Free Talker's Redemption by Amy Lane Page A

while.”
     
    Brian managed a little bit of a smile, but his eyes were sagging shut, and Tate had a date with a couple of cops. He rubbed Brian’s wrist with his thumb and then turned to go.
     
    “Doc?” It was as close to a plea as he would ever get, and bless Dr. Sutherland, he knew it too.
     
    “Absolutely, Talker. Let me get my knitting.”
     

     

     
    The detectives had secured a small conference room somewhere far enough away from the Trauma ICU that Tate knew he’d have to ask for directions back. Dr. Sutherland panted by his side, and looked relieved to sit down in the offered chair, with an offered glass of water.
     
    Tate took the chair, wished desperately for a soda, and downed the water in one gulp.
     
    “Do you smoke?” the blond detective asked. “We could take this outside if you wanted a smoke.”
     
    Talker frowned at him. “You can’t run track and smoke,” he said with a shrug. He crumpled the paper cup in the working two fingers of his right hand, and the detective followed the movement.
     
    There was a horrible silence in the room then, and Tate watched the realization—he could practically see the guy’s eyes track from his scarred, damaged hand, up his arm, to see that the tattoos on his arm covered scars, then up to his neck, where the scarring was shadowed by the creases in his neck, and then up to his face, and then his head, where the line of his Mohawk was dictated by the line where his hair would actually grow—aha! Epiphany. The only time he hadn’t hated that epiphany had been when Brian had made it. Brian had been nice to him anyway, before he knew the “why” of the tattoos and the hair. Brian had sought out his company, in spite of his own shyness and reservation. Brian hadn’t shown any pity or awkwardness.
     

     

     
    “ Ouch .”
     
    “Yeah, it hurt. My mom fell asleep with a lit cigarette and a bottle of whiskey. My blanket was soaked in it.”
     
    “She make it?”
     
    “No.”
     
    “My folks neither.”
     
    Leave it to Brian to find the most painful (or was it second now, or third?) moment from Tate’s life, and to find the way it made them the same .
     

     

     
    “ What happened?” the detective asked, and Tate swallowed, wanting more water. Enough, maybe, to drown out the sound of his heart in his ears.
     
    “Fire,” he said briefly. “Did you have something you wanted to talk about?”
     
    The detective widened his eyes and said, “You don’t like hospitals?”
     
    “You don’t like getting to the point?”
     
    “Jesus! I was just trying to make conversation. I was waiting for Henries, if you want to know. He was trying to get the puke out of his shoes.” There was a wry twist to Detective Melville’s mouth, and Tate got the feeling that if he could have, Melville would have told him “Nice shot!”
     
    Talker sighed and decided to take a risk. “Is there any way I could talk to just you?” he asked after a moment. He felt foolish and weak, but Melville seemed relieved.
     
    “That would be fine,” he said. “Do I have your permission to record this?”
     
    Tate looked at Doc Sutherland, who looked uneasy. “He hasn’t done anything,” the doc said. “Tate’s a victim. Brian is a victim. I hate the way this feels.”
     
    Oh, God bless the man. Tate nodded. “Look, how’s this: I tell you what happened, you decide what we need to do. Because the only thing you and puke-shoes got right is that Trev’s not the stopping kind, right?”
     
    Melville put the tape recorder back in his pocket. “I hear you,” he said. “Okay, just talk to me. They call you Talker, let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”
     
    Tate sighed and looked away. In the distance he could hear music, and for a moment, he let the taupeness of the sterile conference room wash over him, and he hummed a few bars of Aunt Lyndie’s hymn, because it didn’t shred his throat the way “Jeremy” did. When he spoke, he spoke into a thoughtful