by Rick Wayne
"News?" Regent did his best to feign ignorance.
Ethan walked across the room to check the morphine drip hanging from the back of John's chair. Unused. Pulled out. The needle trailed the chair like a tail. Ethan wasn't surprised. "You didn't hear? There was big a commotion today."
"I made the call." John wanted to change the subject.
"Time to take your stats." So did Ethan. He turned to open the shades.
"Already?"
The nurse stood by the window as light poured in. "I suppose that means you want me to put in a discharge request."
John nodded and squinted from the sun.
Ethan stepped to the wall near the bed and removed the blood pressure cuff from its holster. He wrapped it around John's good arm. "I wish you would stay."
"It's time." John had been at the hospital for months. It was the only place he'd been since his return.
Ethan held Regent's hand as the cuff inflated. It wasn't necessary, but the nurse held it firm.
John nodded. He was going to miss his friend. He thought he better say that. Out loud. He liked to think he wasn't afraid of anything, but it wasn't always true.
"I'll miss you guys."
The pair had met John's first day at the hospital. That was five months ago. John was mean back then, but Ethan met the anger with compassion. Everyone always wanted to rush in. They were just trying to be nice, helpful, and it pissed John off. He'd been hurt plenty of times. He knew how to handle it. If he needed help, he'd fucking ask.
But Ethan was different. He let John try things first. After his shifts were over, Ethan would often stay and listen with the other patients as John told stories from his missions overseas.
John realized he might not see his friend again. He didn't know Ethan's schedule. That meant it was now or never. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask me anything." Ethan ripped the Velcro and replaced the cuff on the wall.
"Why here?"
"What do you mean?" Ethan reached down to check John's colostomy bag. It was a testament to the men's trust that he didn't need to ask.
John lifted his shirt and leaned out of the way. "I mean, why soldiers? You're good. You could work lots of places. Why here?"
It was a special hospital, a joint program between the Veteran's Administration and the U.S. Department of Health, a halfway house for returning soldiers with major trauma or a home for anyone having real difficulty adjusting to civilian life. There were sister complexes, equally new and high-tech, in St. Louis and Sacramento. Attendance was voluntary, but for some strongly encouraged.
"Ohhh . . ." Ethan nodded. "So it's my turn to tell a story?"
John shrugged with his good arm as his nurse checked his pulse. "Don't wanna pry."
"No, it's okay." Ethan walked around the bed to the wall-mounted computer near the door. He touched it and the screen lit up. "When I was a kid—twelve I think—I got beat up by some neighbor boys for carrying dolls."
"Carrying?"
"I was bringing them to my sisters. From a family friend's house. I think I was looking at them or whatever, probably imagining too. I suppose that counts as playing. But I didn't think of it that way. I didn't like dolls any more than the other boys. I played video games. Soccer. I just didn't think dolls had cooties." He entered John's stats into the machine with taps of his finger.
John understood. They'd never spoken about it, but he understood. "Were you hurt bad?"
Ethan shook his head. "It was the shock and embarrassment more than anything."
"I'm guessing that wasn't the last time something like that happened."
"Oh of course not. But I know people who had it a lot worse than me. In nursing school I dated a boy who hadn't come out yet. He got beat up pretty bad one night. He wouldn't tell me why. He was always so angry." He sighed. "It wasn't like it was my life's goal to work with soldiers or anything, but I did jump at the chance."
"How come?"
Ethan stopped. He leaned against the wall. "You'll probably think it's corny . . ."
"Naw."
"Yes, you will." Ethan smiled. "But that's okay. That's sorta the point."
"What is?"
"I thought to myself, if I was serious about helping people, if that's what I was doing with my life, then shouldn't I go straight to the top?"
"Plenty of civilians need help."
"True. But it's not the same." He paused. "Gay people can be patriots, too."
John nodded. It was the first time Ethan had used the word, with Regent anyway. "You take good care of us."
"Your turn." Ethan looked at his watch and then sat down in the chair under the TV. "One more story. For old times' sake." He looked sad, like he didn't want to think about it.
"All right." John nodded. He thought for a moment. He wanted it to be a good one, something special for his friend. "Did I ever tell you about the time I went to see my granddad in Atlanta?"
"I don't think so."
"My dad was born down there. He moved up to Philly after Mom graduated. She was going to school down at Spelman when they met. After she died, Dad remarried, and we didn't get to see Granddad much, but when I was a kid, I got to stay with him in Atlanta for a few days. He was real excited about it. He never liked that Dad left. He took me to this packing house one day, all brick and everything. It had been remodeled. It's an office building now. Urban gentrification and everything, right?"
"Right."
"Before we went, he talked about it for days. Not all the time, but enough that I could tell it was important to him. He said it was an important part of my past. Couldn't miss it. Had to see. I thought he was gonna show me where he met Grandma or something like that.
"But when we got there, the nice folks let us in and he took me to this brick wall in a hallway that ran between the old loading dock—which is walled off now and full of conference rooms—and the old offices. He pointed to the wall next to a drinking fountain and said, 'Look there.' I looked. I didn't see anything.
