Exile Hunter

by Preston Fleming

  “I’m too young to look like this!” he protested to the mirror, overwhelmed at seeing the indelible effects of scarcely two months in the Yukon following three months in solitary confinement. He turned his back to the mirror in disgust and put the pajamas back on.

  On returning to the ward, he scanned each bed for familiar faces. Two beds away from his own, he found a face he recognized, but he could not manage to recall the man’s name or where they might have met. Stepping forward to read the clipboard at the foot of the bed, he flinched upon seeing the name Roger K. atop the page. Then he remembered Bednarski telling him that Kendall was also at the camp, in failing health after his own stay in the disciplinary unit.

  Linder took a closer look at the pinched, stubble-covered face and recognized the Roger Kendall he had met only five months earlier in Beirut. But this was a grotesquely emaciated version of the tanned, confident and impeccably groomed Roger Kendall with whom he had shared lunch on the day of their arrest. Kendall had been forty-seven then, yet this grizzled scarecrow looked not a day under sixty.

  As the patient remained asleep and Linder could not decipher his medical charts, he dared not wake him. But when the orderly approached the next bed, Linder brought Kendall’s clipboard to him and asked why Kendall had been admitted.

  “He collapsed at the recycling plant with some kind of heart problem. This time the doc says he’s a goner, but the Deputy ordered him kept alive. So here he is.”

  “Does he ever wake up?” Linder asked.

  “Too early to say. They brought him in around the same time as you.”

  Linder brought a chair to Roger Kendall’s bedside and kept vigil for the rest of the day. At sunset, the patient moved an arm, and then rolled onto his side as noise levels on the ward rose shortly before dinner. When the squeaking wheels of the food cart rolled into the room, Kendall opened his eyes at last.

  “Would you like some dinner?” Linder asked.

  Kendall nodded and looked around with vacant eyes.

  Linder called over the orderly to help him tilt the bed so that Kendall could eat. When the dinner tray was placed before him with a plate of warm casserole and mixed vegetables more appetizing than anything Linder had seen in months, Kendall stared at the food blankly for several minutes before slowly picking up a fork. Then, to Linder’s surprise, the prisoner began eating slowly and methodically until every morsel was gone.

  Though Linder had taken a dislike to Kendall when they met, sizing him up at that time as a self-satisfied hypocrite unworthy of being Patricia Eaton’s husband, he felt a flood of sympathy for the man who now lay near death from exposure, overwork, and malnutrition. And because he had played a role in bringing Kendall here, Linder resolved to do whatever he could to ease the man’s suffering. He waited for Kendall to finish his food before he spoke again.

  “Good job there,” Linder commented when Kendall had cleared his plate. “How are we feeling tonight?”

  Kendall cast a puzzled glance at him, as if noticing him for the first time.

  “Terrible,” came the reply.

  “You’ve slept quite a long time,” Linder went on. “Would you like to use the toilet?”

  Kendall’s gaze seemed unsteady and out of focus, as if his vision or his thinking were impaired.

  “Are you the new orderly?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Linder replied. “But I’ll help if you want me to.”

  “If you’re an orderly, why are you wearing patient pajamas?” Kendall answered. As he pointed to Linder’s hospital gown, his bony finger trembled.

  Linder knew that, if he wanted to keep the conversation going, he would eventually have to offer his name. The problem was that Kendall had known him in Beirut as Mormon Joe Tanner. If Linder introduced himself as Tanner, or if Kendall recognized him as Tanner without his disguise, it could deliver a nasty shock to a man as ill as Kendall. On the other hand, for Linder to use his true name risked exposing both his DSS affiliation and his prior connection with Patricia, depending on what Kendall’s wife and his interrogators may have told him.

