Limbo Man

by Blair Bancroft

  Chapter 2

  The first time he opened his eyes, nothing made sense. Except hospital. Stark walls, unrelenting bright light, the steady beep-beep of monitors, the smell of antiseptic . . . other smells that were much worse. Hospital. Not good, but the best place to be if you were hurt. So why was everything wrong? Foreign. Menacing. Even the guy on the wall, hanging on a cross, seemed like a warning: Watch out! This could be you.

  Govnó! His head screamed, his body moaned, as he forced himself to turn toward the door, toward the IV drip, the bank of monitors. There was a sign on the back of the door. Big letters. Letters that danced before his eyes. He squinted, focused, discovered they were gibberish. As were the letters on the monitor, the manufacturers’ names on the machines themselves.

  If he didn’t feel so damn bad, he’d be scared.

  The next time he opened his eyes, a nurse was changing his IV drip. Young, nice looking. He asked her for water.

  She gasped, nearly dropped the IV. Then she beamed at him, but the words that came out of her mouth were incomprehensible. “Voda,” he begged. “Voda.” Stupid girl finally caught on, holding a container of water for him while he sipped through a straw. Not the easiest maneuver as he discovered the hard way that bandages encased his head, leaving only a series of slits for eyes, nose, and mouth.

  As the nurse left the room, her steps brisk as if she couldn’t wait to impart news of his return to the living, he caught a glimpse of a uniform outside his door. Oh-oh. Not good. He eyed the guy hanging on the wall. Oh, yeah, he could feel for him. But all that swallowing had exhausted him. He slipped back into sleep.

  The third time he opened his eyes, some old man was camped out in his room, sitting in a fake leather armchair in a corner, reading the newspaper. The nurse was a lot better looking, but, hell, maybe this guy could understand him. Which was a good thought until the questions started. The old one asked his name in a whole panoply of languages, almost all of which he understood. The problem was, he didn’t know the answers in any damn one of them.

  That was when a whole host of profanities popped out, proving that no one can be as creative with the word mother as a Russian. After that, the old man interpreted the doctors’ words in Russian, explaining that severe trauma often resulted in temporary amnesia. He knew they were lying. A person as badly battered as he was might lose a few hours, even a whole day, but not his whole fucking life.

  A chill settled in the pit of his stomach and stayed there.

  In the next forty-eight hours he discovered two things—the language he was most comfortable with was Russian and he was a good actor. Particularly adept at pretending to be too exhausted to continue his interrogation. Because that’s what it was. They’d taken his fingerprints, but kept their mouths tight shut about the results. He’d faced a succession of suits, whose questions were duly translated by the little old man. And if his interrogators were frustrated, it was times ten, or maybe a hundred, for himself.

  They didn’t believe him, but, hell, what else was new?

  They informed him they were going to call him Nick.

  Fine. What the hell—a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Even as he thought it, he knew it didn’t fit. Surely no Russian quoted Shakespeare. So why . . .

  Nothing. That’s as far as his mind would go. The newly minted Nick closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

  On his third day trapped in this antiseptic hell where the questioning seemed endless, the food barely passable, and he was still too weak to even pee by himself, his world tilted, went belly-up, crashing into a new universe. The old man was sitting there as usual, reading the sports section of The New York Times. He folded the front page over, and Nick saw the headlines. “Shit!” he exploded. “The Red Sox took the Yanks by seven?”

  The old man, whose name was Burt, lowered the paper and stared at him. His gray shaggy eyebrows almost reached his Einstein mop of equally gray hair. “We seem to have missed something,” he remarked in English, his gray eyes alight with interest. “Just how long have I been superfluous?”

  Nick considered the question with the thoroughness it deserved. He looked at the sign on the back of the door into the corridor, at the monitor screens, at their manufacturers’ labels. They weren’t Cyrillic letters, but they all made perfect sense. He could read English as easily as Russian. “Since now,” he drawled. “I woke up, and I could read and speak English.”

