So why am I talking to him? This completely inanimate man who burns with intensity.
“It’s so much suffering over there, you learn to tune it out. The hungry kids chasing the car, the bombed-out shells of homes that were once places where happy families lived. You remind yourself you’re there to make a difference. It’s a matter of relative weight, right? So much is a matter of weight. Things need to not weigh the same, you know? You can’t just react to every tiny thing, or you can never do anything big. And then I went and reacted to the tiniest thing.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. One good night’s sleep, that’s all I need.
The kitten incident happened while I was on my way to the assignment of a lifetime—to interview a female warlord. It was going to be amazing. She was going to let me spend the day with her. A female warlord in the hills of Afghanistan.
“You can’t even imagine what a coup that would’ve been,” I say to 34. “This was somebody you couldn’t get to—like ever. And like a fucking miracle, she agreed to this meeting. The one meeting she’d do—ever. Everyone wanted that meeting, but I got it.”
I scratch against the grain of the sheet, throat too thick to talk, remembering the way my fixer looked at me when I got out of that Jeep. He was being paid by the magazine to take me around and translate for me and protect me to a limited extent, but in that Jeep, I was boss. We stalled out in this ruined intersection. The engine cut, and that’s when I heard the tiny mewl.
My voice is a whisper. “And then I see the paw poking out of that hole. I couldn’t leave it, crying like that. At first I thought, ‘I just have to see what’s up,’ you know? I got out and I go over, and I could see it in there. It was under a bunch of steel and mesh under this stone slab. And once I saw it, I had to get it out, you know?”
The clock on the wall clicks away. One second. Another.
I’m back there a little bit. “I made my fixer pay a few guys to move the slab. It took two fucking hours to round up enough guys to move that stone slab. They thought I was insane. Maybe a little like you do right now.”
His pulse is a drum in his neck—even I can see it. I smooth down his sleeve, wondering who cuts his beard. I hope it’s not Donny. Fucking Donny.
“Fuck fuck fuck, you have to calm down,” I say, and I don’t know who I’m talking to—him or me. “They freed it, though. Put it in my arms. It was every kind of selfish, I guess. I passed by so much suffering there. You pick your battles. Until you don’t. And mine was the kitten. What was I doing?” I close my eyes, and it’s like I can feel the grit on my knees and the kitten’s tiny ribs. I’m back there breathing in the dust, with my fixer looming above me, unsure whether to watch me or look away.
“I’m holding that little thing, crying. I’m sure the mother was long gone. Probably dead. I couldn’t stop crying. So yeah, that was impressive. And then like an asshole I get in the Jeep with the kitten in my shirt, and he’s driving like hell to make time to get to the meeting, but we both knew she’d be gone. I kind of didn’t care. I got it to drink water. It was so scared, but it liked being in my shirt. That’s all it needed, you know? It just needed somebody to hold it. To give a fuck.”
Am I really pouring my guts out to 34? Suddenly I can’t stop.
“We got to the market where the meet was supposed to happen, and the warlord had already left. I would’ve spent a day with her. It would’ve been amazing.”
I think back, remembering how excited I was to land that interview. When you get to spend a whole day with a subject like that, they start to forget you’re there, and you get really genuine stuff. Unguarded truth. The stuff they don’t know not to tell you. Of course she was gone by the time we arrived. I just felt numb about it. I was all about the kitten. I had my fixer drive us to this small village at the edge of a relatively lush area. Just this random area I’d seen pictures of.”
I sigh, remembering.
“I was basically Caligula at that point,” I add. “Caligula with a kitten. I dropped it off. It seemed like a nice place for a kitten. A good food supply. And then I went out and got so fucking drunk. God.” I tip my head back and gaze at the stained tiles on the ceiling. This is 34’s view forever. “You’d at least think saving the kitten would make me feel better. But it didn’t. It made the kitten feel better. I hope.”
