Nobody Dies For Free

by Pro Se Press

  ***

  Monroe slept well in the cheap Holiday Inn he found just outside New Haven. Years of experience had taught him to get some rest no matter what the next day had in store for him; he knew how to compartmentalize his mind and shut away anticipation and even fear to let his body slumber and reenergize.

  He woke at eight, dressed in slacks and shirt but not a complete suit, deciding that a more casual appearance was called for as he began his mission. He grabbed coffee and a light breakfast and found the post office, picked up the package, and waited until he got back into the car to open it.

  He was impressed by Mr. Nine’s speed in getting the right material to him. Inside the parcel was a driver’s license for a Richard Madison, his alias for the day’s work, as well as Madison’s certification as a physical therapist. There was also a slim medical reference pamphlet detailing the muscle and skeletal structure of the human shoulder and arm.

  Monroe called up the address that Mr. Nine had texted to him and found the place easily enough. The New Haven Center for Physical Rehabilitation was a large brick building in what looked like a wealthy part of the city. The center was situated in a large park-like area with tall trees, including willows, a finely manicured lawn which was green even in autumn. There was a large parking lot off to one side, neatly divided by a fence straight down its middle and signs designating separate parking sections for visitors or medical professionals. Monroe pulled the Lexus into the latter section and parked in the space marked 27-B. He took out the medical pamphlet provided for him and spent forty-five minutes memorizing, as well as he could in such a short time, the names and functions of the various components of the upper limbs of the human body.

  When he felt ready, he replaced his real driver’s license with the new one, added the therapist’s credentials to his wallet’s contents, and reminded himself several times that he was now Richard Madison. He took his gun out of the shoulder holster and put it in his suitcase, got out of the car, and made his way to the front entrance of the clinic.

  ***

  Monroe signed in at the front desk and could immediately tell this was no insurance-paid, public facility. The place was expensively furnished and looked more like a first-class hotel than a post-hospital treatment clinic. The parents of the patient, Angela MacIntyre were rich, Monroe recalled, and must have paid a small fortune for their daughter to get the best care possible after the shooting.

  “We were called an hour ago and told you’d be arriving, Mr. Madison,” the receptionist said with an officious smile. “Here is Miss MacIntyre’s file. You’ll find her on the fourth floor, Room 418. The elevator is that way, sir.”

  Monroe walked slowly to the elevator and rode up to the fourth floor, glancing over the file as he went, taking in the details of the patient’s injury. He was no expert in the medical field, but had the rudimentary knowledge of a man whose life has been spent in a profession where it behooves him to learn at least a little something about many subjects. The bullet, he read, had been a through-and-through shot, ripping into the muscles of Angela MacIntyre’s shoulder and exiting out the back, missing the bones and doing no truly permanent damage, but it would be some time before full strength and mobility of the arm were restored.

  The elevator dinged its arrival, the metal doors slid open, and Monroe walked out. He saw no one else in the hallway as he scanned each door number as he passed, finally arriving in front of 418 and knocking three times.

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door and entered. The room looked more like a hotel suite than an infirmary. The bed was large and looked lusciously soft. The walls were decorated with paintings that were far from the cheap rubbish you might see used to cheer up most hospital rooms. The room’s occupant was staring out the large window, her back to the door. Monroe could see a slim figure in a light blue robe with long chestnut brown hair flowing down to well below the shoulders.

  “Good morning,” Monroe said. “I’m Rick Madison, your therapist.”

  Angela MacIntyre turned slowly to face him. The pivot revealed a face that almost brought a flirtatious smirk to Monroe’s face, but he stopped the expression, reminding himself that he was on the job. She was indeed a beauty. She must have been a lousy actress, Monroe thought, for it certainly was not her looks that had kept her from breaking into the movies. She stared at him for a moment and then took two steps forward. The robe was tied shut, showing only her face and neck and left hand. The bulge under the robe and the empty right sleeve indicated to Monroe that the injured arm was in a sling under the garment. Her slippers, fluffy ones, matched the blue of the robe.

