Blackout

by David Rosenfelt

  The fact that Gharsi judged Bennett’s truthfulness and honor to be unreliable was, in any event, a non-issue. In the world in which people like Gharsi and Bennett operated, it was understood that those qualities were, if anything, impediments to success. The motto they lived by was “Don’t trust, but verify.”

  It was amusing to Gharsi that Bennett was considered to be so tough and ruthless by the Americans. If he were on Gharsi’s turf, he would not last an hour.

  What really concerned Gharsi was Bennett’s competence, or lack of same, since he would have to rely on it if the operation was going to be successful. Certainly the relationship was not off to an auspicious start; the fiasco at the motel had the potential to destroy that operation before it began.

  The news that the cop was not dead was certainly unwelcome. At this point there was no way to know what he had learned, but that answer would come soon enough. If the cop had discovered what was going on, and had revealed it to the FBI, then Bennett would soon be arrested, and Gharsi would have to start all over again.

  What Bennett did have was organizational ability and access to that which Gharsi most needed … people. They were accustomed to violence, and most important, they were people who felt passionate about nothing except money.

  These were not the people that Homeland Security generally worried about. The Feds were relentless in finding ideologues, people who were intent on hurting the United States. For that type of person, killing and wreaking havoc was an end in itself.

  Gharsi could recruit such soldiers, and had in the past, and they would provide total loyalty and a willingness to sacrifice their own lives. The problem was that the United States security apparatus was so complete and intrusive that they could simply not fly under the federal radar.

  The people Bennett was committed to providing would be different. They would be willing. And they would be anonymous. And under Gharsi’s tutelage, they would be deadly.

  But a lot of work had to be done before the job could be complete, and the situation with the cop had caused Gharsi to change his plans. Rather than go back and work on that end of things, he would stay in the United States and manage this side of the operation.

  Gharsi had no idea if the FBI knew that he was in the U.S. They probably did not, but he had to operate as if they did. He knew quite well that the way to avoid being detected by people was to surround himself with people. So he was going to stay in New York City, and with perfect fake identification and some minor cosmetic changes in his appearance, he would not be found by the authorities, whether or not they were looking for him.

  Eventually they would learn that he was there.

  After the fact.

  But that was one side of the coin, and on the other side was Nicholas Bennett, a man that Gharsi underestimated at his peril. Bennett viewed Gharsi as a meal ticket; whatever government was backing him seemed to have unlimited funds to do it. This was money that Nicholas Bennett needed, and that he was going to get his hands on.

  Ahmat Gharsi would learn that Nicholas Bennett was a force to be reckoned with, and one he would not be able to handle.

  After the fact.

  The name tag says her name is Darlene Azar, and she appears to be my nurse.

  She has been in a bunch of times, sometimes with the doctor, and sometimes not. She takes my blood pressure and temperature, and changes the bags that seem to be dripping fluid into my arm. Looking out the window, I think it’s dark out, so maybe she’s the night nurse. The difference between night and day isn’t that significant to me at this point.

  She always gives me a cheery hello, but doesn’t ask questions like the doctor does. I like that about her. I don’t feel like answering questions; I would rather ask them. And when I get up the strength, I will.

  “How long have I been here?” I ask out loud, surprising myself in the process. At least I think that was me; my voice sounds different, somehow strange.

  She turns in surprise, and moves toward me. “I’m sorry … I couldn’t hear you.”

  She’s going to have to listen better, because I sure as hell can’t talk any louder. “How long have I been here?”

  “Let me call the doctor. He can answer all your questions.”

  “No. Please … just tell me.”

  She nods and says, “Five days,” which surprises and pleases me; for some reason I thought it was going to turn out to be much longer. She continues, “You’re doing great; the doctors are very happy.”

  I must have fallen back asleep, because next thing I know it’s light out, and a nurse named Heather is in the room. She sees that my eyes are open and says, “Good morning.” She’s every bit as cheery as Darlene.

  My plan is to answer her, but I seem to be on some kind of tape delay, and before I can speak any words, she has left the room. I’m not surprised when she comes back a couple of minutes later with the same doctor I saw before.

  “Well, good morning, Doug. Darlene said you were a regular talking machine last night.”

  I don’t say anything, so he says, “How are you feeling?”

  The truth is that I’m feeling a little better; the haze is starting to clear a little bit. “Okay,” I say, and I’m again surprised at the sound of my voice. I wonder if something happened to my throat.

  He nods vigorously. “Good. You’re making great progress.” He pulls a chair up next to my bed. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to ask you a few questions. It’s part of my job, and will help us care for you. After that, I’ll try and answer any questions you might have.”

  “Okay,” I say, and I think I nod as well.

  “Good. Let’s start by squeezing my arm, as hard as you can.”

  It feels like I barely can exert any pressure at all, but he tells me I did well, and has me do it with my other hand. The effort feels like running a marathon, without the panting.

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Doug Brock. Douglas Anthony Brock.”