"But he urged me. 'Go on.' I didn't want to disappoint him, so I stepped up and looked real hard. But it was just a bunch of old brick. Some of it looked like it had been patched up a long time ago.
"'I worked here for twenty years,' he said. 'I'd haul in produce or paper or all kinds of stuff and here they would pack it up and ship it all over the state. We carried a lot of heavy boxes, loading and unloading. We didn't have those big lifting machines, and no workplace safety either. So we'd get tired. I'd come up here to get a drink. And right there, that's where the 'Colored' fountain was, all dirty and cracked, next to the one for the white folks.'"
Regent looked at his bed covers and smiled.
"How old were you?"
"Maybe eight or nine. I had no idea what the old man was talking about. I mean, I knew the history. We learned about that stuff in school. But it didn't really mean anything to me, just stuff in books. Still, I could tell it was real important to him that I see it. So I nodded and all.
"It wasn't until I got older that I understood what he was trying to show me. He was a good man, my granddad."
"What happened to him?"
"Oh, he died a long time ago. Heart attack, I think. I wanted to go to his funeral down in Atlanta. I could tell my dad did, too."
"Why didn't you?"
Regent thought about his stepmother. He would be living with her again. Monday. For the first time in a quarter century. He could already see the rage behind her eyes. He'd be stuck in his chair, dependent on her and his aging father for help. "Just didn't work out, I guess."
"Well, I'm going to miss your stories, Captain. Especially the one about the dead cat."
"Oh, you liked that one?" They both smiled. It was a dirty story. And mostly true. "Truth is, I'll miss this place. Talking really helps."
"With the pain?"
John nodded.
"Will you have anyone there, where you're going? To talk to?" Ethan was hesitant. He had a hunch.
Regent turned the
corners of his mouth down. His burnt half barely moved. "Naw. Not really."
Nurse Brand didn't say anything for a moment. "You could stay."
John just shook his head. No. He couldn't. There was an innocent man downstairs with a bullet in his leg that proved it.
Ethan stood. "I'll put in the discharge request. BUT . . . I won't like it." He walked to the door.
John smirked.
"Try to get some rest."
Regent nodded. But he knew he wouldn't. In two days, he would again be a prisoner.
T Minus: 051 Days 21 Hours 03 Minutes 43 Seconds
That was odd.
The door was already open.
Dr. Amarta Zabora removed the key to her office and pushed the door with her knee. It was heavy, designed to keep the voices inside from being heard in the hallway, and she lost her balance for a moment. It didn't help that she had a purse hanging from one arm and a stack of files in the other. She was tired of carting hard copies between work and home. She couldn't wait for the new secure system.
The sun shone through windows on the left. A woman was sitting behind the desk, her desk, reading her computer screen. Amarta stood in the door, shocked. The woman was African-American, 30-ish, with short, straightened hair pinned to her scalp and a simple striped jacket and slacks. She didn't even look up.
"Excuse me." Dr. Zabora objected. Her hair wasn't nearly as well-kept as the intruder's. "Who the hell are you?"
"Relax, Doctor." The woman clicked the mouse. She didn't turn. "I'm one of the good guys."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Amarta dropped her purse and files on the floor of her office and stepped forward. Everything scattered across the taupe carpet. "You're not supposed to be in here." She looked at the half-turned screen. "Those files are confidential!"
"Calm down, Doctor. Please. Have a seat."
Amarta put her hands on her wide hips, then crossed her arms. It bunched her white coat. She stared. She was a head shorter than the interloper, with a round face and the dark complexion of her ancestors. Scraggly strands of gray poked from her jet-black hair. She kept staring as if to say, but you're in my seat.
The intruder stood and smiled. "My name is Ayn." She extended a hand across the bare wooden desk.
Dr. Zabora cleaned her desk every day before she left. She kept her arms crossed. She knew what was happening. She was a psychiatrist after all, trained to diagnose on all kinds of personal cues, appearance and behavior and the rest of it. "Ayn" was an anomaly. Genial people wear a wedding ring or they have a cowlick or shoes scuffed from a slight pigeon toe. Or maybe their necklace dangles a cross or a locket or Grandma's old pearls. Normal, healthy people have tiny tells, subtle hints of personality that might be useful in therapy.
Ayn didn't have any of that. She was dressed like an average office professional. Every piece of clothing was off the rack, appropriate but ordinary. Her make-up was appropriate but ordinary. Her hair was neat but ordinary. She wore a simple gold chain. Her earrings were simple dots. Her shoes were clean, round, ordinary. She was a mean, a calculated average. Everywoman.
Ayn pulled a blue tri-fold from her jacket. "This is an order from the Judge Advocate General's office giving me access to all notes and files on one of your patients."
Amarta didn't take it. She walked around the desk and waited for Ayn to move. Apparently they were having a battle of wills. It's too early for this, she thought. On a Sunday.
Ayn smiled again and set the order on the desk. She walked past the doctor slowly and settled into the visitor chair near the window.
Dr. Zabora sat and sighed. Her seat was still warm. It annoyed her. It would take half an hour at least to fix all the files she'd left scattered on the floor. That annoyed her, too. She glanced at her computer screen and then picked up the tri-fold. "What's this about?" She opened the packet of papers.
