11
Hall pulled out into traffic with Megan Emerson in the passenger’s seat. She had closed her eyes, but because he couldn’t read her mind unless she was broadcasting to him, he wasn’t sure if she was still conscious. Returning to her office had reduced his chances of survival, but he had never considered any other course.
Did this tell him anything about himself?
He took it as a good sign, but he wasn’t sure it made any kind of definitive statement about who he was—or who he had been. Would a coward or a thief remain a coward or a thief, even if his memory slate was wiped clean? Or could he somehow become courageous and noble?
Could not knowing you had a history of cowardice allow you to suddenly become brave? Were bravery and altruism learned qualities or innate ones?
He knew he had no time to consider these questions now, or even to appreciate the software in his implants that made no attempt to search the web in response to his ponderings, realizing he wasn’t looking for answers in cyberspace.
After he had left Megan’s office he had attempted to find himself on Facebook, as he had with her, using La Jolla and San Diego as locations to narrow it down, but he hadn’t had any luck. It had seemed like half of San Diego was named Nick Hall. But even after scanning through them all, he had gotten nowhere. Perhaps he didn’t live there after all. Or he was one of the few people on earth without a Facebook account.
He called up directions to the nearest hospital, but even as he did so he concluded that taking Megan there would be a mistake. He vaguely remembered that hospitals were required to alert the police whenever they were visited by gunshot victims, and confirmed it on the web moments later.
After a few minutes deep in thought he arrived at a plan, which he didn’t like at all, but which was the best he could come up with. He had no idea how much time he had, but he had to err on the side of extreme urgency.
Hall searched cyberspace and located a nearby motel that was dirt cheap and off the beaten path, the Kern River Motor Lodge. He pulled into its gravel lot seven minutes later, having risked racing there at twice the speed limit where traffic would allow and having ignored five red lights.
He left Megan in the passenger’s seat and entered the tiny shack that was the lobby, asking for a room that would minimize neighbors and maximize privacy. The attendant, an obese middle-aged man with a braided beard, didn’t seem to find the request the slightest bit unusual. Nor that Hall checked in as John Smith, paying in cash. All of which led Hall to believe that the motel did plenty of business with prostitutes serving married men concerned about their anonymity.
Hall had chosen even better than he had hoped.
He pulled around to the end of the stubby, L-shaped line of rooms and carried Megan inside. Her eyes fluttered open for a few seconds while he moved her, and she might have tilted her chin the slightest bit in a nod, but he couldn’t be sure.
The room was small and dark, with nothing but a bathroom, bed, end table, and a small TV that looked to be ten years old. It smelled of mildew.
Hall lowered Megan gently onto the bed and picked up the phone on the end-table, a relic of a bygone age when everyone didn’t have their own cell phone. It probably hadn’t been used in years.
He dialed 9-1-1, and his call was answered on the second ring.
“I’m in room one eighty-seven at the Kern River Motor Lodge,” he said hastily. “My wife was trying to cut open a package and stabbed herself in the leg pretty bad with a pair of scissors. She’s lost a lot of blood and can’t walk.”
“Is she conscious?”
“Yes. But send an ambulance as fast as you can. She may need some blood. So make sure the paramedic has O positive with him.”
Even as he said this he looked it up online and realized this was unnecessary: O positive was the most common type of blood. He was getting facile at using the Internet, like it was just another part of his mind, and mining cyberspace for information was becoming as fast and effortless as calling up a well-known fact from memory.
“We’ll dispatch an ambulance right away,” the young woman on the phone assured him.
“Thank you,” said Hall in genuine relief. “And please ask the ambulance to kill the siren when they get close. Our baby and toddler are both sound asleep, and I don’t want to freak them out on top of everything else.”
Five minutes later two men knocked on his door. An ambulance was parked in front, but without the siren it hadn’t attracted gawkers. Since it was the dinner hour, the motel was largely uninhabited in any case.
