Discretion (26 page)

I am no longer the elite, but must be content to live among the weary.

I can’t harm Jamal. There’s no killer in me. This is a choice—Christel can entice, but she cannot force me to become something I’m not.

I will not give you more than you can handle.

This task is not for me.

Yes, it is. Simple.

Not in the slightest. Far more cunning than what I possess.

I will help you and protect you.

I don’t doubt the dependability of Christel, but I know what I’m capable of and I can’t live with being the killer of Jamal, even though it will cost me greatly to refuse. The future now is as opaque as the walls of this hospital. But I do know one thing: Jamal is in danger—he is her target.

Christel will send someone else. As much as I want to believe this is only a test, I must trust my instinct. The needle on the counter is proof. It could only have gotten on there by someone putting it there, someone who may have the same intention—to kill.

I move slowly and carefully to my feet, paying attention for anyone who looks suspicious, listening for footsteps nearby. I wait for any sound of a passerby who may be here to take on the assignment, with a syringe in hand. The room spins, but slower now than before.

I turn toward the coffee’s location. Feet moving on the linoleum floor. Fast. From the opposite side of the wall to the waiting area. Stumbling, a surge of energy courses through me, as the counter is empty; the needle is gone.

Moving as fast as I can without falling over, I turn around and run for Jamal’s room, passing staff and dodging dawdlers. Nurses and doctors are walking about, minding their own business. If it comes down to a fight, which it will, would the staff help me to save a patient?

Down the hall is a man walking this way, in a white lab coat and the staff’s sea-foam scrubs. About ten paces away and in no apparent hurry. The syringe is in his right hand, carefully concealed by how his hand holds it near the lab coat. He takes no notice of me, and walks by, as if I’m invisible.

I must stop him.

He turns the corner and I follow closely. A short security guard with silver hair leaves his chair to step into my path and holds a hand up, his palm facing me, like a cop directing traffic. He says something about visitors’ hours, which I ignore, and scream at the man in the white coat, who looks like a doctor, but clearly isn’t. The guard tries to force me back and waves his hands in the air from side to side. I grab hold of him by the shirt and push him to the floor. He lands hard on his back and yells. Footsteps behind me, approaching fast. There are many.

I run with all I have and push open the partially closed door to Jamal’s room. I lunge for the impostor, standing at the controls and close to Jamal. My weight forces him against the bed; his torso slams against the heavy frame. He groans and swears, and then throws an elbow to my face. The pain to my temple is intense and I release him, falling to the floor. I wrap up his legs with mine and twist hard, to bring him down. He falls, but catches himself with both hands on the bed frame; his fingers are white as he holds on.

He pulls a foot free from my leg grip and kicks me. I flop over and slowly come to my feet. I meet the bewildered impostor, a struggle that lasts but a moment, before an immeasurable force pulls me from behind. My back hits the wall and glass shatters. I land on my knees and struggle to reach out a hand, to try to defend Jamal with all that’s left. The impostor swears profusely and seems angered at two men who are now in the room and bring me to my feet. His words are incomprehensible, like blubbering, as if he’s afraid and not in a position of power.

I witness the shot, the plunger undoubtedly bringing his death and these men are holding me hostage instead of stopping him.

It’s then that an irritable noise begins. It’s like a hum at first, but it gets louder and bright lights around me contribute to the annoyance. What’s going on now? And why can’t I see anything?

“Colin!”

Who is that? Why can’t I see you?

“Colin,” a female voice says.

My eyes open in slow motion and blink a few times, adjusting to the surrounding brightness.

“There he is,” she says, staring back at me. She sounds somber, as if she’s at a funeral. Natalie. I would know that face anywhere. Out of a crowd in a sea of thousands.

My head hurts in three places. I’m not entirely convinced I can move. It feels as though I only have a head, the rest of my body gone or numb. And I think I’m vertical, on my back.

“Can you hear me?” Natalie asks.

Several faces appear around Natalie, hovering over me. Moving is a thought, but it’s useless. If I still have limbs, no one’s listening.

“Yes,” I manage to get out, though it’s hardly audible. Two people help me sit up and I slowly look around, with support from behind.

