by G. K. Parks
“You went for my gun,” Lucca declared. “What was I supposed to do? Let you shoot me?”
“Tell me precisely what I did.” I took a breath, fumbling to lift my shirt and check my previous injuries to see what new damage had been done.
“I don’t know what I walked in on. I showed up to relieve Jablonsky since he stayed the night. I’ve been in the living room for the last half hour, reviewing the updated file, when I heard noises coming from your bedroom. It looked like you were possessed.”
“Well, call a priest next time.”
He ignored my remark. “You were thrashing back and forth. I said your name a few times, but you didn’t respond. For all I knew, you might have been having a seizure.”
“Did you try to restrain me?” Most people knew that wasn’t recommended, even on my best day.
“I grabbed your shoulders, and then you tried to break my ribs and went for my gun.” He winced, as if for effect.
“I was dreaming, you idiot.”
“And you’re that tactically skilled when you’re asleep? I doubt it.” He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “For what it’s worth, I was trying to keep you from swan diving off the edge of the bed,” he shook his head, “but you made it obvious you wanted me to let go. So I did.”
My side was bleeding again, and I put the hem of my t-shirt in my mouth to free up my one good hand in order to change the dressing. He reached out for the unopened gauze pad and took over since my trembling fingers weren’t having much luck.
“Thanks.” I studied him for a few moments. Lucca was my partner, despite my protestations to that fact. “You do know that I would never intentionally shoot you.”
“You threaten it often enough.” He stared for a long time. “What were you dreaming about that had you so frightened?” After telling him about my dream, which made no sense, he sighed. “Okay. Should I even ask if you remember anything from the other night?”
“Not really. I don’t know. I can’t figure out if that was just a bad dream, my imagination, or something that happened.”
“Go get dressed. We’ll go over what’s been uncovered,” he said. “Jablonsky has a few agents compiling your recent closed cases to see who you’ve pissed off, and he’s dividing up your workload among the department. I’ll need you to catch me up to speed on this terrorist case and threat assessment you were compiling.”
“Sure,” I agreed, feeling sheepish for the way our morning started. He rubbed his side again. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I only took a knee to the ribs.” He untucked his shirt and unbuttoned the bottom four buttons, pulling it up and to the side. Aside from the slight swelling, his ribcage was the color of a blue ink pen.
“Maybe you should reconsider those paramedics,” I suggested, wondering how someone could bruise that quickly.
“It’s fine. At least I’m not bleeding.” He winked and left the room so I could dress.
After slipping into one of the few casual outfits I had in the closet, I marched into the main room of my apartment. My case file was spread over the coffee table, and a stack of materials covered half of my kitchen table. Deciding not to disturb any of it, I poured a bowl of cereal and sat at the counter, watching my partner work. Most days, I hated having a partner. However, today wasn’t most days.
“Did you make the coffee?” I asked, gesturing at the pot.
“No, it was here when I got here. Jablonsky must have made it at some point last night. I’d advise against drinking it.”
“For once, we’re in agreement.” Normally, caffeine was my go-to for dealing with most situations, but I was jittery enough already. “Did he leave a note or anything?”
“You don’t remember seeing him?” Lucca looked up, raising an eyebrow.
“No.” I busied myself with finishing the frosted oats and rinsing the bowl in the sink. “The last thing I remember is you reading my medical report. Apparently, you’re excellent at those bedtime stories.”
“So I’ve been told.” He took a seat in the armchair next to the couch and waited for me to join him before continuing. “Your clothing and belongings were evaluated for evidence. Your leather jacket is pretty destroyed. There are a lot of deep cuts and scrapes in a continuous pattern. Based on the marks and your injuries, you probably had it unzipped at the time of impact.”
“Impact with what?”
He shrugged. “Based on the computer models, the forensic lab seems confident that you hit on your right side and rolled.” Spreading out four different photos of my jacket and my bruises, he pointed to each. “Your knee, your side, and perhaps your wrist and forearm took the brunt of the damage. I’d guess it was a vehicle of some sort. It probably threw you off balance, and you rolled off of it. Or it knocked you to the ground, and the momentum kept you moving. It would probably explain the lack of defensive wounds and why your palms aren’t scraped. You weren’t able to brace yourself.”
“What about the wood shards and the head wound?”
“I don’t know.” He pressed his lips together and assessed me for a moment. “Do you remember a truck or van?”
“No.” I searched my memory, but the only insight I could offer was an odd level of concern over a dome light. Strange how the mind works.
“Whatever it was had to be high enough off the ground that the bumper would hit the side of your knee.”
“It doesn’t feel right. Wouldn’t I remember being hit by a car?”
“Not if you hit your head.”
“But that doesn’t explain the rest of my injuries. What about stovepipes or guardrails or something tall enough to bruise my knee. Maybe there was an altercation, and I was caught off guard and knocked sideways.”
“How does that explain the bits of gravel, glass, and tar that were stuck to your jacket?”
“Maybe I was on a rooftop. They use gravel and tar sometimes. Maybe we went through a window or… I don’t know.”
“Do you remember a rooftop?” His pen was poised over the paper, ready to write anything I said.
