Meeting Midnight: Ankarrah Chronicles Book One

by J. D. Dexter

  But now knowing that I used it to injure someone—and they end up dying from what I did—is freaking terrifying. I always thought that the only way I could truly hurt someone was in defense of myself or someone else. Knowing that is what happened helps, but not nearly enough.

  I feel a bit like a monster.

  I push aside the stupid beep, beep, beep of the machine from my mind. I close my eyes and focus on the part of me that is gifted…enhanced…special…whatever. Looking at my own body through the Spectrum still astounds my mind.

  I’ve always been creative and have several original pieces of art in my clinic. I lean towards the abstract—the things that show you different aspects each time you look at it.

  My favorite medium right now is resin and acrylic paint. I do dirty pours because I love the randomness and beauty that can come from a cup of color and a canvas. I once did a pour with several different shades of blue, golds, whites, grays, and a touch of purple.

  I never know what is going to come out of the cup and spill onto the canvas. The diffusion of colors amazes me and delights my inner artist.

  Looking at my body through the Spectrum does the same thing. I’m usually in the light to middle blue range. I have spikes, valleys, and waves just like everyone else. I’ve spent much more time with my own Spectrum, than I have with anyone else’s. I know what mine should look like, and I’m always surprised and enchanted by the sheer beauty of the colors.

  Right now though, the dark green mixed with browns and reds tells me that my mental turmoil is bigger than I thought it was. The wash of colors tells me more than any emotional inspection ever could. I’m still reeling from everything that has happened, and I’m not doing a very good job of dealing with it.

  I definitely believe that we, as humans, are designed by an intelligent being. For me, that’s God. Too many things in my life, including seeing and using the Spectrum, have happened for me to believe any differently. I imagine I feel the same way about Spectrum viewing as astronomer’s do about looking at the stars. Or chemists about complex equations. There is nothing more beautiful to me than a peaceful, flowing Spectrum. Watching the colors wind around each other calms my mind.

  I finally fall asleep.

  “Knock, knock.”

  I jerk upright. Looking around quickly, I’m surprised to see the sun has set again.

  “Dr. Jamison.” Just the man I’m most conflicted about. I wave him in as I lay my head back down. “What time is it?”

  “Around eleven-thirty on Thursday night. You missed everyone coming by to see you. But since you were sleeping, I didn’t let anyone wake you up.”

  I whip around to look at him.

  He can’t be serious. I didn’t sleep the whole day. I never do that.

  Maybe my body took over since my brain was too full to deal with everything that has happened lately.

  I open my mouth, only to be stopped as he lifts a hand, palm up.

  “Ms. Tindol. There are some people here to see you,” he says gravely. His voice is oddly formal, even more so than when he was upset with me.

  I snap up in bed. “What people?” I snarl. Looking out the window, the only person I see is Officer Davids, sent over by Detective Wallace as my protective detail.

  “Some agents from the Department of Homeland Security,” he says, looking both frightened and a little angry.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Why are DHS agents here?” I ask, worry clear in my voice.

  “I got a call from them as I was ordering the new tests for you. Apparently, they were alerted to you coming to the hospital for a gunshot wound.” His voice is curiously flat. I’ve heard more emotion from a robot.

  “Why would they care if I’m in the hospital or not?” My mind flips on a reel of worst-case scenarios for my viewing pleasure. Now’s not the time to indulge my imagination. I shake my head, hoping to rid it of pictures of me locked away in an overly lit room with white walls.

  “I asked them that. They declined to answer.”

  Crap, crap, crap, crap.

  I thought the government getting involved would have been well down the line of things I would have to worry about. Not some kind of craptastic cherry on top of a poop cake.

  “I can’t keep them from talking to you. I can be in the room when they question you though.” He gives me a significant look. “Just in case you need medical attention.”

  “Believing me now, huh?” I say bitterly.

  “Yes.” Still cut and dried answers, none of the warmth and belonging from earlier.