  “Excellent. Where do you live?” He’s looking at something on a clipboard as he’s asking these questions.

  “At 432 East Thirty-third Street, Paterson, New Jersey.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a New Jersey state cop.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.” I’m sure he’s asking me these questions to test my mental faculties, and it’s actually helping me think more clearly.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  He hesitates a moment, then asks, “Who is the president of the United States?”

  “George Bush.”

  “Father, or son?”

  “Son. George W.”

  “Do you know today’s date?”

  “No.”

  “How about the year?”

  “It’s 2005.”

  “Who won the Super Bowl this year?”

  I have to think about that for a second. “New England. They beat Philadelphia.” I can actually picture in my mind the end of the game, when the Eagles, down two scores, didn’t even bother to go into the no-huddle. Since I dislike the Patriots, I remember screaming at Donovan McNabb to hurry up.

  “Very good, Doug. I’ll let you rest now.”

  “How did I get hurt?” I ask.

  “You came in here with two bullet wounds, one in your shoulder and one in your leg, both of which are healing well, and will not cause any lasting damage. You also suffered a serious head trauma, apparently from a fall after you were shot.”

  “Who shot me?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that. When you’re well enough, I’ll notify some of your colleagues that you are available to talk. I’m sure they’ll be far more knowledgeable about it than I am. My entire focus is on helping you get better.”

  “Okay,” I say, and at this point I can barely keep my eyes open. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “This is the area of the brain that is affected.”

  Dr. Carmody said this as he pointed t
o an area on what he said was an MRI of Doug’s brain, backlit by a display case in the darkened room. His audience consisted of Captain Bradley, Dan Congers, Nate, and Special Agent Metcalf, who remained in charge of the FBI/Homeland Security side of the investigation.

  None of the four law enforcement officers could detect anything unusual in the area of the brain that Dr. Carmody was pointing to, but they had no interest in pointing that out. If he said the brain was affected, then the brain was affected. Metcalf also knew that FBI-hired neurosurgeons would be poring over the MRI to double-check Carmody’s work.

  Carmody flicked on the room lights and moved to sit behind his desk. “We still need to do some further testing, including an AMI, which is an autobiographical memory interview. But I think at this point I can say, without fear of contradiction, that Lieutenant Brock has what we call retrograde amnesia.”

  Bradley spoke first. “So he doesn’t remember the events surrounding the shooting? Or is it more than that? What are we looking at here?”

  “Retrograde amnesia is very patient specific. Patients have no recollection of events starting with the trauma and going back in time. Some can have all of their memory erased, but more often the loss only goes back a specific number of weeks, months, or years.”

  “And in his case?” Bradley asked.

  “He believes it to be 2005. His ability to recall before that time is very much intact, but after that it has been wiped away.”

  “So he knows his name? That kind of stuff?” Nate asked.

  “Yes, in these situations the basics about the person remain unaffected. For instance, his personality will be the same, as will his understanding of the world around him. The same is true for his physical abilities and motor skills; for example, he’ll know how to drive. All that is stored in a different section of the brain.” He pointed to a couple of areas on the MRI. “Here, and here.”

  He continued. “What is missing is his recollection of episodes, experiences he has had. In Doug’s case, he simply cannot recall any episode or experience since 2005. For him, it is as if the last ten years never happened.”

  Agent Metcalf asked, “Will he recover those memories?”

  “Probably, but not definitely. Every case is different. He might recover some, but not others, and the recovery will not necessarily be chronological. But there is absolutely no timetable.”

  Metcalf tried again. “Is there anything medically you can do to speed the process up?”

  “There are things we can and will try. We typically use Alzheimer’s drugs, and we increase the amount of thiamine in the body. There is disagreement in the medical community about the effectiveness of all this. Personally, I haven’t seen very many positive results. Hopefully this time will be different.”

  “How about hypnosis?” Bradley asked.

  Carmody shook his head. “Unfortunately, that only has the potential for success when the trauma is psychological and emotional rather than physical. Look, the bottom line is that patients either get better, or they don’t. It can happen spontaneously all at once, or the memories can come back slowly, or not come back at all.”

  “So what can we do?” Bradley asked.

  “My advice would be to return him to his normal life and job as soon as he can handle it physically. Don’t bombard him with memories, let him reconnect naturally. Certainly do not remind him of traumatic experiences, physical or emotional.”

  “That’s it?” Nate asked.

  Carmody nodded. “That’s it. Let nature take its course.”

  Doug spent most of the next two days sleeping.

  During his waking hours, further tests were conducted, none of which did anything to change the diagnosis. The gunshot wounds were by that point on the way to being healed, and Doug had regained some of his strength. Under the watchful eye of a physical therapist, he was even able to walk down the hall with no ill effects. Physically, he was going to be fine.

  Without anyone telling him why, he was not given access to newspapers, and was told the television in his room wasn’t working. He therefore remained unaware of his mental condition, and the doctors determined that it would be best for a friend to be there when they broke the news. It might be less traumatic that way.

