by Hunt, Angela
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Her gaze flits over my form. “I suppose you’ve heard about your aunt’s proposed excursion into La Coruña.”
I drop into the guest chair. “She said you approved it.”
“I had to, or she’d think I was holding you prisoner.”
“So you don’t want me to go?”
She releases a heavy sigh and gives me the look that tells me I’ve disappointed her. “Don’t you know I only want what’s best for you?”
I shrug to hide my confusion.
“Dear girl.” Dr. Mewton steps out from behind her desk and moves to stand directly in front of me. Her hand floats up and traces the air, outlining my eye sockets, cheek, and chin. She does not touch me, but closes her eyes and sighs. “Sarah, dear heart, the world is cruel to those who are different. I’ve done my best to shelter you, but if you go out there I’ll be helpless to protect you.”
“Why should people be cruel to me? I’ve never hurt anyone.”
“People are vicious to those who are different…especially those who look different. Did I mention the film I watched the other day? A documentary about a poor Haitian girl who had a tumor so large it overtook her face. The other children called her devil child and ran screaming every time she went out to play.”
I look away from Dr. M’s burning gaze.
“I don’t want you to be hurt, Sarah. Your aunt has come, and I’m happy that you’ve had this chance to meet her, but she will never know you like I do. I don’t think she knows the world like I do, either, because only someone with no regard for your feelings would even suggest that you leave a safe place and subject yourself to the cruelty of others.”
A sough of wind rattles the windowpanes, followed by the soft tapping of blown rain.
“I’m not going to forbid you to go,” Dr. Mewton continues, “but remember what happened to John Merrick, the Elephant Man. Think of the poor hunchback of Notre Dame. Why do you think they produced movies about these poor souls? Because what I’m telling you is true—society does not make allowances for those who do not fit the norm. The world offers little kindness for people like us.”
I lift my head, startled by her last admission. Dr. Mewton is not deformed, ugly, blind, deaf, or dumb.
“What do you mean?”
“Hmm?” She looks at me, but I can tell she is no longer listening. It is as if she were hearing something that happened in another place, another time.
“Dr. Mewton?” I wave my hand before her wide eyes. “Are you all right?”
Her eyes clear. “Of course. And now there is this.” She turns and picks up a package on the desk. “This is for you,” she says, sliding it onto my lap. “The choice is yours, Sarah. Go or stay, but if you go, I insist that you follow the security protocols. Take a radio and return before sunset and high tide. If you decide to stay overnight, there’ll be no coming back until morning.” She shrugs. “I know you won’t make things difficult for me.”
I clutch the package and feel the soft weight of fabric within its wrapping. The burka. My ticket to walk free for a few hours.
Without speaking, I nod my thanks and leave Dr. Mewton’s office.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Renee
After eating lunch with Judson and Sarah—who doesn’t say a word about our upcoming excursion—I walk back to my room while they go upstairs to the operations room. Both of them seem to have an uncommon devotion to duty, and I can’t tell if that devotion stems from patriotism, a strong work ethic, or pressure from their superiors.
As I reenter my monastic room, I tell myself none of that matters. Sarah and I will be together tonight, and I will give her a taste of the life Kevin would have wanted her to enjoy.
If Kevin were here, I know, he’d do anything to free his daughter from this place. He’d make sure she had whatever surgeries were necessary for her best chance at a normal life. He might not have access to the “bleeding edge” physicians Dr. Mewton referred to, but he would cart Sarah to hearing specialists and speech therapists. He would invest in orthodontia for her teeth and plastic surgery to improve her appearance. If necessary, he and Diane would have taken out second and third mortgages to cover the expenses.
He would not leave Sarah in this isolated facility. My extroverted brother would have hated living in that solitary room upstairs. I’m terrified by the possibility that Sarah might hate it, too…if she had a choice in the matter.
I can’t stand this. I can’t stand back and watch my brother’s daughter function as a lackey for the U.S. government. I also can’t see myself leaving this island under a promise not to tell anyone about her. But how can I expose her plight without jeopardizing our relationship? Sarah probably fears change…but she has no real idea what waits beyond this remote island.
If all goes well, I hope I can instill in her a real hunger for life and all its experiences. If I’m successful, she’ll press for the help she needs to accomplish her goals.
Feeling restless, I move to the window and look out on the grassy graveyard studded with stone crosses. If I leave without doing anything, Sarah may one day be buried in that field. She deserves more than that—and she deserves to live before she dies.
Off to the west, malignant masses of dark clouds advance toward us, promising an afternoon thunderstorm. I hope the rain moves off before we take the boat to the mainland. I do not want to miss this opportunity.
Now that I’ve found my niece, I’m not going to miss the opportunity to demonstrate that she can live a normal life. But if I’m going to help her, I must approach the situation with caution. Despite all her talk of support and concern for Sarah, Glenda Mewton has profited from my niece’s skills. She won’t want to see the girl leave.
Maneuvering around Mewton won’t be easy. One thing is certain—if I allow myself to become overly emotional, I’m going to end up ranting at that woman, an action that would almost certainly result in my ejection from this facility. They might even cancel my contract and revoke my security clearance. Without those, I’ll never be able to help my niece.