Those next couple weeks I drank and drank. Fixers gossip like old women. The world of journalism is not a large place, and there’s always somebody hungrier. With every sweating bottle of beer, I felt my career crumble a little more. I’d found the one thing that was worse than getting emotionally involved. Worse than fucking an interview subject. I missed a career-making interview to save a trapped kitten.
“It was just so helpless and scared, though,” I say to him. “And so thin. It weighed nothing and its little claws…its little fucking claws. It needed me. It just needed…” I gust out the last word—“something.”
The room starts to look wavy through my tears. They trail down my cheeks like hot, wet fingers.
“Okay! See? Happy now?” I sniffle, thankful my back is to the window. “This is why I don’t talk about the fucking kitten. This—”
My throat thickens up, like a band, tightening around it.
“This—” I whisper as the sobs take on chest-convulsing lives of their own, like too many got trapped inside my heart that day, and now they’re all trying to punch out at once.
Everything inside me is a chaos of heat and pain. The room is wavy. I can’t see. I can’t think.
I grab hold of the sheet, telling myself I’m in Minnesota, but really I’m in that collapsing hospital. I’m on the dusty street. I’m in the half-crushed cooler, I’m swimming in antiseptic, I’m in a Jeep, I’m holding the kitten crying against my belly, sobs like a fist inside me.
Something crushes my hand. Hard grip.
Warm skin.
My eyes fly open.
Patient 34 is holding my hand.
He pins me with a torn expression.
My mouth hangs open. My heart thunders.
He just watches me, fierce and true, holding me in the strong container of his hand.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. I’m suspended in his grip, a stunned rabbit, caught in a cloud of shivers.
Patient 34. Really with me.
My gaze falls to his steely, sinewy hand gripping my latex-covered one. Our hands form a defiant knot against everything normal.
My chest softens. My sobs calm. Suddenly I can breathe again.
I look back up at him. “You’re here.”
He just watches me. I have this sense we’re the only two people in the universe. I have this sense that his hand holding mine is the only true thing in this place. The only thing that has weight in a world that’s spinning off its axis.
He shifts his hand, gripping stronger, harder, conflict raging in the fire of his eyes.
Some wild part of me doesn’t want him to let go—ever.
Don’t let go.
“You’re here,” I repeat.
Silence. Again I get that crazy sense he’s angry, somehow. Or maybe “anger” isn’t the word. He’s a dangerous fire, flames licking my core.
I could call out. I could hit the cart alarm. It’s the last thing on my mind.
“You’ve been here all this time.”
“No,” he whispers. “I’m not here.”
Breath whooshes through me. This really is happening. I wait, but he says nothing more. I simply dwell in his harsh, strong hand. He has me.
I shouldn’t need that, but I do.
Suddenly the fire goes out of his gaze. He lets go of my hand. He turns back up to the ceiling.
“Wait! 34!” I whisper. I want him to come back. “It’s okay. I won’t—” Won’t what?
A scrape behind me. The door opens. It’s Raimie, one of the nurses. “I’m out of kits. You mind?” She grabs a few of the draw kits I put together. “God, you’re behind.” With that, she swoops out.
I look d
own again at 34. He’s got the zombie act going again. “She’s gone,” I say softly.
He doesn’t react.
“It’s cool now.”
Nothing.
“Seriously?” I wait, wanting him to come back. But why would he? My blood races. I don’t want to leave.
I have to leave.
With trembling fingers, I punch in a fake number for his blood pressure.
I turn back to him. Staring at the ceiling. “Thank you,” I say. The thank you comes from my heart—I hope he hears that.
I straighten my stuff and push out.
Chapter Seven
Ann
I go through the rest of my rounds in a daze, speaking softly to the tormented men with their goals and their glassy gazes.
The whole time my thoughts are on Patient 34—a man without a name. Without goals. Without a story.
The only one who has ever shown me compassion in this place.
I don’t tell on him.
It’s a decision I make from the gut.
