Spitting Image (3 page)

The new girl surprised me. She sat on his thrashing legs, grabbed his right hand from under me and pulled it to the side rail of the cot. I saw her tie a cravat around it and cinch it down with a crisp efficiency she hadn’t shown up to that point.

The back doors burst open as Samantha seized the man’s left hand. “I got it,” she said, the nerves gone. “You just hold him down while I tie.”

Nique jumped in to help, only to find most of the job done. She helped Samantha get his feet restrained before she looked at me.

“So we’re good?”

“Looks like.”

“OK. On to the hospital. You miss the line on that guy and piss him off?”

“I think he just really doesn’t like Narcan.”

“Fair enough.” She closed the doors. Soon the truck started moving again.

“So what happened?” asked Samantha.

“I’m guessing he was a polypharm OD. Multiple drugs. The Narcan knocked out the opiate, which was keeping him down, but now whatever else he’s on is doing this.”

“So what do we do?”

“Unless you have some more heroin on you, we ride it out,” I replied. “I didn’t give him much Narcan, and it doesn’t last very long.”

Shortly, the patient’s struggles slowed, his limbs went slack and he went back to semi consciousness. I stuck some electrodes from the cardiac monitor on him so I could keep an eye on his heart rhythm from a safe distance, and retaped his IV, which had miraculously not pulled out of his arm.

After we transferred care to the ER, we sat at the EMS desk and wrote our reports.

“Ok, “ I said. “No more free Narcan. If they’re breathing, we ignore them, and if they’re not, we bag them. If they wake up and act like an asshole, we just stop bagging until they pass out. Keep the junkies unconscious, just how I like ‘em.”

“Sam,” said Nique. “Why don’t you go grab a coffee at the cafeteria.” She handed over a ten- dollar bill. “Get me a medium, extra cream, one sugar, and Sean a medium with just a splash of cream and two sugars, and whatever you want.”

After the young woman had left, Nique turned to face me and said “OK, what the fuck?”

“I’m gonna need you to be more specific.”

“How can she know so little about EMS? We can’t pass her.”

“Well, she is clueless about most everything you’d expect her to know, but she jumped in when things got dangerous. And she knows how to tie a man up. I think we should give her a chance.”

“I didn’t think you were on the market,” Nique replied, bumping me with her hip.

“Ha ha. OK, I’ll grant she really isn’t where she needs to be on patient assessment, but when shit got real, she pulled her weight. That counts for a lot. Hell, we can teach her how to take a blood pressure. We can’t teach big brass ones.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

Samantha returned with a tray of coffee cups. “Extra cream and one,” she handed a cup to Monique, “and for Sean, dark with two. You like it dark and sweet?” she asked with a leer.

I hardly noticed. This is EMS. Everything is a double entendre.

“Nice job back there, by the way,” I said. “Where’d you learn to tie people up?”

“Play your cards right and I’ll show you,” she replied.

Monique smiled her bright, broad, sunny smile. The one that was every bit as comforting as a cobra spreading its hood. “Let’s take a walk while Sean finishes his report.”

I saw Samantha’s smile falter a bit, a little fear creep into her eyes as she nodded and rose to follow.

I wasn’t sure if Nique’s intent was to save me from temptation, to save Samantha from falling into the EMS slut stereotype, or to save her own gender from another example of the EMS slut stereotype. I felt it best not to interfere with the mission.

SARAH SURPRISED ME at my apartment when I got off shift the next morning.

“Keep this up and I may get used to it,” I cautioned.

“You were on my mind all day yesterday,” she replied with a smile. But maybe a smaller, tighter smile than usual smile.

“So long as it was your mind, not your nerves I was on.”

That got a courtesy laugh. I made breakfast and small talk. She listened more than she talked.

“Something bothering you?” I asked.

“No,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“You just seem a little preoccupied. Big changes at work?”

“Yes,” she said. “That must be it. Shakeup in the department, new faculty. And lots of boring policy discussions.”

“How’s the new office mate?”

“He’s a poet.” She shrugged. “A dreamer and an idealist.” Her tone was just a shade more cynical than I expected.

