by A K August
RAND
"Wahoo, Wahoo. Didn't I teach you nothin'?" I stood leaning in the doorway, my arms crossed over my chest, looking at my Sergeant First Class, a shell of the man who served under me. "You're supposed to duck before the bullets reach you."
Anthony laughed and cringed, contracting his stomach. Gut shots. They are the worst and the scar tissue won't go away. The only remedy to the tearing sensation is to stretch, every day, for the rest of your life. I should know. I almost didn't recover from my last wound that tore up my stomach, but Missy nagged me to try yoga until I relented just to get her to change the subject. Turned out to be the best thing. Now I religiously stretched first thing in the morning and almost felt 100%.
"What are you doing here?"
Anthony looked at me as if he hadn't seen me in years. I heard about Anthony's memory loss, but thought it was isolated to Katie; he'd blocked out ever knowing her. I couldn't imagine how it would feel if Anthony suddenly didn't remember me. "You don't remember anything?"
"Nope." He shook his head. "And nobody wants to tell me either. Says my brain will remember when it's ready."
I nodded and thought through the pros and cons of sharing information. Clinically, doctors say the brain is protecting your body by shielding the data until such time you're ready to accept it, but I also knew if it were me, I'd want to know. The not knowing would kill me slowly. "I can tell you some."
Anthony's eyes lit up, and he sat up straighter, eager for whatever I wanted to tell him. "God, yes. Please."
I told him about Criterion and how he approached Missy and me for help. Anthony held out his hand and I paused my story.
"Please tell me. Missy's okay?"
That question was out of the blue. "Missy's fine. Why did you jump to that idea?"
Anthony slumped into his pillows, his brow furrowed. "I don't know. You mentioned her name and my mind reached out, like one of those tentacle things in an arcade where you try and grab a stuffed animal from inside the glass cage. I couldn't hold the idea. I just wanted to be prepared if it was bad."
Missy hurt. The pain stabbing my heart took me by surprise as the thought flashed in my head. I pushed it away. Missy was the toughest person I knew. Nothing could stop her.
After a beat, I continued with my debriefing. "You brought us Criterion. You had proof that Dwyer killed Colby and suspected that Tennyson was involved. You also believed there was a mole in the FBI."
I paused my story again, hoping that Anthony's brain would latch onto this and start to fill itself in. Anthony didn't say anything, but I could see his mind working through the information.
"What are you thinking?" I asked him.
"FBI mole. Something's familiar. Did I mention if I knew who this mole was?"
I shook my head.
"Why did I think there was a mole?"
I had to tread lightly here. I was more than willing to share what we dug up on Criterion and give Anthony the overview of events that led to him getting shot. Still, I agreed with the doctors; if Anthony was going to remember anything about his relationship with Katie, he needed to come to that realization alone.
"The Colby murder was caught on tape. Your boss uploaded it to the servers, and almost immediately, the witness who provided the tape was attacked."
Anthony's eyes went wide. "I remember that conversation with Jeff. He told me to go off the grid, protect the witness."
"Do you remember anything else?"
"Yeah, I smelled spaghetti. I think I had it for dinner. It was good."
Okay, not the direction that I hoped, but his brain engaged. One step forward.
The rest of the information I shared with Anthony was new to him; it all happened after he sped off to intercept Tennyson and Dwyer at his father's cabin. The Criterion servers, Katie's evidence, the computer hacker who didn't go to Criterion's office.
"We tracked the Criterion employee to a back office at an electronics store in the Southwest Waterfront. He also had a tail. Turned out to be FBI, after we identified the license plate. We were able to avoid them, and after the target went inside, they parked their car across the street.
I shook my head. "You guys are not subtle, man."
Anthony shrugged. We get the job done, though."
"Whatever. We left four operatives to monitor and wait until they could gain entry and assess what was inside. The rest of the team jumped on a chopper and headed out to help you and capture Dwyer. You were mic'd so we could hear you talking through the channel you left open.