I am in a hospital room, on a bed. The room does not look like Jamal’s. This room is much smaller and no window. A heavy curtain is draped about five feet from the end of the bed, which runs from wall to wall across the cozy space. Fluorescent lights mounted to the wall shine on the ceiling. Two nurses leave quickly.

A woman, mid-forties by the look of her, stands with a tablet PC cradled like a football and a pen twirling among her fingers with ease. She eyes me a moment, and then begins to punch buttons on her tablet, periodically glancing at the instruments. Without reading her mind, I can deduce that she has more important patients to attend to. This work here is the drab routine, I suspect. With few words, she introduces herself and explains what happened.

She asks questions about pain and sensitivity, medical history, and then does several checks of no consequence. I have stitches in my back from the broken glass in Jamal’s room. I wait for her to tell me what happened to the mysterious doctor turned assassin, but she doesn’t. Nor does she say anything about Jamal.

She may not know. I can only presume the assassin got away, having done his work. The security staff probably let him go.

I find it hard to restrain my own emotions for the loss of my friend. And while a part of me wants revenge, I acknowledge silently it’s unlikely. Something beyond me—beyond this world chose to bring Jamal into it and chose to take him back. Why? I can’t answer and probably never will.

Wouldn’t Christel know that I would refuse the job? Why give an assignment that she knows I won’t do?

Questions, no answers.

Natalie stands by, waiting patiently. The doctor explains in short that she’s done with me and leaves a clipboard of forms to review and sign. I’m free to go once I’ve released the hospital of all liability for whomever I may attack or kill next.

“So…what happened?” Natalie says, as if she’s afraid of the answer.

“Afraid for your life?”

She takes a step back, watching me. “Maybe. You had a fight with a doctor?”

“How’s Jamal?”

She blinks and flinches at my question. “He’s…fine, all things considered. He still has a long way to go, Colin. He’s not through the woods.”

“He’s alive?”

“Yeah. Sleeping, as the nurse said. She let me see him a minute.” She pauses a moment to swallow hard. “Difficult to imagine, him like that.”

“You could use a drink.”

She snickers. “And so could you. Why are you attacking the doctor? He’s got a job to do.”

“Not a doctor. An impostor. I was trying to stop him.”

She doubts me—it’s clear by that tilt of her head, the lilt in her voice. “Colin, you’re either making a bad practical joke or you’ve lost it. I know it’s tough but—”

“I don’t need this, really. What time is it?”

“Eight thirty-four.”

I move around on the bed, going slowly. Turns out, I have a body and it works, responds as it should. There’s a tenderness in the back, some definite bruising. “What happened with the doctor? The one I attacked?”

“The cops asked me a bunch of questions, since you were unconscious. The hospital isn’t pressing charges.” She pauses a moment, then sits down near me. “What were you trying to do, anyway?”

“He was after Jamal with a needle. I was keeping him from using it.”

She restrains herself from laughing. “Colin, he’s a physician’s assistant. That’s his job.”

“Bullshit. He’s an impostor.”

She studies me a moment and seems to contemplate what I’ve said, though suspiciously—like she’s watching a mental patient explain why it made sense to put glue on a hot iron and attach it to a wall. “Fine. Start talking.”

N
atalie is much like she was years ago when we were dating. Her feminine curves still pay dividends. She works for ASU, since graduation, teaching architecture and doing freelance design. She carries herself with confidence and speaks her mind.

Marisa got along with Natalie in the early days, when Marisa had no knowledge of the past and no real connection to me. But once all the facts were laid out, Marisa developed a sour taste for Natalie, and she subsequently tore down any pictures I had on display with Natalie in them. I took it as a girlfriend’s jealousy of an ex, but as time waned, I learned that Natalie and Marisa went to war over abortion and Marisa’s child who never got a chance at life.

Natalie watches me, and I wish I knew her thoughts. Christel, as I suspected, is silent. Is she really gone for good? I try to work out the discomfort. “Where to begin?”

