Half-Past Dawn (31 page)

As Jack lay there, he fought off panic. He had gotten so close to finding Mia, yet now, having been captured, he couldn’t be farther away. There were no clocks; his watch was gone, leaving him with no concept of time.

The thought drew his eyes to his left forearm, where he was surprised to see it encased in a thick white bandage, entirely obscuring his tattoo.

“Mr. Keeler.” A blond nurse, big-boned and smiling, greeted Jack. She sat quietly in the corner, where she was practically invisible. She rose from her chair and walked over, her warm smile never leaving her face. “I’m so glad to see you awake. I’m Susan Meeks.”

Jack nodded as she leaned over to shine a light in his eyes, checking his pupils. “How long have I been out?”

“Not long, an hour maybe. It’s just past eleven o’clock.” Meeks took Jack’s pulse, fluffed his pillow, and tucked his blankets in without any regard to his restraints. “We took the liberty of bandaging the injury to your left arm—”

“Injury?” Jack asked with confusion as he looked at the heavy bandage on his arm.

“—and redressed your shoulder wound.”

Before Jack had a chance to respond, the door opened and man in a dark suit entered. He stood ramrod-straight, what little hair he had on his head military bristle length. He avoided eye contact with Jack as he read through a single manila folder in his hand. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, although there was no exhaustion apparent in his body language. He glanced at Nurse Meeks, who immediately left. He closed the door behind her, silently walked to the bed, and finally snapped shut the folder.

“Mr. Keeler?” The man’s voice was deep and without sympathy. “What did you take from the evidence room?”

Jack was amazed at the question, at the right-to-the-point approach. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Gene Tierney, deputy director, New York field office of the FBI,” Tierney answered in a staccato cadence.

“I have permitted access and confidential files down there pursuant to ongoing investigations, which are privileged.”

“I don’t believe the eight dead people down there care about your privileged information.”

“They were shot by others.”

“Who?”

Jack glared at the man, at his brisk and brusque interrogation style. Jack did not like being on the other end of an interrogation, particularly when he believed in what he did.

“What was in the box that you stole?” Tierney pressed.

“Stole? I didn’t steal anything.”

“Witnesses would care to differ.”

“I’m trying to save my wife.”

Tierney’s rapid-fire questions abruptly stopped as he pondered Jack’s statement. It was a moment before he slowly asked, “What do you mean, save her?”

“A man by the name of Nowaji Cristos kidnapped her. He is going to kill her.”

Tierney stared at Jack, his face a mass of confusion at Jack’s statement.

To Jack’s surprise, the door opened, and standing there was his doctor, Ryan McCourt, a thick medical file under his arm. With him was an elderly female in a white gown with a stethoscope.

Ryan glared at the agent. “Excuse me, no one is authorized to speak with this man until he’s been examined.”

Tierney stared back, but the battle of wills never manifested. The agent walked out the open door, letting it close behind him.

“Jack,” Ryan said softly as he turned, having trouble meeting his friend’s eyes, suddenly lost for words.

“Hi, Jack,” the woman said as she brushed a few gray strands of hair from her care-worn face. “My name is Dr. Emily Sebert.”

She took a seat on the bed, then paused, allowing Jack to get comfortable with her presence before laying a gentle hand on his feet. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Jack slowly nodded, although his emotions were anything but.

“I thought you were dead,” Ryan said. “I saw what was left of your car.”

Jack nodded.

“A lot of crazy accusations are being thrown around.”

“Honestly,” Jack said, “I couldn’t give a shit.”

Ryan nodded, understanding Jack’s attitude. He waited a moment, allowing a comfort to grow. “Look, you’re under my care for the moment, doctor-patient confidentiality. You want to fill me in on what happened?”

Jack looked at the woman sitting at his feet on the bed.

“Emily’s to be trusted,” Ryan said. “We work together on occasion, and she won’t say a thing.”

“I promise.” Emily held up her three fingers in a scout’s honor sign.

Jack looked between the two of them, not sure if he was being set up. He had known Ryan since grade school, since they played Little League baseball. They were close, having carried each other home after drunken parties, playing wing man for each other. They had
even dated the same girl in high school, each giving her up in deference to the other.

