by Al Pessin
He found the door locked, as usual. He pounded on it. “Hey! Let me out of here! Hey! Open this door!”
A voice from outside said, “Stand back, please.”
Faraz stepped back. “Okay, okay. I’m back.”
The door opened, revealing the doctor, the major, and two MPs.
“I need to go home, right now.”
“That’s not going to happen,” the major said. “We’ve discussed this, Lieutenant. You need some time.”
“Time’s up, Major. I need to go.”
“Sorry, son.” The major’s false sincerity seemed to trigger something in Faraz. Calling him “son” at that moment was undoubtedly a bad choice of words.
Faraz pushed past the major and tried to make a run for it, but the MPs stopped him. They each got him by an arm and marched him back into the room.
Bridget stood against the wall, out of their way, hardly believing what she was seeing.
Faraz calmed down, and the MPs loosened their grip. Bridget took a step toward him, “Faraz—”
“You did this!” he screamed. He lunged toward her with hands out, as if to grab her by the throat. The MPs held him. Bridget staggered backward, out of danger but breathing hard.
“You ruined my life! You’ll never let me out of here.”
From outside the room, the doctor shouted down the hallway, “Restraints!”
Faraz’s tirade continued while the MPs wrestled him onto the bed. Once he was strapped down and had stopped shouting, Bridget moved to his side. “Faraz, I want you to know you have my deepest condolences.”
Faraz stared at the ceiling, fists clenched. He was mouthing a prayer.
Bridget decided to make her final points, whether he was paying attention or not. “You should also know that your mother is doing all right, coping. The shock of you returning could make things worse for her. As I said, there’s a lot to think about. We’ll talk again when you’re feeling better.”
Faraz turned toward her and yanked at the restraints, shaking the bed and startling Bridget. He seemed to take some satisfaction in scaring her. “Just get the hell out of here,” he said through his teeth. Then he turned toward the ceiling again and would say nothing more.
Bridget left the room and walked straight into Major Harrington and Dr. Ellison. She held up a hand to shut down the “I told you so” speech, even though she deserved it.
“My report will be in agreement with yours,” she said. She walked past them, down the stairs, and out of the hospital into the searing afternoon sun.
Harrington followed her out. “Ms. Davenport, I have some other candidates for your mission. I’ll be in D.C. later this week, if you want to discuss.”
Bridget couldn’t look him in the eye. “Call my office to set it up,” she said.
Back on the ferry, Bridget stared at the scenery but didn’t see it. All she could see was Faraz in restraints, seething. He was truly alone now. He’d have to work out his problems with the shrinks and the major. Meanwhile, she needed to focus on her own problems. Chief among them was that she’d have to find someone else to shut the terrorists down.
* * *
Bridget slipped into bed next to Will at nearly one a.m., dislodging Sarge, her cat. She was exhausted from the trip but had grabbed a quick shower and put on her usual oversized T-shirt. When she touched Will, he jumped.
“Hey,” she whispered. “It’s just me.”
“Mmmm.”
She pressed her body against his, put her right arm around him, and kissed his shoulder blade.
Will started to turn toward her but winced with pain.
“Easy, sailor.” Bridget could feel the large bandage on his thigh.
He completed the maneuver, and they kissed. It was a deep, longing kiss with a full-body embrace.
When the kiss ended, Bridget asked, “What do the docs say?”
Will sighed and pursed his lips. “Extra weeks of rehab. Can’t say how many. No promises long term.”
“I’m sorry, Will.”
“Yeah, thanks. But, um . . .” Will smiled that one-dimple smile that she loved. “I’m cleared for all other activities.”
They kissed again. Will tried to roll on top of her, but the pain stopped him. “Damn.”
“Let me.” Bridget pushed him onto his back, sat up, and took off her T-shirt.
Chapter Ten
There was no more pretense of Faraz being an honored, hopefully short-term patient. He was a prisoner, and he’d be there for a while.
