Was I blocking out something? Was I hurt, traumatized? Was this some sort of reaction to whatever happened after that moment on that teeny porch? Or was that all just a fantasy my scrambled mind was creating?
There was such a thing as selective amnesia. The mind was a powerful thing that was capable of so much more than even scientists who dedicated their lives to the study of the brain could explain. Yet that explanation didn’t feel right to me.
I was missing something here, but I didn’t think it was my fault. But… just in case, I lay back and closed my eyes, going over the last moments I remembered in my head, speaking dialogue out loud, words I remembered saying to Scott:
“…I love you. If I didn’t…”
Maybe it would help me remember something more.
Chapter 11
Oliver
I lay on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep, unable to even close my eyes. The couch was lumpy and hard underneath me, but it still wasn’t hard enough, not lumpy enough. I’d grown used to the thin mattress on my prison cot, the thin blanket, the lights, and the noises that filled the night. This place was too quiet.
I got up and went to the window, staring out into the vast darkness. There were no streetlights out here, no neighbors with lights shining over the porch or the garage door. It was as far from civilization as a person could get so close to a major city. If I turned slightly and strained to look over the softly swelling hills to the west, I should be able to see the outline of the city in the distance, but I really wasn’t interested. There was some sort of comfort in the darkness.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced almost guiltily down the hall toward the door behind which Dr. Cole was sleeping. She was too smart to believe our cover story for very long. If she heard me talking on the phone now, she might not believe it long enough for us to pull this thing off.
I stepped through the front door and onto the porch, the dry air taking my breath for a second as the heat overwhelmed my lungs. It wasn’t until I was a few feet from the front of the building that I finally pulled the phone from my pocket and slid the button that would connect the call.
“It’s late.”
“I know. I should have waited, but I didn’t want to call while she was around.”
“We’re good, boss. She’s buying the story for the moment.”
“We just need her to believe it for a few days.” There was a pause. “I wasn’t really calling about her.”
“What do you want, then, Ox?”
“You’ve only been out for a little while. I just want to make sure you’re okay and this is really what you want. Like I told you before, you could be on the other side of things, out of the trenches.”
“I don’t want to be out of the trenches. I like the trenches. This is where I belong.”
“It’s not what you wanted before.”
“Things change.”
“They don’t have to. Just because you went to jail once—”
“Let it go, Ox. I have.”
There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. Then a low sigh. “All right,” he said, but the reluctance in his voice was so clear that it was obviously a placating all right.
“I’ll call you if we have any problems. Otherwise, it’d probably be better if we don’t blow our story by having my phone buzz in the middle of the afternoon.”
“Yeah, I get it, brother. I won’t call again.”
He disconnected. There was a finality about it that seemed to underscore the separation that had happened years ago.
I slid the phone back into my pocket and returned to the high porch, taking a seat on the top step. I ran my fingers through my short hair, sighing as I rested my head in my hands. We had so many plans. Things we were going to do, the life we were going to live. Even criminals have dreams, I suppose. Even the children of losers have dreams.
I used to play that night through my mind over and over again, the night my entire life changed. The car, rushing down the street, heading toward what was supposed to be home and safety, but turned out to be death and destruction. Coming to after the accident, blood sticky on my forehead. I touched the scar now, felt the rough edges of it, remembering how it had bled like a stuck pig that night even though it wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the wounds I’d seen during my tour of duty in Afghanistan. Hearing the screams of the people in the other car, the girl who was dressed in what must have been a very expensive dress, her full breasts partially exposed, blood and gore sticking to her pale skin.
I shivered as the memories played through my mind. You never get used to those sorts of images. Not when you see them firsthand, and not when you see the photographic evidence in a prosecutor’s office.
I didn’t go to court, didn’t see the point of putting the families through that ordeal. If I had, things might have gone much differently than they did. I might still be behind bars.
I probably should still be behind bars.
It was a joke to think I could be anything more than what I was. I would forever be the son of a couple of losers, the juvenile delinquent I’d been in middle and high school. A brief term as a soldier couldn’t change a lifetime of mistakes.
This was where I deserved to be. This was where I would always deserve to be.
I stood and let myself back into the house, locking the front door and pocketing the key. I didn’t see her standing there until she cleared her throat.
“It stopped raining?”
I was confused for a moment, the heat and scorching dry earth outside that door not exactly bringing to mind images of rainstorms. But then I remembered the place where she thought we were stranded, the southern state where rains had been falling for more than two days.
“Yeah. For the moment.”
“Could I go outside? Get a little fresh air?”
She spared me the necessity of coming up with a fresh lie when she attempted to take a step without putting weight on her injured ankle and misjudged the forward momentum required. She stumbled forward and I caught her just before she would have had to either put weight on that bad ankle, or fall face first on the dingy living-room carpet.