And so Jack told him. He told Ryan everything he could remember about the night before, about waking up at home that morning. He told him about the mysterious box that Mia gave him, which he took from the evidence room before it fell into Cristos’s hands. But throughout, Jack was careful to leave out certain aspects, things that he had seen, such as Adoy’s translation of the tattoo, his conversation with his father, and his suspicions of the FBI, things he thought to be irrelevant or not germane to Ryan’s understanding of what was going on.

“I’m terrified for Mia,” Jack said. “I’ve got to find her before it’s too late.”

“Well,” Ryan said, “you’ve got help now. No need to do it on your own.”

“Can you get me out of here?” Jack said, trying not to sound desperate.

“I’m not sure yet, but you know I’m sure as hell going to try.”

“Thanks,” Jack said with sincerity.

“Well,” Ryan said, perking up, “we need to check you out.”

“What, you think I may be disease-free?” Jack tried to joke, but it fell hard.

“Let’s just make sure you’re OK for the moment.”

As if on cue, Emily leaned toward Jack. “Do you feel any pain?”

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” she said with a soft, coaxing smile.

Jack looked up at Ryan. He had never mentioned that he was shot, nor was he about to. The nurse had bandaged him up and that was just fine for the moment. He didn’t want anyone poking around in his chest costing him precious time.

“She’s reviewed your file. She knows the illness you’re dealing with.”

“I’m not tied up in this bed because I have cancer.”

“No,” Emily said, quickly changing the subject. “Have you been experiencing headaches over the last week?”

“No,” Jack said with a shake of his head.

“Nausea …”

“Look, I feel fine—”

“Have you seen a change in colors? Do they appear more vibrant?”

“Just a bit,” Jack said. They were more brilliant than at any time in his life.

“Do you hear any high-pitched whine, white noise? Has your hearing grown more acute?”

“A bit,” Jack answered like a bored patient.

“Have you …” She paused, almost afraid to ask. “seen things?”

Jack turned away, thinking, remaining silent. He had avoided certain things for a reason. His silence ended her line of questioning.

A smile suddenly blossomed on Emily’s face, as if she had become a different person. She reached across the white blanket and took his left arm, examining the bandage. It was thick, wrapping his arm from elbow to wrist “How did you get this?”

Jack stared at her, afraid to say that he had no idea. “I’m not really sure.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s a tattoo.”

“Really?”

Again, Jack remained silent.

“Are you sure?” Emily spoke to him as if to a child.

“Ryan?” Jack looked to his friend. “This is bullshit.”

“I know,” Ryan said as he laid a hand on Emily’s shoulder, a subtle indication to slow down. “We’re just talking, that’s all.”

The two doctors paused, building up to something.

“Jack, we believe the tumor is pressing on an area of your cerebral cortex,” Emily said. “It might be from the impact of the accident or just the natural progression of growth. It may be causing you to either pass out or lose bits of memory or …”

She looked at Ryan, passing the baton.

“It might be causing you to imagine or see things,” Ryan said quietly.

Jack looked between the two doctors. “You think this is all a delusion? You think I’m running around chasing ghosts?” Jack tried to flex his restrained wrist. “You think I wrote this fucking thing on my arm?”

“Jack.” Ryan tried to calm his friend.

“Don’t you dare
Jack
me. Yeah, I’ve got cancer, but I’m not crazy.”

“Jack,” Emily said softly, trying to calm him.

“My body may be failing, but not yet. Don’t you dare tell me I’m going crazy or dying, because I don’t give a shit how long I live, as long as it’s long enough to find my wife and catch the son of a bitch who has her.”

“Sometimes when hit with a tragedy,” Emily said as she rubbed Jack’s foot, “we imagine things, fantasize about ways to save the one we lost, bring them back from the dead. With where the tumor is located combined with the stress and anxiety over Mia, this may be occurring.”

“What are you saying?”

“Is it possible,” Ryan asked sympathetically, “that maybe you’ve been imagining things? Could Mia have gone over the bridge with you in the car?”

“Absolutely not,” Jack shot back.