  “I’m just another prisoner, like you,” Linder replied after a moment’s pause. “My name is Warren.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Warren,” came the reply. A moment later, Kendall closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

  Though Bednarski had already revealed that Roger Kendall was at Camp N-320 and near death, it disturbed Linder to see a man once as proud and capable as Kendall reduced to a hollow vestige of himself. The sight moved Linder deeply and made him feel intensely ashamed for having set him up for rendition. All at once he recognized his initial antipathy toward Kendall for what it was: envy, not only for the man’s good looks, wealth, and social standing, but for the unforgivable offense of having made Patricia Eaton his wife.

  As soon as he could be sure that he would not disturb Kendall by removing his dinner tray, Linder returned it to the orderly.

  “Hey, I’m not very experienced at this,” he offered while the orderly emptied the tray and stacked it on his cart. “But is there something I could do around here to help the old guy without getting either of us in trouble?”

  The orderly gave a raucous laugh.

  “What you can do is stay in bed and save your strength. You may be listed as able-bodied, but you’re only here for three days and you’ll need all the rest you can get. Never mind the old fart. He’s a goner and isn’t going to make it, anyway. Why bother? Is he an old war buddy of yours or something?”

  “I knew him and his family on the outside,” Linder answered. “I feel I owe it to them.”

  The orderly shrugged and retrieved another empty tray from the next bed.

  “Then knock yourself out,” he replied without slowing his pace. “There aren’t nearly enough of us staff to look after you people, anyway. And goners like him are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  The orderly turned to leave but stopped unexpectedly and gave Linder a searching look.

  “Look, buddy, if it’s that important to you, what he’ll likely need most is help getting to the toilet and cleaning himself up. The washbasins are over there. If you want a sponge and some soap, I’ll get them from the storeroom. One more thing. Make sure he wakes up in time for meals. If he misses one, there’s no second chance. The vultures will snatch what’s his the moment the cart goes by.”

  The orderly cast a sidelong glance at a wizened old prisoner across the aisle, who eyed them intently. The man’s facial features had an Asiatic cast and Linder guessed he might belong to one of Canada’s indigenous peoples, like the Kaska or the Tutchone.

  “Got nothing for you, Scotty,” the orderly called out to the watchful prisoner, and moved on.

  * * *

  The following morning, Linder rose early and waited for Kendall to stir while most of the other prisoners slept. The room was still dark except for the dim glow of emergency exit lights and a night-light next to each bed. The room was eerily quiet, as if death had seeped into the room and was slowly smothering any patient too tired to stir.

  At last, the overhead lights flickered on and a pair of male nurses began their rounds, moving from bed to bed, taking temperatures and pulses and writing cryptic notes on each patient’s medical chart, Across the room, a nurse pulled the blanket over the face of a prisoner who died during the night and pressed a button that rang a bell in the hall. A few moments later, an orderly arrived to wheel the bed away with all the care of a sanitation worker emptying an overflowing garbage bin.

  When at last the breakfast cart made its noisy approach and Kendall failed to wake, Linder shook the patient gently by the foot. A few of the patients awakened by the noise moaned and called for help but none of the nurses or orderlies paid them the least attention.

  “Time to eat,” Linder announced softly. “Don’t let the vultures take it. You’ll need to eat everything you’re given if you want to grow up big and strong.”

  Roger Kendall opened his eyes and stared blan
kly at Linder, then all at once sat up without a word and, as if by habit, dug his spoon into the oatmeal. But the slow, lifeless way in which he went about it and the persistent tremor in his hand left Linder wondering how much of the old Roger Kendall remained inside the shell.

  Suddenly, as if Kendall could read his thoughts, he looked across the bed at Linder and spoke.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked in an odd monotone.

  Linder responded with an amused smile.

  “Yes, in another world a long time ago,” he answered, looking to either side to make sure no one could overhear him.

  “Tell me your name,” Kendall asked next.

  “Warren Linder. I introduced myself last night.” Linder pulled his chair closer to the bed and sat where Kendall could get a better look at his face.

  “No, you’re not Warren Linder. I remember that name and I remember your face, but you can’t be him.”

  “And why not?” Linder asked, doing his best to appear unruffled.

