Chapter Six
Sonny opens the penthouse door and moves slowly inside, quietly shutting the door behind him. The interior is dark except for a light on the stair that pools gently into the living room and creates drifting gray shadows that hug the tall walls. He walks stiffly with shoulders rounded down. The loss of Johnny and Emily weigh on him like a 500-pound coat that surrounds and smothers him, dragging him down into depression and despair.
Carly is asleep on the sofa, sprawled out on her side, her head resting on a decorative pillow, wearing the same silver negligee that she’d selected for her special romantic evening with Sonny. Plans are made to be broken, and she’d waited up well after midnight hoping to hear that Johnny was fine and expected out of the hospital soon. She’d called Sonny several times on his cell phone, but for some reason, the phone was out of order.
Sonny walks over to the sofa and kneels down beside his pretty blond wife, so innocent and peaceful looking in her sleep, taking in small, shallow baby breaths with a fist gently curled to the side of her face. A brief, tight smile flickers across his drawn face as he admires her pouty lips and soft cheeks. He strokes her silky hair with a gentle hand, and her eyes open to meet his troubled gaze.
"Johnny okay?" she asks, sitting up, yawning and expecting a positive answer.
Sonny’s eyes cloud and turn to the floor, and his mouth opens and quickly closes without saying anything. He strokes her hair twice with a shaky hand. Finally, he croaks in a small, pained voice, "He’s gone, Carly. Johnny didn’t make it." Sonny starts weeping soundlessly.
"Oh, God," whispers Carly as tears form and slide down her cheeks. She takes Sonny’s head in her hands and turns his face upwards. "Oh, baby," she croons. "I’m sorry, I’m so sorry." She pulls his head to her breast and languidly runs her fingers through his dark curls over and over with a soothing rhythmic touch. Sonny leans into Carly, and his arms circle around her waist, pulling her closer to him. Sonny relaxes just a little bit listening to her steady heartbeat.
After a few minutes, Sonny wipes his eyes, clears his throat and rises and sits on the sofa next to Carly, taking her hand and placing it in his lap. He rubs her hand as he works up his courage to tell her the other news. "There’s something else," he intones flatly. "Emily Quartermaine was murdered last night. And…Nikolas Cassadine is the prime suspect." Carly gasps and places a hand over her mouth. "What’s going on in this town?" she wails. "Ohmigod! Emily. Ohmigod."
~*~*~*~
Nikolas is lying on his back, his sweat-drenched head exhaustedly turned to the right, with open eyes that are glassy, blank and staring at the wall. His breaths come and go steadily and easily. After his fourth injection of Haldol, he finally stopped frantically moving around and trying to escape, but the taut, black restraints still hold fast his occasionally twitching wrists and ankles. He eventually retreated into his own private, silent world and stopped communicating at all. Laura, Alexis and Stefan each visited their son and nephew, but he did not recognize any of them.
Kevin enters the room with a concerned frown creasing his forehead. After four injections of Haldol, he expected that Nikolas might be able to speak to him, not clearly perhaps, but in a responsive manner. Kevin stands by Nikolas’ bed and observes his disassociated gaze.
"Nikolas," he says as he waves his hand over his eyes. Nikolas does not break his haunted stare.
Kevin reaches out a careful hand and gently takes Nikolas’ chin and turns his head towards him. "How are you feeling?" he asks with concerned brown eyes meeting Nikolas’ eyes directly. No thoughts or emotions seem to register in Nikolas’ eyes and no sound is forthcoming.
Kevin loudly claps his hands in front of Nikolas’ face, but Nikolas does not flinch or react.
Time will tell, but Kevin is starting to believe that this is more than situational psychosis that he is dealing with.
~*~*~*~
Stefan climbs the five flights up to the west wing attic. He pauses on the fourth floor landing with a hand on the wooden staircase, taking in a deep breath and resting his legs. This part of Wyndemere was shut off from the rest of the house promptly after the Cassadines’ arrival in Port Charles, and it is full of draping cobwebs, a testament to the lack of exposure to human contact and cleaning servants.