“Horrors,” I said.

That finally brought out her big, genuine smile. The one I lived for. The one that radiated infectious joy and held just enough mischief that the sisters at St Mary’s School must have marked her down for extra scrutiny as a freethinking troublemaker.

“That might have been harsh,” she said. “But I spent a long day trapped inside with dull academics, missing you. Why don’t you show me what I was missing?” she finished with a leer, leaning across the table.

The sisters were probably right.

I slipped an arm around her waist, ran my other hand through her big, soft curls and kissed her, pulling her against me. She gave me a quick kiss and took my hand, leading me toward the bedroom.

Afterwards, she lay beside me and traced one of my scars with a finger.

“Where did you get these?” she asked.

I was surprised. She’d never seemed to wonder before.

“That one,” I said, “was a Japanese bayonet on Guadalcanal. I have a few on my back to match. Guy got me there first and after I fell down he stuck me a few more times.”

“Seventy years ago,” she murmured. “Have the scars kept fading?”

“Slowly. I don’t know if they’ll ever be totally gone. I still have a little divot in my thigh from a pistol ball from one of Cromwell’s men.”

She nodded, seemingly lost in thought. “So you don’t heal completely?”

“Nobody’s perfect,” I said. I wondered why this line of questioning after all this time. “I know I got my nose broken and it healed just a bit crooked. I don’t think it’ll straighten itself. If I broke a bone and it was set wrong, I think it’d heal that way. And I don’t really know the practical limits of my healing. I don’t know what’s the worst thing I could recover from.”

She nodded again, as though checking a box on some mental list.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing.” She looked at me with the devil in her eyes and smiled her wicked smile. “Nothing at all. Let me show you everything’s alright.”

But it wasn’t. This wasn’t the Sarah I had fallen for, and I wasn’t sure I liked who she was right now.

“I hate to say this, but I’m going to have to plead exhaustion. I’m not as young and wild as I was back before Prohibition.”

Her brow wrinkled for a moment. I’d hoped for a smile at least.

“OK,” she said, after too long a pause. “Rain check.”

I drifted off to sleep eventually. I’d learned not to try to read into things too deeply after a twenty-four hour shift.

When I woke, Sarah was gone. I didn’t find a note, which was odd. That oddness highlighted other odd things about the visit.

AT WORK, WITH TIME TO BROOD, that uncomfortable feeling settled in. Put down roots. Tangled itself around my brainstem.

“What’s the matter?” asked Nique. “You’ve been all quiet and distracted today. You haven’t made a single inappropriate innuendo to me. I’m starting to feel unappreciated.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll make sure to sexually harass you by shift’s end.”

“I should hope so. You know that I crave negative attention to validate my self image.”

Her language was a jab at our recent sexual harassment training. FirstLine Ambulance’s Human Resources Department had recently woken up and taken an interest in their employees’ interactions after hearing some (very likely true) rumors of gross misconduct. Given the fact that they employed a large and transient workforce made up of young, fit, relatively attractive, oversexed adrenaline junkies with only a fleeting respect for rules, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone. And, given that the job involved high stress, low pay, 24 hour shifts, coed bunk rooms, and minimal supervision, even people in HR should have known exactly the kind of employee they would attract.

I’m not throwing stones, mind. I loved the ambulance crews like family. Just saying that Captain Blood or Blackbeard would have found us an undisciplined lot.

But HR had to do something. So they put together a laughable PowerPoint presentation and had us watch it. Not sure it helped, but it reduced the company’s liability, which was the point anyway.

Gave some of the crew ideas for things we hadn’t already done, I’m sure.

“So what’s bothering you?” Nique asked.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “I think something might be going on with Sarah.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I really like her. You didn’t screw it up, did you?”

“Not that I can tell.”

“So what makes you think something’s wrong?”

I thought about it. Maybe Nique could give me a woman’s perspective. I told her about the other night, and my misgivings.

She thought for a bit in silence while we drove through the city. “I don’t know, Sean. I mean, she could just be preoccupied with work, since the new semester is starting soon, or maybe she’s working something out, thinking about the relationship. She seems like she’s pretty stable, so I don’t think she’d get crazy on you and suddenly act different, but maybe you did something by mistake.”