"We took out the sentries and approached the cabin. Using a snake camera in through the exhaust vent over the stove, we assessed the layout before chucking a smoke grenade into the room and breaching the cabin.
"Dwyer took several bullets and hit you a couple of times, as well as Tennyson. I think it was your bullet that killed him, but he was never walking away from his actions. He knew that. Tennyson was nicked in the shoulder but taken into custody and is in jail; he's considered a flight risk. "
There was more. "We found the NEXIS, Anthony. Books and Dunn were able to bypass the security on the electronics store and gain entry. Handsy and Stick picked up the tech before he got home and brought him back to the location. He was a pussy. Logged us into the system and spilled his guts without waiting to be asked. Apparently, on the drive back, Handsy asked the guy if he wanted to choose his torture method. Stick and Handsy outlined all the options. The guy pissed his pants in the car. He had copies of everything backed up and had infiltrated the systems of corporations and government departments to gain insights for Criterion.
"We passed him over to Research. He's still cooperating. He doesn't want to go to jail." I shrugged, acknowledging that I didn't know what was to become of the guy. If Research thought the tech could be helpful, they'd milk him for every piece of data. Once that went dry, they often made the source disappear.
I hated there was a need for Research, but it was a messy world out there, and the bad guys stopped playing by the rules a long time ago.
"So, Mark was a bad guy all along?" Anthony looked a little beat up. He'd confessed he knew Tennyson back in college and they were friends. I think he secretly hoped whatever Mark was into was easily explained and repatriated. But that was rarely the case in my experience. Once you cross over to the dark side, it's near impossible to come back into the light—too many temptations.
I didn't answer Anthony's question. I don't think he meant it as one and he didn't need me to confirm the betrayal.
I let the silence hang out there until Anthony sighed.
"Thanks for telling me, but none of this feels familiar." His frustration was evident in the fists of blankets he clutched in his hands.
I would leave him with one piece of advice. "Don't search for it, Anthony. Just feel and it will come to you." I wasn't actually my advice. It was Missy's.
ANTHONY
Dad helped me into the house, my weakened body uncooperative after months of non-use. After initial tests confirmed I had no nerve damage from the bullet that they removed near my spine, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The doctors said I needed to be patient. The wounds had healed, but there was a lot of scar damage I'd discover as I started to move around. The physical therapists assured me they had exercises they could assign that would target and stretch those areas until I was 100%.
In the meantime, I wasn't to do any physical activity they did not explicitly outline.
I remember coming home after my undercover assignment in West Virginia and the dread I felt opening the door to the musty, dry, lifeless space; it was agonizingly depressing. Today, it was a completely different experience. The house was full of positive smells. As I settled into the living room recliner, I closed my eyes and breathed it in. Basil, vanilla, paint, citrus, leather. Life.
Dad brought me a glass of water and a round of painkillers. I didn't want to take them, but the physical therapists asked me to take them for the first week, then we could reassess. I started physical th
erapy tomorrow and they promised me I'd be thankful for the pills' dulling effects.
I heard a noise from the den and turned as the pocket door pushed open. The beautiful woman from the hospital stood in the doorway, her eyes wide snapping from Dad to me.
"Oh! You're home!"
I watched her scurry around the room, packing a laptop and a few personal items in her bag and discussing what was in the fridge and kitchen cabinets with Dad. She didn't acknowledge me, even though she stole glances my way. Something was up.
"Dad?" My voice was softer than I'd expected. I had no idea what I could or couldn't do anymore, so I was deliberate and aware of everything and how far I could push myself. I didn't expect my quiet question to reach the kitchen and took a slightly deeper breath to prepare myself to speak again, but I noticed the kitchen was silent, both persons turning to me. They'd heard me.
I looked at the woman then my father. "What is she doing in my house?"