On the fifth floor, Stefan’s flashlight bounces up and down the walls with each step toward the far door at the end of the long, dark wood paneled hallway. Stefan hasn’t been up here for a year or two. He pauses at the door and places a large, metal key in its lock. He slowly turns the key and steps inside. His flashlight barely illuminates the room’s dank interior. Finally, Stefan’s flashlight captures its intended target. He stares silently for minutes, brows creased and mouth turned down.
"For decades I have protected and nurtured this family," he quietly states. Stefan shakes his head sadly. "All for naught. We are cursed." Stefan turns and exits the door, carefully locking it behind him and proceeds down the hall and back to the stairs. If he had paused at the doorway for a minute, he might have heard the sound of a dragging chain, scraping and crawling along the ancient wooden floor.
~*~*~*~
Andreas enters Helena’s house on the Greek Island so beloved to her late husband, Mikkos. He knows exactly what his gold key will unlock, and he walks purposefully toward Madam’s private study. Passing by her ornately carved Louis VI desk and Faberge egg collection, he opens a mahogany corner cabinet. Inside is a small, antique safe. Andreas inserts the gold key and turns it clockwise. He pulls opens the door and reaches for a manila folder full of papers. He turns on a crystal lamp and places the folder on the desk. Pulling up a 300-year-old chair, he sits and begins reading.
Andreas’ hand pauses on a certificate. His face first loses all color, then turns a deeper and deeper shade of red. Enraged at what he has read, Andreas leaps to his feet and knocks off the crystal lamp, which explodes on impact with the blue-veined marble floor. He wildly looks around and begins lobbing the Faberge eggs at the wall, hoping to satisfy his craving for revenge by bashing the expensive treasures into meaningless, shiny shards. He rips down books from the shelves and scatters them throughout the room, pausing only to shred pages or break a spine on a book.
He starts to tire when he tears the silk damask curtains protecting the windows of the study. Wrapping himself in gilded silk, he falls to his side weeping endlessly.
~*~*~*~
Alan Quartermaine stands outside of his wife’s office door and knocks, then enters. Monica is seated behind her desk with her reading glasses on, doing some research on the Internet. She looks up from her glasses and smiles when she sees her husband, but her smile quickly dims when she notices the look on his face.
"Alan?" she asks puzzled. "Is something wrong? You look really tired and upset," she says noting his pale complexion and the deep lines accentuating his grief-stricken face.
Alan walks over to the office couch and sits down. He pats the seat beside him. "Monica, come here a minute," he says grimly. "I have something to tell you."
Monica drops her glasses onto her desk and walks quickly over to the couch. "Alan? What is it, you’re scaring me!"
Alan grimaces and grits his teeth. "Monica, there’s no easy way to tell you this….Emily has been murdered. She’s dead. Our baby girl is dead, Monica." Alan’s eye shine sadly with tears, and Monica’s face pales and falls. Her eyes widen as her mouth opens in shock.
"Alan?" she asks shakily. "ALAN?!!" Monica feels the room spinning in a sickening wave of color and nausea, and she faints dead away into the arms of her trembling husband.
~*~*~*~
In the short space of three hours, Todd Manning had acquired a newspaper, rented a palatial mansion to live in, and obtained the services of a nanny – all with the touch buttons of the hospital phone. Todd is exhausted from his efforts, and Lucky is worn out from watching him. Both men slumber heavily. Todd lies protectively curled on his side with his tousled hair obscuring his face, and Lucky lies on his back with his broken leg hanging over the side of the bed and his free arm wrapped around the top of his head. Lucky’s mouth is hanging open, and he almost seems to be having a conversation with his dolls. His voice lilts and questions, sounds and tones only, no words, and then it flattens in a corresponding answer. Todd lies ensconced in one of his usual nightmares, as he thrashes his arms and legs and then curls into a ball. Sometimes he mumbles, and other times, he cries out in surprise, fear or anger.
