The Last Exchange, page 17
“Yes mum.”
“This was”—she glanced around the world he called home—“an extravagant gift.”
He nodded.
She looked up at him and smirked. “Tell the truth—good-looking guy like you, how many girls have you serenaded at the property with these fairy tales about knights and queens and castles?”
He never took his eyes off the land. “None, mum.”
On the way back to the hotel, she made a few calls and then spent an hour memorizing lines for the following day’s work. Pulling into the valet line, she asked, “Do you own a dark suit?”
“Yes mum.”
“I’ve got to go to this thing and was wondering if you would mind going with me. With us?”
He was well aware of the event and had spent considerable time prepping for it. “Yes mum.”
In the few weeks leading up to the awards ceremony, Pockets began noticing the changes. Time with Joe became split between moments of real lucidity, of presence, and lapses of confusion and absence. Of an inability to differentiate this reality from the painful one in her heart.
Following the trip to his family home, Pockets returned her to her room at the hotel, then walked down the hall to his room. As he stood in front of the closet untying his tie, someone knocked on the door. He opened it to find Joe. Ten minutes had passed since he saw her last. She held the phone to her ear and appeared to be repeating what was just spoken to her.
“Five bedrooms, six baths, a pool house . . .” She paused. Nodding. “The fitness center will be great. He works out more than Thor.” Another pause. “What’s in the garage?” A smile. “Does that come with the purchase price?” A final pause. “I’ll take it.”
She hung up, smiling, and stood there staring at Pockets.
“Yes mum.”
“I bought you a house.”
“Mum?”
“Well, I know you have a home here, but you’re in the States more than not and I just figured you’d like to have a place to call home. So when the place next to ours came up for sale, I called.” She opened her phone and began scrolling through pictures. “It’s on the ocean.”
“Yes mum, I know the house, but—”
“It comes with six Harley-Davidsons, a huge truck, and a trailer. I thought you might like a Harley. Also, the fitness center has an infrared sauna and the pool is one of those infinity kind with a waterfall.” She clutched her hands to her chest. “Now we’re neighbors. Do you own a helmet?”
He nodded. “Yes mum.”
The following week she handed him the keys and gave him a tour of his new seven-million-dollar ocean-side home—for which she paid cash. He followed her through the home as reality set in. She was going crazy. In the weeks that followed, when she asked him how he was enjoying the home, he smiled. “Very much.” But he never moved out of his closet-sized room in her basement—the one that left him thirty-seven feet from her door at any moment. If anything, declining conditions demanded he be closer. Not farther away.
Two weeks later, George, her financial advisor, appeared with paperwork placing the home in his name. That night, he walked upstairs. “Mum? Was wondering if I could talk to you about this paperwork?”
He found her asleep on the couch. A rare sight given that she slept little these days. Laying the papers aside, he covered her with a blanket and pulled the blinds, hoping she’d sleep past sunup.
Three weeks later, with sun-god Syd in attendance and bronzed by the Venezuelan sun, Joe won her second Academy Award. And when she did, Pockets watched from the shadows.
Chapter 26
After
The party continued into the early hours of the morning. Most slept where they fell or found a couch within reach. The house was littered with medicated bodies. Frank was up early and out of the house but I let him go, choosing instead to sit tight. I cracked the windows, allowing the sea breeze to dry the sweat on my skin. I thought about cranking the car but needed to save my gas in the event Amber made a run for it.
My suspicion was that cracks had surfaced in the life of the happy couple. Amber had signed up to carry a child and then profit off having done so. She had not signed up to be one insignificant member of a multi-person posse. And given the party that occurred here last night, I’d wager Amber was feeling a bit overlooked and underappreciated. She had retreated to the master bedroom just after 9:00 p.m. while Frank played video games in the basement until almost midnight, which was when the pool party started hopping. At which point he’d entertained the crowd, eventually disappearing discreetly with three girls into the pool house. Amber emerged from her room around 2:00 a.m., scoured the pool deck trying to find him, could not, and returned to her room only to reemerge five minutes later, load into the blacked-out Escalade, and drive herself to the hospital.
