“Roger that.”
“Okay. Where are the bad guys?”
Leanne typed rapidly. Searched her screen. The satellite photos on the monitors above her computer glowed, morphed and formed several distinct shapes. A blob of red dots collected into a group. “Moving north,” Leanne said, briskly. “Away from your position. Gone for now.”
“Good. How soon for that evac?”
“Working on it.” And she was. Major Leanne Davidson was damned good at her job. She pulled up a map, judged distances in a New York heartbeat, typed as loud and fast as a line of Irish dancers, issued marching orders pending approval. Said, “Be advised, LZ is two miles down, a flat rocky area with one main building, an evacuated ER with a decent-sized parking area.”
“Two miles might take a while.”
“Maintain silence, just get in touch when you arrive. We’ll be waiting for word. Hang in there, soldier.”
“Yeah, right,” Cap Rogers said. She heard him spit something and grunt. Blood? “This shit had better be worth it.”
Leanne severed contact without responding. She rolled back in her chair, spun to the left and stared up at a tall, balding man leaning on the console. Colonel Anthony Sharpe was commanding her unit. Sharpe had caught the last part of the conversation. Sharpe was inches from retirement, a bulky soldier struggling to save a few wandering strands of white hair. He stood rigid, gripping a dead cigar with stained fingers.
“Well,” Leanne said. “Is it?”
“Is what?”
“Is this shit worth it?” Leanne stood up. “Is it worth what’s happening out there tonight?”
Sharpe shrugged. He waved the cold cigar in the air. Half the soldiers stopped, the rest don’t even notice. Sharpe cleared his throat. “Listen up, people.”
Leanne called, “Attention!”
That did it. The room snapped to and went perfectly still. Some low radio chatter continued. A hissing from some gear. Wind beyond the tent flap.
“Everybody get out,” Sharpe said. His eyes stayed on Leanne. His voice was thick with emotion. “Do it now.”
People began to mill about, collecting papers, turning off gear, performing assigned tasks in the assumption the assignment had ended. Exasperated, Sharpe went up a few DB. Addressing no one in particular, he screamed. “What fucking part of ‘now’ do you not understand?”
Thunderous creaks and thumps and the rustle of starched uniforms as the room emptied like a barracks in boot camp. Colonel Sharpe seemed more defeated than pleased, which Leanne found bothersome. She looked around the empty command tent, cocked her head to one side. “Okay, you did that because…”
“I’ve been relieved.” Sharpe produced a small metal flask and added a hefty shot of whiskey to his coffee. He popped a couple of pills, offered Leanne drugs and her own shot of booze. She shook her head warily. “I tried all that a couple of years back. My daughter stayed dead, and my ex went right on screwing his secretary.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t care as much.”
“Jesus, Tony,” Leanne said. She snapped the whip and he jumped. “What the hell is going on?”
Colonel Sharp went pale. “I’m out. The VP heard about the casualties. He’s pissed off and hands on.”
“Aw, shit.”
“Shit indeed. Deep shit. Anyway, Blackwatch Security took over as of five minutes ago.”
Leanne sat down heavily. Her chair squeaked. “No shit? I thought they were out of government contracts these days.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Major. These people are the government.” Sharpe finished his spiked coffee, popped a useless breath mint. He snuck a quick peek at his watch. Leanne knew him. She could see the fear crawling under his skin like a horde of tiny insects.
“I’m sorry, boss.” She stood up and began to gather her things.
“No, I’m sorry,” Sharpe said, with dark emotion. “Me, I’m retired. You don’t get off that easy.”
“I’m straight military. Says who?”
“Says the Veep and the DOD. You stay. Leanne, trust me on this. Don’t mouth off. In fact, don’t say anything, don’t see anything. Don’t even think real hard. And make sure to cover your butt at all times.”
“Get out.”
A baritone voice from just outside. Sharpe stiffened, turned on a dime and left the command tent as ordered. His bald pate faded into shadow as he left through the flap. Leanne was stunned. No goodbye, no eye contact. Nothing.
“You,” the voice said. “Stay.”
