by P. D. Martin
“I can walk now. You know the doctors want me up several times a day.”
“Yes, darling, but just short walks. I’m talking about down to the café or newsagent.”
“Okay, but I could walk that far now and I’ve only got four nights left.”
Mum bites her lip.
Dad puts his hand on her shoulder. “Let your mum fuss, Soph. You know it’s what she does best.”
“Bob,” Mum says, brushing his hand off her shoulder. But she is smiling.
I stifle a laugh. “Thanks, Mum.”
There’s a short rap at the door. I look up to see Darren Carter’s slim, five-eleven frame at the door. His black hair looks a little more tousled than usual.
“Darren, hi.” I instinctively push myself up higher and wish I had a mirror to check out my hair…and face…and…
In one hand he holds a bunch of flowers, and in the other an overnight bag. “Did I come at a bad time?”
I’m speechless, focused more on his midnight-blue eyes, but Mum more than makes up for my silence. “No, not at all. I’m Sophie’s mum, Jan Anderson, and this is my husband, Bob.”
Darren shakes both their hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. I’m Detective Darren Carter.”
“Please, call us Jan and Bob.”
“Likewise, it’s Darren.” He smiles.
Mum turns back to me, eager. “You didn’t tell us Darren was coming up.”
Now that Mum’s seen my reaction to Darren—and his to me—I know I’m going to have a hard time convincing her that we’re just professional acquaintances. “I…I didn’t know.”
Darren grins. “I told you I might come up on my days off.”
I vaguely remember a conversation to that effect on Saturday afternoon, but I guess I was still coming out of the general anesthetic, not to mention the pain meds, and it all seems a little hazy.
Darren’s face falls. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”
“Don’t be silly, dear boy.” Mum puts her hand on Darren’s arm. “Sophie needs her friends and family around her now.”
“You sure? I don’t want to intrude.” Darren’s half talking to me, and half to Mum.
“Sorry, Darren. I do remember now. Saturday’s a bit hazy, that’s all.”
The grin returns.
“So, where are you staying?” Mum asks.
“I’ve booked a hotel around the corner.”
“You must come and stay at Sophie’s apartment with us.” Mum turns to me. “That’s a sofa bed in the living room, isn’t it?”
I nod, caught in the headlights of a runaway train. Darren staying with my parents…without me there…man-oh-man, this is bad.
I give Dad a look. He’s usually my ally in these situations, but this time he just gives a slight smirk and even has the audacity to give me a wink. Oh, that’s cruel.
“I don’t know…I don’t want to impose.” Darren gives her a boyish shrug. “And I’m booked and all.”
“No, no, no. And it’s no imposition. You don’t want to stay in some impersonal hotel when you could stay with us.”
Darren also seems a little like a kangaroo stunned in full beams.
“Mum, some people like staying in hotels. They prefer their own space.” My voice is polite, but I hope she gets the message.
But she doesn’t. “Don’t be silly, darling. No one would want to stay in hotel if they could stay in a home. Besides, Darren looks like he could use a few home-cooked meals.”
I let my head fall back into the pillow for a second, then mouth “Sorry” to Darren.
He grins, obviously seeing the humor in the situation…or my mother. “Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”
Please tell me this isn’t happening. I’m dreaming, right? Mum will have Darren and me married off by dinnertime—and I won’t even be there!
Twenty-Two
“So, how are you?” Darren sits on the side of my bed. Mum and Dad left only a few moments ago with the oh-so-casual line, “We’ll leave you kids alone.” If there were a brick wall handy, I’d bang my head against it.
“Sorry about Mum.”
Darren’s dimples pucker, and I can tell he’s holding back an even bigger grin.
I roll my eyes. “I know, she’s a nightmare.”
“She’s lovely, Soph. And you’re her baby girl.”
I nod. “But I still don’t envy you. Staying with my parents for a night or two?” I smile. “You’ll never be the same again.”
“Come on, it won’t be that bad. And it’s only a night. I’m back on duty Wednesday morning.”
“You can still get out of it, you know. Save yourself now, before it’s too late.”
“I’m looking forward to it, actually.” The cheeky grin again. “Lucky I hadn’t checked in already.” He looks back at his overnight bag, shoved in a corner.
“Why didn’t you check in first?”
He looks down. “I needed to come straight here and see you with my own eyes.” He looks up. “Make sure you really were doing okay.”
“Verdict?”
“You’re pale, but I think you’ll pull through.”
I smile. “So the doctors say.”