I pull my suitcase from beneath the bed and take out my leather folio, then sit cross-legged on the bed and write the date at the top of the page. With the discipline that comes from habit, I set out to record my thoughts and observations. The CIA has hired me to be a psychologist, so that’s exactly what I’ll be.
I write S. Sims: Clinical Impressions on the chart and then stop to think. Because she lacks an expressive face, Sarah has been deprived of one of the chief tools of communication. How has this damaged her emotionally? I have seen evidence of primitive emotion, but her feelings seem to be held in check—whether by natural reserve or by physical limitation, I can’t yet say.
The fact is, Elvis has a more expressive face than Sarah.
But even if she possessed normal features, Sarah might still be emotionally handicapped, because she hasn’t been exposed to the ordinary trials and lessons children face. Glenda Mewton may have served as a maternal figure in Sarah’s childhood, but the woman now maintains a definite distance from her employees. I’ve seen no evidence of tenderness between her and my niece, heard no endearments. Sarah seems to feel more affection for Shelba and Judson.
I glance at my watch to remind myself of the date. My plan is to stay here less than two weeks, but I’d be willing to extend my stay if I could help Sarah become better equipped for life in a less sheltered environment. Kevin would want me to.
And Becky and her kids will take good care of Elvis.
I believe I can help my niece prepare for interpersonal encounters in the outside world…as long as I can convince her that a new life waits outside these walls.
Without so much as spitting in our direction, the growling thunderheads blow over us and push toward the mainland. When I’m sure they’ve moved inland, I step outside and walk in the graveyard I was admiring earlier. I’m sitting on a bench near the wall, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face, when I
hear a door slam. I open my eyes, expecting to see Dr. Mewton or Sarah, but instead I find Judson Holmes wheeling toward me.
“Dr. Carey?” he calls, his face lifted to the sun. “You’re out here, right?”
Like a fool, I wave. “Over here.”
He focuses on my voice, his motorized wheelchair humming as it bumps over the stone pathway edging the grassy graves. “Shelba said she saw you come outside. I wondered if you had a few minutes for me.”
“I seem to have an abundance of free time.” I shift on the bench in order to face him. “Would you be more comfortable if we talked inside?”
“No, this is nice. I like the fresh air.”
He stops just short of the bench and leans forward, his elbows on the armrests of his chair. Unlike Sarah’s, Judson’s face is a map of human emotion. Though injury has permanently closed his eyelids, they flutter like the heartbeats of baby birds as thought lifts his brows and twists his mouth.
The man is searching for words. Maybe I can help.
“Something you wanted to talk about?” I ask. “Maybe something about Sarah?”
His smile widens, confirming my intuition. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that someone in the real world has taken an interest in the kid.”
“I only wish I’d known about her sooner. My heart breaks to think about her being alone all those years.”
“Well…she’s had Dr. Mewton.”
For the first time, I’m grateful this man can’t see the expression on my face. “Hmm. She has.”
He lifts his chin. “So…do you plan on making a career out of this gig with the company?”
“What’s that?”
“Sorry, but I looked up your file. Psychological services, a two-year contract, right?”
“That’s right. But I don’t think it’s going to be long-term.”
“I suppose you need to discuss the matter with your husband.”
“I have no husband. I might, however, discuss the job with Elvis.”
He accepts this with a “Hmm” and a polite nod, then rubs his chin. “Speak often with Elvis, do you?”
“Every day. He’s my dog.”
The grooves beside his mouth deepen into a relieved smile. “I was beginning to worry about you, Doc.”
“I could see that.”
“But now that I know you’re okay, I wonder if I could ask you a philosophical question?”
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable speaking with Dr. Mewton?”
He barks a laugh. “Would you?”
The man has a point. I cross my legs and smile. “What can I do for you?”
He turns his face to the stone wall. “I know you’re not technically with CIA, but you still adhere to the doctor-patient confidentiality rule, right?”
“I won’t repeat anything you say—not to anyone.”
“Okay.” He draws a deep breath. “Do you believe it’s possible for a man to atone for his sins?”
The query catches me by surprise. “Don’t you think that’s a question for a priest or a minister?”
“Haven’t you noticed there’s a shortage of both around here?”
I laugh. “That sounds odd coming from a man who lives in a convent.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” He smiles. “But you haven’t answered me. Do you, as a psychologist, believe a man can make things right after living a life filled with wrongs?”
“Do you?”
“I’d forgotten that you shrinks like to answer every question with a question. Is that what they teach you in school?”
“I think, Mr. Holmes, what we try to do is help you sort through your own beliefs.”
“If we’re going to be friends, you should call me Judson.”
“All right…Judson.”
“That’s better. Okay—so if you’re not going to give me your opinion about my past sins, maybe you’ll tell me what you think a person has to do in order to be damned forever. I’m pretty sure Hitler qualifies, along with Stalin and some of those other evil characters. I was wondering…if maybe I qualify as well.”
Every nerve in my body tingles with alarm as I stare at the edge of the protective wall and listen to the sounds of the sea. I’m not sure I want to hear what Judson is trying to tell me.
