by A Rosendale
“Hey, I have something for you,” she announced after a long comforting silence.
Dirk rubbed his face with both hands as she retrieved something from a bag he hadn’t noticed. “When did you go home?”
“This morning while you showered.”
The perplexing look brought a gentle smile to her lips. “You were in there for an hour and a half. I had plenty of time.”
The news made him reel. Time really had no concept amidst memories and pain.
Returning to the couch, she passed across a small envelope.
Dirk opened it tenderly. “Les Miserables tickets.”
“I thought they were a fitting gift following our French foray,” Alma explained. “While you were away, I purchased them for this weekend. But if you don’t feel up for it, I can exchange them.”
Dirk held the paper tickets in his hand, frowning. It hurt simply to think right now, let alone walk. ‘But,’ he contemplated, ‘the train ride and play were just sitting, which is what I would do here anyway. A distraction would be nice.’
“It’s totally okay if you want to reschedule,” she reiterated.
“No. I think it would be good to get away. Let’s go.”
Her brilliant smile lifted ten pounds from his shoulders. It was still a struggle to smile, but his eyes brightened. Alma took it as a good sign.
Chapter 25
We need to meet.
Dirk read the message with trepidation.
Alma’s here.
The woman?
He frowned at the title.
Alma. Girlfriend.
Send her away.
After another tumultuous night in which solace could only be had in Alma’s arms, he was reluctant to be without her.
She sat perched at his desk, her laptop keys clicking rhythmically in response to university emails.
“Do you want to go home and pack for our trip?” he asked suddenly.
She looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t spoken all day. Until his phone had buzzed a few minutes before, he’d been staring fixedly at the corner of the table where she’d long since planted a steaming cup of tea. Steam no longer wisped from the full mug.
“I guess,” she answered tentatively, sensing the motive. “How long do you need?”
Her intelligence still astounded him. “A couple hours,” he guessed.
“Okay. Just text me if you need longer.” She rose from the desk, gently kissed his stubbly cheek, and left the apartment.
Dirk sent another text with a suggested time and went to shower.
When he returned to the living room garbed in jogging pants and long sleeved T-shirt, a figure was seated at the dining table. Halting in the living room in surprise, he said, “How long have you been here?”
Vasquez made a show of looking at his watch. “Twenty minutes.”
Dirk glanced at his own watch. Forty-five minutes had passed since he’d texted his supervisor to come over. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Vasquez didn’t reply but motioned to the seat across from him. “So?” he said as means of opening the conversation.
“I received intel of a minor ISIS operation in the hills east of the town.”
“What town, for clarification?” The goateed man scribbled as his operative spoke.
“Masjeb Saleyman,” Dirk supplied.
“And intel from whom?”
“One of my many informers in the region.”
Vasquez nodded with a grin. Dirk’s success in the field was due to his extraordinary ability to gather nondescript, random informers in every country he visited. The man had a magnetic personality when he chose to.
“I procured a Land Rover and headed east into the country. I’m not sure how many miles out I was when an RPG overturned the vehicle.” His tone thus far was factual and devoid of emotion. “Before I could get my bearings, a hood was over my head and my hands tied. I was hustled into another vehicle and driven away.” The rough treatment had been committed in near silence. The road was bumpy and jostling.
Vasquez’s pen scratched rhythmically on his notepad. He noticed his subject’s hands close into fists now.
“I couldn’t see anything, but was shoved into a chair. They…” For the first time, he stuttered. “They used some kind of reed or horse crop on my legs.”
Vasquez’s pen paused. He motioned to Dirk’s leg. Reluctantly, Dirk extended his right leg and lifted the pant leg to his knee. He didn’t look at his superior, but if he would have he’d have noted a careful lack of reaction at the bright red welts that crisscrossed the skin.
“Go on.”
He rearranged the fabric. His stare fixed on the wood grains of the table, he continued. “They had a spokesman. He spoke English, for the most part. There were two or three others, I think, who spoke Kurdish and Arabic. The English speaker kept asking who I was and what I was doing there.”