“Did you feel like this when I was shot?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “When I first heard…” He shakes his head. “I felt so helpless. Still do.”
My defensive nature when it comes to relationships kicks in. “Don’t be silly. I’m fine, you were fine.”
He smiles, but shifts uncomfortably on the bed. Access denied, again, and he knows it. “So, they giving you good pain meds?”
Darren’s good at responding to my signals. Maybe too good. Sometimes I want him to push. But other times I’m happy he lets me keep him at a distance.
“Pretty good. It’s starting to hurt a bit now, actually.”
“You want me to get a nurse? Get something for you?”
“Nah. They’ll come around soon. I think I’m due for a top-up.”
“You sure?”
I nod.
“You look tired, Soph.” He looks intently at me, his midnight-blue eyes locked with mine.
“Terrible, you mean.”
He smiles. “No, just tired.”
“Don’t tell my folks, but I didn’t sleep so well last night.”
“Really? Why?”
I shrug, realizing I can’t even take Darren into my confidence. Not on this one. “Just thinking about this case.”
“About being shot?”
“No.”
After a moment of silence, Darren says, “So tell me how you really are.”
I manage a small smile. “You’re persistent, as always.”
“That’s what friends are for, right?”
“I’ve been through worse than this. You know that.” The case Darren and I met on got personal for both of us. “You know what, I don’t even feel that affected emotionally.”
“That’s denial. You could have been killed, Sophie.”
“I’ve been aware of my own mortality for a long time, Darren. I’m not dealing with that revelation, not this time.”
He’s silent, studying my face.
“I’m not in denial. I’m not repressing any deep, dark emotions. Being roughed up by some organized crime thugs and taking a bullet in the shoulder isn’t my biggest fear.”
“Don’t trivialize it, Sophie. It’s a big deal. You’re not convincing me, you know.”
“Okay, how’s this?” I take a breath, ready to bare my soul to Darren. “My fear is being taken by a serial killer, of becoming a victim of sexual homicide. I’ve seen what guys do to those victims, what those women have to endure before they die. That’s what I fear. This, I can deal with. Honestly.”
He takes my hand. “I understand.”
I look at his hand and manage a smile. He really does understand…Darren sees those photos, too.
He takes his hand away. “I think I better let yo
u get some rest. You look exhausted.”
“I hate to admit it, but I think I do need sleep.”
He stands up. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
“My parents will be in the coffee lounge downstairs. You can get a ride with them to my apartment.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tonight?”
“My parents usually come in straight after dinner, but you’re welcome any time. If you need to get away…”
He laughs. “I’ll cope. Besides, apparently I need some home cooking.” He pats his flat stomach.
I laugh. “See you tonight.”
Once Darren’s gone, I call Grove and dial in Petrov, too. I’m eager to hear Grove’s thoughts, but I’m also exhausted so I hope the phone call is short.
“So, how’d you do with your weekend reading, Doc?”
“Well, I definitely had a better weekend than you, Anderson. Glad to hear you and Detective Ramos are okay.”
“Thanks. Although Ramos is still critical.”
“Yeah. I spoke to his doctor this morning. Ramos is strong, healthy. He’ll be okay.”
I’m not sure whether that’s Grove’s professional opinion or if he’s providing emotional support. I imagine it’s the latter, given the other doctors don’t seem quite as willing to offer a definitive long-term prognosis. I need to see Ramos for myself.
“So, the reading.” Grove makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “I can’t advise you on whether the human hand is capable of delivering the force necessary to cause all of the devastating effects covered in the book, but the medical facts behind targeting the nervous system and other points mentioned in the book are valid. I wouldn’t say unequivocally that the strikes will kill, but I can see that they could kill if they were delivered accurately and with enough force.”
Petrov whistles down the phone line. “So it really is possible?”
“I can only talk to the theory and Jun Saito’s body. The medical theory is sound and, while Saito died of blood loss, his body also tells us that dim mak strikes were used against him. Make of it what you will.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I say. “Can you courier the book over? I think I better add it to my reading list.”
“Will do.”
“We’ve also got another victim we’d like to talk to you about,” Petrov says. “He was attacked in 1996 and died eight years later of liver failure. Apparently there was no medical or lifestyle condition that led to the organ failure. Could it have been due to the attack?”
Before Grove has time to consider it, I add, “There’s a section on organ failure in the book, isn’t there?”
“Yes. But the concept of delayed death…I’m really not sure about that. I can see a few hours or days if you’re talking a ruptured spleen with no medical intervention, but eight years…”
“So you don’t think it’s likely?” Petrov asks.