  “And with a perfect American accent. Interesting.” Burt pushed his way up from the chair and approached the bed. “You realize I’ll have to report this immediately. Now that I’m no longer needed, I fear I’m going to miss my short moments in a far more interesting world than usually comes my way.” He held out his hand. “Dasveedanya, Nicolai. And good luck.”

  Nick felt a pang of regret as well. The old man had been a friendly face in a sea of hostility. “Spasiba,” he murmured, managing a creditable grip of farewell. As the door slowly swung shut behind the translator, he caught a glimpse of the bored face of the uniform sitting outside. Well, at least a couple of the nurses still smiled at him, if a bit nervously. The younger ones. The medical doctors were brisk but efficient, while the shrinks couldn’t quite maintain their blasé bedside manners as they probed and analyzed the why of his blank brain. Obviously, the man called Nick was a genuine curiosity.

  So maybe only the men in black thought he was slime. They didn’t have to say it, he could feel it. A miasma of hostility swarmed ahead of them when they entered the room, forming an aura so gray he could almost see it. But in the days that followed Nick began to sense something else—an excitement, an eagerness, a ray of hope. The question was: did the ray of hope from his interrogators indicate something good or something bad for poor lost Nick?

  When the bandages came off, they wouldn’t give him a mirror, so he dragged himself into the bathroom for a good look. They found him with his legs and arms tangled in his rolling IV and his head knocked up against the toilet, bleeding from a re-opened wound. It was worth it, though. The docs kept the suits out of his room for a full twenty-four hours.

  And he’d learned something. His face—stitched, swollen, and a sinister rainbow of colors from dark red to charcoal—was unrecognizable. Even his best friend, if he had one, wouldn’t know him. He doubted he’d ever again have the face of the man who’d been beaten and thrown off a bridge into a river. As for women? Big nyet to that one. If he’d ever been a stud, those days were over.

  But somehow he had a feeling women had never mattered except for the moment. He was a man who kept his eye on the prize. And at the moment, the prize was solving the who, what, where, and why of Nick. And that wasn’t going to happen while he was flat on his back.

  But would they let him out? They’d told him the guard was there because it looked like someone was trying to kill him and the police were playing it safe. But that could be a lie. Or only a partial truth. Maybe it was the cops who beat him up and were now breathing a sigh of relief because he couldn’t remember. Maybe when they sprang him from this place, jail was his next stop. Could they do that—put a man in jail for something he couldn’t remember doing?

  These guys could. The first set of suits—local detectives, he guessed—had been replaced by men identifying themselves as FBI. And then came a third set. Homeland Security. Nick was pretty damn sure the last bunch could lose him forever and no one would care. He was trapped in Limbo, smack on the border of Hell. What was that quaint American expression? Up shit creek without a paddle. Oh, yeah.

  So he cooperated with every trick the head doctors tried, even hypnosis. All the docs learned was that the man called Nick was a bad subject for hypnosis, but maybe that was because there wasn’t anything in his head to remember. His previous life was simply gone. Some wise soul suggested that amnesia often occurred when a person didn’t want to remember. If Nick had been strong enough, he would have clocked him. Want to remember? They had to be kidding. He’d give his right arm . . . well, maybe not, but nobody shou
ld have to live like this.

  He didn’t just cooperate with physical therapy. He attacked it. If they didn’t want to let him out, he’d fight his way out.

  He read the newspaper every day, kept track of the time. Waiting, gaining strength. Ten days. Eleven. Twelve. Thirty-six whole hours since the last suit departed for whatever bat cave spawned him. The guard was still there, but he was nothing more than a local flatfoot. Another day or two and Nick could take him with ease. He’d been careful not to let the therapists, mental as well as physical, see how much stronger he was. The time was close. He was even thinking in English now. Completely assimilated, he’d have no trouble fitting in.

  With no clothes, no money, no transportation, no ID . . . no gun.

  Too bad. He was blowing this place, no matter what. And soon.

  His favorite nurse, the youngest, prettiest one, poked her head through the door. “You have a visitor, Nick.” She flashed a big smile, gave him a wink. “Things are looking up.”

