed. "My son!"

"Who?" Heath asked. "Oh. You mean the boy that was with me in the prison? Is he your son? I'm real sorry. He got shot. He's gotta be hurt bad."

Luke rubbed his neck. "So where is he?"

"I don't know," Heath said. "Someone dragged him off. That ugly man. With the accent."

Luke brightened, sure that he was on to something. "What kind of accent?"

"I dunno. Foreign? Like from Europe?"

Luke motioned with his hands. "Long hair, kind of grizzled and grey? He looks like a troll?"

"Yeah," Heath agreed. "That's it. I saw a painting in the Brother's Grimm book. He looked like one of those troll folk. Under the bridge."

Luke fumbled with his wallet. "I have a photo of my son. I want you to look at it. Have you seen him?"

Heath accepted the photo and studied it, nodding. He turned it back and forth and muttered, "Hm. Color." Heath handed it back. "Yep. That's him. He's the one I was with in the prison. That troll-man shot him point blank. Two times. Once in the side and then in the thigh. He was bleedin' real bad. I'm sorry."

"Oh God. Oh God," Luke said, pacing the room and rubbing his head, trying in vain to comfort himself even as panic burst through him. "Barbara?"

"Luke!" Bobbie ran to him, taking him into a hug, refusing to let go. "This is so strange. We can't be sure of this."

"I know it!" Luke said. He separated from Bobbie and grasped her arms. "We have to save him! Faison has him."

Heath sighed, running his hands over his face. "I'm lost," he said. "I wanna go home. I miss my family."

Luke stared at him, knowing that he was indeed with family. "You're a stranger and don't know anyone in town. Barbara here is a nurse. She's volunteered to help you out."

"I have a nice spare bedroom," Bobbie said. "You're welcome to use it. I'm sure you won't be in this hospital for long. You'll need a place to stay."

Heath stared at them. "Will you help me find my kin?" he asked.

"Yes," Luke said. "And we'll be your kin until you find your way home."

***

Jarrod woke with a start at the rooster crowing in the new day. He was napping in a chair, dressed in yesterday's trousers and a half-buttoned shirt. He righted his hat on his head and looked beside him with some trepidation.

His mother had retired two hours before, and the boy was still in the bathtub full of melting ice. She couldn't get him to wake, couldn't get him to accept water. The boy seemed to be in a coma, she'd said.

Jarrod rose from the chair and stretched. He inched over to the bathtub and peered down. He felt the bile rise in his stomach. The boy was dead. Something about the way his head fell to the side, lips parted permanently, his arms hanging limply over the sides of the tub. On closer inspection, the tub was filled with blood that submerged the lower body.

Jarrod held his fingers to the boy's throat. No pulsing movement, and the boy was finally cool. He'd bled out in the wee hours of the morning, white as a ghost. He'd never woken up or had the benefit of clergy reading him a passage from the bible. He was now with his maker, at peace.

Jarrod reached for the worn sheet on the work table and covered the young, torn up body before anyone else could catch a fright, seeing it so rudely presented first thing in the morning.  

***

The sun was streaming through the blinds on the window beside Heath's bed. The beams crept over him, enticing him, demanding his attention. His face twitched in irritation, and he flung his arms out. Finally, he was aware that he wasn't in his room at the ranch, but in the hospital. He ran his hands over his midriff, wincing at the pull of the bullet wound, yet marveling that the other pain was now gone. No pain, no blood. He felt much better than he had last night.

Heath's eyes closed. He was tired, not wanting to scheme and plan a way out of his predicament just yet. He was healing. The people were nice to him. His escape could wait. He didn't want to die alone, lost out on the road without his family.

Heath heard the clank of carts being rolled in the hallway and the smell of breakfast food. He'd rather hear Audra's tinkling laughter, Nick's hearty laugh, and Jarrod saying, "Mhmmm," to Mother's comments at the breakfast table.

Heath jerked, and his eyes flew open when he heard strange laughter and a hand stroking his chest. It was an older woman! She was pretty, but something about her frightened him and filled him with distrust. It was her eyes. They were green and cold as ice, like they weren't real. There wasn't any life in them.

"Hello, handsome young man," the woman purred. Her fingernails scraped over Heath's body, and he pushed her hand away.

"Who are you?" Heath demanded.

The woman smiled lazily, not in a hurry to answer. Her eyes swept over him, and he felt trapped, like an animal in a cage. "I am Helena," she said. “Helena Cassadine.”

"What are you doing here?"