I followed the Cadillac to the emergency room where Amber stayed until early morning, during which time I secured a second AirTag. Just to be sure. Unless their relationship was entirely business, I sensed trouble in paradise. At 8:17 a.m., she exited the hospital, got into her car, and spent the next hour talking on the phone and driving aimlessly through the streets of LA and Hollywood, eventually returning home. Twenty minutes later, an argument commenced. From what I could tell, Amber woke Frank, who did not want to be awakened on his day off, and relayed the night’s events. Frank, not interested, told her to go away, although he used one or two more colorful words.
So Amber did what he said. She went away. Far away.
The range in my rented Lincoln might top four hundred miles, while the range in Amber’s Cadillac was probably five to six hundred, which I doubted would get used given that it was being driven by a woman with a baby sitting on her bladder.
I was right. We stopped every hour to ninety minutes. Each time for the bathroom and then potato chips, M&M’s, ice cream, and a cheeseburger. In that order. Followed by a two-hour nap in the shade in a Walmart parking lot. My thermal showed that with the engine running, she crawled in the back, stretched out, and lay very still for a little over two hours. Well rested, she entered the Walmart and routed through the bathroom and then the grocery aisles, emerging with several plastic bags. Loading into the Cadillac, she pulled her SIM card from her existing phone, opened the packaging on a prepaid, and made the swap. She then pitched the old phone, backed out of the Walmart lot, and headed toward Vegas.
Amber was running, and she was serious about it.
As the afternoon moved into evening, I kept an eye on my phone and the remaining four AirTags sitting still in Frank’s driveway back in Los Angeles. In unison, at 5:00 p.m., all four departed the driveway in single file and merged onto the highway. Headed for Vegas. At what I calculated as a hundred miles an hour.
Evidently, I was not the only one tracking the Escalade.
An hour later, Amber pulled into the parking lot of a motel on the outskirts of Las Vegas, where she was met by a tall, handsome Native American wearing a cowboy hat, boots, and a badge, carrying a gun, and driving a car marked “Navajo Nation Tribal Police.”
This just got interesting.
She exited the car, they hugged, she cried, she kissed him passionately, and he led her into the motel room before reemerging thirty minutes later, during which time I hedged my bets and moved the AirTag to his car. He had changed out of his uniform and into plain clothes. He helped her into his car and let her sit with the engine running while he crawled under the Escalade and scanned the underside of her car, eventually pulling Frank’s GPS tracker. He was about to smash it with a hammer when an RV pulled in across the street for gas. When the driver went inside during his fill-up, Amber’s new boyfriend switched the tracker. Five minutes later, the new lovebirds were heading northeast toward Mesquite and Provo while her tracker moved south.
Amber had made her choice, and she’d not chosen Frank. She’d also begun using the new prepaid to send texts to Joe’s cell demanding six-figure money along with new routing and account numbers. She wasn’t messing around. Her wording was terse and no-nonsense. Along the lines of, “If you ever want to see this baby alive, wire the money.” Which caused me to wonder what had happened in the hospital. Was the baby coming early? Was he or she not doing well? Was Amber okay? Had they moved up the C-section? I had no way of knowing, but since her hospital visit, she’d shifted into a different gear with a sense of urgency.
Following the new boyfriend, I watched my phone as the RV left the gas station. Shortly thereafter, two of the vehicles in Frank’s posse peeled off in an attempt to intersect the snowbirds, while two continued toward the motel. Within an hour of Amber’s Escalade, one car continued toward the motel while the second, probably driven by Frank, chose a northern highway that would eventually bring him in behind us—which suggested the new boyfriend had not found all the trackers and should have scanned her bag. Three hours later, one of Frank’s cars had pulled into the motel parking lot where they no doubt found her car empty and cold, while Amber and her boyfriend had parked at the sprawling New Beginnings Casino one hundred miles inside tribal boundaries, which brought all sorts of jurisdiction issues into play. Also of interest was the brand-new hospital a mile down the road.