She landed against my chest, my hands sliding up her arms to hold her just above the elbows. She made a sound that was a mix of frustration and relief, pressing her forehead to the center of my chest for a second before pulling back to look up at me.
“Thanks.”
I nodded, falling into those eyes, those perfect green jewels. I’d had to memorize her features from photographs days ago when I was first told about this thing we were going to do, had to know her face from a distance so that I could play my role to perfection. That first glance had revealed an attractive woman. Just another pretty girl. But there was something different about seeing her face to face, about being close to her, that made her more than just another pretty face.
A photograph could never really capture true beauty.
“How did you get out here without hurting yourself?”
“I hopped, like some sort of demented rabbit.”
I smiled, caught off guard by her subtle humor. “Demented?”
“You would understand if you’d seen it.”
I lowered my head slightly in a gesture of understanding. “You shouldn’t be on your feet. You’ll only make your injury worse.”
“I couldn’t sleep. And I need the restroom.”
“Next time just knock on the wall. I’ll come to get you.”
I swung her up in my arms, catching her off guard so that her body was pliant in my manipulations of it. But then she stiffened and wrapped her arms so tight around my neck that I thought briefly that she might choke the life out of me.
“You don’t have to do this!”
“How else are you going to get around? We have a drastic shortage of wheelchairs and crutches around here.”
That encouraged her to relax just a bit. “You sound like the director of the county hospital where I did my residency
.”
I carried her—surprisingly light—to the bathroom at the end of the hall. She held on to my arm as I set her on her foot again, her finger wrapped around the sleeve of my shirt as she fought to get her balance. When she was good, she looked up at me, her eyes bright.
“Thanks again.”
“I’ll be right outside the door. Call when you’re ready.”
I held on to her a second longer, my hand on her waist like we were about to dance. She was a tiny woman, one of those ones I’d always said I’d never find attractive because I didn’t want to spend my life bending down to anyone, especially a woman. But she fit against me a little better than I’d imagined someone as small and petite as she could do.
I could feel her eyes on me as I left the room, pulling the door closed behind me. I heard the faucet in the sink come on, drowning out all other sounds that might have taken place behind that thin door. I leaned against the wall, waited nearly five minutes before the water turned off and the door opened.
She wouldn’t look me in the eye as she came out, hopping on her one good foot.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “Since we’re up anyway…”
“I could eat.”
I lifted her up again. She didn’t stiffen this time, but she hesitated to put her arms around my neck. I carried her out to the kitchen and set her at the table, not making as big of a production of it this time. Staring into the fridge at the mess of food others had stocked it with, I tried to think of interesting concoctions that might please her.
“Is there any juice?” she asked, almost shyly. “I could use a little refreshment.”
“Apple and orange.”
“Apple would be lovely.”
I poured the juice and handed it to her, turning back to the fridge for a long moment, finally deciding on a quick omelet with a few diced vegetables. I stood with my back to her, working the knife over the cutting board quickly, almost as if afraid someone would catch me with the thing and take it away before I was done.
“What did you go to jail for?”
I stopped, frozen for a second. That was the last question I’d anticipated hearing come from her sweet lips. “What makes you think I was in jail?”
“The tattoos. They’re prison tattoos, aren’t they? The dots on your hand represent a man in a cell, and the teardrop on your face suggests—”
“It’s just a teardrop. It doesn’t represent anything.”
She fell quiet, but I could feel tension filling the room like floodwaters rushing into a small space. I set down the knife and took a deep breath, staring down at the dots on my hand that had been placed there by Alejandro himself.
“I was in prison. For vehicular manslaughter.”
“A car accident?”
“Yeah. It happened a long time ago.”
“Someone died.”
It was a statement, not a question. I picked up the knife again and went back to chopping tomatoes and onions and bell peppers.
“It was a car full of kids coming home from the prom. The driver wasn’t restrained.”
“I’ve seen a lot of that, I hate to say. Kids think they’re immortal or something. Think that bad things won’t happen to them.”
“Is that what you do? Emergency medicine?”
“No, but I did a rotation in a county ER when I was in med school.” She shifted in her chair, causing it to budge a little against the floor. “I’m a pediatrician now.”
“Taking care of earaches and stomach bugs?”
“Mostly.”
I cracked a dozen eggs into a bowl and scrambled them with a fork while butter melted in the frying pan. The moment the butter was all melted, I slowly poured the eggs in, watching them spread out and soak up that golden sweet cream.
“Must be boring compared to the emergency room.”
“I like boring. Besides, I’ve always had a bit of a soft place in my heart for kids.”
“Then what are you doing in Mexico, working at a free clinic?”
She moved her glass, the sound of it scraping across the top of the table forcing me to glance over my shoulder at her. She was staring into its empty depths, a slight frown marring her smooth brow.