“And you said?”
“I was a reporter. I had a camera and notebook in the Land Rover, but left my ID stashed in town.”
Vasquez nodded in approval.
“When the lashing didn’t produce an acceptable answer, they…” Here, Dirk faltered. The table faded from view to be replaced by a black veil with dots of daylight poking through the threads. Hot desert air made his skin damp with sweat. “They poured water over the hood,” he finished with effort.
Suddenly, air was a foreign commodity. He inhaled water droplets with every gasp. He wasn’t sure how long the torture continued, but his chest burned for want of oxygen, then with the forceful coughs that ripped at his lungs. The English-speaking tormenter mentioned their captive’s weakness, but his water-provisioned comrades ignored the warning. Soon, the black hood wasn’t the only veil over their hostage.
Vasquez paused in his writing, waiting for the younger man to continue.
Dirk cleared his throat, sucked in a healthy lungful of air, and continued on to describe waking up next to the Iraqi woman and his subsequent attempted escape and recapture. There he drew up short and was silent for several long minutes.
“Travers,” Vasquez urged.
Dirk started as if he’d forgotten the man’s presence. He proceeded haltingly.
In the center of the village, he felt the heat of a nearby fire. It wasn’t until fingers pried his hand open that he intuited their intention. He struggled, but a man’s full weight suppressed his attempts. A rod of white hot metal was pressed to his open palm. An involuntary hiss escaped his lips before a hand physically forced his fingers closed over the wire. At the same moment, his other hand was splayed and a sharp blade drawn across it.
“What are you doing?” he heard a pained voice implore. It was a moment before he recognized it as his own.
“Branding,” the English speaker answered simply.
Dirk swallowed hard, trying in vain to bury the blinding pain.
Upon return to the hut, the black T-shirt was wrestled from him. Kicks and blows chased him across the dirt floor. Every bone in his body ached when he stopped trying to escape. All throughout, demands were repeated. It was when he stopped even uttering a response that the concussions were subdued.
Although the hood obscured all sight, he was sure that a night passed before the tormenters returned. Cold air blanketed his bare chest and back. The now-familiar voice was inches from his ear and he flinched at the sound after hours of silence.
“Who are you?”
“Just a reporter,” he muttered, exhausted and sore.
“Why are you here?”
“Just a reporter,” was the repeated reply.
There was a beat of silence, but he felt the speaker move closer. His breath tickled Dirk’s ear through the fabric. “Who is Alma?”
The realization that he called for Alma in his anguish made his stomach turn.
The figure retreated. Moments later, a whistle announced the return of the apparatus of the first day, except this time the pain whipped across his back instead of his shins.
Vasquez’s ja
w was set, refusing to betray any sympathy. After a long silence, he reached back into a bag hanging on the chair to extract a white tube. He set the ointment on the table and waited for Dirk to acknowledge it. “For the welts and burn. Honey will be best for the cut. Continue.”
“A new man was introduced some time that day. I’m not sure when…” His eyes regained that far away glaze that preceded especially terrible memories. “He spoke only broken Arabic. Not a native, certainly. His accent was European, but I couldn’t place it.”
Vasquez trusted his man’s interpretation. Dirk had a knack for accents and languages. He noted the dark countenance that settled over his junior and listened with pained interest.
Thick hands ran down and across his back, causing an involuntary flinch at every welt. At the moment, Dirk was too disoriented to take note of the conversation. He was panting, sweating, aching. Gravel dug into his bare chest. The roving hands drew a comprehensive pattern across his back before rolling him over. The hood was haphazardly thrown off. The face that scrutinized him was clean-shaven, a stark distinction from the others ringing the hut with long beards.
