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Even with Inspector Douglas breathing down the administration’s neck, it’s two full days after Ollie’s call before they transfer him out of the prison. After forty-eight hours of anxious pacing, Peter’s relieved to be in the car heading down to the hospital in Salem.
He pulls into the drive-through lane of a coffee hut. The barista exudes enthusiasm only achieved by snorting a line of ground espresso. The song Radioactive pulses out of the tiny booth’s window, and Peter wonders how the neatly groomed skater can hear him place his order for two large coffees. He does, though, and shouts directions to a tiny woman who could be the next Portland Monthly cover model.
“How’s the morning going?” Skater Dude hangs over the window ledge, leaning into the car and smiling as if Peter stops by for a chat every day.
“Fine, I guess.” The song dies out. It’s replaced with rhythmic double-bass kicks and melodic screams. Peter nods toward the shop. “I can never understand what these kinds of singers are saying.”
The guy laughs. “Well, most people around here can’t understand these guys. Their accents are a bit off, y’know. They’re from Japan.”
Peter glances at his watch. “It’s an intense track for nine in the morning.”
“No way, man! It’s never too early for MergingMoon.” The guy reaches behind himself to retrieve Peter’s drinks from the sprightly woman doing all the work. As he hands them to Peter, she jumps up and down, strumming an air guitar to the gyrating beat of the music.
Skater Dude rewards Peter with a stamped frequent customer card as he pushes a few dollar bills into the tip jar on the windowsill. “Thanks. Have an awesome day!”
“You, too.” Peter looks at the writhing woman. “Don’t hurt yourselves.” They drown their laughter in a sudden roar of music. Peter is thankful for the silence that envelops him as he pulls away and rolls up the window.
The road is wet and overflowing with commuters when he pulls onto Highway 26. Peter curses their existence as he follows the signs toward I-5 South. Like a true Portlander, he busies himself thinking about a time before traffic. Marveling at how construction along the side of the freeway is changing the landscape of the city, a shrill sound fills the car.
It takes a couple rounds of the high-pitched bleating for Peter to realize it’s the sound of a ringing phone. He pulls to the interstate’s shoulder and flips on his hazard lights before unbuckling and frantically pawing through the pockets of his coat. The AA phone vibrates against his fingers. He’s able to pull it out and hit the green button before it sends the call to voicemail.
“Hello?”
“Is this Alphabet Apes?” a strange voice asks.
Peter smacks himself in the forehead. He’s been practicing this call for days. “Yes, sorry. You’ve reached the Alphabet Apes contest line. This is Ted. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Ted. My box of cereal says we might have won a prize.” Children squeal wildly in the background. The woman hushes the rabble. “Sorry about that.”
“Hey, that’s okay. I’m glad you called. You’re our first contest winner!” He does his best to sound enthusiastic while he hunts around the car for a pen and scrap of paper. The renewed squeals on the line are so piercing he has to pull the phone away from his ear.
The woman’s shouts are garbled, but firm. She returns to the conversation with a normal tone. “Really, so sorry. The girls are excited they’ve won. The sticker on the box doesn’t say what the prize is. I’m assuming you’ll mail us a beach ball or something?”
Peter thinks about the mountain of toys and games in his apartment. He hadn’t considered contest entrants’ expectations might be so low. He shakes his head. “No, Ma’am. We aren’t some cheap outfit with junk like that. We have hundreds of prizes. I’ll just need you to bring your cereal box in so we can pull the secret code and see what you’ve won.”
“Bring the box in? How am I supposed to do that?” Her voice is equal parts curiosity and apprehension, like she can feel something’s not right.
He hadn’t expected a suspicious response and tries to rebound his confidence. “Yes. This is a regional contest. The number you dialed is our Portland Metropolitan line. We have local offices housing the prizes. You bring the box in, we scan the secret code, and you walk away with a prize.”
“Oh.” He can almost hear the woman give him a dirty look through the phone. “This is one of those shopping club membership deals, isn’t it? I come in to get my prize and you sit me down for a three-hour sales pitch? The prize ends up being a disposable camera and discount movie tickets. No thanks.”
The line goes dead before Peter can overcome her objection. He tosses the phone aside, frustrated with his lack of finesse. A glint of light catches his eye in the rearview mirror. He recognizes the alternating red and blue.
“Son of a bitch...”
He rolls down the window as the officer approaches. The cop advances slowly, cautious of the traffic hurtling by. “Good morning. Are you having a problem?”
“No, sir. Well, yes, sir. I pulled over to take a phone call.” Peter digs in his back pocket, fishing for his wallet.
The patrolman stands up straight. He frowns. “No car troubles?”
Grinning sheepishly, Peter answers, “No. Despite the haggard appearance of my crappy car, it runs like a champ. My dad’s in the hospital. I’m on my way there. I would have ignored the call, but I thought...”
The policeman’s face softens. He holds his hand out. “Say no more. I lost my dad two years ago. How bad is it?”
“Pneumonia, so who knows? He’s in the ICU right now.” Peter finally extracts his wallet, but as he opens it the policeman shakes his head.
“Do you need an escort?” The cop fingers the button on the radio attached to his coat.