  “Fine. Tell them I need a minute. Can you call Brent for me?” I ask him, hitting the button to bring the bed into an upright position.

  “I had one of the nurses do that as soon as they told me who they were. I haven’t left them alone since they came in,” he informs me.

  I hope you’re feeling like a real asshat right now, jerk face!

  “How long ago was that?” Climbing out of bed, I’m not even bothering to limp or baby my side at this point. Not for Dr. Hunter Jamison, at least. The curtains are closed, and no one can see into the room.

  His answer is cut off by my shutting the bathroom door behind me.

  “She’s just in the bathroom. She’ll be out in a just a second.” I hear Dr. Jamison say a little loudly.

  I sit down on the toilet, even though I don’t have to pee this time. I drop my head into my hands. How has my life gotten so far out of control so quickly? I want to cry, but I’ve got some more crap to shovel apparently. I’ll pencil in some crying time later. I’m sure I’ll be spoiled for choice as to the reason for crying when the time comes.

  Standing up, I flush the unused toilet. Shuffling over to the sink, I wait for the water to warm up, splashing my fingers in the frigid stream. I want to stall as long as possible for Brent to get here, but don’t know how long is too long. I’ve never had to deal with a federal official before. I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to come out, and I’ll help you back to the bed, Ms. Tindol,” Dr. Jamison says, his voice lifted to hear through the door.

  “Okay.” I lift my voice and put a tiny shake in it, like I’m struggling on my feet.

  The water finally warms up, and I wash my hands. Singing Yankee Doodle Dandy. Three times.

  Instead of rinsing off my super clean hands, I flap them in the air, flinging drops on the faucet, mirror, and floor. Pushing the remaining water through the front of my truly awful bedhead hair, I dab some on my hairline and my upper lip. I want it to look like I’m really sweaty and struggling.

  I finish wiping my hands off in my hair and turn to face the door; the only thing standing between me and the unknown. I take a deep breath, hunch over like I’m in pain, and grab for the door knob. Here’s hoping I rate an Oscar instead of a Razzie.

  “Eeek.” The door is pulled out of my hands.

  I guess Dr. Jamison was waiting for a signal from me to get helped back to the seriously uncomfortable hospital bed. He reaches out, slipping a deceptively muscled arm around my waist, ‘helping’ me walk back to the bed.

  Keeping my eyes on the floor, I try to catch glimpses of the agents out of the corners of my eyes. All I can really see are black shoes, one set male, the other one female. Both agents are wearing black trousers. While the chick’s shoes aren’t hideous, I can’t imagine that they’re very comfortable, unless all she does is sit behind a desk.

  Please let her be a pencil pusher!

  The man has one foot crossed, toes down, over the other foot. The man’s shoes look like he puts in a lot of miles, scuffed around the toes, the edges of the soles worn thin is some places along the inside of his arch. Bad foot placement during gait, my brain fills in for me. Weak adductors and hamstrings, meaning he probably sits at a desk most of the day.

  I mentally shake my head at myself and my inability to stop analyzing people’s bodies.

  Dr. Jamison and I finally make it back to bed. He turns me to fa
ce him, I lift my eyes to meet his, and finally see some emotion. He looks angry, scared, and a little confused. I wink at him with the eye farthest from the agents standing a couple steps back from the end of the bed.

  His brow unfurrows for just a second as he helps me sit back onto the bed before lifting my feet for me. He’s really going all out for this little charade. My heart tips back in his favor.

  He better not screw-up again. I’ll beat him with a shovel…in the face.

  “Ms. Tindol, these are Agents Richardson and Whittier.” Dr. Jamison informs me, pointing first to the woman, then the man. Dr. Jamison earned more points introducing the woman first. I hide a smile behind my hand as I reach to fix my hair.

  I finally give up, simply brushing it behind my shoulders.

  “Agents, Ms. Finley Tindol.” Dr. Jamison introduces me.