Ayn waited for her to finish reading.
Amarta flipped from one page to the next, then tossed the packet across the desk.
Ayn folded it and put it back in her jacket. "What do you know about Captain John Regent?"
"Not as much as I should. His service record has been heavily redacted." It was an accusation.
"Did he ever discuss the circumstances of his capture with you?"
Dr. Zabora shook her head. "John has been reluctant to talk about anything but his family."
"Is that unusual for these military types?"
Military types. Amarta repeated it in her head. "Ayn" wasn't a soldier. And she hadn't dropped any credentials, which meant she probably wasn't a lawyer either. They're always quick to share.
Dr. Zabora sighed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh come on. You know how it is. All these big, tough boys keeping their feelings buried under a mountain of rage."
Ayn was baiting her. "Captain Regent isn't like that."
"No?"
"He's respectful. Intelligent. Very well liked by the staff."
"But?"
"What do you want, Ayn?"
"How long have you been here, Doctor? At this hospital?"
"Something tells me you already know the answer to that question."
"You've been a contractor with the DoD for fifteen years. Where were you stationed before?"
"I didn't see anything in your court order about me."
Ayn smiled again and sat back. "Doctor Zabora, can I call you Amarta?
"Sure."
"Amarta, let's be open with each other."
"That would be a nice change."
"You and I are never going to be friends. We're never going to exchange bundt cake recipes or share wedding pictures. I don't care if you like me or not. But I have a job to do, and it requires your assistance."
She stopped short of a threat.
Ayn continued. "You were stationed in San Diego before this, correct?"
Amarta knew exactly where Ayn was going.
"That's a long move, coming all the way here to Philly, especially with your whole family still in Southern California."
"Ayn? Can I call you Ayn? I assume so since you haven't bothered to give me your real name." Dr. Zabora sat forward and rested her hands on her desk. "I'm a board-certified psychiatrist specializing in the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder. I also have a master's degree in cognitive psychology and nearly two decades' experience playing mind games, like this, with some of the smartest and most heavily damaged psyches in the world."
Ayn waited.
"Let's pretend that you artfully steered the conversation to Sergeant Wilkins and the shooting and I'll stipulate that he's the reason I was moved here and that it was a tragedy and that that whole episode continues to cast a shadow over everything I do. Yes, I think about him every day. Yes, I wonder if there was something I missed. No, I am not suffering a crisis of confidence because of it."
"Is that what you think I meant?"
"Do you really want to know what I think?"
Ayn motioned for Amarta to continue.
"I think it's very easy to manipulate people when you genuinely don't care about them. At all."
"Are you saying I'm a sociopath, Doctor?"
"Isn't that what the NSA looks for?"
Ayn didn't acknowledge the acronym. She simply rested both hands on her knee and gave a patronizing, mock-patient look.
Dr. Zabora could feel her heart rate increase. "You're not a soldier. You're not with JAG. The CIA doesn't work domestically. Shall I keep going?"
"Your intelligence was never in question, Doctor."
"Just my competence."
"It's a fair question given what happened." Ayn was serious.
Amarta took a deep breath and looked out the window at the green lawn that surrounded the campus. Beyond that, the city.
It never ended. It would never end.
Ayn went for the throat. "Sergeant Wilkins killed three people. And himself."
Dr. Zabora looked back from the window. "Get to the point, please."
; "Doctor, do you know what Captain Regent is?"
"Yes. He's a man in pain."
"No. He's a weapon. And it's my job to determine whether he poses a threat."
"That's funny." Dr. Zabora glowered. "I thought that was my job."
"See?" Ayn opened her hands wide. "We're on the same side after all."
Amarta lowered her voice. "Why are you here?"
"We need time to complete our investigation."
"Yesterday he asked to be discharged."
Ayn nodded.
Amarta wondered how long they'd been "investigating" him, reading her reports without her knowledge. Sometimes she really hated working for the military. Sometimes it was the most rewarding job in the world. "He has family coming to pick him up tomorrow."
"That's wonderful. Family is important."
"He's not a prisoner."
"And we're not asking you to treat him like one. According to every official U.S. Army report, Captain Regent is a real American hero. Officially."
"The most I can do is hold him for seventy-two hours. IF I feel he is a threat to himself. Or others."
"We're not asking you to do anything you're not comfortable with."
Yes, you are, Amarta thought.
Ayn sensed the hesitation. "I can't give you details, of course. But I can tell you this. After walking out of a very, very secret base of operations, Captain Regent was captured by forces unknown and held for not less than six months and not more than eighteen. In that time, he was tortured and beaten and made to endure--"
Dr. Zabora interrupted. "The fracture patterns on his femur, tibia, and fibula indicate his legs were broken, repeatedly, with some kind of precision tool and then allowed to heal. The contact marks and burn pattern on his skin suggests he was hooked up to a generator or battery while being drenched in gasoline. His face was burned with aci--"
"We've read the same reports, Doctor."
"Really? How wonderful. Then you know he's suffered enough. He's in constant pain."
"And yet he refuses medication."
Amarta rubbed her cheeks in frustration. Give me a suicidal patient any day. Anything other than a spy.