Dirk started to take note in the conversation and linked it to the apprising, hungry glint to this man’s eye. He wriggled backward frantically, rocks grating on open wounds. A bearded local stepped forward, but the foreigner waved him away. He locked a strong beefy hand around Dirk’s wrists and forced them above his head. With his free hand, he probed the American’s cheeks, lifted his lips as if examining a horse’s teeth. All the while he kept up an audible commentary of which Dirk interpreted every few words. He struggled vehemently against the man’s ill wishes, so much so that he eventually straddled his waist. The motion stilled Dirk’s thrashings. He twisted and turned but to no avail. The foreigner gripped him by the chin to still his tossing.
“That’s enough,” he ordered in garbled, throaty English. With that, he continued examining his hostage. Still restraining his wrists above his head, the man roved fingers across his bruised, lacerated chest down to the waist of his cargo pants, where he faltered. A wide smile crossed the man’s face; he gave a last forceful squeeze of Dirk’s wrists, pressed a hand to his defined abs, and rose.
Dirk rolled away in disgust.
“I take. I tame.”
The man’s intent was clear. Dirk felt sick to his stomach, but too weak to physically resist. It was with utmost relief he realized the man didn’t mean to abscond with his prize until the next day.
His stomach lurched violently and he careened from the table to the bathroom. After his stomach was empty, he splashed cold water over his face. When he returned to the table, there was a glass of ice water and a tumbler of whiskey waiting. Without meeting his supervisor’s gaze, he sipped the water and shot the whiskey.
Vasquez’s scratching had faded some time during the commentary. His expression remained blank, but his mind reeled at the treatment of his agent. “Go on,” he ordered before Dirk could become too bogged down in relived horror.
It was with sheer will that Dirk continued his account. “They let their guard down after that, so that night, I picked the lock on the hut.”
His superior had taught him the trick of stashing lock picks in the lining of his boots.
“I found the motor pool at the far end of the village, out of the canyon. It was easy to hotwire a car and drive west. I came across the main road just before dawn.”
“How did you know it was west?”
“It was a cloudless night. I could see the stars,” he answered simply. “I recovered my passport and ID from the room I’d rented in town.” He hesitated. The Monuments Men nonfiction had been a gift from Alma for Christmas. He’d brought it to Iraq for reading on the plane and placed it on the table in his room. That had been the morning before he’d set off to the east. Here in the moonlit twilight, the book was gone. ‘The landlord,’ he thought assuredly. ‘He claimed it during his cleaning.’
He retrieved his wallet from the wall vent where he’d hidden it, crept out of the apartment, and stole across the desert to the nearest airport. He cleaned the blood and dirt from his face, hands and arms in the bathroom. He’d reclaimed his T-shirt from a recess of the hut and its black fabric disguised the bloody cuts that littered his body. The airline ticket agent cast his pale, shaky figure a second glance, took the cash he offered, and waved him on.
Dirk collapsed back into the wooden chair. His was the slump of shame and defeat. He didn’t meet his boss’s eye. Couldn’t.
Vasquez studied the man for a long while before turning to study the hardwood floor in contemplation. “This woman, Alma,” he said after a long silence.
Dirk acknowledged him with a soft grunt of expectation. He had to leave Alma. It was only fair.
“She’s been with you?” His tone made the question’s intent obvious.
“Since I got home,” he mumbled. “She knows nothing.”
“I expected nothing less.”
He waited anxiously for the statement pronouncing her unsafe.
“She’ll be with you?”
That made Dirk’s brows knit.
“She should be with you,” Vasquez continued. He acknowledged Dirk’s confusion with a wave of the hand. “Keep her. She…” He looked away with personal anguish. “She’ll benefit you. Keep her.”
The unexpected blessing left Dirk dumbfounded for a moment.
Vasquez held up the tube of ointment.
