by J. R. Wolfe
His hair was hidden underneath a fashionable beanie that covered his ears. The frosty night had reddened his otherwise fair complexion. His angular face with sharp features, from his long nose to his pointed chin, gave him a tough, no-nonsense air. The noticeable lines around his eyes and mouth suggested he was in his late forties, perhaps early fifties. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other in what was surely a useless exertion to stay warm.
Is he a businessman? she wondered.
He wore leather dress shoes and a long wool coat that bundled his five-foot-ten body. And he had a confident air about him, as though he were a CEO of a large company.
“Thank you, again,” Portia said. “Your donation will be well spent. Have a nice evening.” She started to turn toward the crosswalk, when the man reached out and gently touched her arm. She stiffened, disliking the invasion of privacy from a stranger. Still, he was a ZIRP donor, so she forgave his boldness.
“I’ve been to Zimbabwe,” he said.
“Really,” Portia answered. At this point, she only wanted to be in the warmth of her apartment, sipping a glass of Dovgan. “Were you doing humanitarian work?”
“You might say that, yes.” His brown eyes with specks of yellow, so unusual and transfixing, veered downward.
Portia’s question was only an attempt at politeness. Why did he give a roundabout answer? She checked her wristwatch. It was late, almost midnight. Her patience was now withered, and she didn’t care to engage in a conversation with someone who was pushy and odd. Plus, it had been a long night of emotional memories that made her long to be with Imma again. But there were no redos in life, only regrets.
The crosswalk light mercifully turned green. A herd of pedestrians walked toward the other side of the street.
Portia started to join them, but the stranger again grabbed her upper arm, this time with more force. Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go. ZIRP donor or not, she thought, he’s gone too far. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, sorry.” He released his grip. “The part in your speech about Dr. Imma Thoms was quite moving. So sad that a caring physician who volunteered for ZIRP would be imprisoned on false charges during a humanitarian mission. The world is mad, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“Is she here?”
The bizarre question fluttered Portia’s stomach with butterflies. This guy was a nut. “Dr. Thoms was executed after her escape attempt from prison failed,” she said. “Her body was never found.”
“That’s right.” He winked at her, as though he knew a secret they both shared. “That is what you said tonight.”
“I said it, because it’s true.”
“I understand, but I’m a friend. You must believe me. So tell me. Did Dr. Thoms make it to Chicago?”
This guy isn’t just a nut, she thought, he’s a persistent, scary nut. “I’m afraid Imma—I mean Dr. Thoms—” She didn’t want to anger him, so she decided to select her words carefully. “Isn’t with us—here with us, on this planet with us, anymore. I hope you understand, but I’m tired and need to go home.” She looked around in the hope she’d spot a crowd she could slip into and dash off with.
The knot of pedestrians, though, was long gone, and no one else was nearby. Cars only sped by at a whooshing pace. Making matters worse, the crosswalk light had flipped to red.
“You don’t trust me.” His eyebrows pinched together.
“What do you mean? I don’t know you.”
“I helped Dr. Thoms and Chessa escape.” His voice radiated with certainty and confidence.
“What are you talking about? Who’s Chessa?”
“Chessa Marsik. You really don’t know who she is?”
“Mister, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I see.” He studied her intently. “So they haven’t come to Chicago, at least not yet. Otherwise, you would know about Chessa, and you appear to be telling the truth.”
“Of course I’m telling the truth. Why would I lie?”
“We must work together.” His face was the picture of sternness. “Before I left them at the camp in Zimbabwe, Dr. Thoms told me about you. She spoke highly of you. She said you were a hero, a US Army PSU agent specializing in protective services of upper brass and dignitaries.”
“That’s right. I was with the US Army Protective Services Unit, but I also talked about my background in the speech I gave tonight.”
His forehead wrinkled, as though he were thinking very, very hard. “She said that you love chocolate chip cookies.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“With white wine?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “How could you have talked with Imma about me?”