“I don’t remember anything,” I growled, frustrated. “I just have trouble believing that this was an accident. I can’t explain how I know this, but this was intentional. It was meant to intimidate and threaten and…”
“And what?” He leaned forward.
“Kill.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Yeah, I know. I’m crazy.”
“So you escaped?” he asked, and I shrugged. “You climbed onto some roof, fought off your attacker without sustaining any defensive wounds, and then you shimmied down a drainpipe? Or you were escaping, ran into traffic, got clipped by some drunk driving a SUV, and no one came to finish you off because it appeared you were already dead?” He snorted. “Yeah, I seriously doubt that, but it’d make one hell of an action movie.”
“This isn’t funny, and it’s not some stupid joke. Someone did this to me, Eddie. That’s the one thing I know for sure.”
He flipped through the file again and took a deep breath, rubbing his side. “In that case, we should start calling the hospitals and doctors’ offices because whoever came at you probably has more than a sprained wrist and a few bruises.”
“Do you believe me?”
“I believe that you believe it. Right now, that’s good enough.”
While he made some phone calls, I read through the information about my case. Most of it was inconclusive. The DOT cameras hadn’t pinpointed my location or destination, and so far, no one knew where I was going or when I ended up next to that parking garage. The forensic lab had speculated as to the most likely cause of my injuries, and the science was sound. But I wasn’t convinced since none of the scenarios explained every detail. Then again, reconstructing a crime was never an exact science. It relied mostly on speculation and finding the closest fit possible, but the conclusion the techs reached just didn’t fit.
“Dammit, this would be a whole lot easier if I could remember what happened.” I slammed the folders onto the ta
ble and curled up on one end of the couch. My head ached, and overall, I didn’t feel good.
When the calls were concluded, Lucca exchanged the files on the coffee table for the files on the kitchen table. He asked a few questions about recent closed cases, scribbling a list of parties involved that might have an axe to grind. After that, another round of calls was placed, and then he sat heavily in the chair.
“Do you want to take a break? Maybe eat some lunch or get some rest? You’re not looking too good.”
“Just give me a few minutes.”
He went into the kitchen, pulling out a couple of leftover sandwiches from the day before and opening two bottles of water. “Here, you should eat so you can take some pain meds.”
“Whatever happened to the guy that was convinced I was a drug addict? I’m starting to miss him.”
“Sorry, but he went away after I read your personnel file.”
“Well, pretend you didn’t. And stop pushing pills, or I’m going to think you’re getting a kickback from the pharmaceutical companies.”
I took the offered sandwich and took a bite. We ate in silence. I was lost in thought, determined to piece together what happened. My mind replayed my dream over and over, but I couldn’t figure out if it was real or imaginary. Placing the empty dish on the coffee table, I sprawled out on the couch and closed my eyes.
“Hey, Parker,” Lucca sounded slightly uncertain, “when did those violent nightmares start?”
“When Agent Michael Carver was killed.” I set my jaw and faced Lucca. “Then they stopped for a while until different ones took over. Shit happens.”
“Have you ever attacked anyone before this morning?”
“I didn’t attack you. I was defending myself.” At my words, he looked skeptical. “I don’t do well with being restrained, even when I’m conscious. You should know that.”
“Fine, since you’re splitting hairs, did you ever defend yourself while asleep before?”
Remaining silent, I focused on the television, a large screen that Martin had swapped with my smaller TV that was now in his second floor suite along with the rest of my living room furniture and the bulk of my belongings. “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you should mind your own business.” I shook my head. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“It was just a thought.” Despite the brush-off attempt, I knew he was working on a theory that he didn’t want to share. “Have you ever fallen asleep in one place and woken up somewhere else and didn’t know how you got there?”
“No.”
“Okay, I was just curious.”
“The hell you are. What are you thinking? That this entire thing is some kind of PTSD episode.”
“I didn’t mention a word about PTSD. Any reason your mind went straight there?” he asked.
“Screw you.” I stormed into the bedroom and returned with the pill bottle. “Open this.”
“I thought you didn’t want the meds.”
“I didn’t, but you gave me a headache, again.”
Four
Lucca and I bickered most of the afternoon until my body lost the fight against the painkillers. I’d never had a good reaction to medications, even when I was little, and now wasn’t any different. May cause drowsiness translated into sound asleep for an extended length of time. However, on the bright side, it meant that I didn’t have to listen to Lucca’s accusations that this was most likely an accident caused by sleepwalking or something equally moronic. At times, I wondered how he ever made it through Quantico with these harebrained theories.
Opening my eyes, I stared at the fuzzy neon glow from the clock, unable to decipher what the numbers meant. After blinking a few times, I realized it was after midnight. The room was dark, so I almost didn’t notice the man seated in the chair beside my bed. He was rolling his tie from end to end into a ball. At the sound of my gasp, he looked up, and briefly, the light caught his eyes, making them appear catlike with green glowing irises.
“Easy, Alex, it’s me.”
“Martin, what are you doing here?” I asked, relieved.
“I could ask you the same thing, sweetheart,” James Martin replied. “Why aren’t you at home?”
