Eventually we made eye contact again.
What the hell do you mean, “That needs to come off?”
Shocked, Juan looked at me with surprise. Just like the coyote and Garry, Juan was startled having someone else’s thoughts intrude on his consciousness. Watching him, only a foot away from my face, I could hear his thought processes.
Was this guy reading my mind? No. That’s impossible. There has to be some other logical explanation. I must have spoken out loud … or something. He shook his head and smiled. “No, man, the seatbelt, that’s got to come off. You’re lucky. Really lucky—it saved your life. You should be fine.”
Juan got an I.V. going, cut the seatbelt away from my shoulder, and prepared to get me extricated from the car. I could feel the narcotics entering my bloodstream. Probably morphine, or something equally mind numbing—I started to slip in and out of consciousness. At some point, the back of the car was cut away, and light from above poured in. Multiple hands were being positioned, ready to lift me out. But something nagged at me, something important—what was it? I just wanted to sleep. My drug-induced thoughts pleaded for my eyes to open … just one more time, and I peered around the mangled car interior. What is that? There, on the floor, or what was now the ceiling … something caught my eye. Oh, yeah … the little red heart on a cream-colored envelope. I needed that envelope. That just might be the one connection to who I am. Am I Rob? I put all my attention back on Juan again.
Juan, I need you to pick up that envelope. It’s by your left knee. Yes, that one … now put it in your top left pocket.
Juan did what I asked, as if I’d spoken the words aloud. The top of the envelope peeked out above the pocket flap, which was now unable to close. He looked at me, irritated. You need to stay the hell out of my head, man …
In one fluid motion I was lifted from the car to a waiting gurney. Everything was moving much faster now. I only saw glimpses of things … the accident scene, the truck driver now gone, crews busy spraying down the pavement, a bright blue tarp draped over the other vehicle. I looked back at what had been my car. It was a misshapen ball of crushed and torn metal. I can’t believe I lived through that. But my full attention was really on the telephone pole behind it. My eyes traveled up the deep brown wood, up to its very top, where the pole tapered nearly to a point. Several large black cables, one hanging down several feet lower than the others, swayed back and forth, back and forth … And I felt a deep longing for that connection again. I don’t want to leave you.
Chapter 3
Harland Platt had decided to stay, just in case, to make sure he was in fact dead. He’d been perched up high on a ledge about a half-mile from the accident scene for hours. Of course he was dead. Look at that car. He took one more look through his binoculars, readjusted the focus, and steadied his arms on the rocky surface beneath his elbows. Finally, they were extracting the body. Shit! Dead men don’t require an I.V. Harland wasn’t one to typically show his emotions. His training had been impeccable—the best in the world. But now he was angry. He inhaled, held the desert air deep in his lungs, and concentrated on calming himself as he slowly exhaled through pursed lips. He’d spent the better part of two days setting this up. Everything timed to the second. Everything calculated, using probability matrices that clearly showed Chandler should be dead.
Harland removed the binoculars from around his neck and stowed them in his pack. An early morning mist floated several inches above the ground, adding an almost mystical aspect to the rocky terrain. Red and blue lights continued to strobe from the emergency vehicles on the highway.
Being an independent player, a choice he’d made years ago when he’d left the CIA, was not for everyone. But Harland had come to realize he was different than others in covert ops. Those with a moral compass were best when aligned with an agency where they could, at least somewhat, justify their actions. Harland had no such restrictions. Feelings of guilt or remorse were as foreign to Harland as the emotions of love and compassion were. Does that make me a sociopath? he wondered as he headed off into the desert. Undoubtedly, it does.
Killing Chandler had been his sole mission for nearly two years. Even while Harland was still at the Agency working alongside Chandler, sometimes on a daily basis, his orders had been implicitly clear. Terminate Chandler; ensure the hit would not be tied back to them. This was his second attempt, an embarrassment. He either completed the assignment, or faced being terminated himself.