“So what do you think I should do?”

“I’d surprise her with something nice. Flowers out of nowhere. A romantic dinner. See how she reacts. If it’s just normal life stress, that should shake her out of it. If it doesn’t, I’m afraid you might have to actually ask her what’s wrong.”

“A direct question?” I asked. “I knew you would have a cunning plan.”

“It’s a long shot, but it just might work.”

“So you think I’m being paranoid?”

She paused for a moment. A long moment. “I really don’t know. She seems nice, and I got the impression she was really into you. It’s probably nothing, but if you’re worried, it’s not a bad idea to check it out.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” she said. “You can let her know, subtly of course, that if she does break your heart, I’m not above cutting a bitch.”

“Your concern is touching,” I told her. “Really, it is.”

“Got to protect my stable,” she said. “Can’t have anybody else mistreating them. Look, Sean, try not to worry about this other guy. This poet or whatever. You’re a good guy. And you’re a badass. She’s seen you go all Rambo and save the day. That’s pretty sexy.”

I GOT HOME EXHAUSTED from the shift, but I couldn’t sleep. I tried to lie down and close my eyes, but I kept thinking about Sarah, and the last time I’d seen her.

She was enthusiastic in her seduction, but something was missing. Tenderness, caring, I suppose was the best way to describe it. Oh, it was nice and all. Sex always is, but it felt more like a one night stand than an act of love and intimacy between two people who cared deeply for one another.

Better not ask Pete his opinion on that or I’d have to endure more of his questioning my masculinity. To be fair, I hadn’t really registered any problem, because I was having sex, and that generally isn’t a sign of trouble. To give Pete’s theory it’s due, I’d had better and worse ice cream in my life, but never bad ice cream.

But the emotionless sex, and then the questions afterwards, where she usually just wanted to bask in the afterglow. That was troubling.

Eventually, I gave up and threw off the covers. Sleep just wasn’t going to happen. I was too restless, and the only thing that would help was to do something.

I decided to take Nique’s advice. I had a coffee and a shower, shaved, put on a clean shirt with actual buttons and a collar, and no ambulance company logo on it. I cleaned Vlad the Impala so that there would be no take out bags or empty cups on the floor. On my way to the college, I stopped and picked up some flowers. I timed my visit for lunchtime, when I knew she had a gap in classes and the school was unlikely to schedule meetings.

If she was just stressed, then surprising her with a lunch date might cheer her up. It was also possible I had started taking her for granted without realizing it, and this would show her I was paying attention.

While this wasn’t my first dance, I had always handled my relationships with an eye on the door. Now, for the first time, I was in for the long haul, so maybe I did have something to learn about keeping the spark alive.

And if the whole thing was nothing, there were worse ways to spend my day off than taking Sarah to lunch.

I walked into the library, passed through the stacks of humanity’s accumulated knowledge, past the bored undergrad slouched behind the desk texting on her phone, to Sarah’s office in the back.

The door was closed, which it never was. I knocked. No answer. I tried the handle, but it was locked. That was odd. It was just before noon. She always finished class at eleven, came back and worked on papers then went to lunch just after twelve. She should be here.

I looked at the door, and saw a new brass plate screwed in. “W. Caruthers PhD.”

Well, he wasn’t here either.

Hmm.

I went back to the main desk and picked up a course schedule. I sat at a table and flipped through it, making a list of all the classes either of them taught. I knew Sarah’s schedule, or I thought I did, but I didn’t know Caruthers’ at all, and I wanted to compare. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but intelligence gathering is like that. Look around and you’ll find connections, links, seemingly independent facts that show you what you didn’t know you wanted to see. Or wanted not to see, but not seeing a thing doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Neither of them had a class now, nothing until two this afternoon.

A cold, sinking feeling grew in my stomach. Were they together right now? Is that what was wrong? Had she been measuring me up against somebody else? Thinking of leaving and giving it one more shot just to make sure before she moved on? Maybe to a suave, cultured poet?

