by Jane Seville
Chapter Twenty-seven
The first thing Jack was aware of was the breeze. The cold breeze. There was a hurricane-force arctic wind blowing straight up his nose. He raised a hand, which felt like it was encased in concrete, and batted at that damned breeze only to encounter a plastic mask strapped to his face. “Urf,” he said, not really sure what word he meant it to be, since what he really wanted to say was “get this goddamned oxygen mask off my face.”
“Someone’s awake,” said a woman’s voice. A face appeared over him and removed the mask. “Can you hear me, Jack?”
“Mmm,” he said, nodding. He looked around. Hospital, machines, tubes, people in scrubs. “M’I having surgery?” he babbled.
The nurse smiled. “You’ve already had it. You’re in the recovery room. Just lie still, okay? Try to relax and let your body wake up.”
Jack blinked, consciousness returning. “What time’s it?”
She checked her watch. “Almost six.”
“Still Sunday?”
“Yep, still Sunday.”
Jack didn’t have the energy for any more questions. He lay back against the pillows and let his eyes close, then popped them open again. He didn’t like what he saw when they were closed.
D with a gun to his own head. D holding him, crying, shouting. D saying goodbye, D walking away. Jack stared at the ceiling, but the image of D’s face had followed him from behind his eyelids and he was still seeing it. Looked like he’d be seeing it whether he liked it or not.
He didn’t feel a thing in his side, where Josey had shot him. He imagined he’d feel it plenty later when the drugs wore off. I was shot. Twice. Huh. Imagine that. The thought held little power. So he’d been shot. Great.
It had been a strange sensation. At first there hadn’t been any pain, just this tremendous pressure and then hot warmth, wetness on his skin, and then he was looking at the ceiling of the warehouse… and then the pain had hit, rolling over him like some kind of earth-moving equipment, squashing rational thought and pulverizing his resolve. He couldn’t really remember. Pain was like that. It was so intense when it was happening, but later you couldn’t really recall the exact sensation.
He wanted D. He wanted him to walk in the room and smile that little slantwise smile, cutting his eyes to the side and back again. He just wanted to hold his hand, that was all.
But he couldn’t have that, because D was gone. For the foreseeable future.
For weeks—months, even—this had been looming. The Separate Time. The Time of No D. They’d both known it was ahead, but it had always seemed so vague, like it would someday come but never really come. Even this past weekend, when it had been breathing down their necks, it hadn’t felt quite real.
But now it was here. It was real. Jack had been rudely thrust into it without any kindness or consideration. He’d always assumed there’d be time. Time to say things, do things, discuss things, time to prepare. Once, there had been all the time in the world. Then the marshals were drugged and there were car chases and somehow they were saying goodbye on a dirty warehouse floor, Jack’s blood on D’s face, and it was there. Ugly and demanding and ready to rip them apart, grind them up and let them wonder how long it would last.
Jack drifted off, feeling only relief as oblivion claimed him again.
~~~~~
When he woke again, it was morning. He was in a regular hospital room, and Churchill was sitting in a chair next to the bed, reading the paper. “Hey,” Jack croaked.
Churchill jumped and tossed the paper aside. “Hey yourself,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
Jack wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. “Uh… all right, I guess.” He tried to sit up a little but that sent a bolt of pain up his left side and he flopped back down again. “Been better.”
“Well, the doctors say you came through the surgery fine. The bullet went through you. Tore you up a bit, but they fixed it. You got lucky.”
Jack shook his head. “Wasn’t luck. She shot me that way on purpose.”
Churchill frowned. “What do you mean?”
I mean, she meant for me to slowly bleed to death while she tortured me, until D couldn’t take it anymore and killed me to put me out of my misery. That’s what I mean. He flapped a hand. “Doesn’t matter.” He sighed. “Is it Monday?”
“Yep. And just as soon as your doctors say you’re stable enough, we’re moving you to Albany just like we planned. I’m hoping that’s within a few days here.”
Jack didn’t want to leave Baltimore. This was where they’d last been together, where he’d last seen him. The last place D would know where he was. Once he left that link would be cut, and they’d both be finally, truly alone.
Churchill leaned forward, his face sympathetic. “I know you’re probably feeling ambivalent about that.”
“I know it’s time.”
Churchill was staring at his hands. “I’m so sorry, Jack,” he murmured.
Jack frowned. “What for?”
“They never should have been able to get to you,” he said in a rush. “Witsec has never lost a witness who followed the rules, never. I’ve never had anyone compromised.”
Jack sighed. “It was my understanding that Witsec had never lost a witness who’d actually been relocated. I was still in limbo. Besides, they were after D, not me.”
“Still. My security was inadequate.”
“No security is adequate if they’re determined enough,” Jack said. “And they were.”
“I just… you’re hurt, and what you went through…. I’m just sorry, is all.”
Jack smiled. “Thanks.” A sudden thought occurred. “Hey, is Megan okay?”
“Yeah. She was supposed to call nine-one-one but she must have passed out before she could. We were able to find her with the GPS in her phone because she’d left it on. She just needed some blood and fluids; she’ll be okay.” He hesitated. “Petros cut her up pretty bad. She looks like she went five rounds with a grizzly bear.”
