by Jim Heskett
“I got you turkey,” Harry said.
Jonah sat up a little and cleared his throat. His eyes were red, his face puffy. He’d been crying for a good portion of the morning. “Thank you. Just leave it there. I’m not hungry right now.”
Harry sat on the bed opposite Jonah. “What’s going on? You know you can talk to me.”
“I know.” He picked up the remote and turned off the television. “My head is like a big drum. Like a ball that’s all empty, but there’s a grain of rice rattling around inside it. Or, ten grains of rice, or, I don’t know how many grains of rice. But I shake it, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t tell how many grains of rice are on the inside.”
“Okay,” Harry said. “Not sure I follow, but, go on.”
“I can’t tell if all of this memory-recovery stuff is the best thing for me. Maybe some of the gunk in my brain is better left forgotten.”
“You’re starting to sound like the teen dramas my kid binges,” Harry said.
Now, Jonah did crack a little smile. “How is your boy doing?”
“He’s great. We’re all great. Me, Layne, Daphne, we’re all getting by. We’re here because we’re worried about you, Thorny.”
“Thorny,” Jonah said, musing on the word. “I haven’t gone by that handle in quite a while. It’s so weird to see you and Layne again. Like it’s been much longer than six years.”
“You dropped off the face of the earth. I’ve seen people retire before, but you did it with some style.”
“Hell yeah I did,” Jonah said. He rolled his head around on his neck and wiped a hand under his nose. “I needed a fresh start. Needed to get away from all the hubbub and all the looky-loos and attempt a do-over. But, it doesn’t really work like that, does it?”
Harry shook his head. “A do-over isn’t a real thing. You’re always left at the end with whoever you were to begin with. I think I saw a motivational poster at the Metro in DC that said something like that.”
“You think people can’t change?”
“No,” Harry said, “I do. But not often. And usually, not for long.”
“Yeah. That jibes with my own experience.”
Harry scooted forward on the bed. “Why have you been crying?”
“I did something terrible.”
“What did you do?”
“I hurt Layne.”
Harry studied his old teammate, his eyes wet and glassy. On the last day of the New Orleans op, Layne and Jonah had cut comms with Harry. No explanation given in the moment, and later, they’d invented an excuse that Harry hadn’t ever believed. For the most part, Harry had let it go during the years since then. Sometimes things happened on ops that you didn’t want to be entered in a record anywhere. Sometimes, rough stuff happened. Being part of a clandestine espionage team with no name and no officially sanctioned budget meant they wouldn’t have to testify before Congress about their actions, but they still had to answer to people.
Harry had always assumed the cessation of comms was related to something they were doing with Satori Watanabe. A violent interrogation, probably. But now, looking at Jonah, he wasn’t sure.
“What did you do to Layne? Was it in New Orleans?”
“No, no. New Orleans is a whole other ball of wax. This was something… personal. Something I can’t ever undo.”
“Talk to me.”
For a second, Harry thought Jonah might open up and spill his guts. He hesitated, breathing, shoulders rising and falling. But then, he picked up the remote and turned the TV back on. “Thanks for getting me food. I’ll eat it in a little bit.”
15
Layne carried the steaming bowl of lamb korma from the kitchen and set it on the table. Mariana had woven potholders Layne assumed were homemade. A gift from a relative, probably. Mariana didn’t appear to be the knitting type.
Her home was part of a duplex, and she shared the other half with another therapist at Hillcrest. The interior had been done in pinks and pale greens, like a daycare. Except, Mariana had no kids that Layne could see.
She stood at the other end of the dinner table, her hands clasped under her chin and with a big grin on her face. Her eyes were wide, staring at the food.
“I have to tell you, I don’t get men to cook for me very often. It’s sexy.”
Layne shrugged. “You might want to withhold your judgment on the sexiness of this particular meal. It’s hard to mess up korma, but I make no promises.”
She sat and placed a napkin in her lap. For dinner, she was wearing a slinky black dress, not quite formal, not quite casual. Like everything she wore, it hugged her curves and drew the eyes to all the right places. Not since first encountering Daphne Kurek in his mid-twenties had Layne met a woman who could wield her sexuality like a Howitzer cannon. Mariana didn’t even have to try.
She lifted a glass of wine and held it out as Layne took his seat. “To Hillcrest and all of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Yearly doc audit is next month, so… there’s that mess to look forward to.”
He joined her in a toast and took her plate to scoop rice and korma onto it. Quiet music played from speakers on a dresser in the corner. Pop music, stuff Layne wasn’t too familiar with. Mariana didn’t seem to be much younger than Layne, but she had modern tastes in music. It had been about ten years since Layne could reliably recognize newer music when it came on. After forty, he’d learned to be okay with that.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
Layne gave no response since he had a mouth full of food. He hadn’t been sure, either. He didn’t know if hanging out with Mariana was the best use of his time since Harry was babysitting Jonah back at the Best Western. But, Harry had given him his blessing. Jonah was still discombobulated, still detoxing from whatever Farhad had given him. Layne had made Harry promise to text right away if Jonah had a major breakthrough.