Leanne sat still, held back twenty questions and a lot of foul language. Then the tent flap snapped open. Time slowed and then stopped altogether. Her stomach went cold. A tall, slender man in a black suit stepped inside. Clean featured with a nose like a hatchet, dark hair combed straight back, thick eyebrows, right on the cusp of fifty. The man smiled. He had a thin slit of a mouth. Leanne took in the suit, the eighty-dollar haircut, no wedding ring, but as a woman found him unnerving, not at all attractive. He walked closer, taking his time. Leanne showed nothing and remained seated. Her clear insubordination seemed to amuse him.
“My name is Burkhalter,” the man said, pleasantly. “You work for me now.”
8:56 PM
“Thanks for taking the time to see me on such a very busy night with everyone leaving and all.”
Boffo the clown swallowed noisily. His fear was palpable, yet it was difficult to take him seriously, especially since he was in full makeup and party costume; puffy striped pants, silk shirt, bow tie, lipstick, white face with a large, red rubber nose. Doc Roth found himself reminded of the opening shot from The Godfather; the eternal close-up on a desperate supplicant.
“Relax,” Doc said. “This won’t take long.”
“Someone told me this is also your anniversary. I wish you and your wife every happiness, Doc. Really. In fact, I brought some flowers for her, did she tell you? Picked them for Callie my own self, a ways down the mountain, in a field where I tried to take a dump. They’re out in the waiting room. Those flowers.”
Doc thought of the Coppola movie again and looked down to avoid smiling. Slipped a rubber glove over his right hand, tugged gently on the fingers. He was a mountain boy through and through; big and easy going, red hair graying at the temples. Doc was comfortable here in his small homespun ER; wooden panels on the walls, hardwood floors he’d installed right along with the workers. It was going to be damned hard to leave, maybe for good. Doc had been born and raised nearby. This night was breaking his heart. He motioned with one hand, and Boffo the Clown reluctantly turned, bent over the metal examining table. His nerves kept him chattering away.
“Your new guy, what’s his face, Billy Ray? Took one peek and laughed and told me to drive on down to flat land to a hospital. With a bleeding ass, for Chrissakes? I mean, how am I supposed to do forty-seven miles of winding road on a broken rubber donut?”
And Doc Roth thought, Think you’re worried about your ass? I could lose my business over this mess. And my anniversary? What a crock. In fact, that little bastard Billy Ray is fucking my wife. I wish I could tell someone like you about it, Boffo, I really do, make you my shrink instead of the weirdest patient in history, but that would be unprofessional now, wouldn’t it? Instead Doc Roth said, “Okay, so flash me those rosy hemorrhoids.”
“You know something, Doc?”
“What?”
“That kid may look like a young Mickey Rourke, but he is one arrogant, insensitive little prick.” Five seconds passed, then Boffo reluctantly lowered his stripped boxer shorts. Doc put some numbing cream on a gloved finger, spread Boffo’s cheeks and poked around gently. Spoke to keep his patient distracted. “I’ll have you know Mr. Billy Ray Grisham is a licensed Physician’s Assistant. Graduated USC back in ‘04.”
“Ow! So?”
“Sorry,” Doc said. “Anyway, so that makes him a highly qualified arrogant, insensitive little prick.”
Boffo managed a chuckle. “Thanks for clarifying.”
“Done,” Doc
said. As Boffo straightened and pulled up his shorts, Doc examined the gloved hand with a puzzled face. “Damn. I could have sworn this finger was longer just a minute ago.”
“Very funny.”
“Get yourself dressed, Boffo. That cream will numb the tissues for a while, but not all that long.”
“Feel better already. Thanks, Doc.”
“Rest up a bit, then you’d best roll your jacket into a horseshoe and drive down to town. Billy Ray was right, you really need to see a proctologist as soon as possible. Those have to go.”
Boffo cringed. “Please. No surgery, Doc. The idea puckers my poor ass so tight you could carve washers off it.”
“Consider it the lesser of two evils.” Doc finished entering his notes on the clipboard. He scratched his red hair, his overloaded mind already moving on. So many things to pack. His marriage. The future. “Boffo, go lay down for a bit, but remember, you can’t hang around. We’re out of here indefinitely as of right about now.”