I felt a surge of anger in which I recognized fear and uncertainty. Jealousy and loss like this were new to me. To really feel that awful hollow sinking feeling, you need to be deeply committed to the other person. The shock of your world crumbling can only hit you when you believe on some level that it was going to last forever.

Before Sarah, I’d always known I’d have to move on, that any relationship, no matter how close, was only temporary, and I’d held back enough to guard my feelings. I’d given Sarah more of me and let her in deeper than anyone over the centuries. So this sick, empty, vertiginous feeling was new.

I didn’t like it.

I took a deep breath. Forced myself to calm down. I was jumping to conclusions. Letting my worst fears and insecurities take root and create obstacles and pitfalls where there might not be any.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Sarah. No answer. Three rings, then to voice mail. Again, that was odd, but proved nothing.

Keep calm,
I told myself.
This is why we do recon. So we don’t go charging into barbed wire and minefields and ambushes. Check and make sure before you do something stupid.

I walked back toward the front desk. Maybe my bored undergrad would be able to tell me if either or both professors were due back soon. Maybe there was a meeting of the English Department and I was getting worked up over nothing.

The desk was vacant. I waited for a moment, just in case the young woman had wandered away and would be back, but I didn’t see any sign. The place was deserted. It was a beautiful late summer day, and the term had just started so there was no crowd of students cramming for finals. Maybe the clerk had decided to find someplace more comfortable to text.

I was thinking what I should do next when a man walked in through the front doors. He wore an Oxford cloth button-down shirt, a tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows and khaki trousers. I couldn’t see his shoes past the rows of desks, but I felt confident they were penny loafers.

He had to be on the English Department.

I walked toward him. “Excuse me?”

“May I help you?” he asked. Beautiful mid Atlantic accent. The kind of thing that you’d hear in Hollywood films from the thirties. Like if David Niven was on his way to teach a class.

He turned toward me. Up close, the man matched the voice. Maybe a bit more Errol Flynn than David Niven, he had a roguish smile, a glint of mischief in his eyes, and a full head of thick, wavy hair.

“I was hoping to talk to Professor Deyermond,” I said. “Is there any chance you know where she might be? She’s not in her office and I didn’t know if maybe there was a faculty meeting you might know about?”

“Mr Danet?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Caruthers,” he said. “Winston Caruthers. I’d like to speak to you about Sarah. Miss Deyermond. If you’d care to follow me, I think this would be better in private.”

I felt a stab of jealousy. This was it. She had been considering her options, and now the handsome, acclaimed poet who looked like Errol Flynn’s sober brother wanted to talk to me, man to man, don’tyerknow old boy.

He led the way back to the office and tried the door, which was locked, then patted himself down, in a very absent-minded professor kind of way.

“Damn. Not used to carrying that key yet, don’t you know. No matter, we’ll commandeer a conference room. God knows they have plenty.”

I had a knife in the trunk of my car. I could end this today. Follow him home, ring the bell, then surprise him when he answered. One quick thrust, up under the breastbone, dismember him in the bathtub and sink the parts in the Merrimack in a series of weighted plastic trash bags. An afternoon’s work.

The strength of the impulse surprised me. I couldn’t remember feeling that murderous towards a man I had hardly met. Who hadn’t even shot at me. I’d have to get a handle on this jealousy before it got me in trouble.

I decided I’d hear him out.

For now.

I followed him to one of the rooms off the main hall of the library. It was airy and well lit, big windows looking out onto the quad. There was a long table surrounded by chairs and a white board on the wall.

He closed the door, leaned nonchalantly against the wall.

I forced the jealous anger down. If there was anything going on, and I was only guessing, panicking that there was, then it wasn’t really his fault. Sarah was an adult, and she wasn’t my property; she could make her own decisions. I couldn’t really blame Caruthers for going after her.

I could still stab him.

Wouldn’t help me with Sarah, though. If I’d blown it, that was all on me.

Maybe I could give him a black eye. He’d have to understand that.

“In the past day or so, have things seemed...odd between you? Has she seemed distant? Not herself?”

