by K A Bryant
"GET IN"
I open my eyes. The voice is familiar. A gray car pulls in front of the white vans and blocks them. It screeches to a stop in front of me. Who is it? I think I'm passing out.
It's the guy. The guy in the scrubs.
CHAPTER NINE
Jason Jones
I expected something, but not this. This means he's in more danger than I anticipated.
"Sir," says a well-meaning fire fighter, "you can't be up here."
"It's alright."
I flash my CIA badge.
The records stated only two men were admitted that night but only one of them was heavily intoxicated. According to Tony, that fits. The room door is still open and bullet holes are all over the walls.
I push the door and see a man sleeping, still sleeping in the hospital bed. He must be heavily sedated to have slept through all of this. It's not Caleb. The bathroom door is open. Hair, small pieces but it is definitely hair on the floor trailing to the laundry bin.
I take a pen and lift a wadded towel and clumps of hair fall out.
"He's clean cut! No beard." I say to myself.
I speed dial Sam.
"Yes, Jason."
"I need a new composite of him. Remove beard and hair. Send it."
"What happened?" Sam asks.
I hang up. She should be used to that by now.
He got out. I can exhale a little but not too much.
Caleb Promise
Things have slowed. Something just whizzes past me. There's a clanking repeatedly. Bullets. Hitting the trunk of the gray car. I have to stay awake. I'm fighting it. I open my eyes. Things are moving in slow motion. The guy in the scrubs waving, ducking the bullets.
"Caleb! Get in!"
How does he know my name? In the hospital I was Mr. Douglas.
My body obeys before my mind realizes it. I hear the snow crunching beneath my feet. But my sneakers are slipping. He reaches back and pushes the back door wide open. I launch into the back seat. He hits the gas and the force slams the door shut. The tall man runs toward the chopper.
"Can you shoot?"
My hands start trembling, lying on my side in the seat, I shake my head 'no'. The truth is, I can shoot. I can't help but hear 'Never trust anyone' in the back of my mind. Aside from the fact that I don't think I can steady my hands enough to shoot, this will tell me a great deal about what this man is doing here.
I keep my eyes open long enough to see him pull an AK47 out of the front seat, prop it against his shoulder, point it out the window, steady the car and shoot at the chopper's gas tank.
Three shots, the bullets bury themselves into its metal with a clunk. It blows, throwing the tall guy backwards to the ground. Plumes of smoke blocks the van's view. I learned what I needed to. He has been trained. He's not even breathing hard. He has done this before. Trained.
The Jacqueline Kennedy Reservoir directly in front of us. The van is on our heels. The chopper explosion sends its blades spinning in the air.
"Hang on! This is gonna be close!" he yells.
I can't sit up but I turn facing the back of the seat and grab the seatbelt strap. The vans accelerate in pursuit. He makes a hard right turn, skimming the perimeter of the reservoir. The van clears the smoke of the explosion, sees the water. I can hear his brakes screech behind us, he stops just at the tip of the reservoir.
A loud 'bang'. The seatbelt locks. If it didn't I would have been thrown out of the seat. The second van plows into his back, sending both of them into the freezing water.
The driver puts the AK47 on the passenger seat and reduces speed. Two thumps, and we exit the park heading toward the highway. He makes a phone call and puts it on speaker. The sound of the phone ringing reminds me of a collectible my mother used in her office.
I can picture a heavy black classic Crosley Kettle telephone ring loudly. He pulls on a baseball cap. Someone answers the phone but doesn't speak.
"Sono io." (It's me.) says the driver.
"Che cosa? English, Vinnie." (What?) says the man who answered the phone.
"Moving Forward," says the driver, hanging up the phone.
Italian.
"Hey, you alive?" says the driver, Vinnie.
"Yeah," I respond but feel pretty banged up.
He looks at me through the rear view mirror. He has a friendly face. He's young. Probably just a little older than me.
"In the bag, by your feet. Small jar. Put it on your eye, now."
I feel around in the bag and find the small clear jar. It looks empty. I can't steady my hands to open it. I sit up leaning on my elbow.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"Vinchenzo, but my friends call me Vinnie."
"Vin, I think I'm going to die in your backseat. I'm not picky. Drop me anywhere."
He laughs. He must be from New York.
"Put the stuff on your eye."
I look at the jar, center myself in the seat and look at him through the rear view mirror. He knows what I'm thinking.
"Gotta trust someone, Caleb. Why not me?"
I scoop out some of the clear gel and smear it on my eye. A tingling sensation, a pinching sensation and then heat. I put my right hand on my eye and feel the swelling go down. All the way down.
A cool sensation and my eye is back to normal. I wipe away the residue. My vision, perfectly clear.
"I need you at full capacity."
"I should put this all over my body."