“She saved our lives. If you hadn’t come when you did… D was about to shoot himself.”
Churchill leaned forward. “Why was he going to do that?”
Jack struggled to sit up again; Churchill rose and helped him, propping pillows behind his back and taking his seat again once Jack was settled. “Because,” Jack said, staring at his hands, “Josey wanted him to kill me, and I made him promise he wouldn’t, no matter what. It was the only way he could take away what she wanted.”
“Which was?”
“Him suffering. He was like a doll she was taking apart just to see it in pieces. Only thing to do was take the doll away.” Jack shook his head, tears fuzzing his vision. “It was all going to be over, right there. Jesus.” He pressed the fingers of one hand to his face. “Jesus Christ, I almost died.”
“But you didn’t,” Churchill said, quietly. “And you’re not going to. You’re going to heal up and start over and you’re going to live a long, boring life.”
Jack snorted laughter through his tears. “Boring. Sounds like heaven.”
Churchill looked toward the door, his face brightening. “Well, speak of the devil,” he said as Megan walked in. Jack had to stop himself from gasping. She did look like she’d gone five rounds with a grizzly bear. She had cuts on her face and neck, and what skin he could see of her arms. Both sides of her face were bruised and her eyes were swollen. She was walking with a bit more caution than usual.
“Had to come see you before I left,” she said, smiling and coming to Jack’s bedside. He reached up—carefully—and embraced her, mindful not only of his own injury but of hers.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Churchill said severely.
“Home. Signed myself out.”
“You got your doctor to agree to that?”
“Who says he agreed? I’m fine. All I’ll do here is lie in bed and moan, and I can do that at home.”
She pulled back, but Jack hung onto her hand. “Thank you,” he said, trying to co
mmunicate how much he meant those words with his eyes.
She smiled and touched his face. “Don’t mention it. The both of you lived, bad guys didn’t, that’s thanks enough.”
Silence fell among the battered trio. They looked at one another with veiled expressions. No one needed to say anything; the ghost of D that stood among them was doing all the talking.
Finally, Megan drew herself up and took a deep breath. “Well, I better be getting along. I’m sure I’ll have things to do pretty soon but for the time being there is a couch with my name on it.”
Jack smiled. “I think some serious TV-watching is in my future too.”
She smoothed his hair back. “You be safe, Jack. I’ll look in on you from time to time.”
Jack nodded. “And… if you see….” He couldn’t finish, but he didn’t need to.
Megan just laid her hand on his shoulder, giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze. “I will.”
~~~~~
Megan took the elevator, feeling like a wimp for doing so when her apartment was only on the second floor, but she thought her recent ordeal might excuse her.
There was no part of her body that didn’t hurt. She’d received several units of blood and overnight IV fluids but she was still wiped out. A long period of sleep sounded like just the thing. She’d have to lie low for awhile. People tended to remember women who looked like they’d been on the receiving end of a bison attack.
Jack’s doctors had said that he could be moved in the morning. Off to Albany, or at least that’s what Jack thought. What he’d soon be finding out was that every Witsec protectee was taken there. “Albany” was the code word the Marshals used in public for whatever city they’d picked to relocate their witness, so if they were overheard by the wrong person the security of the witness’s location would not be compromised. She had no idea where Jack was destined to land, and neither would anyone else outside Witsec. Jack wouldn’t be told where they were going until they were en route.
She unlocked the apartment door. All was blessedly quiet. She went to the bathroom and examined herself in the mirror. It was pretty bad. Her face was swollen from both sides and heavily bruised, darker circles ringing her eyes, and the cuts on her neck and arms were angry and red. She already had an appointment with a plastic surgeon to clean up the damage so she wouldn’t be left with scars.
She tossed some cold water on her heated face, avoiding her stitches, and went back into the living room. “Jesus Christ,” she gasped, one hand flying to her chest as she stopped short.
D was sitting in the corner of the room, partially concealed by the armchair, his knees drawn up to his chest and his eyes staring blankly forward. He looked… not all there. My God, has he been sitting there since yesterday? All evidence pointed to yes. His clothes were stained with Jack’s blood and his face was pale.
“D!” she exclaimed, going to his side. “My God, what… how long have you been sitting here?”
He dragged his eyes up to hers. “All night, I guess.”
“Are you all right?”
He nodded. “You seen Jack?”
“Yeah, I just came from the hospital.”
A little life came into his eyes. “Is he all right?”
She sat down next to him, her back against the wall, and drew her knees up to mimic his position. “He’s all right. He had surgery, came through just fine.” She hesitated. “He’ll be leaving town in the morning. He wanted me to tell you… well, you know.”
D nodded. “Tomorrow, huh?” He sighed. “Guess that’s it, then.”
Megan nodded. “That’s it.”
