Discretion

by David Balzarini

  “Hello there,” Jamal manages to get out, with a strange sound to his voice; he clearly isn’t himself.

  “Hello back,” I say and pull a chair to his bedside and take a seat. “When did Joanna leave?” I ask, since it feels like a simple enough question he should be able to answer.

  “Maybe twenty. Mother called from…my place…Delana woke.”

  He’s delirious. Does he even know who I am?

  He reaches for a digital control, and with the press of a button, the bed comes to life, lifting at the back by ten degrees and for a moment, our eyes make contact.

  I sigh at the sight of my friend, alive. I try to be grateful, but this is difficult to swallow. He smiles a little, and then it’s gone. As if in a moment, he was himself—then no more.

  Police arrived on the accident scene in two minutes, given the location and magnitude, and had to quickly resolve the nightmare. Demolished cars in a congested intersection at peak traffic of the day. No small task. Each damaged vehicle involved became a steel cage, keeping its passengers hostage. In several instances, crushing them slowly, toying with life and death. Glass and metal fragments from the wreckage scattered over a hundred yards, creating obstacles for the rest of the motorists. The day was warm and sunny when several lives abruptly ended. Countless witnesses live on, changed forever.

  The news did a feature story on the accident. One man caused this. Milton Westbrook, the driver; his passenger still an unknown. Forty years old, twice divorced with grown children who don’t talk to him. He has a criminal record.

  Fortunately for Westbrook, he’s dead, thought to be his intention on what the media is calling a massive murder-suicide, using his Ford F350 as a weapon. On a raid to his house, police found a variety of prescription painkillers, anti-depressants, and the like.

  Why not just drive the car off a cliff somewhere in the mountains? Why kill people if the mission is to kill yourself? Jackson’s comments come to mind…there is an invisible enemy hard at work here.

  Do I have something to do with this by sending Jamal that email? Could people discovering Jackson’s email send a suicide case after Jamal?

  Then why not me? Is this a warning from the crime ring…or a mistake?

  I will be protected…perhaps that’s why Jamal is in the hospital, instead of me. I rub my scalp in angst.

  “Colin…you all right?” Jamal says, seemingly coherent.

  I shrug and stay silent a moment. If someone came to harm Jamal, what would I do? Am I prepared for such a thing?

  “How are you feeling?” I ask. The question feels odd, considering what’s happened to him in the past day.

  He grunts and moves a little on the bed. The discomfort in his face makes me cringe for him. Jamal’s pain is palpable.

  “Can I do something?”

  He manages a snort-like laugh. “Tell the group to keep praying for me.”

  “Pain meds helping?”

  “Perhaps a little too much. I’m woozy. What time is it? It’s still 2013, right?”

  I restrain from laughing a little. “Same year. Christmas was nice.”

  He flinches. “Christmas? When was Christmas?”

  It’s hard to keep from laughing. Jamal would enjoy this too much were he in my position. “The accident was on Monday night, today is Tuesday.”

  He grunts and manages a snicker. “I’d have done the same thing. You’ve kept your sense of humor.” He pauses a moment. “So…what are the doctors saying? The truth.”

  “Didn’t Joanna…”

  “No. Joanna and I don’t discuss those things. Too hard for her.”

  I nod and explain what I know from the accident and what I’ve overheard. Or what I know from Christel. The monologue covers the basics. Jamal needs to heal and can learn the details of the accident when he’s ready.

  He sighs heavy. “I thought about that. Can’t remember what happened, so if you’d made up a story about me being caught in a tornado and thrown a half mile, I’d have believed you. Just so you know, you missed your chance.”

  “Thanks. Rub it in, why don’t you?”

  “Just saying, I would have capitalized on that. I’d had you believing you were in another part of the world.” He cackles at his joke.

  “Ha, ha. I wouldn’t do that to you. I figure you’ve got enough to deal with.”

  “There’s always tomorrow. I’ll have had enough drugs between now and then—I probably won’t remember this conversation.”