  Angela semi-smiled, tilted her head as if sizing up a potential purchase, and said, “I had requested a female therapist. What are you doing here?”

  “Well,” Monroe said, improvising, “the woman who was supposed to be here was delayed on another case. I suppose you’ll have to make do with me for the time being.”

  Chapter 4: Leaves-Dropping

  “Perhaps you should get dressed, Miss MacIntyre,” Monroe said.

  “Why? Are we going somewhere?” Angela asked.

  “Well,” Monroe said, “I’m assuming you’ve been cooped up in this room since you were admitted yesterday. I thought we might take a walk, get some air, and discuss your condition before we get started with your treatment. How does that sound? Have you had breakfast yet?”

  “Yeah,” Angela answered, “I ate already. Yes…we can go outside. Is it cold?”

  “Not terribly,” Monroe said. “A light jacket should be sufficient. Do you need any help getting ready?”

  “I’ll manage.” Angela walked over to a heap of clothes on the small table off to the side of the bed, dumped rather than being properly unpacked. She scooped up a few items with her left hand, carried them by holding them against her stomach, mumbled, “Excuse me,” and walked into her private bathroom, kicking the door shut behind her.

  Monroe waited, listened. He could hear the sounds of movement behind the door: the ruffling of clothing, the clumsy noises of a struggle, and a few choice words, rising in strength as the attempt at dressing with one useful arm grew more difficult. “Damn,” then “shit,” and finally a loud “fuck!”

  The door finally opened again and Angela MacIntyre came out. She was now dressed in sweats and sneakers, her hair tied back in a ponytail, an impressive feat for one who can use just a single hand. The sling was now visible and the hand hung limply against the stomach. A small bulge was visible under the shirt, at the shoulder, presumably where the bandages covered a still-healing wound.

  “Are you all right, Miss MacIntyre?” Monroe asked.

  “Call me Angela,” she told him, “and I could use a hand with my shoelaces.”

  “Of course,” Monroe said, and he knelt down to tie her sneakers. He stood and looked around, saw a jacket hanging on a hook beside the door, grabbed it, held it while Angela put her good arm into the sleeve, and draped the other half of the coat over her injured side. He held the door for her. “Shall we? If you’re sure you’re up to this.”

  “I hurt my shoulder,” Angela replied, giving him a dirty look, “which doesn’t affect my ability to walk. I don’t suppose you have a cigarette, do you?”

  “I don’t smoke,” Monroe said. He had in the past, especially if it would have helped his cover, but not in several years; Genevieve had disliked the smell of tobacco.

  “Damn,” Angela said. “Apparently they frown upon their patients smoking here…but I’m dying for one.”

  They were outside now, just past the front desk and the large front doors and walking down the steps to the walkway from which one could go to either the parking lots or the grounds. Monroe now saw his chance to get the subject of his assignment to trust him just a bit more than she might otherwise.

  “I could smuggle a pack in for you,” he offered, “when I come back tomorrow. What’s your brand?”

  “Newport,” she said, “and don’t forget the lighter.”
/>   “Newport it is then.”

  “Thank you, Rick.” She smiled at him now. “I can call you that, can’t I?”

  “Yes, Angela, that’s fine.”

  Off the walkway and onto the grass now, they strolled across the lawn and around several little islands of trees that decorated the landscape, some still full despite the autumn while others had tossed aside their summer attire and stood like naked skeletal sentinels watching over the property.

  “Down to business now,” Monroe said. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “It still hurts,” Angela admitted, “though not so sharply now. It’s more a dull ache that comes and goes as it pleases. And I can hardly feel my hand, my fingers are useless.”

  “Well we’ll see if we can get that fixed soon,” Monroe promised. “And if you don’t mind my curiosity, can I ask the obvious question?”