Vin chuckles again. He is talking to me, but he is alert. He's checking his rear view mirrors, his three o'clock and nine o'clock. This man has been trained and trained well.
"No. You're in detox."
"Vin, ...what..."
"We don't have time. I know you have questions, Caleb-"
"How do you know my name? And why-"
"I told you we don't have time. I'm here to help you."
"I'm just a bus boy!"
"I think by now, you know that I know, you are more than that. You sped it up."
"Sped WHAT up?"
Several police cars pass us. Then, a few black S.U.V.'s that look just like the ones at the hospital. Vin turns his face discreetly away from the oncoming traffic, and turns right into a small street.
"We need another ride," says Vin.
We pull into an underground parking garage. Finally. Just stopping for a moment is a relief. Vin turns around in the seat and looks directly at me.
"Thought we'd never find you."
"We? Nothing you're saying makes sense. How did this stuff work? Where did you get it?"
"You don't have to do that," says Vin.
"Do what?" I ask.
"Act like you have no clue."
"I have no clue about what you're talking about."
Vin smiles. He smiles as if he knows me. I don't like that simply because I don't know him.
"Let’s go. Bring the bag."
He opens another car with a key. We get inside. I get into the front seat. Vin starts it. The doors lock automatically. The windows are tinted.
"Seatbelt," says Vin.
I look at him. He is serious. I buckle my seatbelt.
"Sorry about this."
"Sorry about what?"
Vin tucks his left hand under his right forearm. I see a small gun poke out. He shoots me. Things are fading fast. Again.
My nose tells me I'm not in the dingy car. A blaring headache is usually waiting when I open my eyes. I'll turn. A squeak? Am I in bed? Was this a dream. You've got to be kidding. Will I wake up to find myself in my room? Is my jacket thrown over the chair and my keys in the night table drawer beside the cheap aspirin? Wait. Even with my eyes closed I know something is definitely different.
No pain. No neighbors are screaming at each other. If all this wasn't real, I'm checking myself into the closest psych ward. It's quiet. Very quiet. I'm not in Manhattan. I don't think I'm even in New York.
I open my eyes. The walls are rustic and the paint, deep mustard. There's a small oval ant
ique mirror hanging on the wall. I look at my hands. Steady. Somethings odd. Not a single scratch or scrape. My badly bruised knuckles, perfectly healed. My hands are steady, no tremors or withdrawal. I've never seen anything like this. I feel completely new.
Exposed natural stone walls, Terra-cotta floors and a rectangular window over my head. The window opens vertically by an old-fashioned crank confirming my thoughts. A tapestry hangs on the wall beside the mirror with an embroidered scene in deep earth tones perfectly matching the walls.
Someone’s coming. I hear footsteps approaching the rustic wood door with black bindings. The door opens.
"You’re up," says Vin.
He's relaxed. Blue jeans and a pullover.
"You shot me."
"A tranquilizer."
I look down at my clothes. I am in matching pyjamas, something I have never worn. They feel soft and good.
"Did you...?" I ask, looking at the clothes.
"No. Save your life, I'll do that, dress you, no." He hands me a glass. "Water."
Vin sits in a rustic single chair across from the bed as if it were made for him. Reluctantly, I take it. Again, 'Never trust anyone'. But, for some reason, I trust Vin. There is something real about him. He has a small scar above his right eye. He scratches at it. It's the second time he touched it.
"What's in here? Cyanide?"
"If I wanted you dead, I'd have just left you there."
Very true. I drink the glass of water.
"A tranquilizer? Why?"
"The process works,” gesturing to my face and hands that are clearly healed, “but hurts, a lot. You're better not being conscious during it. You are less likely to bite through your tongue."
"I want to know everything. Now."
Vin crosses his legs.
"Calma."
He crosses his ankle over his knee.
"Who do you work for?"
"Work, no. I'm here because I want to be. I'm with a scientist your father trusted... with your life."
I sit up straight, my jaw drops. I haven't heard anyone utter anything about my parents... ever.
"My father. Did you know him?"
He can't speak fast enough. I want to hear more, everything all at once. I'm sitting with someone who can validate a piece of my life and possibly give me the answers I was promised would one day unfold. I'm anxious to hear, but afraid of what I will hear. I don't think Vin would hold back information from me. He's looking at me as if he were waiting to see me for a long time. Funny, he's antsy. He was calm and steady under the pressure of being chased and shot at. Here, no fear no threat, but he bounces his leg. Moves in his seat as if unsettled.
I am relaxed and being myself. Like a child in his element as if waiting for the climax.
"No," with a chuckle, "how old do you think I am?" Vin says tapping his heel on the floor. "Your father is Officer Joshua Promise, of the United States Army, Special Forces. He had top secret data. You should know. The accident that killed your father, your parents, Caleb... was no accident, no drunk driver."