Boffo limped towards the door, paused with his hand on the knob. “Doc, what’s all this about? No one said.”
“I don’t know exactly, nobody does. Some kind of bullshit drill for Homeland Security. The phones are already dead, and pretty soon the electricity should quit too. So we have to get out of here and on our way down the mountain.” And they didn’t answer when I asked how long before we could come back… Doc waited for a moment, then motioned for Boffo to keep moving. “Come on, I can’t get out if you keep standing there.”
Boffo opened the door to the examining room and stepped out into the hallway. The building was as compact and efficient as Doc. It looked homemade and comfortable, more like a cabin than an Emergency Hospital. The entrance and waiting room, two small examining rooms, a storage closet, an attic for supplies, a crawlspace beneath to fumigate and keep things sterile. The place, normally neat as a barracks, was a mess. Most of the ER had been boxed up, though the key computer still sat on the front desk with a fish tank clip running as a screen saver.
Boffo spoke, voice bright. “Hi, Callie.”
Doc looked up to see his raven-haired young wife, cardboard box of pain killers in hand, rapidly approaching Boffo. God, she was beautiful, even after four years of marriage. I’m such an idiot. Should have known a twenty-year age difference would be our death warrant. Just didn’t think Callie was…one of those. No fool like an old fool…
“You big sweetheart,” Callie said. “Thanks again for the flowers and the anniversary note. Are you feeling better?”
Boffo looked down at the box she was holding. Vicodin. “Actually, no. So why don’t you let me get into that there box?”
“Careful, cowboy.” Callie winked and inclined her head towards the stairs. Coming down from the attic was their lady in blue, Officer Mary Paris. Paris was trim, buff, short-haired and straight. She had guns most men would die for, wore her 9mm like someone looking for a chance to use it. Her eyes wandered from the drugs back to Boffo. She manufactured a dramatic glare.
Boffo responded with a wide, cartoon smile. “Children love me, Officer. Seriously. Look at this face. Would I do drugs?”
Officer Paris stuck out her tongue. “Don’t even go there.” She turned back to Callie. “Come on, girlfriend. How much longer? We’re way behind schedule. I still need to get my mom from the rest home. Besides, I’m tired of just standing around with my thumb up my ass.”
Boffo winced. Paris shot him a look. “Nothing,” Boffo said.
Callie started moving, called back over her shoulder. “We’re almost there, Officer. Sorry about the wait. We’ll be closing up soon. Did anybody tell you what the hell this is all about?”
“I don’t rate high enough,” Paris said. “Let’s just get a move on.”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Doc said. He stepped into the hall. Looked around. “In fact, if we just leave the tables and basics behind, we’re about set. Few more boxes of prescription drugs, maybe.”
Paris nodded. “Okay, then I’ll go get my partner. Maybe we can help wrap it up. Give me a time we can start following you down the hill.”
“Half an hour tops,” Doc said. He watched his wife walk away. Tried not to imagine Billy Ray kissing her, taking her from behind. Did his best not to torture himself. He failed.
Boffo was still eyeing the drugs. “Uh…”
Officer Paris pointed to the lobby. “Move along, folks. Nothing to see here.”
Billy Ray Grisham, ladies man of the mountains, had quietly emerged from the single bathroom and stood wiping his hands on a paper towel. He tried and failed to meet Doc’s eyes. Boffo passed him going the other way. Billy Ray stepped back into the small bathroom to avoid the larger man.
“I know how you feel,” Billy Ray muttered as Boffo walked by. “Enough hillbilly heroin in there to turn half of Nevada spiritual for the weekend.”
Doc was still in the doorway, watching. Billy Ray looked around. He grabbed a box of drugs and, for lack of anything better to do followed Callie down the hall. She led him to the door leading out to the garage. He balanced three boxes, opened the back door. Callie stepped out into the night and dumped the boxes into the back of the small moving van. Billy Ray followed her example. She stared at him with questioning eyes.
“I should make myself useful, right?”
