by Hunt, Angela
“Don’t shrinks like publicity?”
I manage a hollow laugh. “Far too many love it. But my friend is always saying that evil can’t find you if it’s never heard your name.”
Judson grunts in affirmation. “Your friend must have pals in the intelligence business. We spies know only one prayer—‘Lord, let me never, ever be noticed.’” His mouth compresses into a thin line. “I wish Espinosa had prayed that prayer before they nabbed him.”
We fall silent as the door opens and Dr. Mewton steps into the room. Her face is tight, and the color has drained from her cheeks. She walks straight toward Judson, bends to whisper in his ear, and leaves the room.
When the door has closed behind her, Judson makes a fist and uses it to cover his mouth. “Bad news from the wire,” he says, speaking in a rough whisper. “Spanish police found our man dead in an alley this morning. Single gunshot to the head. Looks like a robbery, but we know better.”
I stare at him, panic swelling like a balloon in my chest.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Sarah
By the end of the day, I am so tired that my corneas burn with weariness. I press the heel of my palms against my eyes and apply pressure, then check a mirror to be sure I haven’t bruised the skin. Fatigue has settled in pockets under my eyes, making me look more disfigured than ever.
A long sigh escapes me, a cascade of exhaustion that ends only when I drop my head onto my folded arms.
At his station, Judson hears and understands. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I thought we were going to reach him in time. If we hadn’t lost the cell phone signal—”
“Put it in the report,” I tell him. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I can’t talk about it.”
“Mr. Traut isn’t going to like this.”
I lift my head, but Judson appears to be addressing his keyboard.
“Mr. Traut isn’t going to like this at all.”
I push back, lifting my feet until the back of my chair smacks the filing cabinet against the wall. “You hungry?”
Judson’s head hangs a moment more, then his mouth twitches. “What’d you say?”
“Are you hungry? Are you going downstairs for dinner?”
He tilts his head from side to side as if working out stiffness in his neck, then he shakes his head. “I’m going to bed. Too tired to eat. Too tired to care. But you’re a growing girl, so you go on downstairs.”
A dull laugh bubbles up from my chest, but I clear my throat rather than release it. “You sound drunk, you know that?”
“Whatever.” He backs his wheelchair away from his desk. “I’ll catch you later, kiddo.”
I log off my computer and head for the stairs, where the scent of dinner rolls and roasted meat floats on the air. My stomach gurgles, reminding me that all I’ve had to eat today is a candy bar and a package of Spanish potato chips.
I leave the stairwell and turn the corner, then halt just before I reach the dining room’s open door. Aunt Renee is speaking, her words running together in a soothing tone.
“But surely,” she says, “you can see the danger if such a practice becomes widespread. Suppose a man gets drunk and makes a fool of himself at an office party on Friday night. Is he supposed to take a pill and forget all about his mistake?”
“No one’s suggesting that propranolol be used for such things,” Dr. Kollman answers, his voice rumbling through the hallway. “It’s supposed to be used for traumatic events.”
“Perhaps trauma lies in the eyes of the beholder.”
“Okay, suppose it does. I still think your example is a little extreme, but let’s say that event is traumatic for him. What’s the harm in helping him forget it?”
I step to the side of the hallway and lower my head as I listen. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but how often do I get this kind of opportunity? They’re discussing something that will affect me.
“Wouldn’t he be better served if we helped him learn how not to make the same mistake twice?” Aunt Renee says. “You seem to forget that we learn from our mistakes—our breakups, our failed relationships, our overindulgences. We learn from pain. We learn how to avoid it.”
“But what about the pain we can’t avoid? What about Sarah? What has she learned from being shut away in this place?”
I lean against the wall, holding my breath as I wait for my aunt’s response. “She’s learned how to be strong. To be independent. In fact, she’s going to have to learn how to occasionally be dependent if she’s going to survive on the outside.”
“Those lessons aren’t going to evaporate. So what’s the harm in letting her have a few pleasant memories to share with people she meets for coffee? When she and her husband are gathered with the neighbors around a friendly game of cards, what’s she supposed to say when the topic of family comes up—‘I grew up on an island of freaks?’”
“Sarah would never say that.”
“But it’s the truth.”
My aunt releases an exasperated sigh. “Perspective, Dr. Kollman. That’s not Sarah’s perspective.”
“Let me get this straight.” I hear the chink of silverware as Dr. Kollman pauses. “Let’s suppose I have a patient who’s just been badly beaten. He has broken bones, maybe a pierced lung. He’s in intense pain. It hurts to breathe.”
“So?”
“So—” he chokes on a laugh “—if I followed your principles, I would withhold morphine in order for him to fully enjoy his suffering.”
“I never said suffering was enjoyable.” Her voice contains a note of irritation.
“Implication, dear lady. You implied it was beneficial.”
“That’s better. Beneficial, yes, but only in certain circumstances. There’s a point where physical pain becomes insurmountable.”
“Couldn’t we say the same thing about emotional pain?”
“Of course—and that’s why we have psychologists!”
Dr. Kollman laughs, but his laughter is sharp and edged. “Spoken like a devoted practitioner of the mental arts.”