  “Which obvious question would that be, Rick? Maybe it’s not as obvious as you think?”

  “Who shot you, Angela? Your file did say it was a gunshot wound.”

  “I have no idea who shot me! Don’t you read the papers, Rick?”

  “Not in New Haven; I don’t normally live around here. I came in to see to your well being.”

  “Oh…well I was just walking out of a coffee shop, minding my own business, when it hit me. I don’t even remember hearing the shot, although some other people in the area reported a loud bang. I remember feeling some pain and falling down and people running around—some almost stepping on me—and then I was in the hospital. I’m tired of telling that story, so I’m glad you asked now and got it out of the way. I must have told the police the same thing a hundred times in the past week. I just want to forget about it and get back to regular life!”

  “I’m sorry, Angela. I didn’t mean to upset you. I couldn’t help being curious. So what does this regular life you speak of involve? Would there normally be a ring on that injured hand of yours? Or are you more of a career-now, marriage-later sort of girl?”

  “I haven’t had much luck with either,” Angela said. “I’m single, just graduated school now at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, and have no idea what I’m going to do next. I’ll probably end up teaching, not that I want to.”

  “Well what is it that you want to do?” Monroe asked.

  “I’m an actress at heart,” Angela said, “but ten years of trying and getting nowhere is too long. I had to stop.”

  “Ah…you’re a thespian!” Monroe said, giving her a smile. “Interesting; I’d like to hear more about what you’ve done, and I’m sure those ten years you speak of couldn’t have been all bad. You must have had some little successes in there to keep you going.”

  “Well, it had its moments,” Angela admitted, catching the contagion of Monroe’s smile and smirking a bit now too. “The first few years were wonderful, before the pressure to make it into something bigger got to be too much for me. In the beginning, it was just about the love of performance, being on stage, figuring out how to forget where Angela MacIntyre ended and her character began.”

  They came across a small wooden bench behind a clump of trees. They sat and Monroe decided to keep the subject going, as it seemed to get Angela to open up, talk more, forget her troubles and speak honestly.

  “What were some of the roles you got to play?” he asked. “Anything I may have heard of?”

  “I should hope so,” Angela said, “if you have any clue about the theatre at all.”

  “Try me,” Monroe said.

  “I poked around in Shakespeare Land of course,” Angela said, “but that’s to be expected, I suppose. And there was Summer and Smoke early on.”

  “Ah,” Monroe said, “Tennessee Williams, always interesting stuff there.”

  “It was,” Angela nodded. “That was the first time I felt completely lost in a role, lost in a good way I mean. That’s the feeling I always hoped for when trying on a new part. I wanted Angela to go away and someone new to inhabit my body, maybe even my soul.”

  “You wanted to provide an escapist experience for yourself as well as for the audience,” Monroe said.

  “Yes, something like that,” Angela nodded again, smiled sincerely like one who appreciates that another understands, fully, just what they mean.

  “So I suppose, in a way,” Monroe said, “acting is a semi-suicidal occupation. The actor wants to get rid of him or herself, at least for a while.”

  “You could look at it that way,” Angela said.

  “And you’ve quit seriously pursuing it now?” Monroe asked.

  “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “It must hurt terribly, to give up on a dream.”

  “Not as much as you think,” Angela said. “Maybe…maybe it was only partially my dream. Maybe I was tricked into thinking it was more important to me than it actually was.”

  “Tricked by whom?” Monroe asked.

  “Can we change the subject? Please?”

  “Am I prying too deeply?

  “Yes…no…I don’t know. I’m not uncomfortable talking about it, not with you at least, but it saddens me.”

  “Well I’m glad you’re not uncomfortable, Angela. I think it’s important for a patient to be at ease with someone who wants to help them.”

  “Rick, you’re sounding too much like a shrink. You’re supposed to be concerned with my shoulder, not my dreams.”