Plus, Mariana had promised him information about Farhad. It made Layne feel a little guilty since she still thought his name was Louis Pastori. But, not too guilty. He had to weigh the possibilities against the potential damage he might cause to her. And, while he had no intention of leading Mariana on or making her a casualty of espionage, the deception had to be done. He kept telling himself that, at least.
“What do you like to do for fun around here?” he asked.
“I trail run a lot near Castle Crags. That’s a good spot. If you don’t mind venturing outside of town, then we’re also not too far from Lassen, the national park. Good hiking out there, too. Lots of waterfall trails and rock climbing. Do you climb?”
“Every once in a while.”
“You should check in with Don.”
“Don?”
“Don Castillo is a therapist at Hillcrest. He’s the big climber in the office. Always keeps his gear ready for a quick climb before or after work. If you need to know a prime spot, he can tell you all about it. Just follow the trail of chalk dust in the hall. It’ll lead you right to him.”
“So, climbing, running, hiking? Anything else?”
She sported a sheepish grin. “There’s the casino off the 5. I spend a little too much time there.”
Layne lifted his wine glass, but only took a tiny sip. He needed a clear head. “You like to gamble?”
“Sure. Maybe a little too much. But I’m not the kind to lose my shirt or anything like that. I’m perfectly happy quitting when I’m ahead, or when it’s time to step away and take my losses. What about you?”
Layne shook his head. “Never been much of a gambler. I get it, though. The adrenaline of winning feels great, but as soon as I start to lose money, it freaks me out too much.”
“Control problems, huh?” she asked, tracing a finger around the rim of her wine glass.
“Maybe. Are you saying you don’t have them?”
Mariana shrugged. “You could say I’m complicated.”
“Usually claiming to be 'complicated' is a justification for bad behavior.”
She mo
ck-pouted. “Ouch. Or, are you projecting?”
“Are we in a therapy session now?”
“I’d need a look at your insurance card first.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen.”
She grinned. “Then it’s settled. No free rides around here.”
She spooned herself another helping of korma and another glass of wine. Layne also helped himself to seconds.
When they finished dinner, he stood and collected the plates. For some reason, those few sips of wine had gone straight to his head, and when the room jiggled a little, he had to blink a few times. For a split second, he thought she might have dosed him. But, she’d been drinking from the same wine bottle. Of course, she might have put something in his glass, not the bottle. But, after a second, his buzz normalized, and he realized he was only a bit tipsy, not drugged.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”
“It’s no trouble. I made a mess in your kitchen.”
“Is that so? Maybe we need to turn it into a joint effort.”
Mariana picked up her own plates, and he carried his plus the bowls of leftover rice and korma into the kitchen. She laughed at the ingredient detritus strewn all over the countertops.
“Told you,” he said.
“I’m going to need more wine before we tackle this.”
She set down her plates in the sink and approached him, that wry smile plastered on her face. She backed him up to the oven and looked up into his eyes. Her hands explored his chest, then she leaned up on her tiptoes. “I’ve been thinking about this for days,” she said as her lips stroked his neck.
Blood rushed through Layne’s body. “I can’t spend the night. I have to be somewhere in a couple hours.”
She pulled back, licking her lips. “Who said I would invite you to spend the night?”
Then, she resumed kissing him.
Later, they lay in bed, in the quiet stillness of her bedroom. His heart thumped in his chest, and he could feel the sweat cooling on his exposed flesh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so relaxed afterward. Maybe when he and Daphne had been in their twenties. They’d broken a bed or two in their most passionate sessions, had sometimes held each other for a long time after with no words.
He pursed his lips. Why did he always think of Daphne? Why did he always have to compare other women to her?
Layne was on his back, with Mariana draped across him, her fingernails tracing lines around the tattoos covering each arm from wrist to shoulder. She stopped at a particular section on one forearm, displaying a cherub that matched one on his other forearm.
“Is that like an angel on one shoulder, demon on the other shoulder sort of thing?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
“Do you look at them when you’re debating a moral quandary?”
“I do, actually. Sometimes.”
She reached over to her nightstand and picked up a device about the size of a pack of playing cards with a tube sticking out of one end. Her thumb held a button on the side and it whirred, and sweet-smelling smoke poured out. She sucked it up, held it, then blew out the smoke toward the ceiling.
Mariana offered it to him. “Do you get high?”
“Not really.”
“Oh. Sorry, I just assumed, because of the tattoos.”
“No offense taken.”
She grinned at him with one side of her mouth. “Oh, come on. I know plenty of professionals who like to relax after their day is done. I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“No judgment here. I got nothing against it.”
She paused, tilting her weed device under the glow of her nightstand lamp. “When you were a little kid, what did you dream about at night? What did you wish for when you were lying awake in your bed?”