Hall ushered the men in, each holding a canvas medical bag, and they sprang open a collapsible stainless steel gurney in front of them. Megan was on her back on the bed. Hall had elevated her leg on a stack of two pillows.
“Please just fix her up here,” said Hall. “No need to take her to a hospital.”
Hall read the mind of the shorter of the two paramedics, a Hispanic, and fished out his name: Hector Garcia.
“I’m afraid in a case like this,” said Garcia, “we have to take her in. We can stabilize her here. But we’re required to bring her to the hospital as soon as possible.”
They walked over to her unconscious body and examined Hall’s makeshift bandages, while Hall slipped into both of their minds effortlessly. He divined that Garcia had considerable experience and was more senior than his partner, Tony Kosakowski. Garcia pulled a bright LED light from his bag, and both men examined Megan’s wound.
Garcia tensed and was immediately alert. She had powder burns around the entry. Dispatch had said this was a scissor wound, but he now had no doubt it was a gunshot wound. Which meant they had been lied to.
Hall cursed inwardly as he picked up these thoughts, but decided it was just as well. He and Megan couldn’t have afforded to be taken to the hospital anyway, where they would be sitting ducks, even if Garcia hadn’t figured out Megan had been shot.
Hall removed Baldino’s gun from the waistband of his pants and pointed it at the two paramedics standing over Megan. “We need to talk,” he said, and both men’s eyes widened as they saw the gun pointed their way.
“What’s this about?” said Kosakowski, his face now pale.
“Look, I don’t mean you any harm,” said Hall. “I just can’t have you reporting a gunshot wound or taking her in. You need to work on her here.”
“Gunshot wound?” repeated Kosakowski stupidly.
Hall read Garcia’s frustration at being partnered with such a Newbie, who probably would have missed the telltales if he had seen the shooting personally. Don’t mean us any harm, my ass, thought the short paramedic bitterly.
Hall knew that Kosakowski hadn’t bought his claim either, and that both men were alert for even the slightest chance to escape or turn the tables. He couldn’t blame them.
“She needs an IV,” said Garcia. “It’s already set up in the ambulance.”
Hall searched the paramedic’s mind and discovered it wouldn’t be difficult to move the IV pole and paraphernalia into the room. “Hector,” he said, “I need you to start working on the girl right away. Tony, I need you to bring the IV equipment in here, as quickly and discreetly as possible.”
Both men’s mouths fell open, and Hall was blasted by panicked thoughts of tremendous intensity. He should have realized that using their names would elevate their state of alarm ten-fold, since this level of familiarity was an indication of bizarre, almost certainly psychopathic premeditation on his part. Was this a trap for them? Was the girl just a lure? Was he after them personally for some psychotic reason? What kind of crazed stalker asshole was this guy?
“Tony, I know you’re thinking of calling for help the second you leave this room,” said Hall. “Don’t try it. Cooperate and both of you will be just fine. But, Tony, if you try anything—anything—I’ll have no choice but to kill your partner. And then I’ll find you at . . .” He paused and tilted his head. “Eighty-two fifty-eight Big Orchard Road, and kill you as well.”
If t
he use of their names had troubled them, Hall’s knowledge of Kosakowski’s address hit them like a supercharged cattle prod.
“Look, I can read minds,” explained Hall. “That’s how I know your address. So if you call anyone from the ambulance or try anything, I’ll know about it instantly. Let me demonstrate,” he continued, turning to Garcia. “Think of a three digit number.”
Garcia hesitated.
“Now!” demanded Hall.
Garcia did as Hall asked, despite thinking he was certainly dealing with a madman.
“Six seventy-three,” said Hall, and the paramedic’s eyes widened in amazement. “Think of another one.”
Garcia did so.
“Two eighty-nine,” said Hall immediately, and an observer wouldn’t have had to be able to read minds to tell from Garcia’s expression that Hall was correct once again.
Hall quickly repeated this demonstration with Kosakowski. “Look, I can do this all day, but you need to start helping this poor girl.”