  “Do you want me to shut up?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  Monroe smiled at her. Connection made, he thought. He made up his mind to continue to probe her feelings, her hopes, her attitudes toward life and whatever else might possibly pertain to his seeking information about Simon Scythe, but he had to pull back a bit, he knew, not dig too deep too soon. The last thing he wanted to do was set off alarms in Angela’s head. Secrets would have to be eased out slowly, not ripped off like a Band-Aid.

  “And what about you?” Angela said. “What were your dreams when you were younger? How’d you wind up in the physical therapy field?”

  Good, Monroe thought, she’s changing the subject on her own, a sign that she wants to keep the dialogue alive. “It’s a noble profession, don’t you think?”

  “We’ll see about that,” Angela said with a mischievous giggle, “when we find out if you can get me using this arm again. When do we get to that anyway? Or were you planning on sitting out here talking to me all day?”

  “I want you to be comfortable with me,” Monroe said. “You said you’d prefer a woman therapist, so I thought I’d give you some time to change your mind.”

  “I’m not so worried about it now. Anyway, I’m halfway convinced you might be gay, which would keep you from hitting on me, I suppose.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not gay. Why would you assume that?”

  “How old are you? Thirty-five, thirty-six…?”

  “Just over the border of forty, actually.”

  “And not married? You’re good-looking, in a decent job, so why not?”

  “Actually,” Monroe said, making the decision to use some truth to his possible advantage, “I’m a widower.”

  “Oh fuck!” Angela piped up, and then let her voice drop back down to conversational softness. “I’m sorry. God, I feel stupid now.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry, about,” Monroe assured her. “It simply is what it is.”

  “Can I ask what happened?” Angela dared.

  “I’d…rather not discuss the details just now,” Monroe said, not wanting to give himself a longer list of lies to keep track of since the truth about his wife’s death was not an option.

  Angela stood up from the bench, took a step forward. “I think we should go back inside. It’s getting a little chilly out here.”

  Monroe rose, began to walk beside her. “Yes, that’s fine. We ought to get some work done anyway. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at that shoulder once we get upstairs, see where we stand.”

  “And if I do mind,” Angela asked, “will tha
t stop you from looking?”

  “Not a chance,” Rick said. “I hope we can move ahead now…now that we’re friends and not just patient and therapist.”

  Angela shivered a little and upped her pace. The wind had picked up and Monroe could feel its coldness biting into his cheeks too. They walked back to the front of the building, leaves crunching underfoot until they left the grass for the concrete walkway. Monroe was satisfied with the way the morning had gone so far.

  ***

  Returning to her room, Angela and Monroe found a man inside, sitting on the bed.

  “Oh shit,” Angela muttered, loud enough for Monroe to hear beside her, but inaudible to her visitor, who rose from the bed to greet them.

  “Hello again, Miss MacIntyre,” he said. He was scruffy, balding, Italian-American. “And you are?”

  “Richard Madison,” Monroe said, offering a handshake, “physical therapist.”

  “I see,” said the man, whose very essence and posture and whole being suggested Cop to Monroe. “I’m Detective Joe Tomasi.”

  They shook hands and Tomasi said, with some effort toward politeness, “Excuse us, Mr. Madison. I have some questions for your patient.”

  “Yes, of course,” Monroe said, backing toward the door. “Angela, I’ll be back in a bit. Goodbye, Detective.”

  As he exited, Angela walked over to the window and stared out. Tomasi stood behind her, his back to Monroe. Monroe took advantage of the opportunity, slipped his cell phone out, activated the recording function, and dropped it into the potted plant that sat by the door to the room. He slipped out of the room, closed the door behind him, and strolled down the corridor with time to kill.

  Monroe got in the car, drove out of the lot, and headed down the road that led away from the rehab center. He found a gas station, filled the tank, made a small purchase, and drove back to the center. He parked and waited until he saw Detective Tomasi exit through the front door and drive away.