“Hmm,” he said, replaying the question in his mind. Not just the answer, but also how to phrase it. In these situations, he found it best to give an answer close to the truth. “For my mom to be safe.”
“She wasn’t safe?”
“My dad was a real asshole. He beat on her and my older brother. Not as much on me, but it did happen sometimes. What I wanted most was for them to be safe, to not live in fear of my dad’s moods.”
“And you were too little to do anything about it.”
“Yes. For a long time, I was.”
Her eyes searched his face, and for a second, he thought she might ask him if he ever did do anything about it. Instead, she touched one of the scars on his arms, the ones covered up by his tattoos. “Is that how you got these?”
“The cuts? No, that came in college. I went through a glass railing, fell from a second story landing, and found myself in a puddle of glass.”
“Wow.”
“I’m lucky my face didn’t get all cut up.”
“I’d say so. And here I thought you were the kind to mark himself up to overcompensate for a lack of masculinity. To project the idea that he’s a total badass, so no one will ask him what he’s really feeling.”
He pivoted toward her in the bed. “I thought you weren’t going to give me therapy.”
“That one is on the house.”
“Do you think I’m putting on a show?”
She sighed, studying him. “Not really. I think you’ve worn a lot of faces, Louie.”
“This is the only face I’ve ever had. I don’t have the sort of capital to buy more than one.”
She puffed her weed device. “And you’re not great at changing the subject, either.”
“What did you wish for as a little kid?”
“Opportunity. Equality. A penis.”
He chuckled. “Freud was right, was he?”
“I never wanted a thing dangling between my legs. I never wanted to be a boy. What I wanted was to be taken seriously. I don’t have penis envy, I have male privilege envy.”
He pursed his lips and said nothing.
“I just made you uncomfortable, didn’t I?”
“A little,” he said. “I don’t know how to put myself in your shoes.”
She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “We don’t need to talk about it. Besides, I know you can’t stay, so why don’t you go ahead and ask me your million dollar question so you can nail your upcoming interview.”
“Okay, then. Tell me about Farhad. Whatever insider info you can give me will help.”
She took one more drag of her weed and then set the device aside. On her back, she exhaled a plume of white smoke that spread out and evaporated near the ceiling. “Total asshole. We used to date.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. Right after I started working at Hillcrest. Of course, I found out later he likes to work his way around the new girls in the building. If you ask me, it’s not ethical for the clinical director to act like a guy picking and choosing from the sampler plate, but whatever. Lesson learned.”
“What lesson did you learn?”
“Not to date mysterious assholes who go from warm to cold at the drop of a hat. To ignore that spark I feel inside me when I first see someone. It doesn’t lead to a lasting relationship.”
“Did I give you a spark?”
Mariana cackled. “Oh, isn’t that adorable? Honey, you’re not boyfriend material.”
“I feel like I should be insulted.”
“But you’re not. You know what this is.”
“Fair enough,” Layne said. “What else can you tell me about Farhad?”
“Don’t talk about kids. If you have kids, don’t mention it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting tidbit. He hates kids?”
“Not at all. But it’s a subject you should probably avoid, for reasons I don’t want to go into.”
“Okay, understood. Anything else?”
“If you do get that interview with the big boss, he has all these Persian antiques in his office. If you want to make a mark, learn a thing or two about Persian culture. It’ll impress the hell out of
him if you can rattle off what period a certain piece is from or maybe even name a few important artists.”
“Noted.”
“But I wouldn’t spend too much time talking about the specific paintings and sculptures he has in his actual office. If you know who made each of his pieces, that’s not going to go over well. He’ll think you’ve been nosing around in there.”
“He's protective of his office space at Hillcrest?”
Mariana’s eyes bulged. “You have no idea. It’s like a sickness with him. He doesn’t even let the cleaning staff in his office.”
Layne considered this, looking at the ceiling.
16
Farhad Jahandar opened the door to his office and stood there, lights off. He took a deep breath and tried to gauge the smell inside the room. No easy task, since the hallway reeked of lemon and lavender and whatever other cleaning supplies the night ladies used.
But, his office smelled as it should, he decided. He had the southwest corner of the third floor, the biggest office in the building. It made sense since he was HFCS’ clinical director. He often entertained important guests in this room, hence the couch and bar and long table. Some of the staff judged him for this, whenever they stopped by. Perhaps they thought these things were extravagances. Perhaps they thought he wasn’t using the organization’s money in a responsible manner.
They did not understand the sort of daily grind he suffered to keep this place running. They had no idea what the last year of his life had been like. No way they could know.
But, if he could learn what he needed from Jonah, it wouldn’t matter. The problem was, his time to do so dwindled by the day.
He shut the door behind him and walked into the room. Lights still off, he closed his eyes and let the space adjust to his presence. He could feel where the objects in the room were. Couch, television, desk, bar, safe. The paintings on the walls and the sculptures on their stands. Everything had a place, and he knew exactly where it all should be.