Dirk nodded his assent and gingerly removed his shirt. Every dab of the balm made him wince. Muscles spasmed at each touch, either from pain or remembered disgust. Vasquez noted the dark purple bruises littering the pale torso. He probed the darkest bruises on Dirk’s ribs, declared them unbroken, then laid a warm palm over the injury. Dirk noted the sharp pain subsided slightly at the warmth and noted the technique for later reference. Vasquez could practically make out the very fingerprints that had dug into the man’s upper arms. Jaw set, he motioned for Dirk to regain his shirt. Vasquez didn’t know how he’d tolerated the touch of another being, let alone another man, after his experience.
“You’ve had a rough couple months,” Vasquez noted, closing his notebook and tucking it and his pen in the bag.
Dirk didn’t acknowledge the comment.
He frowned. “Get some rest.” He stood and gripped his subject by the forearm, where he knew there were no bruises to aggravate. With that simple action of affirmation, he took his leave.
* * *
“I have another surprise,” Alma announced that evening. She’d entered the apartment to Dirk nursing a glass of whiskey on the couch, staring at the floor, as was his recent custom. He hadn’t moved since.
He raised a brow without meeting her eye.
“I booked a hot springs resort.”
The look he shot her was of alarm, but she’d anticipated it and raised a hand to stop his argument.
“Let me finish. We have a private suite with robes included, all-inclusive access to the main spring, and I’ve booked a private spa for you and you alone for three hours each day we’re there.”
Dirk couldn’t help but be astonished at her foresight.
“Well?”
“I… That’s great.” She’d clearly noted his reluctance for her to see his scarred body.
Alma grinned winningly.
Chapter 26
The train rattled along with the dull murmur of voices aboard. Alma and Dirk faced each other across a small table, cards spread before them. The smooth rails did little to agitate Dirk’s injuries. He was dressed in khakis, a burgundy dress shirt, and light blue tie. A blazer was folded over the seatback next to him. He couldn’t help but admire his company. Alma had appeared from the bedroom that morning in black leggings and a long, white sweater secured with a two-inch wide belt around her waist. Her hair fell in gentle curls.
They intended on proceeding directly to Broadway from the station. They had carried their luggage aboard knowing it would be sent on to the far off resort while they we
re at the musical.
Now, Alma waited patiently for Dirk to take his turn. When she glanced at him, he was staring at the laminate paneling behind her. After ten minutes, she collected the cards, gently plucking them from his fingers, and slid them into her purse. By the time Dirk came around, she had a book in hand and glasses adorned her gentle features.
He looked around ashamedly. “Sorry,” he muttered, realizing their game was over due to his lack of attention.
She shot him a patient smile over her glasses. “No problem.”
He shook his head. “You’re incredible,” he noted.
Alma smiled modestly.
“Seriously. I’ve never met someone as patient as you.”
She took his fingers across the table, still wary of the bandaged palms. “I love you, Dirk.”
Her explanation was so simple, yet he appreciated her love and patience more than anything on earth. He squeezed her hand, sending a twinge of pain through his own. “I love you, too.” The weak smile he shot her was genuine.
When the train pulled into New York, Dirk donned brown leather gloves to obscure the bandages, then the blazer and offered his arm to Alma.
“I bet we don’t run into Congressman Johnson,” she joked as they strolled through the theater lobby.
Dirk forced a laugh. “That would be quite the feat to view Broadway from prison.”
“Have you seen this before?” she asked as they settled into their seats.
“Les Mis? Oh, yeah. Not for years, but it’s one of my favorites. This opening scene is one of the most powerful I’ve ever seen.”
The spark of enthusiasm in his voice reassured Alma. She placed a hand on his knee, but he took her hand and entwined it with his gloved fingers. True to Vasquez’s advice, the balm had eased the burn on his palm. It was nearly healed compared to the harsh slice on the opposite hand.
* * *
Dirk shed his clothes, donned swim trunks, and wrapped himself securely in an ankle-length cloth robe with the spa insignia embroidered on the left breast. He opened the bedroom door of the suite. Alma was seated on the love seat in a dark blue bikini with a book in hand. She swept her glasses away as he entered.