“Would you expect less from me? And while we’re engaging in hypotheticals, let’s take your approach and follow it to its logical conclusion. If, for a moment, we could resurrect Anne Frank, would you advocate giving her a drug so she could forget all about the unpleasantness of the Holocaust? All the people whose lives have been changed because of her story—can you honestly believe mankind would be better off if we’d eradicated Anne’s trauma with a handful of pills?”
Enough—in a minute they’ll be yelling at each other. I take a deep, quivering breath to calm the leaping pulse beneath my ribs, then I step into the dining room, flashing the widest smile my muscles will allow. The tension is even more evident here; it hangs in the air like toxic gas. Dr. Kollman and Aunt Renee turn startled eyes on me and lapse into silence when I drop into the empty chair at the head of the table.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse,” I say, amazed that my voice can sound so artificially bright when I’m practically running on fumes. “Where’s Shelba? Umm, that dish looks wonderful. Is it beef?”
I stand and move to the intercom on the wall, then call for Shelba. And as I wait for her response, I peek at my shrink and my surgeon. Their gazes meet and hold, and in that instant some sort of silent truce is negotiated and accepted.
Someday, somehow, I will learn how to read the hidden language of the human heart.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Renee
I have never been directly involved in life-threatening work, but I have counseled police officers, firefighters, and soldiers. I thought I understood how the pain of a bad mission haunted survivors, but today I witnessed the scenario as it unfolded before my eyes.
After dinner—which proved to be an exercise in subtext, since after Sarah arrived, no one at the table said what he or she was really thinking—I retire to my room, put on the cotton pajamas decorated with dozens of dancing sheep, and curl up with my journal. I make a few notes about Sa
rah’s exaggerated reaction to the discussion she must have overheard as she came down the hallway, and conclude with a summary thought: Though S. was obviously upset, she maintained an artificially cheerful demeanor throughout the meal. I count this as a solid victory—she is experiencing and reacting appropriately to emotions she would not have felt several months ago. She is on her way to becoming a fully emotive person.
After finishing the entry, I turn out the lights and pad into the bathroom to wash my face. The hour is early—ridiculously so—but with no television, no radio, and no company, I have nothing to do but sleep.
A wry smile curls on my lips as I peer into the mirror and wash the day’s grime from my face. When I finally return home, I’ll be so rested Becky will swear I’ve had a face-lift.
I turn out the light and crawl into bed, then lie beside the open window until the restless sounds of wind and waves lull me to sleep.
I am awakened by noises in the night. I sit up, thinking I’ve heard a helicopter, but the night is windy, so perhaps I was dreaming.
A breath of chilly breeze touches my cheek and lifts the hair above my ears. I hear nothing but the howl of the wind and the steady beat of the surf until I hear the tinny sound of something metallic skittering across a solid surface.
I know that sound. I’ve heard it in movies—after someone ejects a cartridge from a gun.
I roll out of bed and drop to my knees. Moving on all fours, I crawl to the open window and look out on the graveyard. Night has fallen, and a thousand pinpoints of diamond light decorate the canopy of the sky. The moon has gilded the stone grave markers with silver, and shadows lurk among the crosses…yet some of the shadows are shifting. I see three men, dressed in black. One is peering into the dining room window, one is checking a weapon, and one is kneeling on one leg, doing something with a box that sits in a rectangle of silver moonlight.
My heart begins to thump almost painfully in my chest. I rise and run for my bedroom door, then open it and peer into the hallway lit only by an emergency exit sign. Nothing moves down by the chapel, so I close my door behind me and sprint toward the vestibule.
I have to warn the others.
The three men in the graveyard will not want to alert anyone to their presence, so they’re not likely to use the elevator. After entering the building—if they can enter the building—they’ll creep up the staircase. But why? What do they want?
The answer comes to me in a rush: They want Sarah.
My heart knocks in my chest as I pound on the elevator call button. According to the indicator above the door, the car is on the second floor. As I watch, the light blinks and the car descends.
I glance over my shoulder, afraid that I’m going to see intruders coming through a door at any moment. Though there are sensors at every exterior opening, I know that pros can defeat almost any security system. And there are always fools like me who sleep with the window open—
I pound on the call button again. The elevator lands; the door slides open, retracting at its unhurried pace. I whirl into the car, press the button for the second floor, and cower behind the instrument panel.
For the first time since my arrival, I’m beginning to think the idea of an elevator guard isn’t so silly after all.
The elevator rises at a glacial pace. I brace my arms against the wall and steel my nerves for the strident sound of an alarm, but nothing happens. So…either the intruders haven’t found a way into the first floor, or they’ve already disarmed the system and are now climbing the stone stairs.
Finally the elevator stops. I spill out of the opening and stagger down the hall, remembering that Judson’s room is the first I’ll reach. In the dim glow of security lighting I spy the plastic nameplate marking his door. Afraid to scream, I rap on his door with the staccato knock of a frenzied woodpecker. A moment later, I hear a click. I try the handle, the door opens, and I lurch through the darkness, nearly tripping over his wheelchair as I struggle to reach his bedside. “Judson,” I call in a hoarse whisper. “I think we’re under attack.”
