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“What’s going on? Where is he?” Declan screams, terror shaking her voice.
“He made it seem like he was going to bed, like he was in the bus with you two. He never came back, where the fuck else would he go? Something isn’t right.” Bordeaux spins in a circle, scanning the nearly empty parking lot filled with only the three buses and equipment truck with all of the band’s instruments, amps, and other sound devices.
I look at the three of them, feeling helpless as Bordeaux puts his hands on his head.
“Where could he have gone?” Bordeaux shouts, and I can’t help but think this is an entirely new side that I’ve seen of him. The conversation seems like it happened a lifetime ago.
Just then, Carleeta bounds out of her bus, an eye-mask on top of her head, her hair in a high bun. She’s runs over toward us, her slippers scratching against the concrete.
“What the hell is going on?” she screeches, taking a pair of glasses out of her long sleep shirt and slipping them onto her face. “Can someone please—”
Bordeaux’s phone rings, and he jumps, almost dropping it. I hate how on-edge he is right now, his fear rubbing off on me, hanging in the air between us. He’s one second away from a damn panic attack, and I hate seeing him like this.
“Mrs. Flores,” Bordeaux says into the phone, and I have no clue who Mrs. Flores is. There’s so much I don’t know about these people or their lives, and I suddenly feel like an outsider amongst a family. I step back from their circle and notice half a dozen of their security team standing around the perimeter of the parking lot next to their cars. I hadn’t noticed before but there’s a swarm of paparazzi just off the premises, all standing with their cameras in hand, but no one takes any photos, at least not right now. There’s two security men talking to them and instead of their usual yelling, trying to get the members of the band to talk to them and look at them, everyone is silent.
“Potter’s Bridge Park,” he yells at anyone who will listen, racing back to our car. “Flynn’s mom called the police. That’s where he is. He’s not answering his phone. We need to get there. Let’s fucking go.”
* * *
The ride to the park feels like it takes an eternity. I learn, as Bordeaux explains to Declan and Miller, us all piled in the backseat of the car, that Mrs. Flores is Flynn’s mother. I hadn’t registered the name before because Flynn’s last name is Armstrong. Bordeaux sits in complete silence, looking out the window into the dark, only telling us that Mrs. Flores told him that Flynn had called her to say goodbye.
Declan cries uncontrollably, and I try to console her, not knowing what to do. She’s wedged between Miller and me, half on our laps, her body shaking uncontrollably as we pull up to a wooded area.
Red and blue lights flicker off the trees, a swarm of police vehicles and multiple ambulances sit at the park’s entrance blocking the road. The beams from several flashlights bounce in the darkness of the woods, and as soon as the car comes to a stop, we’re all spilling out and running toward the emergency vehicles.
A tall, uniformed officer sticks both hands out, motioning us back. “This is a crime scene, you aren’t getting any closer.” He is all business with a scowl on his face, with not even an ounce of understanding in his voice.
“No fucking way,” Bordeaux shouts, trying to get around him. “Our friend is out there, we—”
“Step back!” the officer yells in Bordeaux’s face, and Miller grabs ahold of Bordeaux by the arms, pulling him backward. “Get back and let us do our damn job!”
Bordeaux groans and it sounds like everything inside him is breaking. He squats and puts his head in his hands before pulling his phone back out of his pocket and dialing again.
“Can you tell us what happened? We don’t know what’s going on…” Declan manages to get out through her tears. “Our friend’s mother called us… and told us to get here, that he’s not answering his phone. He’s depressed…” Her voice trails off just as Carleeta runs up to us, screaming at the officer.
“Is he okay? Do you know where he is? Why is there yellow crime scene tape? What’s happened?” Carleeta stands toe to toe with the officer, trying to peer around his large frame.
“Get out of the way!” a voice calls from the distance. “Move out of the fucking way!” The voice gets closer, and flashlights light up the trail behind the officer. A stretcher is rushed toward the parked ambulance. A stretcher with someone on it.
Flynn.
Declan, Miller, and Bordeaux all scream simultaneously. The combination of their voices and their pain is gut-wrenching. I step backward, clasping my hand over my mouth, just as more men in uniforms grab ahold of the band, holding them back.
The paramedics load the stretcher into the back of one of the ambulances, but I can’t get a good look at Flynn. The sheet isn’t pulled up around him, and I can just barely see his head turned to the side. I can’t see if his eyes are opened or closed. Bordeaux breaks free from the officer and runs to the ambulance, the officer on his heels, but just as he makes it to the doors, the ambulance speeds off, causing Bordeaux to fall onto his stomach, his head in the dirt.
“Bordeaux!” Instinctively, I run toward him. “Are you okay?” I say as I reach him, but he says nothing. He lays on his stomach, his head up, watching the ambulance drive away.
I have no idea why the words even come out of my mouth because I know he’s not okay. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
Forty-Two
Bordeaux
Litost (n.) a state of agony
and torment created by the sudden sight
of one’s own misery.