  “This does present a unique opportunity,” I volunteer.

  He and I share a laugh and it’s good to be with my friend again, who is in good spirits despite what’s happened. He may need to learn to walk again for all I know. We talk for a few minutes more, joking like kids and forgetting responsibilities that the world places on our shoulders, that we place upon ourselves. It makes me think: how many friends I’ve given up over the years because I knew their thoughts? Like the pages of The Wall Street Journal, I’ve recycled many. Insincere. Deceitful. Not Jamal. With the passing of time, he and I have only bonded stronger. A brother I never had.

  And in this moment, Christel gives a shocking order to me. One that makes me wonder why. And a part of me longs to be free of her—for the cost is more than I can stand.

  Kill him.

  FORTY

  Jamal talks for a few minutes, though he is getting weary fast. He is speaking—his lips are moving—but I dwell on Christel’s bitter words. To absorb in torment and solitude the order to kill my childhood friend. Her words are a sickness that drains my will to live. A virus that destroys without restraint.

  I am tiny, an ounce of grain among the sand. A speck thrown about in the wind with no direction or ability to stop.

  I part company with a kiss to his forehead, leaving him to sleep. I push aside the thought that it will be the last, that these moments are the last of Jamal’s life. What am I to do now?

  An iced tea in hand, I slouch in a chair in the waiting room. Joanna sits next to me in silence, keeps me company, and I do the same for her.

  What else is there to do? The seat is not particularly comfortable and fidgeting happens like breathing. There must be someone who would understand.

  The source. Would the source have insight into Jamal’s accident and Natalie’s disappearance? I’m convinced that he’s the key to solving the case and putting dangerous people away for life. And keeping my past hidden from the public eye.

  Jackson’s source is my best chance to understand Christel and perhaps Natalie’s abduction, too.

  To be with my thoughts and try not to do anything rash is a challenge.

  Two billion dollars to manage, with a hefty eight-figure payday annually, most consisting of performance-related bonus, which Christel drives.

  Fifteen years ago, Christel didn’t help me when Natalie disappeared for three long days. Did she deliberately let me suffer? Was it punishment or to prove her power over me? I can still hear the shots that killed Riley Dasher…those I remember. The sound and feel of that weapon in my hands that brought the end of another person that day. And I cannot forget. The men on the boat, holding Natalie hostage, was one situation. This is different. Those men committed a crime; the situation called for death. How can Jamal deserve the same?

  Unable to stop twitching, I rise from my seat. Joanna walks over, her timing impeccable. “What’s bothering you, Colin?”

  I shrug. Joanna is dissecting me like a cadaver before a skilled pathologist. She knows something is wrong. Behind those deep brown eyes is a fiercely intelligent woman who married my best friend and knows me all too well.

  “Colin…talk to me.”

  She wants to know whether Jamal is worse than she believes.

  Joanna is emotionally spent. She wants to kiss her baby goodnight and sleep. She knows her life will not be the same.

  Now I’m an assassin. A killer. Christel must know how hard this is. Can I do the unthinkable?

  “It’s…complicated.” I manage a smile and sa
y, “Marisa…” I let the air between us settle, willing her to take the bait.

  Joanna cracks a grin, but she recognizes my comment is a worm on a hook. She knows Marisa is a tough subject, but is that really what troubles me? She yawns, as only the truly exhausted can. She wipes a tear quickly, and gives a quick, short nod, accepting my bullshit response. “Yes, it is. Jamal has another procedure in the morning, so it’s going to be a long night.”

  “Get some rest, Joanna. Delana will be happy to see you.”

  She smiles and tears streak down her face. “I know.” Her lips tremble. She pauses a moment, watching me, eye to eye. “He loves you, Colin. You know that, right?”

  My head bows in shame, staring at the floor. It’s the best I can give. She walks to the elevator down the hall from where I stand and in a long moment, she’s gone—going for a walk, and will be back in thirty minutes, since she can’t stand to be away any longer.