“It’s a long story, I’ll grant you, but I knew her. She’s a lovely, intelligent, and talented doctor. She’s alive. I’m sure of it.”
“Imma and this other woman—”
“Chessa. Chessa Marsik.”
“Right. Ms. Marsik. I don’t know anything about her, but as to Imma, all the evidence and intelligence showed she was executed for trying to escape from prison.”
“Yes.” He flashed a brief, but gleeful smile. “But they can be easily fooled sometimes. I’m sure Dr. Thoms will try to contact you. I thought she and Chessa had made it to Chicago, but perhaps they’re still in Zimbabwe. If that’s the case, they’re in grave danger.”
“Grave danger?”
“I’m afraid so. This bloody mess is my fault. Will you help me find them?”
Before she could respond, a dark-skinned man with cornrow-braided hair that fell just above his shoulders wearing a knee-length, heavy coat and boots, approached the stranger from behind with the quiet and sneaky cunning of a lion about to pounce on his prey. He flew through the air with amazing agility for his beefy body. He bear-hugged the stranger around his midsection. They plopped on the sidewalk in a heap of outstretched arms and legs. Leaping to his feet, he picked up the stranger and carried him toward the street.
The stranger, whose feet didn’t touch the ground, struggled against the attack. His blows, however, were uselessly limited to hammering his foe’s shoulders.
Portia held her breath. She’d wanted to be free of that oddball, but what if his story about Imma was genuine? What if Imma had managed to escape? As she watched the tussle advance toward the middle of the street, quivers of unease ran up her spine.
The heavyset man slammed the stranger onto the pavement, face up, and kicked the stranger’s stomach with a ferocious wallop. He glanced down at his fallen prey for an instant and then strode to the sidewalk where he stood several yards away from Portia.
“You bastard!” The stranger clutched his midsection and struggled to his feet. “How did you find me?”
“Just trying to help the lady.” The heavyset man made no effort to hide his mocking tone.
A car engine revved and boomed like a clap of thunder, causing Portia to cup her bad ear with her hand. A white Cadillac SUV raced toward the stranger with ever-increasing speed.
“Look out!” she shouted.
The oncoming car was only a few yards away from the stranger. He began to run, but the vehicle struck him, causing his body to catapult into the air. He dropped like an anchor onto the SUV’s hood and rolled off.
The driver, a white male with short, cropped hair and an elongated nose, kept his eyes glued ahead. His expression was disturbingly calm, as though he were simply commuting home. He never slowed down but instead sped away with appalling haste.
Portia’s jaw dropped. The driver had to have felt the impact. What an icy bastard, she thought. She slowly lowered her hand, grateful that her bad ear felt fine.
The heavyset man remained on the sidewalk and gawked at his victim with a perverted smile that almost gave Portia the dry heaves. She realized he wasn’t a Good Samaritan trying to help her; he was a damn killer who enjoyed his depraved victory. Finally, he ambled away and disappeared into Chicago’s underbelly.
Portia’s heart pounded like a war drum, while a stream of hot adrenaline rushed through her body. She turned toward the street.
The stranger was still lying face up, appearing to stare at the black sky. Fortunately, there were no cars, not yet.
Was he playing some sick game, or had he been honest? Was Imma somehow alive? But that was impossible, wasn’t it? The CIA had confirmed her death. Yet, what if they were wrong? What if Imma were alive, and this oddball was the only person who could find her? She dashed into the street and knelt beside him.
The stranger’s eyes were open, but his breathing was labored. Blood oozed from the back of his head, and he had an ugly gash on his cheek. The most noticeable injury, though, was his bent right leg, which was surely broken. If he had any chance of survival, he needed medical attention right away.
“You’ll be all right,” she said. “Just keep breathing. I’ll call 911.”
“There’s no time,” he said. “They’ve finally gotten me.”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I won’t let you die.” Hesitating, she asked, “Have you told me the truth? Is Imma alive?”