Let him talk,
I told myself
. You can always hit him after he’s done.

“Maybe,” I replied, feeling a bit defensive.

He made a face of grim and manly determination. Rubbed his chin. Errol Flynn if he played a doctor preparing to tell a patient that he had terminal cancer.

“And have you been intimate? At her request?”

Red began to creep into the edges of my vision. My knuckles whitened where they gripped the back of one of the chairs. I decided not to hit him only because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop once I started.

“What?” I growled.

“I’m just confirming a suspicion, before I— ”

“Look,” I cut him off. “If there’s something between you two, why don’t you just spit it out?”
Practice for your teeth
, I thought.

His jaw dropped. “Is that– Oh my good man, I’m so sorry. Yes, I do see how you could jump to that conclusion. No, no. Nothing of that sort.”

I took a deep breath, felt the horrible, sinking feeling in my chest start to fade. “Oh, thank God for that.”

“Don’t break out the champagne yet, old boy,” he said. “It’s worse.”

“Worse how?” I asked. “Before you tell me, just be aware that I was thinking about stabbing you to death a few minutes ago.” I did grin to take the sting out of the statement.

He laughed. “Now that I see how it sounded, I wouldn’t have blamed you. No, I must admit that the young lady has not succumbed to my charms. But she might well have been...replaced. Impersonated would be a better term.”

“Not sure I’m buying that,” I said. “I’m fairly certain I know who I slept with.”

“I understand your skepticism. But hear me out.”

He paused, as though considering how much to tell me.

“May I be frank with you, Mr Danet?”

“Only if I can be Dino.”

He blinked twice, then shook his head.

“Rat Pack reference,” I said. “Please, go on. Speak freely.”

He looked at me for a moment, then continued. “I know a bit of your history, Mr Danet. Your recent run in with Mr Doors, for example.”

“I thought that was going to stay quiet,” I said. I certainly hadn’t discussed it.

“I’m sure it was intended to. And don’t blame anyone. My clan is very...adept at gaining information.”

“So you are–”

“A bit like you. Gifted. In a different way. My family can change our appearance.” As he spoke, his face lengthened, his eyes became deep set and darker, his nose more prominent. His hair grew longer and darker, and his voice deeper. More Basil Rathbone than Errol Flynn now.

“Holy shit,” I observed.

“So you see why I suggest that you may have been deceived.”

I nodded slowly. Maybe that could explain the differences. Why she seemed to be not quite herself.

Not herself.

“So what’s happening with Sarah, who would impersonate her and why? And why are you telling me?”

“I’m not certain,” he said, his form sliding back to the way I’d first seen him. “But I think I can guess fairly accurately. We’ve known about you for a few months, through a spy we have in Doors’ organization. Someone has taken an interest in you. I believe they abducted your girlfriend, observed her mannerisms and used our unique abilities to get close to you.”

“But why?”

“Your genes, Mr Danet. They want your healing. Your longevity. There’s no way to get those gifts for themselves, but for the family, for the next generation...” He spread his hands. “That’s why I asked you about the intimacy.”

It also explained the questions she’d asked about the limits of my regeneration. Like checking out private schools. She just wanted to know that she was getting the best for the baby.

“As far as how they abducted Miss Deyermond, they could have posed as anyone she knew and picked her up, taken her out for a ride. Maybe she thought she was taking a walk with you.”

The idea of someone using my likeness, wearing my appearance like a suit, using me to get to Sarah made me queasy. Then I thought of someone using her likeness to manipulate me.

“So now what?” I asked. “Does this imposter let Sarah go?”

“Not quite yet, I wouldn’t think,” he said. “I’d think they’d want to be certain of conception. It’s a lot of work and risk to be any less than certain.”

“So is Sarah safe now?” I asked, trying to keep my fear in check.

“Probably,” he said. “If this didn’t work, they’d want to use her knowledge to find another way to get to you. She’s an asset, until they get what they want.”

“How can I get her back? Would they trade a test tube full of my boys for her release?” Yeah, I know. We don’t negotiate, all that. But for Sarah’s life I’d compromise pretty much any principle.