  Have I lost my mind to even think about taking Jamal’s life? What the hell am I to do? I can’t kill my best friend, yet I cannot stand dissension with Christel. I can’t see living without Jamal. And life without Christel would be…unbearable.

  Christel answers unspoken needs, the silent prayers. She is all things to me. A friend. A guide. Wisdom beyond what is known or foreseen.

  I can’t live without her. Nor him. It comes down to choice.

  You made a deal.

  FORTY-ONE

  A deal? What deal? Christel, what are you talking about? There’s no deal…

  Silence.

  Where did this come from? I never agreed to be her assassin. The kidnapping was years ago and it was awful. Charity work is fine. Giving money and time is a good thing to do—but this?

  Will Christel leave, should I refuse?

  Silence lingers. No words of comfort. No encouragement. My hands begin to shake slightly, as if a natural twitch. Anxiety? A chill courses through me, and goose bumps form. I feel the need to hit something or someone.

  I jump from my seat. What was that? A tingling sensation, of something moving in my pants. Is something wrong with my leg? I grab at my thigh and feel the bulge. What the hell? My hand warily enters my pocket. My phone. Fuck, that scared me. A text message from Natalie, who is on her way to the hospital. Sigh. My phone causes terror. Trouble on the horizon.

  So what’s the plan now? I need to clear my head, but I’m afraid to move.

  A text message arrives, from an unknown sender: You should have a cup of coffee.

  That’s torture.

  The television is on the corner of the waiting room, about three feet away, but I can hardly hear it. The remaining visitors for Jamal leave together, as if on command.

  Rising from my chair, I look around to admire the quiet emptiness. A security guard and a cop walk down the hall, side by side, having a friendly chat.

  Can I do this?

  The coffee is where it should be, around the bend from the waiting room, near the vending machines and ice dispenser. There’s a syringe on the counter out in the open, as if placed there on purpose. It’s loaded, as the plunger is all the way extended. No cap on the tip. Armed and ready.

  Take it.

  I’d rather have a cup of coffee.

  I stare at the needle, willing it to go away. But it remains. The liquid is clear, but what is it? Would it kill me instead, if I take the injection?

  I can’t do this. I can’t take the life of an innocent man and I can’t commit suicide, leaving me no options but to run away, to refuse.

  You did that once. You know the outcome.

  But Jamal is innocent.

  He is not innocent. There is much you don’t know.

  But deserving of death?

  He does not deserve to live.

  Why?

  That is not for you to decide.

  I dare not touch the syringe. It is for me, but I cannot take it. My will versus hers. My limbs remain motionless; my eyes fix on the lethal device, that three-inch weapon. It contains the ability to give life or take it away. Why should something so small and seemingly insignificant have such great power?

  The very thought of its tip entering Jamal and taking his life…

  My phone vibrates, but I ignore it a moment. Then I pull it out of my pocket and read the text from Natalie: Stand strong, I’ll be there soon.

  Not soon enough.

  FORTY-TWO

  Natalie could be thirty minutes away, or five. How long can I stand here like this?

  I stare at the syringe, contemplating what to do. What remains? Risk and reward. If I do the will of Christel, I’ll remain under her guidance and countless people in need benefit.

  Should I refuse, will she disappear like years ago?

  Natalie and I were innocent then, or as much as teenagers could be.

  I think back to people, no…the lives Christel helped over the years: Diseases cured. Families reunited. Positive things Christel has done.

  How can I refuse her? I hurt not only myself by disobedience, but a multitude of others whom I’ve never met. Do they deserve to live? Perhaps someone more worthy of life than Jamal is to benefit from his death—perhaps by his death, life can be spared. How can one life be more valuable than another or less valuable than five or ten lives?

  Then everything changes with a text message from Natalie: Stay away from the needle.