“I don’t think my opinion is what matters,” I begin. “A more pertinent question is why you feel the need for atonement. What is making you feel so guilty, Mr. Holmes?”
His lips thin. “As you said, you’re not a priest.”
“No.”
“And I’m no saint. But because I’d like to be a friend, maybe we shouldn’t discuss the gory details of my past. After all, we’ve only just met.”
I tilt my head. “Fair enough.”
“Let’s just say we break a lot of rules in this business. Lying is at the top of the list because we’re trained to deceive. It’s all for a good purpose, you understand, and common sense dictates that you can’t let your enemy know what you’re doing, especially in a time of war.”
I laugh softly. “I suppose a covert operation is illegal by definition. After all, if an operation were legal, it wouldn’t be covert.”
Judson clasps his hands. “Not necessarily, though it might appear that way. But after a while you find yourself lying to your family—still for good reasons—and then you find yourself encouraging other people to lie. And we steal—state secrets, vehicles, weapons, documents, whatever we need to accomplish the goal. And then…Suppose you find yourself watching an agent die…someone who wouldn’t be dying if you hadn’t brought them into this business.”
“Wait a minute. I thought all agents signed up voluntarily—”
“No offense, Dr. Carey, but you watch too much TV.” He tosses me a good-natured grin and scrubs his bald brown scalp with his knuckles. “The goal of a CIA officer…almost all officers in the clandestine service…”
“Spies.”
“Right. The goal is to recruit foreigners to spy on their countries. The agent is the native who has been recruited by a CIA case officer.”
I digest this news. “So James Bond…”
“Fantasy.”
“And Sydney Bristow…”
“More fantasy—but some of Marshall’s technological references came close to the real thing.” He leans forward, his face pulling into earnest lines. “So I ask you—given the laundry list of offenses I’ve committed, do you think I stand a chance of wiping the slate clean?”
“By living and working here?”
“That’s right.”
“By spending the rest of your life in service to your country?”
“That’s the idea.”
“But how is this different from what you were doing before?”
The corner of his mouth twists. “Is that a trick question?”
“Not at all. I’m merely trying to understand your thought processes.”
A line appears between his brows. “I’ve given up my family and left everything behind.”
I settle back and cross my arms. “Tell me about your family, Judson. Was your mother supportive?”
“When she wasn’t working, sure.”
“And your father?”
“Don’t remember much about my dad. He walked out on us.” He sits motionless a moment more, then grins at me. “Caught you shrinkin’ me, didn’t I?”
“Maybe. Why’d you sign up for the CIA?”
“Saw too many James Bond movies, I guess. I enlisted in the Air Force straight out of high school and applied to CIA when my hitch was up. That’s when I learned that being a spy didn’t mean I’d be climbing buildings, stealing secrets, and having drinks with beautiful enemy spies—no, my job would be living for months in foreign countries while I convinced poor local schmucks to steal intel and hand it off to me so I could hand it over to analysts at Langley. And even though I was risking imprisonment practically every day I lived overseas, I couldn’t tell anybody back home what I was doing. I had to live my cover, hiding my work even from my
wife and kid.”
“So why’d you do it?”
“Because I wanted to be a better man than my dad. Wanted to serve, do my duty, tough it out, no matter how hard it was. Wanted to be a big man in front of my boy. An American hero.”
His voice takes on a faraway quality as he turns his sightless eyes to the western horizon. “Three years ago, I recruited an agent, Alberto Herrera, who worked for a Spanish pharmaceutical firm. He had a wife and five sons, and he worried about his sons’ future. Wanted them to go to university, wanted them to eventually move to America. As I’d been trained, I bribed him with promises of money and visas for his entire family. All he had to do was monitor a shipment from his firm and let me know when it was leaving the country. Simple enough.”
He falls silent, and all I hear is the steady crashing of the waves against the rocky cliffs.
“Maybe I should have arranged a dead drop, but I wanted to get the intel and get out of there, so I told Alberto we’d do a brush pass outside a local warehouse. He completed the pass, but he didn’t know he’d picked up a tail. Long story short, a couple of bad guys snagged both of us and hauled us to a shack on the beach. Alberto, they killed right away. Me, they tortured. Shot me in both kneecaps, destroyed my eyes with some chemical they’d developed. They said I’d never see my family again…and they were more right than they realized.”
Despite my resolve to listen calmly, my stomach shrivels. The flat tone of Judson’s voice tells me he’s shared this story more than once, but it has not lost its power to move him…or to terrify a listener.
“I thought,” I whisper, “you were going to spare me the gory details.”
Judson chuffs. “Give yourself some credit, Doc. Not many people could make me spill my guts after ten minutes of small talk.”
The silence stretches between us until I ask what happened next.
“I never told them a thing,” he says, a hint of satisfaction returning to his voice. “And they left me for dead. I might have died on that beach, but some children found me after a few days. The police put me in a Spanish hospital, where I spent months in a coma as ‘John Doe.’ Because I’d been in a hurry and sloppy in my protocol, my handler didn’t find me until after the hospital had amputated both legs. By that time, CIA had told my wife and son I was missing, presumed dead, and washed out to sea. For a while, I wished that were true.”