  He almost laughed out loud when he saw his visitor. Man-trap. Sex on the hoof. The bastards had fired their whole arsenal, and now they’d come up with a whole new ballgame. Might as well lie back and enjoy it.

  She was Hollywood gorgeous, but he suspected the polished veneer hid a core of steel. The suits wouldn’t let anyone short of a modern-day Mata Hari anywhere near him. As it was, her outfit stopped just short of hooker. Short black leather skirt over knee-high black boots, a silky blue knit top that revealed far more than it concealed. Golden blonde hair tumbled in perfect waves over her shoulders, skimming the tops of her breasts. Sky blue eyes examined him from an oval face that reminded him of a nineteenth century porcelain doll. Nick hid a surge of satisfaction. He’d just discovered another part of his anatomy was making a fast recovery.

  She smiled. The challenge of the chess match, the thrill of a good game of cat and mouse, filled him. The bitch was dangerous, but he wasn’t fooled. Here was a challenge worthy of his skills.

  What skills? But she was holding out her hand, saying something . . .

  “Zdrastvityeh, Nicolai,” she said in Russian. “I am Valentina Frost. Everyone calls me Vee.” They’d warned her, but it hadn’t been enough. She’d stood there, speechless, for a full thirty seconds, trying to find a human being beneath scars, bruises, and swollen flesh that made him look more like a gargoyle guarding a medieval cathedral than a twenty-first century man. Hard not to recoil. Hard not to feel sympathy.

  Hard to remember he was a top gangster. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? She had to get close to him, so the sudden stab of empathy was good. Wasn’t it?

  “Didn’t anyone tell you I speak English now?”

  “They did, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to let you know I speak Russian. My grandmother was anxious to keep Mother Russia alive.

  “Shrink, cop, or social worker?”

  Fascinating. Even as his eyes drank her in, he sounded only mildly interested, like this was just another ho-hum visit from an endless parade of strangers. “Cop,” Vee admitted.

  “Ah . . . the good cop. Took ’em long enough to find one.”

  “Sorry. Evidently good cops are few and far between in Homeland Security.”

  “Good-looking female cops who speak Russian and carry a gun.”

  “Got it in one. They had to go all the way to the Sarasota office of the FBI.” Vee took her wallet badge out of her small, stylish shoulder bag and showed it to him.

  Nick gave her the once over, not so lightly. His green eyes gleamed. “So where do you put a nine mil in a purse that size? It damn well isn’t on you.”

  Vee gave him a slow, sexy smile. “Wanna bet?”

  His all-too-shrewd eyes took on wicked depths as he pondered that one. “Can I take a peek?”

  “Maybe later,” she told him, low and husky.

  His swollen lips twitched into what might have been a smirk. “I take it I’m supposed to be so charmed by your . . . ah, assets that I’ll miraculously recover and tell all. So ask away, dushenka. I’m as anxious to know the answers as you are.”

  Vee, suffering from an embarrassing rush of heat, turned away from him long enough to draw the tan vinyl armchair up close to the bed. When she sat down, Nick’s head was a foot above hers. Fine. Give him dominance. Let him think he was winning. Wasn’t that the name of the game? But what right did the arrogant s.o.b. have to call her darling . . .

  Okay . . . the man might have had his body scrambled, but not his brains. Or his eyes. He knew a well-baited hook when he saw it.

  “I’m not here to question you, Nick,” Vee assured him. “I’m your babysitter.”

  “Shto?”

  Vee didn’t care for the amusement that replaced the initial shock in those sinfully green eyes. Time for a wake-up call. Time for the invalid to take it on the chin. “You didn’t really think they were going to let you walk out of here, did you? The guy with no name, no money, no friends, no roof over your head? Or at least so you say. For one thing, social services would never allow it, even if the cops were willing to kick your sorry ass onto the street. Which they aren’t, because it’s obvious someone wants you dead. So you’re going to a safe house. With a babysitter. And that would be me.”

  The last thing Vee expected were the chuckles that grew in volume until he threw his grostesquerie of a head back against the pillows and roared with laughter. She glared.