His voice, low and steady, cuts through my panic like a knife. “Calm down, Renee. What’s going on?”
“I saw men in the graveyard—I don’t know how they got there. They’re armed. And like a fool, I was sleeping with my window open. They can walk right in.”
“Not likely.” I hear clinking as he reaches for the suspended bars that help him maneuver in his bed. “Even with the window open, they’ll break a beam if they enter when the system’s armed.”
“But what if they disarm the system?”
“Then we have a problem.” Jud’s voice isn’t much above a whisper, but the effect is as great as if he’d shouted in my ear. “Don’t turn on the lamp,” he says, “but behind you, in the nightstand. My pistol is in the drawer. Get it.”
With trembling fingers I pull the drawer open and find the gun. It’s cold and heavy in my hand, but I’m grateful for its solidity as I offer it to Judson.
“Here. Take it.”
A ripple of mirth warms his voice. “Not for the blind man, Doc. Not tonight. I want you to hold it.”
The gun feels suddenly colder and heavier. “But I can’t—”
“Get down on the floor, out of the way. Slide under the bed if you can. And keep the pistol in your hand.”
“I can’t shoot a gun!”
“It’s child’s play.” He takes the weapon from me, and I hear a click, then he drops it back into my palms. “Meet the Judge. This pistol is loaded with five .410 shotgun shells, so all you have to do is point at the enemy. When he’s close enough that you can hear him breathing, pull the trigger until the gun runs empty. Just make sure your target isn’t one of us.”
I swallow hard. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to the security station to check on the guard who’s supposed to be monitoring the cameras. If he’s not there, I’ll raise the alarm.”
“What if I’m mistaken?”
A smile crosses his lips. “Better safe than sorry, Doc. If you’re wrong, we’ll chalk this up to bad dreams and indigestion.”
As Judson uses the suspended bars to lower himself to the floor, I lie flat and slide beneath the steel bed frame. I’d melt into the linoleum if I could, but I do feel safer in this position.
Even though Judson is blind and missing his legs, I’m happy to cower in the dark and let him check things out. At least he’s experienced.
I close my eyes and whisper a fevered prayer—Please, God, let everything be okay—then my eyes fly open.
Judson was remarkably unruffled when I woke him. Is his calm a result of his clandestine service training, or was he anticipating trouble?
The truth strikes like a blow between my eyes. This team has just lost an agent. Like Judson, Espinosa might have been tortured before he died. But unlike Judson, he talked. He must have told them how the convent can be accessed, where the guards are stationed, described the layout of the building. Espinosa must have told them everything, and now they want Sarah.
At least three of them are here, armed and deadly, but Sarah won’t hear their approach because she’s sleeping…and not wearing her speech processor.
I shimmy out from beneath the bed frame, my bare feet thumping against the vinyl as I pull myself along the floor. I pause at the threshold, but Judson is nowhere in sight, which means he must have found something amiss in the security center. Perhaps he’s trying to wake Dr. Mewton or alert the guards at the dock. But nothing he’s doing is going to help Sarah, so I push myself upright and step into the hallway.
I am surrounded by rooms—Judson’s room, Sarah’s, the security center, Dr. Mewton’s apartment, the conference room, the operations room, the empty apartment across from the stairwell. Acting on impulse, I run to Sarah’s apartment and slide her nameplate out of the holder on the wall. I dash to the empty room at the far end and slip her name into the holder. Then I open the door and run toward the empty bed.
The mattress is covere
d only with a folded blanket and a pillow, but it’ll do. I grip Jud’s pistol with one hand and shake out the blanket with the other, then lie down and pull the covering up to my shoulders. I close my eyes and struggle to control my breathing as I hold the cold weapon between my hands, muzzle pointed toward the door.
Deep breaths. They’ll come up the stairs; they’ll check the names on the doors. Even if they don’t, this is the first room, so maybe…
My skin contracts when I hear movement in the hallway. I hope—please, God, let it be!—I’m hearing two of the guards, coming up to talk to Judson and have a laugh at my expense.
I hear a murmur of voices and the quiet chirp of a pass card as it slides through a nearby electronic lock. If this is Judson or the guards, they’re being unnaturally stealthy.
With my face pressed against the stale pillow, I feel each thump of my heart like a blow to my chest. I’m trying to remain motionless, pretending to sleep, but my forearms pebble with gooseflesh when the door creaks. I see the bouncing beam of a flashlight, followed by two shadowed hulks.
The flashlight plays over my face and touches my eyelids. “¿Como se llama?” a rough voice demands.
I keep my right hand on the pistol and squint into the light, my left hand rising to shield my eyes. “¿Que pasa?”
“¿Como se llama?”
“Sarah,” I whisper. “Sarah Sims.”
“Sí,” another man answers. “La Americana.”
The light clicks off; a rough hand grips my hair and jerks me into an upright position. I lift the gun and fire twice at the dark shape, but I’m unprepared for the recoil, the noise, the wet splatter in my face. The man falls and I fling the frightful gun away, but before I can scream a second shadow looms up and something hits my temple, sending a shower of fireflies sparking through my head.
I should have kept firing that pistol.