Amber and her boyfriend parked and he led her inside, having shouldered her bag. They walked by the check-in counter and didn’t so much check in as the attendant handed the boyfriend a key. More of a baton pass. The happy couple then spent an hour in their suite, which gave me time to check in and nose around.
The boyfriend’s name was Ricardo Broadwater. Known locally as Sheriff Broadwater and known throughout the Navajo Nation as Chief Broadwater. Judging from others’ body language when around him, he was something of a Navajo godfather. Part of me actually wanted to warn Frank because, if he had not already, he was about to meet his match. A quick online search showed that Ricardo had acted in a few films, where he undoubtedly met Amber.
The two ate dinner at one of the casino’s five restaurants, complete with live music and a magic show. At 10:00 p.m., they laughed and played slots as Frank pulled into the drive. I had to hand it to Frank—he was either the smartest and most entrepreneurial mailroom employee in history, or the dumbest. Ricardo was huge and could crush Frank. His hands were paws. Not to mention tribal authorities possessed expanded and near absolute authority in tribal land. They could do what they wanted, when they wanted, with whomever they wanted, and they didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission. They were a sovereign nation and Ricardo was their chief with a Hollywood pedigree. People loved this guy.
Chapter 27
Before
Having finished a rigorous filming schedule, and at the behest of her doctors, Joe turned her attention inward. Focusing on how to help her body do what it was meant to do. She continued to think that if she could just stay pregnant, Syd might stick around for longer than the weekend required to get her pregnant. With the financial means to do so, she traveled to France, Spain, and Switzerland, working with medical professionals to convince her body to produce viable eggs.
For the next several months, Joe underwent painful and expensive procedures and even a clinical trial, all with little effect. One night after a delicate and painful procedure, Pockets was seated in a chair in his hotel room alongside Joe’s suite when his phone dinged. The text was short. “Help.”
He used his keycard to open the door and called out, “Mrs. Joe?”
Her voice echoed from the bedroom. “Pockets.” She sounded out of breath.
Pockets knocked but when she didn’t answer, he poked his head in and found Joe crumpled on the floor. Sweating. Half dressed. A towel covering her waist. Gritting her teeth. The pain apparent. “I need to get to the bathroom.”
The floor was red.
He lifted her and carried her to the bathroom where he set her on a bench, only to discover the bleeding was more significant than she’d let on. Flirting with consciousness, she leaned her head against the wall and spoke with her eyes closed. “If you could set me in the shower . . .”
He adjusted the water and then tried to help her stand, but she doubled over in pain. So he carried her, setting her gently on the floor. She was ghostly white. He didn’t hesitate. He dialed 911 about the time her head bobbed to one side.
The surgery had not taken.
He grabbed a blanket, wrapped her in it, and tried to keep her awake as the elevator descended. When he reached the hotel lobby, the paramedics were entering. “We’ll take her from here, sir.”
Pockets strode through the doors, into the back of the waiting ambulance, and gently laid her on the stretcher. The driver looked at the blood, then at Pockets. “You’re not allowed—”
Pockets pointed through the windshield, his arms covered in blood. “Drive.”
Sheet white, lips blue, her blood pressure measured 55 over 17 and dropping, and her pulse was erratic and weak. They started IVs en route but blood was pouring out faster than they could pump fluids in.
Pockets watched but knew they were losing her. She was going to die in this ambulance on the way to the hospital. He’d waited too long. When she stopped breathing, Pockets started chest compressions while the paramedic charged the defibrillator. When she didn’t respond, they shocked her a second time. “Come on, lady.”
As sweat dripped off his forehead, Pockets counted out loud: “One, two, three, four . . .” He knew from experience that every compression forced more blood out through the hemorrhage, exacerbating the problem, but it also forced it up and into the brain. What might kill her might also help her live. And if she was to live, her brain needed blood.