Nervous, she moved back inside and down the hall. He jogged to follow her. Billy Ray caught up with Callie by the water cooler. She was checking to see if the bottle needed changing. No one in the ER drank tap water, since some of the city water was recycled and Doc had a thing about that. Besides, it tasted like panther piss. When Billy Ray grabbed her from behind. Callie jumped.
“Honey, show some respect!”
“I have nothing but respect for this tight little ass.”
“Bad boy. Look, I’m already leaving him, and today of all days. No point in rubbing it in.”
He bumped her from behind. “Oh, let me rub it in, please.”
Both Billy Ray and Callie reacted to the noise of a curtain parting. Doc stood at the end of the hall, staring at them with a hostile expression. Callie reddened and went back to work. Meanwhile, young Billy Ray saw his life go by like a slide show.
9:02 PM
Knit one, purl two… Timothy Kramer struggled to focus, thinking: easy does it, a wide rib stitch with a narrow reset. On the reverse side we’re gonna do purl two knit one… His wife Theresa took the curve like a suicidal drunk, tires wailing, sliding the station wagon out past the center line. Their headlights barely cut through the mist, projected just enough to reveal another curving line of large rocks and thick pines. Timothy cringed, swallowed. He thought you’re going to kill us all, but only said “Careful, dear.”
Deep down, Timothy Kramer knew he was a pussy, although he wasn’t proud of that fact. Any inner conflict remained largely unconscious. He preferred to think of himself as deeply spiritual and non-violent by choice. Well, and simply a man who preferred large women.
Theresa, her substantial shoulders rigid, ignored him. “Why can’t you do what we tell you to do for once?”
“And what,” Champ said from the backseat, “go get brainwashed?”
Timothy glanced back over his shoulder to see his foster daughter curl her knees up, sans seat belt, then return to her iTouch, long hair covering half her pale face. Despite her truculence and faux Goth ‘tude, Julie was a beautiful kid. Timothy prayed for the strength to protect her, say something in her defense. As usual, God failed to properly motivate. Timothy cleared his throat, reddened. “Trust us, this is for your own good, child.”
Champ looked up. Her dark eyes pinned him to the mat. Timothy stopped knitting. “You lied to me. I thought we were going on vacation.”
“Yeah, well, you know what you little brat? You don’t deserve a vacation. In fact, we should have let you spend the whole weekend in jail. Am I right, or am I right, Timothy?”
Timothy went back to knitting. “Your Mom is right, Julie.”
“My n
ame is Champ, not Julie. And she is not my Mom.”
“Champ…”
Theresa yanked the wheel again and they slid a yard too far. The station wagon had begun to reek of burning rubber. Her wig slipped a bit. She was well past her boiling point, and probably furious at herself for eating most of an apple pie after dinner. Champ had found the tin in the trash and exposed her binge. On top of that, on the drive, the freeway had morphed into a steaming parking lot until well past Sacramento for no discernable reason. They were still on the wrong side of the mountain, and more than three hours late for intake. Timothy had great reservations about the whole idea, but their Pastor had assured them it was a state-of-the-art recovery center.
“Hot wiring a car again,” Theresa said. “May the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on your tormented soul.”
“By the way, Theresa,” Champ said, as if gripped by an epiphany, “has anyone ever told you you’re a bigoted homophobe?”
“Shut your mouth, you little…”
“Why, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if you’re in the closet!”
Theresa tried to apply the brakes, and the wagon fishtailed a bit. Timothy dropped his knitting needles and grabbed the roof. “Slow down, Theresa. You’ll get us all killed.”
“Julie? Champ?”
“Huh?”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Of course I’m listening, Theresa. Can’t you tell I’m listening?”
Champ cranked up the volume on her iTouch, and music assaulted their senses. She held the device up, wiggled it, glow worm in the dark. Two women were writhing together in a soft-core porn video. As usual, Timothy blushed and Theresa raged.
“Why. You. Filthy. Little. Pervert.”
“Now, honey…”
“Come on Theresa,” Champ giggled, “you know you love it.”
“You’ll get your comeuppance soon, young lady.”
Pain Page 2