  “Because after they kidnapped me, my interrogator kept asking me about a Warren Linder,” Kendall replied, raising his voice a notch. “If I had known someone by that name, I would have remembered. But I do know your face. So that means we’ve met, only not as Linder.”

  Kendall turned his attention back to his oatmeal in that moment and Linder could not help but laugh uneasily at the lucidity of Kendall’s response.

  “Well, I can assure you that I am indeed Warren Linder. If you doubt it, ask the staff or take a look at my clipboard,” Linder replied with studied smoothness. “Names of prisoners are not something the CLA gets wrong often.” Now Linder held Kendall’s gaze steadily in his, as if to influence the man’s response by sheer force of will.

  “Perhaps so,” Kendall replied, as if the lights suddenly turned on inside his head. “But if I had met you as Warren Linder, I’m certain I would have remembered. You see, my interrogator claimed that Linder was a childhood friend of my wife. He also insinuated that something improper was going on between the two of them. Now, you wouldn’t claim to be that Warren Linder, would you?”

  Now it was Kendall’s turn to fix Linder in the eye and at once Linder realized that Roger Kendall, the former litigator, had come back to life. And rather than feel threatened, it made Linder feel happier than he had felt in a long time. He flashed Kendall a grin.

  “Well, I wouldn’t subscribe to the last part and I’m sure Patricia wouldn’t, either. In case she hadn’t already told you, she and I met in middle school and talked to each other only once or twice since then, while we were in boarding school. Really, Roger, you ought to know better than to believe everything an interrogator tells you. Now, let me ask you a question: can you describe the interrogator for me? And did he give you a name?”

  “He called himself Dennis,” Kendall replied, dipping a finger in his coffee mug to judge if it had cooled. “I saw him only during the first days after my arrest. He was about your age, tall and lanky, with fair hair and a narrow face, but he had cold blue eyes and a wide, thin mouth that gave the impression of a snake about to strike. Quite a pitiless sort.”

  “I think I know him,” Linder responded, lowering his voice as a nurse passed by. “His true name is Neil Denniston. He and I worked together during the Battle of Cleveland, chasing the militias who looted the downtown banks. Neil’s been trying to get his hands on the missing loot ever since. And your father-in-law, the man accused of planning the operation, has become Neil’s very own white whale.”

  Linder stopped and watched for Kendall’s reaction but had to wait while the orderly cleared Kendall’s empty breakfast tray.

  “So you served in State Security,” Kendall observed when the orderly was out of earshot. “How fascinating. And you remained a DSS officer until...?”

  “Until my conviction for sedition,” Linder replied.

  “Then you are a regular prisoner and not a guard or an orderly?”

  “Just look at me,” he told Kendall, opening his arms wide. “Do I look well-fed enough to be anything else?”

  Kendall gave a weak smile.

  “I suppose not,” he answered quietly, and for a moment his mind appeared to drift off again. “But, in that case, where could we possibly have met?” he continued, gazing at Linder with such fierce concentration that Linder felt goose bumps on his scalp and neck and wondered whether Kendall might still recognize his face, bearded, sans disguise, and considerably leaner than that of the ruddy-faced Joe Tanner from Utah.

  As if on cue, a glimmer of recollection appeared in Kendall’s eyes.

  “Could we have crossed paths in London?” he ventured.

  “Not likely.” The half-truth came easily to Linder, as his instincts told him to draw Kendall’s focus away from London, lest it lead him to ask about Beirut before Linder was ready for it. “But, listen, I’d rather not dwell on my time in the government just now. Besides, it’s ancient history. So why don’t we both get some rest and talk again in the morning?”

  Kendall gave Linder another searching look and fell silent, his concentration apparently fading once again. The conversation had probably required more mental effort than Kendall had exerted in weeks of mindless work at the recycling plant. Though he longed to confess that he had met Kendall in Beirut as Mormon Joe Tanner and seek his forgiveness, it was hard to know whether Kendall was strong enough to confront the man who had lured him into captivity. If Linder moved too quickly and Kendall spurned his advance, any chance of reconciling with Kendall, or with Patricia, might be irretrievably lost. Unsure of success and unwilling to risk a setback, Linder decided to wait.