“I am home,” I said without thinking.
Martin frowned, draping his tie over the back of the chair with his suit jacket. It was apparent he’d arrived at my apartment straight from work. “It’s my fault, I guess. Until tonight, I didn’t realize that it had been nine days since I’ve seen you. I’m not used to working nights, and I thought we were just missing one another. Why didn’t you tell me you moved out?”
“I didn’t move out.” I patted the spot on the bed next to me, wanting him closer. “I just couldn’t stay in your house without you.”
“Our house,” he corrected. He sat stiffly on the edge of the bed and caressed my cheek. “I was terrified when Mark showed up at the Martin Technologies building this evening. I thought something happened to you.”
“Something did, but I don’t know what.”
“I’m aware.” He moved closer, resting his back against the headboard. “I spent four hours being interrogated by Jablonsky before your colleagues decided that I wasn’t a threat.”
James Martin and Mark Jablonsky had been friends for years, but after my reinstatement as a federal agent, Martin had soured toward his old pal and my boss, believing that Jablonsky had manipulated me into returning to a dangerous job that I hated. Sometimes, Martin’s paranoid theory didn’t seem that farfetched. Despite the fact that I had made Jablonsky promise to apologize, the two hadn’t spoken in a couple of months.
“They shouldn’t have done that. Mark knows you would never hurt me. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. At least he brought me to see you. Frankly, that was the least Jabber could do.” Martin let out a displeased grunt. “On the bright side, the agents stationed outside your front door won’t let anyone inside without a badge.” He brushed his fingers against my arm, afraid to touch me. “I should be relieved they’re taking such good care of you now.” His hand stopped a few inches from my cast, and he let out an audible exhale.
“Martin, stop. I’m okay.”
“That makes one of us.” He leaned forward and kissed me gently. “I love you, Alexis. I’m not supposed to be forced to leave work because you’re hurt. And I shouldn’t be denied access to you until it’s been determined that I’m not the person that hurt you. That’s not how life should be.” He attempted a smile. “This wasn’t on my schedule.”
“Tell me about it,” I muttered.
“Why didn’t you call?” His voice was gentle, careful to avoid a fight. “Jabber said they found you yesterday morning.”
I shook my head, unaware of my own reasoning for that decision. “I don’t know. I can’t figure anything out. It’s a mess. Lucca’s been hounding me all day. Can we talk about this later?”
“Sure.” He slid down in the bed to make me more comfortable. Carefully, he brushed his fingers against the cast. “How long do you have to wear it?”
“Four weeks,” I replied, closing my eyes. “Wait,” my eyes shot open, “you should be at work.”
“You remembered something.” There was a teasing tone to his voice. “I’ll go back in a couple of hours and teleconference with our German branch. They can adapt. After all, I am the CEO.” He sighed. “I hate performing these internal audits, especially now.”
“From what I remember, Francesca didn’t leave you much choice.”
“It’s bullshit. She’s suing me, so the legal team wants to have everything in order before dealing with actual proceedings. She’s making this personal just to bust my balls.”
“That’s why you shouldn’t have done business with your former fiancée,” I said matter-of-factly. “I don’t care if you were engaged more than a decade ago when you were in business school together; a woman scorned is a woman scorned.”
“I didn’t do
anything to her.”
“You broke her heart.”
“It definitely didn’t seem like it at the time.” He gave me an odd look. “Are you taking her side?”
“No,” I chuckled, “I never liked her. You could screw her over, and I wouldn’t care as long as you didn’t actually screw her.”
“I’d never,” he began.
“I know. I just wish you didn’t have quite the past you have.” When we started dating, I made it very clear that I didn’t want to know about his previous conquests. His relationship history had been limited to his former fiancée, Francesca Pirelli, and his high school sweetheart, but the number of women he’d slept with probably rivaled that of a rock star. At least, that’s what I suspected, and I’d learned long ago to never ask a question that I didn’t want to know the answer to. “She’s claiming sexual harassment and hostile work environment. This is going to be a bloodbath. It won’t matter how many internal audits and reviews you conduct. It doesn’t look good.”
“But she was never a subordinate.” Martin switched to work mode which was a relief. “Our companies merged briefly, but when we dissolved our arrangement, she took it personally. She has no reason to be pissed.”
“You wanted to use their new tech for your product line. You’re arguing over proprietary rights. Of course, she’s pissed. You took her bright shiny toy and won’t give it back.” On my few brief encounters with the woman, I suspected she believed that I had actually taken her boy toy and wouldn’t give him back, but that was another story.
“You worked at MT. You know her claims are bogus. It’s not a hostile work environment, and I’ve never sexually harassed anyone. In fact, all the employees are equally paid and compensated. There is no indication of favoritism, sexism, or wage discrimination in any of the branches worldwide.”
“That might be true, but you flirted with me,” I argued. “Inappropriate comments were made. And I know you’ve slept with a number of employees. It doesn’t bode well. You’d be better off settling.”
“Alex,” his tone turned harsh, “I don’t want to fight with you about this again, especially now.” He rubbed his eyes. “The only reason I told you any of this was so you’d be prepared in the event they subpoenaed you.”