Natalie smiles, and her lip quivers a little, seemingly fighting emotions. That’s not like her. It occurs to me she never answered my text from last night. Does she love me? After all these years? Natalie is a close friend and I hate the thought of her walking away unsatisfied—being alone when it’s me she wants. I can’t be with two people, but wouldn’t my life be less dramatic with Natalie? Isn’t she the safe option?

My hand rubs the side of my head, though it hurts. Life shouldn’t be this complicated.

“Colin?”

Our eyes meet and I sense that I’ve been contemplating awhile. It’s only my life.

“Sorry.” I decide that my history, my dark secret, needs to be told. And I tell her about Christel. I leave nothing out. She sits and listens, focused. It’s not until ten minutes go by before I come to a sinking realization—she believes me. She accepts Christel as real. She seems at ease with the explanation, as if the news comes as no surprise.

“That explains a lot, actually,” Natalie says.

“What does?”

“Well…from the boat. That day on the lake.”

I wait in silence, watching her collect her thoughts and composure.

“What happened at the lake?” I say. The forbidden question: taboo to discuss, once the investigation and interrogation were over.

Natalie, nor anyone else, could explain how she got off our boat without detection. Without any screams, noises, or signs of a problem. The only explanation that occurred to anyone, including me, was this: Natalie left willingly. She must have been enticed to leave, having said nothing…so she must have thought, at the time, that it would be no big deal…meaning she expected the reason would be short-lived, a minute or two, not hours, not days…

“I was insecure then…maybe you noticed. But I was getting this thought, when your dad fell asleep, that we could…” Natalie says.

“Rock the boat.”

She grins, mischievously. “Yeah. I kept having this strange thought that I would lose you if I didn’t. And I wanted to…but there was the inkling pressure, I remember. Not like what you described, but there was a definite push. I was being encouraged to do what I wanted, while I felt pulled to be good, too.”

I maneuver on the bed and Natalie leaps to her feet to help me. The short movement is uncomfortable; my muscles are probably still under strain from the fight. Natalie takes care of moving me. Her touch engulfs a tingle, a surge of emotions that I didn’t expect—as if it’s the first time all over again. I should push it aside, but I want it to linger. This newness is welcome.

“How long did the doc say I’m going to feel like this?” I ask.

Natalie laughs and takes a long moment to sit. “Maybe another hour, now. The glass cut you pretty bad.”

“Can’t remember a thing. I was lunging for the doctor and the next thing was you calling my name.”

She manages a short laugh. “Glad you missed it. The security guard hurled you into the wall, which is how you got cut by broken glass.”

“Thanks for filling in the blanks. I should be getting back to Jamal. Just in case.”

“Security is at his door,” Natalie says.

“Oh…good. So they’re taking this seriously?”

“They are taking you seriously.”

I wait for a better explanation.

“They are taking you, who attacked a doctor who was doing his job in Jamal’s room, seriously. So now security is there at his door.”

“Well…at least that should help.”

“Yeah, well. You shouldn’t be worried about Jamal. He’s safe from attack.”

“Is he?”

“Pretty sure. Now on this ghost…”

“You think she’s a ghost?” I interject.

“Well…the timing is strange, since I’ve not been able to remember anything from that day.”

I say nothing.

“So, just for the heck of it yesterday, I was sifting through pictures from high school and I saw photos from back then, on Mike’s boat. And I saw the railing, where it’s damaged on the one side…and it got me thinking from a dream that I had.” She pauses a moment. “And I remember. It’s not much, but a glimpse of it.”

“It was always bits and pieces that you could remember, right?”

She nods slightly. “Here and there, right. But that’s just it. The here and there fits. I remember a damaged rail on the boat from that day. I couldn’t place which boat it was, since I can’t remember anything else. So I presumed it was your boat or some other that I was on that day.”

“So you remember Mike’s boat? The damaged side rail…you remember that?”

“It’s there. I’m pretty sure I was on that boat.”

“That means you were on Mike’s boat? But how could that be?”

Silence lingers between us, as we are accessing what we’ve wanted to keep in secret from ourselves.

Natalie continues, “That’s what I can’t understand. The memories overlap. It’s like I’m in two places at once and I remember them both.”