He found the stolen black 1990s vintage Ford Explorer with switched-out plates right where he’d left it. He wouldn’t call it a road, more like a dirt path that paralleled the highway about a mile to the east. He opened the driver’s side door, placed his pack on the seat and dug out a map and a small penlight. He held the light between his teeth and, moving his head around, surveyed the greater Kingman-area map. Easy peasy, he said out loud. Only one hospital. He refolded the map and pushed it into the pack, but dropped the flashlight in the process.
In the cool early morning dawn, the single best place to find radiating heat had been underneath the slow-cooling engine of Harlan’s Ford Explorer. Not one, but three Diamond Head rattlesnakes had quickly settled in there for the morning. Even before Harland opened the driver’s side door, they’d become agitated, leery of his presence, coiled tight, ready to strike, if warranted.
The first of the strikes came when the flashlight dropped. Only when Harland reached for it did the other two snakes strike simultaneously. He pulled his hand back reflexively and saw the four puncture wounds. The pain wasn’t instantaneous. But by the time Harland had the truck up and running and was headed back down the dirt path toward the city of Kingman, he was having a difficult time focusing and staying conscious.
Fortunately, he knew right where to go, and traffic at this time of the morning should be minimal, but he didn’t think he could stay conscious the fifteen minutes needed to drive to the Kingman Regional Medical Center. The SUV shook as it traversed over uneven ground. Pain, like bolts of electricity, shot up his arm. Once the path turned to a dirt road, and finally into a paved street, Harland accelerated. He needed to cut minutes from his trip across town, so light signals and stop signs were ignored. Two cars were together up ahead, facing in opposite directions; the drivers pulled in close to converse. Harland didn’t slow; if anything, he gunned it even more. Veering to the left of the two cars, the Explorer’s right-side mirror swiped one of the vehicles, disintegrating into a hundred fragments onto the pavement. Harland briefly lost consciousness, and then sideswiped a pair of garbage cans left on the side of the road. Coming awake with a jolt, he saw a slow-moving trash truck lumbering along less than a block ahead. Darkness was pulling at him, engulfing him. His last thoughts, before totally blacking out, were of Chandler shooting his wife.
Chapter 4
Pippa Rosette, delayed by an extended overseas phone conversation with an envoy at the Turkish Embassy, had wanted off the phone ten minutes earlier. She had to pee and she crossed her legs, but it gave her little relief. She didn’t like being rude, but she had to cut off the foreign diplomat mid-sentence.
“Well … thank you, Adiguzel, again. Let me follow up with a few things here on my end and get back to you in a few days. How does that sound?”
Impatient, her foot had started to tap rhythmically against the leg of her desk.
“Good, good. Yes, I’ll definitely do that, and say hi to Sevda for me.”
Pippa could still hear Adiguzel’s voice as she hung up the phone and darted toward the ladies’ restroom. An obstruction. Halfway down the corridor, Agent Giles, in his too perfect-looking suit and too perfect-looking hair, was on his hands and knees looking up into the internal workings of the massive office printer. A ream of paper and a large paper tray sat on the floor at his side. The end of his nose was black, and she noticed ink stains covering his fingers.
“I’ve got to get by you, Giles … Like, now!”
Giles looked up at her, not seeming to understand what she want
ed.
“Oh, sorry, I’ve made a bit of a mess here. Just give me a minute or two—”
“Nope, can’t do that.” Pippa edged in behind him, her legs brushing against his not insignificant backside. Surprised, he looked back at her and then smiled. Pippa furrowed her brow in response. She felt his eyes on her ass as she ran down the corridor and disappeared into the restroom.
Sitting in the quiet solitude of the stall, she reviewed her morning to-do list on her iPhone. They’d loaded her up with more work than she could possibly handle. Still considered a newbie at the Department of Homeland Security, Office of Intelligence and Analysis in Washington, D.C., she huffed out loud. Hell, she actually had more field experience than most of the agents here put together. She’d transferred from a five-year stint with the CIA, but she knew the rules. She’d have to prove herself all over again. That was fine with her. It felt good to be back in the U.S.—she was ready to start her life again and get past waiting to hear from Chandler. She’d been staying with her mother in Georgetown for several weeks, but had recently found a flat with rent she could afford … barely. She felt her phone vibrate and when she pulled it out, a text message displayed.