“Yes. They’re after her and…Marsik…my…fault.”
Shoving her hand in her coat pocket, Portia pulled out a cell phone.
“Don’t waste the minutes.” He reached up and feebly held her wrist.
“You’ll get through this. Don’t give up.”
“The People’s Revolution is after them. They won’t be able to hide forever. They need help, but you can’t trust—” A dark fright clouded his eyes.
“What are you talking about? I can’t trust who?”
The stranger didn’t answer. He’d lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 2
The sound of footsteps pounding the cement floor grew louder and closer to Portia, as did the clang of fast-moving metal wheels. Instinct told her to turn around and see what was approaching. Yet, how could she? Her attention was on the stranger.
He lay motionless on a hospital bed. An oxygen mask covered his face, and a tube led from his arm to an IV bag. A handful of emergency room personnel swarmed about him like bees on honey.
“Lady, you need to move!” a male voice said. “Hey, did you hear me, lady? Move!”
Portia spun around to face two barrel-chested paramedics who were running toward her, wheeling a stainless steel gurney. She needed to get out of their way, but her legs were stubbornly glued to the beige vinyl floor.
“Move!” the paramedic yelled again.
The sharpness of his voice snapped Portia’s legs free, and she jumped to the side. Her gaze shifted to the approaching commotion.
A poor young woman lay on the gurney. Wrapped in a blanket, she darted by like an arrow shot from a bow.
Portia sighed with relief and returned her attention to what mattered. The organized chaos of a physician and three nurses attending to the stranger’s injuries continued. With good fortune, this odd man might survive. If that happened, she’d need to talk to him and find out whether he was telling the truth about Imma.
“Excuse me.” A woman in her mid-twenties, who wore long black braids and a nurse’s aide uniform, stood beside Portia. She had brilliant green eyes, high cheekbones, and nicely manicured fingernails that were painted a brash red.
“I realize this must be an emotional time,” the aide said, “but I have questions that I must ask you about Mr. Jager.” She held a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. “The answers are vital so that we can properly treat your husband.”
Did I say I was the stranger’s husband? Portia thought. The skinny paramedic with a hard, square face flashed in her mind, as did the disorder and confusion between the onlookers and the first responders. How could she remember what she had told the paramedic? She must’ve told him a lie; otherwise, he would’ve refused her plea to ride in the ambulance with the stranger. Her mind suddenly free floated for a moment. Did the aide say the stranger’s name was Jager?
“I am Mr. Jager’s wife,” she finally answered. She was unsure of where to go with this fictional tale. “Wife. Yes, that’s right.” She paused. “So, er…will he be all right?”
“I wish I could tell you,” the aide said. “The doctor treating him will speak with you about his condition. To provide your husband with the proper care, I need to ask you questions about his medical history. Let’s go where we can sit down.”
“Sure.”
The aide led Portia to the waiting room. More than a dozen people sat in orange plastic chairs, some reading, some staring blankly ahead, and others watching a television that was braced to the wall. Grave expressions fitting for a long church service were their only commonality. A young mother, her eyes red and swollen, nestled a crying infant in her arms.
Portia nibbled her lower lip. The mother was clearly grief stricken for someone, perhaps her husband or another family member. That was the emotional role she needed to play. She plopped herself into a chair.
“Can you get me water?” Portia asked, purposely making her voice sound threadbare.
The aide didn’t bother to respond. She went to a nearby water fountain and soon returned. Despite her size eighteen girth, she perched herself in a chair facing Portia and extended the paper cup.
“Fluids should help,” the aide said.
“Thank you.” Portia grabbed the paper cup and drank. A shot of vodka would’ve been perfect, but a nonalcoholic drink would have to do. Surprisingly, the water was satisfying. “This has been a difficult night.”
“Feel better?” The aide’s tone was comforting.
“Yes,” Portia answered, almost meaning it.