While Pockets administered CPR, the medic mashed the IV bag between his hands, force-feeding fluid into her collapsing system. A mile from the hospital, they shocked her a third time, and she registered a weak response and a momentary pulse. Then flatline.
Pressing his finger to her carotid, the medic was frantic. “Talk to her, man. We’re losing her.” Pockets lifted her limp body, cradled her head, pressed his lips to her ear—his breath on her face—and said the only thing he knew to say. The only thing that might call her back. And the one thing he could never tell her.
And somewhere in the dark, the whisper echoed and her shattered soul and battered body heard him. The darkness retreated.
Her eyes flickered, the light returned, and she sucked in a breath.
Then another.
When the doors shut, leaving him alone in the emergency room while a team of medical personnel crowded around her, Pockets confronted the unavoidable impossibility of his life. Now more than ever, she needed him—to protect her from both herself and the world in which she found herself. But staring at the blood, Pockets also knew she could never know the truth. No matter the cost. No matter the ache. To protect her, guard her, keep her safe, he could never again allow himself to cross the line. Pockets now lived in a world where he would wake every morning only to die every day. Then do it again tomorrow. And the day after that. He would give her all of himself while taking nothing from her. Because the second he let his guard down, she would slip between his fingers and be gone.
Chapter 28
Before
During emergency surgery, Joe required seven units of plasma. Three of which they drew from Pockets. They took two and he said, “Nope. Keep going.”
Syd, meanwhile, was caught in an ice storm and couldn’t return for nearly a week. He posted a snow-swept, tear-filled plea for prayers on TikTok and Insta. His fans swooned at his emotional authenticity and the post went viral, garnering tens of thousands of likes and thousands of emotional videos from fans worldwide, including several dozen Hollywood elites, pop stars, and professional athletes.
Joe slept three days only to wake to a room overrun with flowers and balloons. The doctor told a weak and ghostlike Joe that she had arrived minutes from death and that it could take weeks, months even, to regain her strength. Four days later, amid doubling social media numbers, heartbroken Syd fought valiantly to de-ice his plane with little effect. He was forced to spend a second week inside the arctic circle.
From her room, Joe texted Pockets. “Can you come in here, please?”
Pockets, sport coat and tie, stood from his perch and cracked open the door. “Yes mum?”
She spotted his appearance and chuckled. “You’re really not going to let it go, are you?”
Pockets buttoned his coat. “No mum.”
Joe tapped her chest. “They tell me I have you to thank for this.”
“What’s that?”
“The air in my lungs.”
“People are like cars. Once you jump-start them, the engine takes over.”
“You just compared me to a car engine.”
“My pleasure, mum.”
“You’re killing me, Pockets.”
“Yes mum.”
She tapped her chest. “Here’s the deal. You breathed into me. Pressed your lips to mine”—she gave him a knowing look, as if he enjoyed it—“for an extended period of time.” She waved him off. “So we’re past the ‘mum’ thing. You and me are like lovers without the sex.”
“I don’t know about—”
She nodded. “Oh, I do.” She tried to stand but teetered and fell forward, where he steadied and held her until she gained her footing. She shook her head, trying to shake off the dizziness. Joe eyed the ironed creases in his pants. “Do you starch your pants?”
Pockets looked down as if the answer was obvious. “Yes mum.”
She laughed. “Those things could stand on their own.” She pointed to the flowers and asked, “Feel like stretching your legs?”
“Yes mum, but . . .”
“But what?”
“We should get you another gown.”
She turned in a circle. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“Nothing. Provided you don’t mind flashing everyone behind you.”
Over the next hour, he wheeled her in and out of most every room on the floor as they gave away flowers, tied balloons to bed frames, took pictures, FaceTimed relatives, and generally asked, “How are you feeling?” None of which Joe posted on social media. By the time Syd made it back, Joe had been home a week, mourning yet another failed attempt without him.