“Hey, Pippa! Just confirming—dinner tonight?”
She’d forgotten about the tentative date she’d made with Ted Williams, an old flame from college. How she’d changed since then, she thought. She knew she needed to get back out there. Start dating. And Ted was certainly no slouch: handsome, rich family and, if she remembered correctly, had the endurance of a racehorse. Pippa smiled to herself, letting her mind reflect back, then replied to his text.
“Sorry, Ted—crazy work schedule this week. Rain check?”
Chapter 5
My hospital room was clean and sparse. I was in a room with two beds, close to a window. My roommate was a middle-aged man who seemed to be sleeping. There was an older-model TV secured high up on the wall; bright colored cartoons silently jittered across the screen.
I took stock of my condition. I felt disoriented and still had no idea who the hell I was. Looking down I saw that I had both arms—one was bandaged. I had both legs—both bandaged. I had something wrapped around my head, which was throbbing, and there were numerous clear and white polyurethane tubes connected to medical equipment, off to my side and behind me. I could hear a soft, rhythmic beeping sound, which must be coming from a heart monitor. The door to my room was open and I saw pink and blue-clad nurses scurrying back and forth. Then a candy-striper … is that what they’re called? carrying a bouquet of flowers walked by. Within several minutes a nurse, followed by a doctor right on her heels, walked into my room.
The nurse made a beeline for my I.V. After checking its fluid level, she looked at me. She was pretty, maybe thirty, with empathetic, caring eyes. She put her hand on my cheek, either out of kindness or to check the temperature of my skin, I wasn’t sure. The doctor was at the foot of my bed, reading my chart. And then I realized something else: I couldn’t read their thoughts. Had I imagined my ability to do that at the accident scene? Of course I’d imagined that! I had been traumatized, physically and mentally.
“Good morning, how are you feeling today?” the nurse asked, leaning in closer to me and checking my bandages.
She had small freckles, which she’d tried to conceal with makeup, and the glint of a tiny pierced diamond on a cute, upturned nose. Her face was inches from my own. Noticing me staring up at her, she pulled away with the beginnings of a smile.
“I’m okay, I guess …” I said, in a hoarse but discernible voice.
“Well, you’ve been through a lot; your body will need time to recover, so don’t push it—sleep as much as you can. My name is Jill. Use this to signal the nurse’s station if you need anything.” She placed a call button within reach at the side of the bed and hurried off. The doctor towered over me from the opposite side of the bed; a beaklike nose supported black-framed reading glasses, and his hair was meticulously combed to cover a balding head.
Looking up from my chart, he spoke in a gentle voice. “Hello, I’m Doctor Madison. I was on duty when they brought you in several days ago. Fortunately, with the exception of some bruising and deep lacerations, you’re in pretty good shape. No broken bones, no internal injuries …”
“How long have I been here? How long was I out?” I asked, confused that he’d mentioned several days had elapsed.
“It’s been three days. You have a pretty bad concussion, so that’s not abnormal.”
“I must have fallen asleep at the wheel …” The memories from the accident were coming back to me.
The doctor gently shook his head. “Let’s not think about that right now, OK? Do you remember who you are … can you tell me your name?”
I drew a blank. “I don’t know, doctor. I woke up in that car this way. I seriously have no idea who I am.”
The doctor must have recognized the concern on my face, because he smiled and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s quite common to have short-term memory lapses after major head traumas such as yours. It’s commonly referred to as Retrograde Amnesia—where the patient has difficulty remembering things prior to receiving a severe blow to the head. I’m no expert in that field. We’ll need to have a specialist check you out and run some tests … but I wouldn’t put too much into your memory loss right now. One day at a time.” He started to walk away.