Tuesday. Delivery day. I collect myself enough to time my supply refill visit to Pharma Two to happen around the time the delivery truck arrives. I make myself look busy refilling my cart with pads and cotton and sterile setups while one of the pharma staffers checks things in.
Donny wanders in, which is interesting. He squeezes past me, mumbling something about aspirin and touching my ass in a pseudo-accidental way. He heads to the rack on the end.
I watch how the staffer logs the shipment and puts the stuff away. The invoices go into a three-ring binder stored in a cabinet that isn’t locked. It’s stunningly low-tech. I try to think how I’d get extra ephedrine going through here. I could think of a few ways for sure. It’s a soft operation.
I turn and leave, much as I want to stay and see what happens. I’ll come back and tally the ephedrine supply and study the sheets. With an investigation like this, a clear and detailed picture of current reality is always where you start.
Needless to say, my mind is not on the supplies; it’s on Patient 34 and the gravitational pull of his story. His lack of story.
I tell myself there are rational reasons to get his story; if he’s a serial killer, for example, people have a right to know he’s not sedated like they think he is.
Deep down, though, I know he’s not a serial killer. I’ve met serial killers. I’ve met every kind of person. Until 34.
I skip lunch in favor of hitting up Fancher’s administrative assistant, Pam, while Fancher is out of his office—exactly the kind of attention-getting activity I shouldn’t be doing.
Pam has frosted hair, a friendly face, and lot of owl collectibles. She’s the one who tracks the institute’s calendar.
I tell her I’m looking to put in a good word for one of the patients in time for his next commitment hearing. This is actually true—it’s a kid named Jamaica. His official sentence ran out two years ago, but like so many here, he continues to be kept, and this guy has been really conscientious and helpful around the general room. I ask her to walk me through how to find out when a patient’s hearing is coming up.
She lets me come around the back of her desk, and she goes into her spreadsheet. She explains the procedure. There are two lawyers at every commitment hearing—one for the state and one for the patient—plus a psychiatrist. She shows me where their names are, shows me the notes function, and how the group emails get sent when there’s a change. I’m supposed to email her with notes.
I know all of this stuff already, but I act clueless because I want her to explain it, and most of all, I want to see her screens. I’m scanning for 34. If I can see his schedule of hearings, I can figure out the date he was committed. It’s amazing how much intel you can draw from a date. Zara had said “a year and some change,” but that’s not good enough.
I finally find his row, and it’s not just blank—it’s grayed out. Nothing can be input. What. The. Fuck.
“Huh. No hearings for 34,” I say neutrally.
“Fancher handles 34. Patient 34 is in a separate category.”
“Huh.” I quickly point to something else. I can’t look too interested in 34. That’s a reporter trick. You always look like you’re going for something else, not the thing you’re actually going for.
I can still feel his hand around mine, the connection between us buzzing with life.
I scan around the office while she talks. His commitment papers have to be here somewhere. Those papers would tell me a lot. And if there aren’t commitment papers for him, that’s even more of a story. It means he’s in here illegally.
“Would you need the note of support for transition to a halfway house in a hard copy with a signature, too?” I ask. “Where I worked before, they signed the notes and kept them together in the commitment files. We’d just add them in.”
“Staff had access to commitment files?”
“Oh yeah.” Actually this is something that would never ever happen.
I wait for her to show me where the commitment files are kept. Sure enough, her gaze flicks to Fancher’s door. So that’s where they are.
Fuck.
“But of course it was overseas,” I add.
“Oh.” She smiles. “I was gonna say.”
I straighten up. “I’ll get you the note by the end of the month. Thanks for all your great help!”
Chapter Eight
Ann
Patient 34 gives no sign of awareness when I walk into his room the next day.
“Hey,” I say softly.
Nothing.