They both tensed as Dad looked at the woman. Her eyes were filling with tears, but she let out a deep breath and looked at me. "I'm sorry, I thought I'd be gone before you got here. I was just helping to ready the house so you'd be more comfortable. I'll get out of your hair."
She turned back to Dad and he hugged her. "Bye, Thomas."
Dad walked her to the front door, their conversation low, but I picked up on her sniffles. The woman always seemed to be crying.
Dad returned, wiping his hands on his pants and looked around the room, unsure of what to do now. "Are you hungry?"
"No. Who was that woman?"
Dad sat on the sofa and stared at the candle on the coffee table in front of him. The coffee table was new, well not new; I saw a few nicks on the corner and a small circle watermark where someone must have left a glass. The table looked a little familiar and was perfect in the space, the art deco inlay top bringing out the mustard color of the sofa. The sofa was new too. This wasn't my studio apartment cheap, black leather furniture. What happened to all my furniture?
"She was the witness who recorded the Colby murder."
My attention returned to Dad. "The one I was protecting? When I was shot?"
Dad nodded. "She wanted to do something nice for you."
"Why didn't she introduce herself or stay and talk? She could have filled in more of the blanks." I was frustrated with my life right now. It was like coming into the last ten minutes of a movie. The drama resolved, and the characters moved on, even laughing with each other, except I couldn't follow the plot and didn't get the inside joke.
How many people did I meet in that missing month? How often would I cross paths with someone I couldn't remember sharing a moment or having a conversation? Would they all be afraid to approach me and re-introduce themselves like this woman?
The woman. She was beautiful. There was something about her; when I first woke in the hospital, I knew it. The way her hand felt in mine, warm, reassuring; we had a connection. I thought it was because of how gorgeous she was and hoped I'd get a chance to know her. Now, after seeing her for the third time, I was angry that she never said anything. Why?
Dad noticed my angst, "Anthony, don't be mad at Katie. She's doing what she thinks is best for you."
At the mention of her name, an image flashed in front of me—Katie at Uncle Jackson's farm, in the stream. She was smiling and damp. I shook off the image and focused on Dad's words.
"What does that mean?"
"You need to heal, get stronger. Your memory will come back. Katie thought she'd just confuse things for you."
"How would she confuse things? She was there; she could be the trigger to help me remember. If I talk to her, it could help." Why did I sound desperate to see her?
Dad looked worried. "What aren't you telling me, Dad?"
He shook his head and stood up, busying himself in the kitchen. "It's not my story to tell, son. And you shouldn't push yourself."
I wanted to scream.
I felt like I was still in a coma, life moving forward around me, without me. I needed to get out of this chair before it swallowed me whole. I struggled to push myself to the edge and used my arms to assist in standing.
Dad was at my side instantly. "What are you doing?"
"I can't sit around and get left behind. I have to do something."
He pulled on the walker the hospital sent home with me. "Okay, but use this."
"I'm not an old man!" I growled, feeling my composure slip another notch.
Dad moved the walker in front of me. "No, you're not. But you've been hurt, and if you don't use the tools available to help, you will only hurt yourself more. You want to heal? You want to grow stronger? Return your body to what you know? Then be smart, Anthony. Let us help. Let this help."
I resisted touching the aluminum contraption, but I could feel my energy waning, the effort to hold myself up, sapping my strength.
"Two choices, Anthony. Sit down and wait until you have enough energy to stand up again, or grab these bars and let it help you take those steps forward you need."
I relented and instantly relaxed, comforted by the support distributing my weight. I took a few hesitant steps forward, not sure how my body would react. By the time we reached the front door, rest had replaced my desire for a walk. Dad helped me turn around and guide us back to the living room, where I collapsed in the recliner again.
"This sucks." I hated the whiny tone in my voice. I was a soldier, DELTA operative. I'd carried my wounded teammates out of the desert across my shoulders for miles and now I couldn't walk to my front door without getting winded.