She waited, not speaking. She felt the tension leave D’s body gradually; a whispery tremor began in him, transmitted to her through their touching shoulders. His head dropped down and he seemed to curl inward. Megan slid one arm around his shoulders and folded her legs Indian-style, so she was ready when he slid sideways and went boneless, surrendering to his emotions for what might have been the first time in his life, melting into her lap and weeping as she knew he’d never done in front of Jack or anyone else, ragged sobs that bore the weight of so much pain, not just the pain of losing Jack but of losing his daughter, his life, his soul, and his idea of himself as a man. She held him as best she could, feeling like a poor substitute, rubbing his back and making meaningless “shhh” noises. He had one arm wrapped around her knee and the other fist clamped to his mouth, useless barrier though it was to this bottled-up expression, these tears that were like the bleeding of a deep, wide tear, messy and directionless.
She did not calm him, or try to reassure him with words. He’d have to calm himself, and eventually he did. He fell into limp silence, exhaustion in every line of his body, sadness in every crease in his face.
Megan held him loosely across her lap, her head tipped back against the wall, the debt she owed this man hovering just over her shoulder, growing insistent (as it always did) when presented with a situation from which she could not save him, or a trouble she could not help.
Perhaps it was time for that debt to show its face.
He’d been quiet for a few minutes now, but she knew he hadn’t fallen asleep. She could feel the waking in his muscles, and the hitches in his breathing.
So she began.
“Before I was a person that doesn’t exist,” she said, “I was regular Secret Service.” He didn’t react, but she felt him shift a little and knew he was listening. “I worked my way up to protection detail. I was damn good at it. Eventually I was assigned to the Secretary of Defense. I lived in Georgetown with my husband and my two boys.” At that, she felt him flinch, no doubt with surprise, as she’d never referred to her family before.
“One night a man broke into our house with a gun. He tied up my husband and my boys and threatened to kill them if I didn’t tell him the Secretary’s itinerary for the next week. I couldn’t tell him, because I didn’t know. Only the SAC had that information. He didn’t believe me. He shot my husband in the leg to convince me he meant business. I begged. I got down on my knees and begged him to spare my family’s lives. I tried to invent an itinerary, but I was so terrified that I wasn’t very convincing. I didn’t know what to do.” She sighed and let her eyes close, the terror of that long-ago night at her fingertips, asking to be let back in. “He was about to shoot one of my sons when a rifle shot came through the window and killed him on the spot.”
She let that sink in for a moment. D didn’t move.
“I think you know that man’s name.”
He sighed. “Cy Rugerand.”
“Yes.”
“It was just a job,” he whispered.
“It doesn’t matter, D. You saved not only me but my family when you killed him.”
“Didn’t know I’d saved nobody.”
“Oh, I think you did. You couldn’t have seen us from where you were but you had to know he had someone in there that he was threatening.”
D hesitated a long time before answering. “Yeah, guess so.”
“If all you were hired to do was kill him, it would have been a lot safer for you to wait until he came out and shot him on the street. By doing it through the window, you were establishing a trajectory and giving away your position on the rooftop across the way, which could have left you vulnerable if any forensics were found there, plus you were making it impossible to pass it off as a mugging, or really as anything but an intentional hit. You couldn’t have been planning to shoot him while he was inside the house; that’s insane. No one does that because it’s too risky. You were going to shoot him coming or going, but you changed your plans when you saw what was going on.” She let her hand rest on D’s arm. “You shot him when you did to save us, even if you didn’t know it was us you were saving.”
D stayed quiet.
Megan shut her eyes again and rested her head against the wall. “Nothing was the same after that. My husband left me and took our sons away. I didn’t fight for custody. They’re better off with him and I didn’t trust myself an
ymore than David trusted me. I was too dangerous. I’d put them all in jeopardy, and he couldn’t live with it. Neither could I. I don’t see them more than a couple of times a year. It hurts, but they’re safe, and that’s what’s important. David remarried. She’s a math professor and she loves the boys, and they love her. I’m okay with that. As long as no one ever tries to hurt them again because of me.” She looked down at D’s profile. “I asked for a transfer out of protection and got into this. Made it my business to find out who’d killed Rugerand. When I found out it was you I did some digging and figured out who you were, and what had happened to you.” She sighed. “Almost ten years I’ve tracked you. Watching you take some jobs and leave others, seeing what kind of man you were or if you were a man at all, or just a monster who killed for money.”
She looked out the window at the afternoon sunlight. The sky was blue; it was a beautiful day. Too beautiful to be sitting here holding a blood-soaked, heartbroken man on her lap while she spilled her guts.
“I would be yours if you wanted me,” she finally said, after a long pause. “But I know you don’t. I’m okay with that. I know about that secret lockbox in your gut, the one where you keep all the sludge and tar and pain. And I know you found the person who had the key to open it. I’m still looking, I guess.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I’m not looking at all. Some things are best left locked away.”
D stayed where he was for a few beats, then sat up and resumed his position at her side, back to the wall. He stretched out his legs and rubbed at his eyes, then stared at his hands. “I’m in love with him,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Megan nodded. “I know. That means I’ll be watching out for him now too. Anyone you ever care about, D. Anything you ever need.”
“It was just a job,” D said, his voice rough.
She smiled. “You don’t get it, do you? It doesn’t matter. You made a choice, and that choice saved me and my family.”