  “Thank you, doctor. We need to talk with Ms. Tindol privately, please.” Agent Richardson speaks up, stepping forward.

  A trim woman in her mid-thirties, she’s looks like she’s a little shorter than me. Her blond hair is as no nonsense as her shoes. Scraped back off an ordinary face, her eyes are her most striking feature. A curious mix of blues, greens, and golds, they remind me of my own eyes. Her lithe body looks like she takes care of herself.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. Ms. Tindol has been experiencing some setbacks recently, I need to monitor her closely.” Dr. Jamison truly sounds like he’s sorry. “She needs to be kept calm. I’m here to ensure that.”

  Agent Whittier’s chest puffs up like a bellows about to blow on a fire. Early- to mid-forties, he is utterly ordinary. Average height, bland brown hair, boring brown eyes, and wearing a dull brown suit. The only thing beyond normal about him is that he looks like he enjoys the power his gun and badge give him. Something about him creeps me out. I don’t trust him at all and will do any number of things not to be left alone with him.

  “I was under the impression she was going to be released shortly.” Agent Richardson interrupts whatever Agent Whittier was about to say. He slides a black look towards her.

  “Why would you think that?” Dr. Jamison asks, looking for all the world like he’s confused. He’s a better actor than I had thought possible. “I was about to order a round of tests for VHF diseases. She was recently in very close contact with a man who died from, what looks like, a VHF disease. She needs to be tested and cleared medically before she’s allowed out of my care.”

  Maybe Hunter should be getting the Oscar.

  “VHF?” Agent Whittier shoots Dr. Jamison a suspicious look.

  “Oh, excuse me. Viral Hemorrhagic Fever.” Blank looks from the agents.

  “Fevers that prevent the body from being able to clot blood appropriately,” Dr. Jamison explains. “Bleeding out through the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, anus. Death is generally the end result without treatment.”

  Both agents take big steps back, Whittier pulls his tie over his mouth and nose. Richardson looks a little concerned, but her face is a lot harder to read that Whittier’s.

  “Why isn’t she in quarantine then, for shit’s sake?” Whittier bleats out from behind his tie.

  Bit of a self-entitled idiot, this one.

  “We’ve been monitoring her closely, you’ll also notice she doesn’t have a roommate. She’s slated for tests in the morning.”

  “Very well, doctor. Please know that anything we discuss is confidential information. Nothing may be written down, discussed, or reported in official, or unofficial, documentation,” Agent Richardson starts. This is clearly a woman who does more than ride a desk; she’s used to having her orders followed.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Jamison. I’m sorry I’m late.” Brent rushes into the room, briefcase in hand. His tie looks a little askew, like he put it on in the car on the ride over and didn’t have a chance to straighten it. His eyes are bright with what I think of as his “lawyer light.” He always looks so intense and happy about getting to argue on behalf of someone.

  “And you would be?” Agent Whittier moves into Brent’s path, hand held to stop his progress.

  “Her lawyer.” Brent’s voice whips out. He brushes aside Whittier’s hand like a palm frond in his way, and moves to my bedside.

  Whittier and Richardson share a long look. She turns to Dr. Jamison, narrowing her eyes.

  “How were you informed that we were planning to talk with Ms. Tindol?” Richardson asks, looking at Brent now.

  As I watch her, her gaze shifts from speculation to interest. If I’m not mistaken, she’s looking at him as more than just a legal nuisance. She likes what she sees if her lingering gaze is any sign.

  “I left word with the charge nurse to contact me anytime someone tried to contact her. She already been attacked once while recovering in this hospital. I wasn’t going to let it happen again.” He’s fuming. The look on his face is fiercely protective and he’s using his body to physically make an impression of being a shield.

  “Of course. We should have considered that.” This comes out as a statement of fact, not an apology of any kind. Agent Richardson is very careful with her words and inflection.

  “Let’s get started, then, shall we?” Richardson makes a sweeping motion with her hand, taking in the whole room.