MPs came into the room whenever the nurses or doctors did. He was watched closely during his outside recreation. He was convinced they were putting some sort of drugs in his food.
At least in Afghanistan he’d had options. He could talk to people, make plans, come up with strategies. Most of the time, he could have escaped, if he’d had to, although he probably wouldn’t have gotten far. Here, they had him covered from all angles.
The evenings were the worst. He’d been through the DVD collection. He was left to turn his situation over and over in his mind. He thought about his mother a lot. He needed to be with her, but he seemed unable to take the pathway home that the shrinks dangled in front of him, if that was even real.
Faraz had faced the same despair in Afghanistan, and yet he’d found a way out. It involved an AK-47 and the deaths of dozens of people.
Here, he could see no way out.
“How was your dinner, Lieutenant?” Nurse Julie summoned the same level of cheer near the end of her shift as she did at the beginning. The MPs guarding the open doorway were decidedly not as cheery.
“Fine.” Faraz held out his tray, piled with empty plates. With little else to do, he had been eating everything they put in front of him. He was regaining some of the weight he’d lost in Afghanistan and losing some of the muscle he had built.
He sometimes bantered with Julie. But tonight, he had no stomach for it.
Julie seemed to notice. “All righty, then. You have a good evening, and I will see you tomorrow.” She took the tray and left him alone.
Sitting in bed with the head raised, Faraz felt under the covers with his right hand and found what he had put there during dinner. It wasn’t exactly what he needed, but it would have to do.
The dinner knife was dull, with only a short serrated section near the tip. He pressed his thumb against the small points on the knife and rubbed back and forth. Nothing. He pressed harder. Then harder still. Finally, he drew blood. He pulled his hand out and tasted the drop on his thumb.
This could work.
Another drop of blood seeped out of the small cut and ran down his thumb. In his mind, the red streak spelled out the word Exit.
Faraz took a tissue from his bedside table, wrapped it around his thumb, and leaned back on his pillow to think.
It didn’t take long to make the decision. There truly was no escape, except maybe this one.
He felt a pang of guilt. He would be abandoning his mother. But they were never going to let him see her again anyway. And she already thought he was dead.
Faraz sighed. No one would mourn him. There was no one to say the blessings, to cry at his graveside. That had already been done.
Maybe Kylie Walinsky would mourn him. But he didn’t care about her. He’d be pleased to make her feel even a fraction of the pain and guilt he felt.
Faraz got out of bed, picked up the prayer rug, went into the bathroom, and locked the door. He put the rug on the floor and the knife on the vanity. He washed his hands at the sink, stood facing east, and prayed. He knelt on the rug and leaned forward, putting his forehead to the floor. “Allahu akbar,” he repeated. God is great.
After his prayers, Faraz rolled up the rug, undressed, folded his Afghan clothes, and placed them neatly on a shelf under the sink. He caressed the top layer, as he once caressed the army beret his late cousin Johnny had given him all those years ago, the one with the insignia of the unit they both joined, the Screaming Eagles. Johnny had been Faraz’s closest frie
nd, his mentor. Against all reason, Faraz convinced himself Johnny would approve of what he was about to do.
Faraz turned on the shower and made the water as hot as he could bear. He took the knife, stepped in, and sat on the tub floor.
He stared up at the shower light as steam rose around him. The hot water stung the cut on his thumb. It was pain he deserved. And he deserved more.
He raised the knife.
But this was a sin. Suicide is forbidden. Ah, but in jihad, it is allowed. This would be his personal jihad, his personal strike against Walinsky and the major and the shrinks. Damn them to hell.
Faraz put the knife against his left wrist. He said the Shahada: “There is no God but God. Mohammed is the messenger of God.”
He took a breath, closed his eyes, pressed as hard as he could on the knife, and ran the sharp edge into his skin.
Even though he was expecting it, the pain startled him. Faraz opened his eyes. He was bleeding, but not the gush he expected. He settled himself and slashed again. He cringed but recovered. He raised his right hand a few inches above his wrist and slashed down as hard as he could several times.