“Wait, there was an envelope—the paramedic had it.” What was his name … Juan. “His name was Juan.”
The doctor nodded and gestured towards the nightstand. “Are you Rob? You had no wallet on you; they needed to cut away your clothes at the scene … and, unfortunately, a little while later your vehicle, as well as the others involved, exploded—they say there was a fuel leak … ignited by a spark or something.”
“So … anything left in that car which would help identify me is—”
“Pretty much gone,” the doctor said, shaking his head.
I looked over and noticed the cream-colored envelope sitting on the bedside table.
“We opened it and read the card inside, hoping to find out who you were—perhaps someone to contact.” Doctor Madison pointed his nose toward the envelope and shook his head. “We really didn’t get much from the card, but perhaps it will jog something for you. Take a look?”
He handed me the envelope, with Rob and the small, hand-drawn red heart on the front … I opened it and pulled out a small rectangular card. Just five words written in that same feminine cursive …
“Okay, I’ll wait for you.”
The doctor was watching me: “… so, are you Rob?”
I shrugged. “Sure, why not. Call me Rob.” I had no idea if I was Rob or not, but I was tired of not having an identity, and the thought that somebody was waiting for me, anyone, was compelling.
* * *
Jill’s afternoon shift had just started and she was back in my room—busy disconnecting me from various tubes and cords. “We need to get you up and moving around, Rob,” she said with enthusiasm.
“Are you always this cheery?”
“No,” she said, eyebrows raised and shaking her head at the question. “I’m just having a really good day. You have to take them when they come—right?”
“Yeah, I guess …” I said. “So what are we doing here?” Jill was in the process of pulling down the covers and moving my legs over the side of the bed.
“We’re going for a walk. Need to get the blood moving, your muscles active again.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?” I wasn’t ready to face the world just yet. I still felt like I’d been run over by a truck, which I almost had been, and the weight of those other drivers’ deaths clung to me like a black shroud. I looked down at the bed covers and wanted to bury my head beneath them.
“Yeah, well, it’s time for a change of scene; it’ll do you good … up, up, come on!” she responded pleasantly.
Using my I.V. stand for balance, I was able to stand. Everyt
hing hurt, especially my head. Jill put her arm around my waist and we slowly walked out of my hospital room.
“So what’s that symbol on your wrist? The tattoo?” I asked, gesturing towards her left hand.
“Oh … that? It’s a birdcage. And see, the little door is open.” Jill released her arm from around my waist and put the tops of her two hands right next to each other. “See here, this is the little birdie that got out and is flying free.”
Less than halfway around the corridor my legs started to throb. As we turned the next bend I asked if we could take a short breather. Leaning against the wall I took a couple of deep breaths. Across from me was a utility door with a sign that read:
MECHANICAL
WARNING: HIGH-VOLTAGE AREA
“What’s in there?” I asked, nodding towards the utility room.
“What does it look like? It’s an electrical room … and that one down there is a broom closet, and that exciting room further down the hall is a bathroom. And if you’re done stalling, maybe we can get back to a little more exercise?”
Once back in my room, all tucked in for the night, with Jill off tending to other patients, I tried to watch some TV, but nothing held my interest. The guy in the next bed hadn’t said much. And from what I could tell, he was most likely Russian or from some other Slavic-speaking country. Even though he couldn’t understand a word of what I’d said to him, from his chortles and giggles, he could understand old Seinfeld episodes just fine. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for several more hours. The floor was quiet; on-duty nurses and doctors had disappeared behind computer screens or into break rooms.
I quietly climbed out of bed, found my hospital-issued slippers hiding under a chair, and made for the hallway. The lights had been dimmed, and a feeling of calm and quiet permeated the floor. I retraced my steps from my walk with Jill and located the door marked Mechanical. I just stood there in front of the door, hoping it would be unlocked.
Mad Powers (Tapped In) Page 2