  “You,” he hiccupped at last, pointing a finger at her. “You are my bodyguard.” He shook his head, which still sported a bandage on its shaved back and another along his right cheek. “Your Homeland Security is mad or very careless of its women.”

  That did it. “I’m a Special Agent,” Vee snapped. “I take the same chances as everyone else, male or female.”

  Nick nodded wisely. “Very special, I agree. “And while you are protecting me from the bad guys, who will protect you from me?”

  Chapter 3

  Nick was asleep when they came for him, hustling him into boxers, jeans, a Yankees T-shirt—someone had a sense of humor—and black leather jacket, all with the distinct smell of brand new. A male nurse rolled white socks over his bare feet, jammed a pair of name brand gym shoes over the socks. One of the agents fitted a floppy canvas hat on his head that completely covered one bandage and shadowed the other.

  He could have done without his self-proclaimed keeper standing with her back against his door, watching every move, but what the hell . . .

  She’d changed into her action uniform—pantsuit with a jacket loose enough to hide her gun. Where she’d carried her gun when wearing the black leather skirt and skin-tight top was enough to get him hot just thinking about it. But tonight the good cop was gone. Ms Frosty was living up to her name. Cold, no-nonsense, ready for anything.

  And why the hush-hush move in the middle of the night? People were beaten within an inch of their lives in this city every day. So what made him special?

  Nick glared at the wheelchair the male nurse had just rolled up to his bed. No way. He was going out of this place on his own two feet. The two male agents and the nurse lifted him off the bed, plopped him none too gently into the chair. Well, shit.

  Ten minutes later, however, Nick was given an opportunity to demonstrate how well he could move on his own, as they exited the hospital by a dark rear entrance and the agents shooed him into the back seat of an imposing black Suburban. Dumb asses. If this move was so dangerous it had to be done at three in the morning, couldn’t they have picked something that didn’t scream government vehicle? Something that looked like business executive or even soccer mom?

  She was waiting for him in the back seat, his gift from Uncle Sam. The transplant from Florida whose eyes said she was pushing thirty while her face said she was fresh out of college. He glared at her.. “Bellvue?” he challenged. “You put me in Bellvue.”

  “You don’t have a head problem?” she responded sweetly.

  Nick ducked, studying his new sneakers with apparent fascination. Screw
the lot of them. He’d recognized where he was, known the name Bellvue. That was progress. Like popping out of the womb and discovering he’d been re-born into a world he already knew.

  So where were they taking him? Safe house, as Ms Frosty told him, or prison? Interrogation or torture? Drugs, waterboarding . . . nichevo. They couldn’t get any information when there was nothing to get. Only they didn’t know that, and they’d keep on trying . . . and keep on trying . . .

  So he needed to turn Ms Frosty, get her sympathy. Find a way to blow the Feebs, DHS, or whoever these guys were. Not such a tough proposition when getting close seemed to be part of Frosty’s job description. She wasn’t allowed to give him the cold shoulder.

  I know that you know that I know . . . So they were playing each other. No one ends up in the FBI by chance, and he strongly suspected he hadn’t had a nine-to-five job either. Homeland Security wasn’t guarding him like Fort Knox because he was an insurance salesman or a schoolteacher. So, hell, when playing games, he might as well enjoy himself.

  As long as they didn’t guantanamo him.

  Nick peered out the window. They were traveling north on First Avenue, a one-way street. Heading for the airport? The quiet open space of New England?

  Huh? Nick frowned as the driver turned left onto Thirty-fourth Street and started across the heart of Manhattan. “Taking the scenic route?” he murmured, giving Ms Frosty the eye.

  “You don’t want to see the Empire State Building at three a. m.?”

  “Jersey’s not my image of a great place for a safe house.”

  “Not to worry. We’re headed for Teterboro. A less conspicuous way to fly.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “They didn’t tell me. We strap in and wait for Uncle Sam to wave his magic wand. We’ll know when we get there.”

  One thing Nick was sure of, he didn’t like surprises. Waking up in a hospital with a wiped-out brain had been enough of a shock. But, okay, flying out of a small airport in New Jersey made sense. Not that he had any choice.