Now the gush came. Faraz was becoming accustomed to the pain. The hot water kept the blood flowing. He felt light-headed.
It wasn’t his wrist anymore. It was Walinsky’s.
Faraz slashed again. And again.
He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. He thought of his mother, felt the warmth of her embrace. He opened his eyes to look at her. But she was gone. His whole life was gone.
* * *
Julie looked at the clock above the nurses’ station in the secure wing. She had fifteen minutes left in her shift. Normally, she would leave it to her relief to check on Faraz before his bedtime. But something told her to do it herself—something in Faraz’s attitude, maybe his lack of banter after dinner.
She went to his door and knocked. The MPs turned, ready to accompany her inside. “Lieutenant Abdallah,” she called out in her brightest singsong.
When there was no response, she opened the door a little and called again. Nothing. Julie poked her head inside and saw that Faraz wasn’t there. Then she heard the shower. She went to the bathroom door and raised her voice to be heard. “Hi, Lieutenant. It’s Julie. Just checking on you. I’ll be back when you’re finished.”
She found it odd that Faraz didn’t reply. Maybe he couldn’t hear her over the water. Maybe he was in a bad mood. Some steam escaped through the space under the door. Julie shrugged and returned to her desk.
Ten minutes later, she tried again. This time, Faraz’s room was filled with steam, and she was surprised to hear the water still flowing. When she knocked on the bathroom door, he still didn’t answer. “Lieutenant,” she called out.
She pounded her fist on the door. “Lieutenant. Lieutenant!” Her voice was suddenly desperate. She turned to the MPs. “We need to open this door.”
The men looked at each other, not sure what she wanted.
“Now!” she screamed. “Break it down!”
The larger MP stepped forward, raised his left foot, and kicked. The door held. He kicked again. No movement. Then both men put their shoulders into it. Julie heard a crack. A couple more hits and the doorframe gave way.
They saw Faraz slumped in the back of the tub, his blood spiraling into the drain.
Chapter Eleven
Bridget opened her apartment door and found Will on the sofa playing a special forces video game, his bad leg resting on two pillows stacked on the coffee table. He didn’t look up when she opened the door.
“Hi,” Bridget said.
“Yeah. Hi.” He twisted the controller, setting off explosions on the TV. The volume was uncomfortably high.
Bridget hung her coat on a hook by the door and kicked off her heels. She went and sat next to him. “Fun?”
“Closest I can get to the action,” Will said, still not looking at her. He hit a button to throw a grenade and blow up an enemy position.
Bridget winced, but she took hold of Will’s arm and put her head on his shoulder.
He pulled away. “I need both arms for this.” He raised the controller and pushed furiously at the buttons. His avatar attacked but got blown away by a hidden bomb. “Shit!”
“Sorry. Was that my fault?”
“Whatever.” He tossed the controller. It bounced off the coffee table onto the floor, sending Sarge the cat diving for cover.
“How was your physical therapy today?”
“Sucked, as usual.”
“What do the docs say?”
“They say it’s going well. I say, at this rate, I’ll be cleared for action just in time to retire.”
Bridget feared the same. She couldn’t imagine Will in another career, or stuck behind a desk. She had served nine years in the army and knew the allure of action and the camaraderie and satisfaction that life provided.
“We should go somewhere, get away, you know?”
“You wouldn’t be able to work fifteen hours a day if we did.”
“I’m sorry about that. I had hoped this would be different. But you know what’s going on.”
“Actually, I don’t. How’s it different from what’s been going on since 9-11?”
“My new job, for one thing. We’re under a lot of pressure.”
Will scoffed. “Pressure is busting down a door and not knowing what’s on the other side. A deadline for a memo is not pressure.”
“Is that what you think I do? Write memos? We work in the real world, just a little differently than you did.”
“Than I did. Thanks.”
“Than you did and will do again. Okay?”