I look down at his hand. I get it in my head to grab it. I force my gaze back to his gorgeous eyes, rimmed in darkness, fixed on a spot on the ceiling. Water stains. Shitty old tiles. Pure 1950s institutional architecture. I pull out my phone and take a picture of the ceiling. It’s a way of connecting with him, grabbing that ceiling shot. I quickly put my phone aside.
Stop it.
I look back at his hand. I really want to touch him.
I compromise. I press two latex-gloved fingers to his throat, to feel the slow, steady thrust of blood through his veins. It’s a clinical touch. His neck is warm. Solid.
I force myself to remove my hand—I’m practically ravishing a tied-up patient. “I didn’t say anything. Just in case you’re wondering.”
His empty eyes are fixed on the ceiling. It’s weird how he can stay utterly still. He’s like a fucking yogi, being able to control himself like that. Or a sniper. Snipers can get really still. Some of them can slow their heartbeats.
I wait, really wanting to touch him again, but I feel suddenly too shy to. Touching the other patients is routine and robotic. “Give me your name. I know you can talk.”
Zilch.
I was reporting in Colombia once, staying in a beautiful mountainside village that was fogged in every morning, but then the sun would burn off some of the fog, and just the tips of the mountains would appear, as if out of the clouds—massive, menacing, and dark.
That mountain appearing out of the fog would fill me with a sense of awe.
It’s the way I feel at 34’s bedside. Shrouded majesty. The tip of something important. “Come on, tell me your name,” I whisper. “Tell me your story. Let me help you.”
Nothing.
“Fine, I’ll talk. Something’s going on with you. You don’t get hearings. You know you’re entitled to a hearing every six months, right? But you don’t get them. Or do you? But then why aren’t they listed? Why is Dr. Fancher handling your case personally? What’s up with that?”
I glance over my shoulder at the guys out there. Still the backs of their heads. I rest a hand on his chest, soaking in the massive thump of it.
“Come on. Can you bring down your pulse? Do you put yourself in this state, or are you muscling it?”
I wait.
“Fuck you! Come on, answer me, dammit! Just a name. If you’re being unlawfully held, maybe I can help you. The jig is up, I already know you can hear me.”
His st
onewall act is more than frustrating. When he took my hand yesterday, it was the first time since the hospital bombing that I didn’t feel so fucking alone. And now it’s as if he, too, has abandoned me.
I get the cuff out. “Don’t worry, 34. I won’t give up on you. There are other ways to get your story.”
If he hears me, he doesn’t show it. Not that he would. I take his blood pressure. It’s up there—it’s not in the danger zone for a normal person, but this cocktail should have it seriously depressed. I’m getting the feeling I affect him. He definitely affects me.
“I’m going to take a past reading. Because here’s what I’m thinking—I’m thinking you don’t want to draw any extra attention to yourself. Amirite?” I’ve stopped expecting him to answer.
The freelance journalist life is incredibly transitory. You create fierce friendships for short bursts of time in faraway places, and then you all get sent somewhere else, and the friendships are over. I kept in vague email touch with a few fellow journalists, but that ended after my kitten breakdown.
If I did have any friends left, they’d definitely be telling me to turn back. They’d be telling me I’m officially crossing deep into the land of bad ideas.
Hell, I’m telling it to myself, but I don’t care. I need this guy’s story. I won’t pretend I don’t.
Thus I set my sights on Fancher’s office.
I let my evening and night counterparts know I’m willing to trade shifts. One of them bites right away, asking me to cover his graveyard shift for the next two days.
I come in around dinnertime. The people in the admin wing are gone by six. Donny is there doing a training session, which I’m not entirely thrilled about, but at least it keeps him occupied.
Fancher Institute is slightly lazier at night. The night nurses don’t take blood, but they do everything else, plus some side work.
I’ve brought my lock pick kit shoved into my knee sock with my secret cellphone. The pick set is highly fucking illegal due to the fact that it’s kind of a weapon, but this is a private contract institute, so security is a bit lax.
Savage Mafia Prince: a Dangerous Royals romance Page 5