“Our memory is a tricky thing,” Emily said. “Often, we rewrite our recollections to make them more ideal than the actual occurrence, seeing ourselves as heroes, forcing our minds to paint a more ideal picture than what was witnessed. You said that your mind was blank until it was triggered by her perfume. Could your mind be blocking out her death in favor of hope?”

“No, she’s alive, dammit, I feel it.” Jack said through gritted teeth, although fear began to creep into his soul. “I spoke to her, for Christ’s sake.”

“Is it possible that this case you’ve been chasing after,” Emily added, “all of your running around trying to find her, is just you not dealing with her death?”

The door opened, and Tierney poked his head in. “We need to talk.”

“It can wait.” Ryan didn’t turn to acknowledge his presence

“No, it can’t.”

T
IERNEY AND
M
C
C
OURT
stood in the hallway.

“I don’t have time to be playing around here,” Tierney said. “I’ve got eight dead and the world calling me for answers.”

“That is my patient in there, and this takes time. If you push me, I’ll postpone my findings until morning.”

“You listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me,” McCourt said. “Remember, you called me down here as his friend and physician to help you deal with a situation. If you want to tell me what’s going on, if you want to give me a question or two, I’ll get you answers. But that’s your only option.”

Tierney calmed himself and finally spoke. “Is he crazy?”

“Why would you ask a question like that?”

Tierney handed Ryan four files, labeled
Nowaji Cristos, James Griffin, Mia Keeler, Jack Keeler.
Ryan looked at the first,
James Griffin,
and he felt his heart collapse.

A
S THE SECONDS
ticked by, Jack tried to avoid looking at Emily, who sat at the edge of his bed.

Finally, the door opened and Ryan stepped back into the room. His face had gone ashen.

“Ryan,” Jack demanded, “what the hell is going on?”

“Jack …” Ryan said. “Jimmy Griffin’s body was found last night. He was tortured. Every finger, every bone in his left hand, was snapped in two, a slow, methodical torture.”

Jack was lost for words.

“After they failed to get what they needed from him, they went for Mia; you were collateral damage.”

“He’s not dead,” Jack shot back. “I saw him. I spoke to him.”

“Are you sure it was him?” Ryan said gently.

“Of course I’m sure. I spoke to him for at least fifteen minutes.”

“Had you ever met the man? Do you know what he looks like? Are you sure it was him and not someone setting you up?”

Jack’s breathing quickened. In all honesty, he had no idea. “Ryan, what the hell is going on?”

“Relax, Jack. I’m a friend, remember that.”

“Friends don’t have to remind friends.”

“You know what I’m saying. I’m talking to you instead of you talking to them.” Ryan pointed toward the door. “I’m your doctor and your … well, you know.”

“Can you loosen these straps?” Jack asked.

Ryan looked to Emily, who sat in silence, her hand never leaving Jack. She subtly nodded.

Ryan leaned over to unfasten the metal clasps of the strap around his chest and the Velcro leather straps around his wrists. “Tell me about this guy Cristos.”

Jack took a deep breath, waving his arms around in momentary relief. “Did they tell you about him? His background? Our background?”

“Yeah, Tierney just explained it to me. It’s all in this.” Ryan held up a thick manila file.

“He has Mia.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me. But more important, I spoke to Mia. She told me, dammit.”

Ryan sat on the bed, rubbed his face, gathering himself. “And you saw him? This Cristos?”

Jack nodded. “I did a lot more than see him.”

“I heard.” Ryan paused. “More than a year ago, you convicted this guy of murder, sought and got the death penalty. You were the last person he spoke to. He asked for you. What did he say to you?”

“Nothing. He just spoke about life, the weather … and death.”

“What did he say? Can you remember?”

Jack remembered …
death is not always final, not always permanent; death is never the end
. And as he thought on those words, pondering them in the context of his current conversation, he realized that from Ryan’s perspective, they might take on a whole new meaning. “I don’t remember.”

“Last fall, you saw Cristos executed at Cronos prison. You saw him die.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child, Ryan. He didn’t die. People … people within our government conspired to save him.”

Emily and Ryan exchanged a glance.

“Jack, more than twenty people saw him die. The coroner confirmed his death.”