“So, Mrs. Jager, what is your first name?”
Portia didn’t immediately answer. She drank more water and realized that claiming to be Jager’s wife might be a mistake. The aide would ask a litany of questions about his medical history and condition that she couldn’t answer without lying, and those lies would undoubtedly mislead the doctors. Perhaps Jager was a diabetic or suffered from hypertension or was allergic to certain medications. It was safer all around if she claimed to be another family member.
“I’m his wife?” she said. “Did I say…Oh, no, I’m his…I can see where the confusion is.”
“Okay, help me out.” The aide closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if she’d been commanded by a yoga teacher to relax. “Who are you?”
“His wife. I’m not his wife, though. I’m a wife, but not his wife. I’m his brother’s wife. It’s confusing since, well, my sister, who is my twin…not my identical twin, though…she’s heavy, and I’m not, and she’s now a blonde with long hair…she colors her hair, and I don’t, I’m obviously a brunette with short wavy hair and bangs, and she has blue eyes and mine are hazel…I’m taller too, at five foot eight, and she’s shorter, five foot five, just barely that tall. So, I was born first by two minutes, but who’s counting? She’s married to my brother-in-law.”
The aide finally opened her eyes. “She’s what?”
“She’s married to the stra—” Portia stumbled on her own words. What should she call him? She didn’t know his first name. Burying her head into her hands, she hoped that the aide would think the strain of the night’s tragic events had made her emotionally wacky. This wasn’t, after all, far from the truth.
“Stanislaw,” the aide said. “So you’re Stanislaw’s sister-in-law, not his wife? His wife is a blonde, and you’re a tall brunette.”
“Correct.” Portia raised her head and placed her hands in her lap. “I’m married to his brother Paul.”
The aide shook her head and nonchalantly looked down at the clipboard, which held a pre-printed form, and checked several boxes. She looked up and asked, “Is Mr. Jager visiting?”
“Well,” Portia said, unsure of how to answer. “We had dinner with Stanislaw earlier this evening. I assume he had his driver’s license on him.”
“No. His only identification was his Polish passport.”
Portia�
�s mind spun like a wheel. The stranger’s name was Stanislaw Jager, and he was from Poland. What was his connection to Imma?
“Do you and your husband live here?” the aide asked.
“We live in Chicago, and Stanislaw…I mean Stan…we call him Stan…Stan is visiting us.”
“Where’s Stan’s wife?”
Good question, Portia thought. What was a believable response? The make-believe sister couldn’t be in Chicago, since that would mean she’d be expected to go to the hospital. “My sister is traveling abroad,” she slowly replied. “She was supposed to be in Germany this week, but she’s kept a flexible schedule so that she can visit friends. She’s been bouncing around, you might say. So, I’m not sure where to reach her right now.”
“That’s too bad.” The aide’s thick shoulders drooped. “How about your husband? Where’s he?”
“Paul is probably at work.”
“It’s late.” The aide eyed her oversized wristwatch, which had a picture of Mickey Mouse on the face. “What does he do?”
Another good question that needed a good lie. “He’s a lawyer,” Portia said.
“Can you contact him? We’d like to know Mr. Jager’s medical history, and your husband should be able to relay at least some information, unless you know.”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t, but I’ll call him. I need to let him know what’s happened to Stan.”
“Once you reach him, just go to the nurses’ desk and let them know.” The aide stood. “My shift is almost over, so I’ll be leaving soon, but they’ll be able to help you.”
Portia rose and shook the aide’s hand. “Can you tell me? How is Stan? Will he live?”
“That’s the million-dollar question I wish I could answer,” she said. “You’ll need to talk to the ER doc. But I do know that miracles have happened in this hospital before. Prayer always helps and never hurts.”
“I’m sure that miracles happen here.” Portia spoke in a solemn voice. This was the hospital where Imma had worked as an emergency room doctor before joining the army. “Thank you.”