  “Before we begin, what are you discussing with Ms. Tindol? What does DHS want with her?” Brent interrupts.

  “We just need some clarification on a couple of items. Depending on those clarifications, we will be making an offer on behalf of the United States government. We’ll proceed accordingly after that time.” The government really does have people who answer simple questions with long, drawn out non-answers.

  Huh, you learn something new every day.

  “And you need this clarification and to make this offer in the middle of the night? This couldn’t wait for morning—after my client has rested?” Brent pushes.

  “No. It can’t,” Richardson says without apology. She’s got great Blank Face.

  “Very well.” Brent takes a recorder out of his briefcase, setting it on the rolling table next to my bed.

  “This interview cannot be recorded, Mr. …” Richardson objects while Whittier makes a move to swipe up the recorder.

  “Hastings, Brent Hastings with Hawthorne, James, and Hastings.” He recovers the recorder seconds before Whittier claims it.

  “Mr. Hastings, this interview is confidential. No recordings, notes, reports, tweets, Facebook posts, nothing can be documented.” Agent Richardson’s hands are on her hips now, her eyes bright and focused. Finally, some emotion.

  “As I’m sure you’re well aware, Ms. Tindol’s interactions with me are also confidential and privileged. Covered under lawyer-client privilege. This is recognized in all fifty states of the Union, you’ll find.” Brent sneers at the agents. The snark level is rising.

  “You can stay in this room, Mr. Hastings, but you are not allowed to record or report anything discussed during this interview,” Richardson insists. Face blank, she crosses her arms over her chest.

  Brent looks belligerent for a couple moments. With a sigh, he motions for them to proceed, as he puts the recorder in his pocket. “I’ll agree to that, but I do have objections. Please go on with your questions.”

  “Noted.” She turns to me. “Ms. Tindol,” Richardson drops her hands and places them on the railing at the foot of my bed, “we received notification that you were shot earlier this week. Upon being admitted to the hospital, your blood work was run by personnel at this facility.”

  “Why would you receive notification about Ms. Tindol being shot? Why do you even care?” Brent jumps in.

  “This whole process will go smoother if you don’t interrupt, Mr. Hastings.” Whittier’s face is pinched again. I hope he doesn’t give himself an aneurism.

  “You’re here in the middle of night when my client should be resting and recovering. I don’t care how long this takes for you to complete. However, my client has never had a negative i
nteraction with law enforcement agency members: local, state, or federal. Why would she be a person of interest at any level?” Brent demands, his hand on my shoulder.

  “I can’t disclose that information currently, counselor. If I could proceed?” Richardson says, irritation plain in her voice.

  “My client has a right to know. If you can’t provide that basic level of information, then this interview is over.”

  “I guess we could just arrest her.” Whittier is going to get decked if he doesn’t tone down the testosterone challenges. I can see Richardson is getting ticked off with his outbursts as well. I hear the rustling of clothing signaling both Hunter and Brent have stepped forward.

  “Whittier, give it a rest.” Richardson slashes her hand through the air, not even looking at him.

  His face turns the color of boiled eggplant. Apparently, he doesn’t like to be quieted by a woman.

  Go girl!

  He holds his tongue, but I can tell he’s cursing up a storm in his brain from the fire he’s shooting out of his eyes right now. Richardson might want to watch her back with Whittier.

  “You have no grounds upon which to arrest, or even detain, her. She is not a threat to anything or anyone.”

  “Let’s all just take a step back here.” Richardson does something that brings a distinctive sheen to her eyes. For a second, it almost looked like they’re mirrored. I feel a creeping sense of calm sweep over the room. Starting closest to where Richardson is standing and inching its way up my legs.

  A couple of seconds and the sensation is gone, but everyone in the room has dialed back their aggression. I focus more fully on Richardson.

  She is more than she appears.

  She’s giving excellent eye contact, and I think I catch the tiniest nod of acknowledgement.

  I nod back at her, although I’m not sure mine is as stealthy as hers. She gives great tiny nod.