Helena shook her head. "Not just yet," she said.

Why was she being so mysterious? He'd never seen a woman who looked so aristocratic and evil at the same time. "Please leave," he said.

Helena sat beside him and cupped his chin while she shook her head. "I can see the resemblance," she said. "In appearance as well as attitude. Rudeness must be inherited."

Heath removed her hand. "Who's bein' rude?" he challenged.

"Be careful," Helena warned as her eyes darkened. "I hold your life in my hands."

"How's that?"

Helena's tinkling laughter assaulted his ears again. "Patience, Mr. Barkley..." She stood and strolled toward the door, turning to capture his gaze. "Is a virtue."

***

Jarrod adjusted his hat, running his hand through his dark hair. He gave his mother a worried look. "I don't feel right leaving you," he said.

Victoria patted his arm. "I can handle this."

Jarrod motioned toward the still form under the sheet. "He could be Heath," he whispered. "My heart nearly broke when I saw him like that." Jarrod cleared his throat and straightened his posture in an attempt to control his emotions.

"Death at such a young age is especially sad," Victoria replied. "I'd hoped we could save him." She motioned Jarrod toward the door. "But now we need you to find Heath and bring him home. It's good you're getting an early start with the search party."

Jarrod looked behind him. "Nick's still asleep. He had a lot to drink last night, more than he's used to. He'll be angry I didn’t wake him."

"I'll take care of Nick," Victoria said. "He's in no shape to be out there with a search party all day."

"He'd hold us up," Jarrod said. "He's not thinking clearly."

Victoria's eyes teared. "He loves his brother very much."

Jarrod tipped his hat. "We'll find him, Mother. I promise."

Victoria nodded and watched her eldest son walk away. She turned and took in a sharp breath. "Audra. It's early."

"I wanted to wish Jarrod good luck. He has to find Heath, he just has to."

"He'll do his best."

"What's this?" Audra asked, lifting a corner of a worn sheet covering the work table. "OH!" she exclaimed, jumping back and holding her hand over her mouth.

"The boy died," Victoria said.

"Oh no! I was talking to him last night. We were laughing. How could it happen?"

"People talk all the way up to their last breath."

Audra's lower lip quivered. "But he was so young, Younger than me."

Victoria hugged Audra's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm upset, too."

"What are we going to do with him?" Audra stuttered. "He's in the middle of the kitchen."

"Prepare him for a funeral. We'll lay him out in the parlor. He has no kin that we know of, so we'll do that for him. Jarrod will contact the preacher and buy him a pine box. We'll have a small ceremony. He'll be buried in a pauper's plot at the church." Victoria directed her daughter out of the room. "I want you to find an outfit for him. His clothing is in no shape to be used for burial. He's similar in height to Heath. Pick one of Heath's dress suits. He won't wear fine things anyway."

"Mother!" Audra cried, flinging herself into Victoria's arms and sobbing. "What if...if..."

Victoria reached for her daughter's hair, stroking it to calm the girl.

"Heath won't need the suit," Victoria said.

Audra wiped away her tears and took in a deep breath. "Okay. I have to be positive."

Victoria gave Audra a sad smile. "You're a good girl. Heath loves you very much. He won't let you down."

Victoria turned away, resigned to preparing the body. She'd washed the blood off of him so many times last night. This time would be the last. They wouldn't be able to use that bathtub anymore, not for its original purpose. The dull, heavy scent of blood would cling to it as long as it was intact. It was nearly full of the red fluid, and some of the blood had splashed onto the floor when Jarrod had lifted and carried him to the table.

Victoria took one last, hard look at the boy's still, white face. He reminded her so much of her own sons, perhaps when they were teenagers grown to their adult height but not yet filled out. She'd never known Heath when he was this age. How old was this boy? Sixteen? Seventeen? Not older than that. He had the same coloring and features as Heath, and it turned her stomach to wonder if Heath might be laid on this very table the next day or two. It was fortunate Heath had found his family, unlike the deceased boy in front of her. Surely God wouldn't take Heath away. He'd completed their family and brought his unique brand of humor and love to the ranch.

Victoria couldn’t stop staring at Lucky's face, and she felt a shiver go up her spine. "Trouble's coming," she whispered. She recalled Lucky's courage and determination to survive, his good nature and intelligence. "You were a fine boy," she said, stroking his cheek. She reached for her work apron, steeling herself for the task, trying but failing to place the worry out of her mind. She couldn't lose another boy. How could her heart possibly stand it?