“Thank you so much, but I don’t think so.” Peter breathes a sigh of relief and drops his wallet in the center console.
The cop’s hand moves away from his radio and down to a side pocket. He pulls out a business card and gives it to Peter, held between two fingers in the familiar way that smokers offer a cigarette. “If you decide you need to get there in a hurry, call me. This number forwards direct to my cell phone so you won’t bother dispatch.”
Peter takes the card and nods, solemnly. “Thank you.”
“I hope things turn around for your dad. Drive safe.” He taps Peter’s roof twice, like they do on B-Reel TV specials.
Waiting for him to return to his car, Peter starts his engine. While the cop flips on his light bar to move traffic out of his way, Peter has to crawl along the shoulder for several minutes with his blinker on before he finds a break in traffic wide and slow enough to merge. He guns the engine and his car leaps back onto the freeway.
It takes nearly two hours to drive to Salem’s hospital. Peter spends the entire time talking to himself about the woman who called to claim her prize. It was his first call, and he blew it.
“I need to bring the box to you?” Peter’s voice cracks with the forced falsetto pitch.
In his normal voice, he answers, “Yes, ma’am. This contest is being administered to our local customers. The number you’ve dialed is for our Portland office.”
“This seems suspicious.” He wags his head as he screeches the sentiment.
“I understand. This promotion differs from any other we’ve held. We want to help you avoid the long waits, lost paperwork and red tape that typically come with traditional contests. By having a representative in your area, we can ensure your claim is direct and immediate.”
“Are you going to sell me something?” Peter’s nose vibrates with the nasal tone and he rubs it with his palm to get the tingling sensation to stop.
“Not only will we not sell you anything, we have minimal paperwork to fill out. We require a valid form of identification, but won’t put you on a mailing list. These prizes are our thanks for your continued support of our company.”
Peter decides that’s as convincing as he will get for today. He turns on the radio, listening to KNRK for as long as the signal will hold out, then reverts to silence for the rest of the drive. The bitterness of the sludge at the bottom of the second cup of coffee is amplified by its lukewarm temperature. Peter finishes it anyway.
Once he’s parked in the hospital lot, Peter finds his regular cell phone and calls Inspector Douglas. He asks where Ollie is. Dougy’s voice guides him into the secure wing where his dad is being held for treatment.
Dougy waits for Peter in the depths of what looks to be a disused hallway. He stands in front of heavy double doors. “So, I hate to admit it, but I’m glad you called the other day. He’s doing bad. If we would have waited longer, he might not have made it.”
Peter shakes his hand and waits as the inspector presses a buzzer. The doors open slowly with a mechanical hum. They walk past an abandoned nurse’s desk, toward a room with two officers standing guard. They nod at the inspector as he opens the door between them, but all Peter can see is his father hooked up to a litany of tubes and hoses.
He’s sleeping, but it’s far from restful. His chest barely lifts as he wheezes into the mask tied to his face. Tubes snake across the bed, monitors blip behind him, liquid drips through an IV, and life barely clings to his shriveled body.
“They’ve got him sedated.” Dougy moves to the far side of the room and perches himself on a narrow bench below the only window.
Peter sits on a stool next to the bed and takes his father’s hand, careful not to disturb the IV sticking precariously out of his paper-thin skin. Ollie’s fingers are icy. He looks at the inspector and asks, “Can I have some time with him?”
“Sure thing.” Dougy wrestles himself back off the bench. He pats Peter on the shoulder. “I’ve got to check in with Mac, anyway. I’ll be in the hall if you need me.”
Peter and his father have been alone in the quiet room for a few minutes when Aerosmith fills the air. There are No Cell Phone signs papered all over the hospital. His heart races as he rushes to answer before anyone comes to yell at him. “Hello?”
A deep and unfamiliar voice says, “I know what you’re doing with Oliver Roberts. Building his legacy. Help waits in the shadows if he passes.” The line goes dead. Peter checks the caller ID but where a number should be says Unknown. A lump of anxiety drops in his stomach as he tries to sort out who, aside from Elsie, would call him with such a cryptic message. Would she break the order Dougy had sent to keep her quiet?
“Girlfriend?” Ollie eyes Peter through one barely open slit. His voice creeps out from under the oxygen mask before he’s overcome with a fit of coughing that lifts him from the mattress. The blips on the monitor behind him dance excitedly. His body contorts with pain until the hacking subsides.
Taking Ollie’s hand, Peter squeezes gently. “Prank call.”
“You don’t get many of those these days.” Oliver sinks into the pillows and his pale skin seems to melt into the sheets. “Caller ID messed that up a long time ago.”
“People can block their number.” Peter shrugs and puts his phone back in his pocket. His thumb twitches, announcing his worry.
Inspector Douglas pushes the door open with his shoulder. He’s talking to someone in the hall and isn’t paying attention to Peter and Ollie yet. Trembling fingers squeeze Peter’s hand. He leans closer to his father, so he doesn’t have to raise his voice above a whisper.
“I need good news. Tell me, how are things going with the project?”
Peter can’t bring himself to tell his dad he’s botched the only call he’s gotten. “It’s going. I’ve got stickers placed. Just waiting for the phone to ring.”