Of all the Twilight Zone shit, thought Kosakowski. What the fuck is this?
“Not Twilight Zone,” said Hall. “Reality. Now hurry up. And remember: I can tell the instant you even think of trying anything.”
Kosakowski nodded and left the room, mumbling to himself. Hall read from his mind that he was totally freaked out and was fighting to not even think a disloyal thought, let alone act on one.
Hector Garcia bent to his task while Hall looked on.
“This girl was lucky,” said the paramedic after his examination. “Clean shot through her inner thigh. Didn’t nick anything important, like bone, or even worse, her femoral artery. And you did well bandaging the wound. I can stitch this up with a half dozen dissolving stitches, and spray some quick-clot foam on it. Once I bandage her and give her an infusion of Lactated Ringer’s and antibiotics, she’ll be good as new in no time.”
“Lactated Ringer’s?” said Hall suspiciously. “Doesn’t she need blood?”
“No. I’ve had a lot of experience with this. From her blood pressure, blood oxygenation levels, and other indications, she’s lost a lot of blood, about twenty percent. But this isn’t enough to require a transfusion. But she does need volume resuscitation to maintain good pressure.” He paused. “Trust me. I’m giving her the best care I can.”
Hall nodded. “I don’t need to trust you. I know you’re telling the truth. And thanks,” he added sincerely. He tilted his head. “If her blood loss wasn’t enough to require transfusion, why did she go into shock, then?”
Garcia shrugged. “The less you weigh the more you feel the impact, in general. And it isn’t full-on shock. Her blood pressure dropped enough for her to feel faint, and her psyche just went with it. She’ll be alert in no time.”
Kosakowski returned with everything needed for an infusion. Hall had monitored him while he was out of sight, and while the man was still wondering what parallel universe he had suddenly fallen into, and fearful for his life, he continued to have no plans for a double-cross.
The men positioned Megan on the steel gurney, and Kosakowski started an IV while Garcia went to work, cleaning and patching her wound. A bag of clear liquid soon hung from a hook on a thin steel pole, with IV tubing leading from the bag, through a pump, and into the back of Megan’s hand.
Five minutes later Garcia was finished, and Hall knew the paramedic was satisfied with his work, and certain Megan would make a full recovery. Which was good enough for Hall.
“How long until you’ve infused enough . . . what did you call it?”
“Lactated Ringer’s,” said Garcia. “Another forty minutes should do it,” he said.
Hall had been deep in thought while the paramedics worked, and had come up with a plan, having decided that staying at the hotel would be too dangerous. He had also realized another mistake he had made, so on his way out of the room he removed Megan’s cell phone from her purse and tossed it gently under a bush, so it couldn’t be used to track them.
Hall explained what he wanted to the two men, and within minutes they were in the ambulance, en route to the Bakersfield Amtrak station.
The station was a twenty thousand square-foot brick and glass structure that Hall had learned in cyberspace had opened at the turn of the new century, and served as the main hub for both train and bus transportation to and from the city.
Hall instructed them to take a circuitous route so they would arrive just after the infusion was complete. Halfway there, Megan opened her eyes, and she continued to gain strength by the minute.
While Kosakowski drove, Garcia also cleaned and re-bandaged Hall’s wound, which he deemed to be fairly minor, a diagnosis Hall had already made on his own.
Finally, the IV line was removed from Megan’s hand and she was given a clean bill of health. Rest and good nutrition, they were told, would have her back to normal in no time. The bandages around her thigh were more obvious than Hall would have liked, so he decided to take one of the ambulance’s light weight, disposable fleece blankets with him when he left, as well as one of the green nylon windbreakers stored in the vehicle, which he put on and zipped up to conceal the bandages on his upper arm.