  * * *

  On his third morning in the infirmary, Linder awoke shortly before breakfast and was pleased to find Kendall chatting with a neighboring patient while they waited for the breakfast cart. Linder hurried to the lavatory, returned in time to wolf down his breakfast, and rushed off to the outpatient waiting room where he was scheduled to undergo a pre-release physical exam. Since CLA regulations required the exam to be conducted by a physician and the camp doctor considered such exams a waste of his time, Linder waited ninety minutes for an examination that lasted fewer than five.

  On his return to the ward, Linder found his former work team leader, Charlie Yost, seated at Kendall’s bedside, their heads huddled in hushed conversation. Having not seen Yost since being sent to the Point, Linder looked forward to telling his former team leader that he would be returning to Yost’s unit upon his release from the ward. But upon seeing Linder’s approach, the two older men lowered their voices until he came within earshot.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living,” Yost greeted Linder as they shook hands. “Now I owe you, big-time. When you get back to the unit, don’t worry about making your quota for a while. Get your strength back up.”

  Linder grinned. “Quite a surprise to see you here, Charlie. I didn’t realize you two knew each other. Is Roger an alumnus of your forestry unit?” he asked Yost.

  “Yes, and a fellow Clevelander,” Yost replied. “Before you came, I was telling him how you saved my life.”

  “The dog deserves all the credit,” Linder protested.

  “But the dog isn’t from Cleveland,” Kendall pointed out.

  “True enough, I suppose,” Linder agreed. “Tell me, do you two know each other from Cleveland, or did you meet here?”

  “Charlie’s an old friend of the family,” Kendall replied, leaning back in his chair. “For many years he worked for my…”

  “Oh, there you go again, glorifying the old days,” Yost interrupted sharply. “Let’s just say I knew Roger as a young man, before he left for New York to make his fortune on Wall Street.”

  “Now who’s glorifying,” Kendall countered, apparently taking Yost’s cue to change the subject. “On Wall Street, we lawyers weren’t the ones who made the big money. All we did was protect those who had it from losing it. And in the end, I suppose we even failed at that...”

  Linder open
ed his mouth to respond but thought better of it. Like many other Wall Street moneymen, even now Roger failed to grasp how their excesses fueled the class hatred that swept the Unionists into power. But nothing Linder might say was likely to make Kendall see it now.

  “Anyway, putting all that aside,” Kendall continued, “Charlie is someone to keep close to you. He knows all the Clevelanders here, including the ones to avoid. If Charlie vouches for you, that’s good enough for me.”

  At that, Yost grasped Kendall’s hand and gave him a concerned look.

  “I’m sorry to leave so soon, Roger, but they’ll be out looking for me if I don’t board the truck back to the logging site. I’ll come again as soon as I can. Meanwhile, get lots of rest. Warren will be here a while longer to help if you need him.”

  And without waiting for a response, Yost made for the door.

  * * *

  At the midday meal, Kendall ate heartily and seemed more at peace than he had been in two days, but after rising from his afternoon nap, he appeared anxious. Despite Linder’s best efforts to draw him into conversation, the lawyer became withdrawn and faded in and out of consciousness. At the evening meal, his appetite was weak. He ate a few bites at Linder’s insistence but soon pushed the tray away, urging Linder to eat the rest. But no sooner did Linder reach for Kendall’s plate than he noticed the elderly native across the aisle eying the food hungrily. On impulse, Linder carried the remains of the dinner tray over to old man’s bed.

  “Here, take it,” he told Scotty. “If a man your age still has that strong a will to live, you should have it. But tell me, after all you’ve been through, why would you want so badly to go on living in a place like this?”

  The old man dug into the food at once and did not speak until he had wolfed down most of what was on the plate.

  “Some men here need help,” Scotty replied. “I am medicine man; they respect me. If I not teach them old ways of healing and keeping strong, some will die too soon. But not me. I will live until my time come.”