Luke and Laura walk into the hospital room. Laura whispers to Luke, "Do you think we should wait to tell him? They both look sound asleep."
Luke replies, "Darlin’ he has to know. I’d rather him hear from us than to overhear some nurse gossiping. Let’s do it now."
Laura nods and both parents walk quietly over to Lucky’s bedside, and draw the privacy curtain around his bed.
"Lucky," Laura says quietly, touching his shoulder with a firm hand. Lucky wakes up with a sputter. "Huuhh?" he says in a confused tone of voice. "Mom. Dad."
"Hey, cowboy," says Luke affectionately, patting his plaster-casted leg. "How’s my boy? Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah," replies Lucky. "I feel a lot better than when I woke up this morning," he says grinning sheepishly.
Luke clears his throat and looks concerned. "Lucky, there’s something your mother and I need to tell you. It’s about Emily."
Lucky looks back and forth from his mother’s to his father’s face. "What?" he asks curiously.
Laura resumes the conversation in a sad tone of voice. "Honey, Emily was killed last night in the hospital. Someone murdered her." Laura’s eyes fill with tears, and she reaches for a tissue to wipe her eyes.
"WHAT?!" Lucky shouts, his face red and his eyes wide and confused. "Emily’s not dead. You’re just saying that. Why are you saying that?" he pleads.
"Cowboy," says Luke softly, touching his son’s arm with reassurance
Lucky shrugs his arm away. "She’s my best friend. She can’t be dead. Tell me she’s okay." He looks at his mother with tears in his hurt eyes.
"Oh, Lucky, I know it’s a bad shock. Everyone’s very upset," says Laura while she takes Lucky into her arms and hugs him tightly.
"WHO?" Lucky spits out as he whips out of Laura’s arms and slams his back onto his pillows. "Who did this. I’ll kill him! Who was it?"
Laura and Luke exchange worried glances. Luke speaks. "The police aren’t sure who the murderer is. They did arrest one person, but he is no longer under consideration for the crime. One other person was murdered last night as well. Helena Cassadine is dead." Luke grins in spite of himself.
Lucky looks shocked and then he laughs. "I thought she was indestructible. I mean, she always kept coming back for more. What, did they find her under a house with her feet curled up?" Luke chuckles appreciatively. "Could be," he teases.
Laura interrupts. "There’s one more thing, Lucky. It’s your brother Nikolas. He’s in the hospital."
Lucky looks concerned. "What happened to Nikolas? Is he okay? Did he have a car wreck or something? I told him he’d better take those curves easier in that Jag of his."
Laura shakes her head and creases her brow. "Um, no, honey," she says softly. "Nikolas had a nervous breakdown. He’s in the psychiatric wing. The doctors aren’t sure yet what caused this, but he may have witnessed or been involved in a murder."
Lucky’s eyes bulge. "Helena?" he asks. "Did he kill Helena?"
"Well, cowboy, that may be," states Luke. "But, remember, Andreas is on the large, and he tried to harm you. He may be responsible for both murders. But, we won’t know until Nikolas is able to talk to us and make sense."
"Jeez," Lucky breathes out exhaustedly, rubbing his forehead furiously. "I can’t keep up with all this." He starts crying earnestly. "Emily was my best friend. What am I going to do without my best friend?" his voice quavers. Laura draws him into her arms, and he sobs long and hard.
~*~*~*~
Fifteen minutes after Luke and Laura leave the hospital room, Todd Manning says quietly from his end of the curtain, "Lucky? I’m sorry about your friend and your brother."
"Thanks, Todd," Lucky replies tersely from the other end of the curtain.
"Well, okay," responds Todd hesitantly. "You get some good sleep, okay, Lucky?"
"Yeah, Todd," says Lucky in a flat tone.
Todd rolls over onto his side and tries to stifle his tears. He would give anything to have a mother, father, brother or best friend.
Beautiful, blooming roses
The disorderly orderly
A Port Charles rodeo