  Dr. Carmody was making all the decisions, independent from the outside pressure that he was feeling. The FBI, as represented by Agent Metcalf, was particularly impatient. The idea that Doug had information about a known terrorist—a terrorist who might be in the area—was something they couldn’t afford to take lightly. They didn’t tell Carmody anything other than that there was an urgency to the process, but they and he knew the clock was ticking.

  Actually, the pressure was not as great as it might have been, because the Bureau neurologists were supportive of Carmody’s position. These things could not be rushed; to do so would be unproductive at best, and counterproductive at worst.

  Dr. Carmody finally gave the okay: Doug Brock was ready to take the first step toward reentering his life.

  Nate arrived at nine o’clock in the morning and waited in Dr. Carmody’s office for word from Doug’s nurse that he was awake and ready for visitors. It was an hour and twenty minutes before that call came, and another twenty before Carmody became available.

  “You ready?” Carmody asked.

  “Ready.”

  Dr. Carmody comes in to see me for the first time today.

  He’s been showing up twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. He doesn’t do much to examine me physically, but he asks a million questions. He seems to be trying to confirm that I’m okay mentally. I feel like I am, but for some reason I don’t appear able to convince him.

  This time he’s brought somebody with him, a huge guy who is dressed nothing like a doctor, but who sort of looks familiar to me. Maybe he’s been in here before, and I was too out of it to remember him clearly.

  The big guy smiles as he comes over to me, and says, “Hey, Doug; how ya doin’, man?”

  Now I can place the face, but not the body. It’s a guy that’s on the force with me. “Nate?”

  He smiles. “You remembered.”

  “Did you gain a lot of weight?”

  “Thanks a lot, pal.”

  “You going to tell me how I got here, Nate?”

  He starts to answer, but then turns to Carmody. “Doc?”

  Now it’s Carmody’s turn to come over to the bed; he’s on my right, and Nate is on my left. “Doug, first of all, I want to give you an overview of your condition.”

  I don’t like how that sounds; I thought he already told me about my condition. But there’s nothing I can do but wait to hear what he has to say.

  He continues, “As I’ve told you, you suffered a fairly severe trauma to the head. The good news is that it is healing wonderfully, even better than expected, and there is no reason you cannot go on to have a long, healthy, productive life.”

  “But…,” I say, trying to prompt him to drop whatever the hell bomb he’s going to drop.

  He smiles. “But there is a complication. You have what we call retrograde amnesia. While your capacity to make new memories is unimpaired, it has at least temporarily resulted in you forgetting a chunk of your recent life.”

  “How much?” I ask.

  “It’s 2015, Doug.”

  “You’re shitting me.” I look toward Nate, hoping that he’s laughing and in on the joke, but he’s not.

  “I’ve had ten years to gain the weight, pal.”

  “Ten years gone? Just like that? Am I going to get them back?”

  “There’s a good chance you will,” Carmody says. “But I can’t make any promises. Just relax, take it one day at a time, and let it happen.”

  I can’t seem to wrap my mind around this, and I’m having a feeling of panic. “Ten years? It’s not possible.”

  Nate smiles a forced smile. “Believe me, you didn’t miss much. They were shitty years. By the way, we’ve been partners and good friends for the last six.”


  I ask Carmody a bunch of questions about my condition, and he answers them all, but it’s nothing I enjoy hearing. He either has no idea what is going to happen, or he does and he doesn’t want to tell me. I’m rooting for the former.

  “I want to get out of here,” I say. “If I’ve lost ten years, I don’t want to lose any more.”

  Carmody nods. “There’s no reason you can’t be released. You just need to take it easy; you’ve been through a lot.”

  “You’re going to come live with me for a while,” Nate says.

  “Why? Am I homeless?”

  “Nah. You’ve got a pretty nice apartment. We’ll go by there to get your stuff.”

  “I don’t want you living alone,” Carmody says. “At least not until you’re at full strength. Of course, you can always stay here.”

  There’s no way I’m doing that, so I turn back to Nate. “You still live alone? You didn’t get married?”

  “I’ve been turning down proposals all the time.”

  “I’m not married, am I? Do I have three kids and a dog?”

  “No.”

  I think I’m relieved to hear that, but I’m not sure. “Okay, your place it is.”

  Carmody nods with apparent satisfaction. “Good, I’ll set it up for tomorrow. If you don’t feel strong enough, we can push it back.”

  I shake my head; there’s no way I’m staying here a minute longer than necessary. “I’ll be ready.”

  “Pick you up at nine in the morning,” Nate says, and they both leave. They seem to be telling the truth about this retrograde amnesia thing, but it still seems hard to believe. I need to get out in the world so I can see for myself.

  Big day tomorrow.

  Doug was up and dressed when Nate arrived.

  He was tired; just the act of showering and dressing took pretty much all the energy he had. But he was anxious to get out of the hospital. The nurse insisted that it was hospital policy for Doug to be brought downstairs in a wheelchair, and he didn’t resist. He appreciated the ride.