  I drop my phone and it hits the tile and clanks about, and then comes to a full stop. My mind freezes and my limbs remain in place, as if I’m caught in a crime with nothing to do but accept the blame. How could Natalie know?

  Black spots start dancing and the room, my surroundings, begin to move, as if I’m on a boat. It’s difficult to walk or even stand still, so I take on an unusual gait back to the waiting area, empty-handed. My head reaches my hands, close to my lap, hunched forward on a chair, waiting for uncertainty. A tingle starts through my head and my back, like a foot falling asleep.

  The unknown future. Liberating and terrifying.

  Since my teens, I’ve had Christel at my side. At my command. To see what no one else sees. The future has always been a source of comfort for me, as the days ahead are brighter than the past.

  And now…I will come down from being a god in my own right, to a mere mortal—an insect among birds, to be eaten along with the rest. A pawn among kings.

  I am no longer the elite, but must be content to live among the weary.

  I can’t harm Jamal. There’s no killer in me. This is a choice—Christel can entice, but she cannot force me to become something I’m not.

  I will not give you more than you can handle.

  This task is not for me.

  Yes, it is. Simple.

  Not in the slightest. Far more cunning than what I possess.

  I will help you and protect you.

  I don’t doubt the dependability of Christel, but I know what I’m capable of and I can’t live with being the killer of Jamal, even though it will cost me greatly to refuse. The future now is as opaque as the walls of this hospital. But I do know one thing: Jamal is in danger—he is her target.

  Christel will send someone else. As much as I want to believe this is only a test, I must trust my instinct. The needle on the counter is proof. It could only have gotten on there by someone putting it there, someone who may have the same intention—to kill.

  I move slowly and carefully to my feet, paying attention for anyone who looks suspicious, listening for footsteps nearby. I wait for any sound of a passerby who may be here to take on the assignment, with a syringe in hand. The room spins, but slower now than before.

  I turn toward the coffee’s location. Feet moving on the linoleum floor. Fast. From the opposite side of the wall to the waiting area. Stumbling, a surge of energy courses through me, as the counter is empty; the needle is gone.

  Moving as fast as I can without falling over, I turn around and run for Jamal’s room, passing staff and dodging dawdlers. Nurses and doctors are walking about, minding their own busines
s. If it comes down to a fight, which it will, would the staff help me to save a patient?

  Down the hall is a man walking this way, in a white lab coat and the staff’s sea-foam scrubs. About ten paces away and in no apparent hurry. The syringe is in his right hand, carefully concealed by how his hand holds it near the lab coat. He takes no notice of me, and walks by, as if I’m invisible.

  I must stop him.

  He turns the corner and I follow closely. A short security guard with silver hair leaves his chair to step into my path and holds a hand up, his palm facing me, like a cop directing traffic. He says something about visitors’ hours, which I ignore, and scream at the man in the white coat, who looks like a doctor, but clearly isn’t. The guard tries to force me back and waves his hands in the air from side to side. I grab hold of him by the shirt and push him to the floor. He lands hard on his back and yells. Footsteps behind me, approaching fast. There are many.

  I run with all I have and push open the partially closed door to Jamal’s room. I lunge for the impostor, standing at the controls and close to Jamal. My weight forces him against the bed; his torso slams against the heavy frame. He groans and swears, and then throws an elbow to my face. The pain to my temple is intense and I release him, falling to the floor. I wrap up his legs with mine and twist hard, to bring him down. He falls, but catches himself with both hands on the bed frame; his fingers are white as he holds on.

  He pulls a foot free from my leg grip and kicks me. I flop over and slowly come to my feet. I meet the bewildered impostor, a struggle that lasts but a moment, before an immeasurable force pulls me from behind. My back hits the wall and glass shatters. I land on my knees and struggle to reach out a hand, to try to defend Jamal with all that’s left. The impostor swears profusely and seems angered at two men who are now in the room and bring me to my feet. His words are incomprehensible, like blubbering, as if he’s afraid and not in a position of power.