“I have another soft place in my heart for my brother, who happens to work for a nonprofit that opens medical clinics in places where healthcare is more of a myth than a reality.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. Scott. You probably saw him in the clinic a few times—the tall blond guy.”
I shrugged my shoulders as I carefully scattered shredded cheese and the diced vegetables over the slow-cooking eggs. The edges were already firm. I lifted them gently, encouraging the liquid sitting on top to spill onto the hot surface of the pan.
“I saw two pretty women. That’s about it.”
“When did you get out of prison?”
I chuckled, thinking I knew where she was going with that question. It was something of a cliché to believe a man who's been locked up away from the fairer sex can only think of that sweet flesh when he leaves lockup. Though it was true to a certain extent, it wasn’t always a man’s main focus. It wasn’t mine.
“Five months ago.”
“And you’re already in another country.”
“I served my time. I don’t owe anyone a thing.”
I flipped the side of the omelet across the top, waiting for a heartbeat or two before carefully lifting the whole thing and turning it, making sure it was cooked through and slightly brown on both sides. When I was satisfied that it was done, I turned off the heat and pushed the pan aside, grabbing some bread from a loaf on the counter to toast a few pieces.
“Butter? Jam? Cream cheese?”
“Butter’s fine.”
I finished serving up the meal and carried it to the table on two plates, taking some grapes from the fridge to add a little freshness. I dug in, so used to the time clock ticking during meals that I ate faster than I really needed to, finishing most of my eggs and all my toast before she was even halfway through her half of the omelet.
“It must be hard, adjusting to life outside.”
I sat back, setting my fork down. “The freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want, is more intimidating than you could possibly imagine.”
She lowered her head, acknowledging that idea. “I’ve been told something very similar to that before.” She brushed a piece of hair out of her face. “Speaking of freedom, do you think the phones might be working in the morning?”
“I told you; it takes time for the Mexican authorities to make repairs out here”
“What about a landline? Are those still a thing here?”
“Not as common as you’d think. But we might be able to find a phone at this little diner down the road once the roads dry out a bit.”
“How long will that take?”
“Another day or so.” I picked up my fork again, pushing my remaining eggs around the plate. “I know this must be difficult, doctor, but I’m doing the best I can.”
“What was I driving?”
“Excuse me?”
“What was I driving when I was in the accident?”
I took the final bite of my eggs, chewing slowly as I pondered the question. “A Cadillac Escalade,” I told her.
“What color?”
“Black and gold.”
She played with her food too, pushing the vegetables around her plate before spearing them and lifting them delicately to her mouth. “Did I say anything when you first found me?”
“Not really. You were unconscious.”
I sat back and watched her, could practically see her trying to make connections in her mind. Much too smart for this. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to be able to keep this charade going on before she realized something was wrong, but the ruse was necessary. If she knew what was really going on here, she’d be impossible to control, impossible to keep hidden. And then we’d have an even bigger mess on our hands.
“I’m not a bad guy,�
� I said, leaning toward her, my big hands dangling between my legs. “I’m just an ex-con trying to do the right thing.”
“I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you, and you’re keeping me prisoner in this trailer in the middle of nowhere!” Tears filled her eyes, but I suspected they weren’t as genuine as she wanted me to believe. “I have a family—a father—who are probably scared to death for me!”
“I’m sure they are and we’ll get you somewhere where you can contact them as soon as possible. But that’s not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s two o’clock in the morning, Dr. Cole!” I stood up and gathered our plates, tossing them into the sink so hard that one of them cracked in half. I gripped the front edge of the counter for a long moment, my head lowered as I tried to gather my control. “Look,” I finally said, turning to face her, “I’ll try to get to town in the morning, see if I can get to that little clinic. Until then, you should try to rest. You may not believe it, but you have been through an ordeal and you need to allow yourself to recover.”
She leaned forward a little, running her hand over the bandage I’d wrapped around her leg. “Was it an enclosed fracture? How do you know it’s broken?”
“Your foot was sitting at an odd angle. It’s broken.”
“How do you know? How many broken ankles have you seen?”
“I’m a southern boy, ma’am,” I said, exaggerating a Texas accent. “I grew up with a bunch of rough-and-tumble sort of boys, including a brother who broke his arm twice in one summer.” I nodded at the surprised look on her face. “And I was in Afghanistan. Some of the injuries I saw over there would give even you, with your experiences in the county emergency room, a run for your money.”
“You were in the army?”
“I was a navy SEAL, ma’am.”
I stripped off my T-shirt to show her a tattoo that she’d clearly missed when she was taking her inventory earlier. It was a SEAL trident that included an anchor and images of everything the SEALs were meant to protect: air, land, and sea. This tattoo was colorful, well drawn and well executed, much more impressive than the other tattoos that marked my body. It should be; it was done by a professional artist, not my cellmate at Huntsville.
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