“Are you humoring me now? Great seeing you for our daily five minutes.”
Will used both hands to ease his leg off the table, then pushed himself up, leaning on the sofa arm and the cane they’d given him.
“You know,” Bridget said to his back, “another thing that’s different is that instead of being halfway around the world for months on end doing your job, you’re here throwing guilt at me for doing my job.”
Will hobbled to the bedroom and slammed the door.
Bridget’s first thought was to go after him. He was prickly these days, but that was clearly the wrong thing to say. She should go after him, hold him.
Maybe later, when he cooled down.
Bridget went to the kitchen to zap a frozen dinner. By the time she got into the bedroom twenty minutes later, Will was asleep, his cane leaning against the night table.
* * *
Bridget was up, showered, dressed, and making coffee by the time Will came to the kitchen doorway, looking sheepish.
“Sorry about last night,” he said, leaning on the cane. “I blame the bourbon.” He pointed at an empty bottle, now in the recycling bin.
“I’m not sure that goes with your meds. But hey, I’m sorry, too. I know this is tough for you.” She walked over and kissed him. He put his free arm around her, and she hugged him as hard as she dared.
The coffee maker beeped. “Saved by the bell,” Will said.
Bridget looked up at him. “Maybe I don’t want to be saved.”
“That’s nice, but you’re all perfect for work, and I have a session with the shrink this morning. Post-combat-injury stuff. Should be fun.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that. I had some post-tour sessions. No fun at all, but useful, actually.” Bridget went to pour the coffee.
“You figure I could use some head shrinking?”
“C’mon, let’s not start. I’m just saying.”
“Yeah, okay.” Will took his coffee and kissed her. “Sorry, babe. Maybe I need the shrink as much as the PT. You know the SEAL motto—‘The only easy day was yesterday.’”
“That’s really dark, when you think about it.”
“I’ll ask the shrink.”
Bridget gave a half laugh. “Hey, how about if I make sure to be home for dinner tonight? We have steak and fries in the freezer. I seem to rem
ember you do a pretty good job with that.”
“You remember right. It’s the only meal I can cook besides combat rations.”
“Well, I’m done with those. Shall we say steak fries at seven?” Bridget put her travel mug in her purse.
“I’ll believe it when I see you come through the door. But yeah, that would be great.”
* * *
When Bridget walked into her office at 0730, the secure phone was ringing.
“Davenport.”
“This is Major Harrington. Lieutenant Abdallah made a suicide attempt last night, but he’s alive.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” Bridget dropped her bag and sat down heavily in her desk chair.
“He used a dinner knife. Made a mess of his left wrist, lost a fair amount of blood. But he’ll recover.” The major’s tone was neutral, his cadence even, as always.
“What do we do now?”
“We? We don’t do anything. The docs will continue to work on him, mind and body. He’ll be on suicide watch. His days working for us are over for the foreseeable future.”
Bridget exhaled. There was no arguing.
“I’ll see you this afternoon to present the other candidates. I should be in the building by 1700. That work for you?”
“Sure.” Bridget didn’t hide her disappointment. Even after her visit to Gitmo, she had been hoping Faraz would pull through and take the mission. Had the doctor been right? Did her visit set back his recovery, drive him to this?
Bridget knew no one factor ever triggered a suicide. But that didn’t do much to ease her guilt.
* * *
Faraz woke up back in his bed with lots of tubes and sensors in him leading to a collection of monitoring machines. His restraints were on, and the door was open. None of it made sense. He saw the call button tied to the rail near his right hand and pushed it.
Julie appeared in the doorway. “Lieutenant Abdallah, you have no idea how glad I am to see you awake. You gave us quite a scare.”
Now Faraz remembered. “Oh, shit,” he said.
“Shit, indeed, Lieutenant. We will not have any more of that.” Julie checked his vitals on one of the machines.
Faraz looked at his wrist, wrapped in a bandage that covered most of his hand. His fingertips were yellow from disinfectant. “I guess it didn’t work.”