Somehow I knew. I got the answer to one question. My chin stays low but I can feel my eyes rise. I feel revenge find a seat in my heart. Vin continues.
"The gents, the ones trying to kill you," his tone hardens, "they work for the man that ordered the kill on your parents."
"Who is he?"
I can feel the muscles in my jaws flex as I bite down repeatedly. My fists form without me even thinking about it.
"I know you're angry..."
Vin uncrosses his legs and leans forward resting his elbows on his knees.
"WHO IS HE?"
"You will find out soon, but not from me. From the scientist your father trusted. He's been watching out for you since you left the orphanage. Sort of an angel looking over your shoulder. You got evicted, and well, he lost you. He had no idea where you were. But he never gave up looking. You're safe here. He wants to help you, Caleb.”
I can hear the echo in my head. Never trust anyone.
"Why, what's in it for him?"
"The rest of your questions will be answered. A piece of advice: think, Caleb, don't feel, think. If you want to stop this man, you have to move with your head, not your heart."
His words, logical. It was as if someone took a scalpel and cut to the source of my pain. I turn away from him and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. Warm linen. I haven't worn pyjamas in years.
"Come with me. Stand slowly."
The clothes slip into place as I move. They feel like good quality. I don't even use fabric softener. Denim jeans and cotton long sleeve shirts are my favorite. These clothes are definitely something I couldn't afford and they feel too soft for me. I roll my shoulders feeling awkward in them. The floor is cool.
"Put those on."
Slippers. They are leather bottom with wool lining.
"I'm no woman."
Vin laughs. "Then be a man. Catch pneumonia. These floors are freezing."
He doesn't know what freezing is. He keeps walking ahead of me. They look comfortable. I step in them. I match from head to toe. Odd.
Vin opens the tall wooden door with a screech and steps aside for me to go first. The smell of fresh spaghetti sauce wafts in our faces. This place smells like a home and memories are gushing from this rustic roost.
A short corridor with the country-worn hall table. An old dial up phone sits on the table beside a clear vase of fresh cut flowers. At the other end of the corridor are three simple doors. To my right, facing the vintage phone, the hall opens to a modest living room, antique furniture.
The room is neither masculine nor feminine. Comfortable classic with leather-bound books stacked beside a Tiffany style lamp on an end table. Tasteful oil paintings hang casually beneath the high crown molding between two long slender crank windows. A faded fresco looms above on the ceiling, capping off the cozy setting. A man with his back to us turns his head slightly in my direction.
"Well now..."
He's seated at a roll-top wall desk and puts down a heavy monogrammed fountain pen on a notepad then lifts his dark framed reading glasses.
"You look much better."
He holds his hand out for me to sit in a single chair adjacent to the small sofa. Nothing about this man is threatening. He approaches me, placing both hands on either side of my head and maneuvers it like an experienced doctor who had done this all his life. His fingers immediately fall into position examining my lymph nodes.
"Any pain when I do this?"
Rotating my head gently makes me realize I can't remember the last time I went to a doctor, except after being mashed by the taxi.
"No, but-"
"Say Aha."
He tips my head back, looks into my nose and mouth. I slam his hands down. He can see the distrust in my eyes. I'm letting him see it. Yet, he doesn't seem surprised.
"Good, good," he says, ignoring it. "You may be a little fuzzy later, to be expected. Anything more, let me know. Vin, some tea please." Says Richard.
He gives Vin a friendly pat on the shoulder as he leaves the room to get the tea beneath a exposed stone archway. They must be good friends. They seem that way at least. Hit man and tea maker. Interesting.
"Of course, Sir. Excuse me."
Sitting back on the sofa, he impulsively crosses his legs and lifts a cigar smoldering in a heavy handmade dark ash tray. He doesn't even puff it.
"I'm Richard. And you have questions. Many, I'm sure. This is a horrid truth to learn, son. What you must've been through,” He looks down and shakes his head lightly as if absorbing the pain of it.
"How did you know my father?"
He nods. His cardigan sweater is over a modest button front shirt. He looks me straight in the eye when he talks. His voice is raspy from smoking. And his full beard almost touches his chest. It’s well trimmed and contoured to his moustache and sideburns.
"Your father, an honorable man. Caleb, the most noble I've ever met. A man of his word. Rare to find now-a-days."
"Who killed him? Who did this to my family!"
I can feel myself leaning forward and my hands clutching the arm rests. I'm so close to the truth. Finally? The answer to the nagging question.
"Caleb, there is a lot of healing that has to happen here. I don't have anything in a bottle for that, my friend. All I can give you is the truth. The plain truth about what has caused you to be here, now. Some, you may remember,” he puffs his cigar, “some you may not. Nevertheless, this is your story, Caleb Promise."