Dad sighed, "I know, son. But I'm just glad you're alive. I'll be here for as long as you need to get you better. Plus, Claire and Jackson promised to stop by regularly for Scrabble tournaments. Be prepared to get demolished!"
I chuckled. We used to play board games on the farm when I was growing up, Mom and Claire using the word game to increase my vocabulary, purposefully placing non-words to see if I was paying attention. I did the same thing as an adult, adding witty definitions to my words, hoping Mom was looking down on me and smiling.
The memory warmed my heart but the picture flashing in front of my eyes was not Mom and Claire, it was Katie, sitting in the family room at the farm, with a Scrabble board in front of her, her eyes rolling. What the hell?
"What are you thinking?" Dad asked.
"Did I take Katie to the farm?"
"Yes."
That explains it. She'd been there. We were hiding from Dwyer. It was a smart choice. Except a warm, tingly feeling pulsed over my body, thinking about Katie on the farm. The same feeling I had when she was holding my hand as I woke from my coma.
Dad's voice broke my thought pattern. "Let me make us some dinner then we can watch a movie. Sound good?"
I nodded, still a little lost in my thoughts. My brain was nibbling on something. Something to do with Katie and the farm, I just couldn't put my finger on it.
Dinner was spaghetti, and I had déjà vu as the basil wafted past my nose. I turned and looked through the French doors. I hadn't noticed, but a series of planters were added to the backyard, and leafy greens sprouted from some as well as tomato vines and colorful flowers. I wanted to investigate but knew my strength wouldn't hold, especially with the uneven ground not allowing the walker to be helpful.
"How long have you been in the city, Dad?"
"Why do you ask?" He said while plating the food and moving around the kitchen.
"Just wondering when you added the planters in the backyard. They look like they've been there for months and have a lot going on. Can we check it out later?"
"Sure." He replied. "But let's eat before it gets cold." He set the plates down and helped me move to the dining table to eat.
"Smells good." I took a bite and moaned. So good. I remember this taste. After so much hospital food, it was heavenly. "Mom has the best recipes."
Dad mumbled an affirmative as he shoveled food in his mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
KATIE
“He wants to see you.” The words held so much promise when I heard them I almost cried into the phone.
“He remembers me?” I was throwing my bag over my shoulder and grabbing my keys before I processed Thomas’ words.
“I’m sorry, Katie, no. He knows you were the witness he was protecting, and he sees images of you at the farm, so he put it together that he took you there when you were hiding out from Dwyer. He thinks if he talks to you, he’ll remember more.”
I slumped down on the floor in front of my door. “What am I supposed to say to him? He doesn’t remember any of it. The doctors say we shouldn’t backfill for him. God, this is so hard, Thomas.” Tears streamed down my face, a daily occurrence of late.
I cursed when I opened the den doors at the brownstone yesterday and saw Thomas in the kitchen. The pregnancy drained my energy and I need mini-naps throughout the day to recharge. That morning I took a nap, figuring I had plenty of time before they were due home. I usually rest for about twenty minutes; then I’m good for a few hours before I have to lie down again.
I’d intended to be entirely out of Anthony’s house the previous day, but I spent the majority of the day with Annie, and we lost track of time researching a new story. So I slept at Anthony’s, a fitful sleep, knowing it was my last night in his bed. I straightened in the morning and scoured the house for any miscellaneous items I might have forgotten. I boxed up a few dinners I’d prepared for Thomas and Anthony when they got home and was ready to leave but was so tired I didn’t think it would be safe for me to drive to my apartment. My recharge went long, and it was over an hour before I woke and no real way to escape unseen.
To say it was uncomfortable was an understatement and I knew Anthony would question who I was. I didn’t want to be there to answer. As Thomas walked me out, we agreed to tell Anthony I was the witness but leave out other details.
Of course, Anthony would want to talk to the witness, the only other person who shared that time with him. I was his missing piece. I ached with how true that statement was, especially since Anthony didn’t feel the same. How could he when he didn’t remember?