Oliver nods. The corners of his mouth curl into a half-smile. He pats his son’s hand tenderly. “If it’s taking too long, have you considered marking more packages? Maybe you need more saturation in the market.”
“That’s an idea. I can make more up tonight. I’ve got a couple hundred stickers out so far. Maybe I’ll run a thousand tonight and put them out. See what happens.” Peter hides his uncertainty and squeezes his father’s hand.
“Good. Very good, Son.”
“What’s good?” Dougy enters fully and moves to lean against the end of the bed. He adjusts himself, avoiding Ollie’s feet.
Shrugging together, Peter and Ollie share a mischievous look. Oliver takes a shallow breath, then wheezes, “It’s a delightful day to be at the hospital.”
The inspector chuckles. “I suppose it’s better than being in the clink. The food’s probably an improvement, anyway.”
Head dropping to one side, then the other, Oliver disagrees. “Nope. Our pudding comes with cookies and whipped cream.”
“Of course, it does.” Inspector Douglas’s eyes roll to the ceiling, then fall back on Peter. “How about you?”
“I don’t like pudding, so it doesn’t matter to me either way.” Peter’s tone is dry and emotionless.
Oliver’s guffaw is lost in another coughing fit. The inspector moves to the far side of the bed and takes his other hand. For a moment, Dougy looks at Peter’s father with tender concern. It’s a strangely intimate expression. The creases around the inspector’s eyes soften and he rubs Ollie’s hand gently.
Inspector Douglas seems to remember he’s not alone and shoots Peter a guilty look. He pushes off the bed and lumbers back to perch on the bench under the window. He clears his throat with a dramatic flair. “Oliver, you’d better get rid of that cough if we’re going to get back to working cases.”
Peter clenches his father’s hand as he forces a rasping cough into the recesses of his chest. Once he has it under control, he pushes the oxygen mask away from his mouth and croaks, “I’d like to visit the sea lions next.”
Dougy and Peter share an understanding nod.
“Well, I guess I’ll check with your nurse to see what kind of timeline we’re looking at.” Peter gets out of his chair and heads toward the door. “Keep an eye on him.”
“I won’t let him out of my sight,” the inspector answers, his tone serious.
Peter exits the room, passing between the thick shoulders of the guards outside. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to acknowledge them or not, but he’s saved from the decision when a blue-smocked nurse opens a cabinet of linens a few feet away.
“Excuse me,” Peter calls to him, “are you the nurse helping with my dad, Oliver Roberts?”
The nurse finishes shuffling the blankets in the heated cabinet and closes the door before answering. “I am.” He comes closer and moves his hands behind his back when Peter extends his for a handshake. “Sorry, can’t touch. Have to keep sanitary.”
Peter blushes with embarrassment. “Right. Sorry, wasn’t thinking.”
“What can I do for you?” the nurse asks.
“Do you know how long he’ll be here?” Peter hooks his thumb toward Oliver’s door.
“It’s hard to say. He’s a tough old guy. I imagine he’ll be home in a week. But it’ll be a couple more before he gets back to leading Bible study, I’m afraid.” The nurse tilts his head sympathetically.
“What?” Peter’s face scrunches. “You know about that?”
“Was it a secret?” The nurse’s eyebrows rise with surprise.
“Not exactly. But it’s not something I’d expect you to know, Nurse...” Peter’s eyes dip down to the nametag clipped to his blue smock.
“Miller. But you can call me Liam.” The nurse introduces himself with a patient expression. “I’ve been on shift with your dad all day. Whenever the sedative runs out, he’s quite the chatterbox.”
Relaxing, Peter nods in agreement. “Yeah, talking is a favorite pastime. Especially when it’s about himself.”
Liam chuckles. “Well, he is an interesting guy.”
“That’s an understatement,” Peter says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Will you be with him the whole time he’s here?”
“The days I’m on shift, yes. The higher-ups want as few of us to have contact with convicts as possible when they come in. They assign only a couple of us to inmates. They don’t want anyone to coerce us into going on wild crime sprees.” Liam tilts his head and widens his eyes dramatically.
Peter isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t want to scare the clean-cut nurse off caring for his father, but his bosses have a valid concern. If other felons were half as charismatic as Ollie, it would be a real hassle keeping their staff from running after the exciting glory of criminal activity.
“Well, thanks for looking after him. I’ll probably see you around.” Peter fidgets uncomfortably. “I’m his son, Peter.”
“Nice to meet you,” Liam says. He looks at the giant black diver’s watch strapped to his wrist. “Sorry, I’ve got to cut this short. It’s time to check vitals and administer another round of meds.”
Peter steps aside as the nurse enters his father’s room. His cell phone rings again and the officers beside the doorway’s opening shoot him a dirty look. “Sorry,” he mumbles as he pulls the phone out. Valorie’s number scrolls across the screen. He backs up to the secure door and thumbs the phone to hang it up. “I’ll take this outside.”
The doors don’t budge when he pushes on them, and he can’t find a handle or anything to open them with. One of the guards approaches, passing a plastic badge over a scanner a few feet away. “Call the inspector when you want back in.”