They pulled up near the train station and parked, and Hall reluctantly confiscated all the cash the two men had on hand, totaling one hundred and eighty-nine dollars between them.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for us,” said Hall to the two men as he and Megan prepared to exit. “And I’m truly sorry I had to threaten you. I consider guys like you heroes. You don’t deserve to be treated like this. I just didn’t have any choice. And the money I’ve taken is just a loan. If I survive long enough, I intend to return it. Doubled.”
Hall read that both men were beginning to believe he was sincere, and that they might live through this. At this point, getting their money back was the least of their concerns.
“Once we’re gone,” continued Hall, “I’ll still be reading your thoughts for a time. To make sure you don’t tell the cops we’re here. But by tomorrow your thoughts will be your own. And I promise to never intrude upon your privacy or trouble you in any other way again. At that point, you can go to the authorities and tell them all about us.”
He paused. “But I’d advise against it. Not for my safety. I already have every adult male in the area—and maybe some females for all I know—trying to kill me. But the only reason this girl is injured, and now is in as much danger as I am, is simply because I crossed paths with her. I’ve read the minds of the people after me, and they plan to kill anyone I come into contact with.”
Hall frowned deeply and lowered his eyes for just a moment. He had become Typhoid Mary, carrying distilled death. No matter what, he vowed to stop endangering innocents in this way, regardless of the cost.
“And I can’t guarantee you can even trust the police,” he continued. “For your own safety, please pretend this never happened. Please,” he pleaded for good measure. He knew the absolute sincerity in his voice was reaching these men, but only time would tell if they would heed his warnings.
They stared at him for several long seconds.
“Who are you?” whispered Garcia finally.
Hall sighed. “I only wish I knew,” he replied.
And without another word, he and Megan exited the ambulance and began walking slowly toward the station.
12
Megan walked gingerly, and Hall had insisted on carrying her purse. Even so, he asked if she needed rest after only ten or twelve steps.
“I’ll be okay,” she assured him telepathically. “Hector loaded me up with enough painkillers to numb a dinosaur. And I’m already embarrassed by how much of a baby I’ve been.”
“Not at all. You’ve been through a severe trauma.”
“That’s not the way Hector made it seem when he reviewed my case. I got the feeling he’s treated people in some of the rougher neighborhoods who could take a minor bullet wound like this and then play a game of full-court basketball.”
>
Hall laughed as they entered the building. “They also weigh more than a hundred pounds,” he replied.
“I’m not sure it’s entirely a weight thing. I’ve always been a little squeamish at the sight of blood. Especially when it’s my own. I’m glad I was out when Hector treated me. I’ll try to be less of a wimp in the future. I have a feeling I’m going to need to be.”
Hall nodded somberly, but didn’t reply. He had already apologized more times than he could count for dragging her into this, and while becoming injured and a target was horrifying to her, she was a realist. She was in this now whether she liked it or not, and wasting focus or emotional energy lamenting her position would reduce her chances of making it out the other end. She was taking this better than Hall had any right to hope she would, for which he was thankful.
They entered the station, which was a combination of mint green steel beams, glass, and red brick walls, and he carefully sat Megan in one of the padded chairs that were linked together in rows, spreading the bright blue fleece blanket he had taken from the ambulance over her lap. The station was really beginning to bustle, and Hall guessed that Friday after work hours was one of the busiest times for train and bus travel.
“Don’t go away,” he said, moving into the scattered crowd.
Five minutes later he was back. “I was checking out schedules,” he explained as he returned.
“Where are we going?” asked Megan.
“I don’t know. We can afford two train tickets to Merced, Fresno, or Hanford. Or two bus tickets to San Bernardino or Perris. They all leave within the next hour.”
“No trips to larger cities? I’d think the bigger the city, the easier it would be to lose ourselves.”
“There’s a train leaving for LA and a bus to San Francisco in this time frame, but we can’t afford the tickets. Not if we want to have enough cash left over for a hotel. Remind me to steal from richer people next time,” he added with a grin. “Which brings to mind a quote from Margaret Thatcher: ‘Socialism is great—but eventually you run out of other people’s money.’”
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