“No. But officially I’m going to sit on the fence. Logically I doubt it, but the human body’s a weird and wonderful organism. I guess it’s also possible the attack damaged the organs and that the effects weren’t obvious…until it was too late.”
“The wife said he was bruised, but she can’t remember exactly where,” I say. “So there’s no way to confirm that pressure points were targeted. Not when the attack took place so long ago.”
We’re silent.
Petrov clears his throat. “Guess that’s everything. Thanks, Grove, and we’ll call you if we’ve got any more questions.”
“Sure thing. Take care of yourself, Anderson.”
“I will.” I hang up, exhausted. The ViCAP searches will definitely have to wait but I can’t wait any longer to see Ramos. I flash back to the deafening discharge and echo of the three bullets, the bullets I thought had killed Ramos. No, I need to see him, and now.
I slowly maneuver myself out of bed, leaning on my right side and rolling out of bed as fluidly as I can. As my feet hit the cold hospital floor the light impact travels through my body, sending shooting pain along my shoulder blade. I wince, happy no one’s here to witness my pain and tell me to get back into bed. I throw my dressing gown and slippers on and slowly make my way to intensive care.
Even though it’s officially family only, I’m able to talk my way in to see Ramos thanks to a sympathetic nurse.
“He’s in the corner bed,” she says with a smile, pointing to the far side of the room.
I move slowly toward it. A voluptuous woman with long dark hair sits on the chair nearest the bed, her hand lying on top of Ramos’s forearm. Her head is down—asleep? Once I’m a few steps away she looks up, recognition on her face.
“Agent Anderson.”
“Yes.” I’m surprised she knows who I am.
She stands up. “Your photos have been on the news. Yours and my Edwardo’s.”
I nod, realizing that until that moment I hadn’t even known Ramos’s first name. “How’s he doing?” I look down at Ramos. His face is so pale that if you didn’t know him, you probably wouldn’t even guess he was Hispanic.
“He sleeps a lot.” She forces a smile. “But the doctors say he’s getting stronger.”
I don’t press her on the prognosis. In another day or two maybe the doctors will be willing to predict a full recovery, but not yet. I sigh. Could we have done anything differently that night? Anything to keep us out of this place?
“I’m sorry,” I say to Mrs. Ramos. “Sorry I called him that night.”
“You were doing your job. As was he. We know the risks.”
At first I’m shocked by her acceptance of the night’s events. If she’s spent any time replaying the night in anguish she’s not showing it. Or perhaps she’s simply relieved she’s not at home organizing a funeral.
She puts her hand on mine. “I’m glad you had each other. And so grateful to you for calling 911.”
The lie…I didn’t call 911, but maybe it doesn’t matter.
Ramos stirs and blinks his eyes, opening them slowly. He manages a weak grin. “Hey, you. Great to see you up and about.”
I smile. “Thanks. I’m looking forward to seeing you up, too.”
“Soon.” He takes a heavy breath. “Hopefully soon.” He winces.
“You’re in pain.”
“A bit.”
“A lot,” his wife interjects before calling a nurse.
“I’ll go. I just wanted to check on you, Ramos…. And say hi.”
“Thanks.” He grits his teeth.
“Rest up,” I say and shake Mrs. Ramos’s hand before shuffling away. In another minute or two Ramos will have more pain meds and be drifting back to sleep. And then hopefully in another day or two he’ll be out of the woods.
Twenty-Three
On my BlackBerry, I open up the list of the three hundred and fifty-six male Chinese nationals who entered the US between November 6 and December 6 and left within a week of Saito’s murder. Rodriguez sent through a list of names with their entry and exit dates in Excel, the biometric data for each person, plus JPEG images of the photos taken at their entry point—in most cases an airport.
I study the Excel list, despite Petrov’s instructions to the contrary. I e-mailed it through to the team as soon as it came in yesterday, but I’m so bored in hospital…I’ll go out of my mind if I don’t do something. I’ve read all four dim mak books and I need something else constructive to do. The immigration info fits the bill. I know I’m still operating below par because of the pain medication, but I can’t just lie here twiddling my thumbs. Today’s Thursday, and I’ve got another two full days of hospital hell. I have to do something. But the names are merging into one big blur. I hope the others are having better luck than I am. I shake my head. What am I doing? I have another method at my disposal. I try with the names first…. I’ve never tried to get anything in terms of a vision or dream from someone’s name alone, but I know it can be done. In fact, if you believe the rumors, the CIA used remote viewers during the Cold War—people who could give them information on a building or locat
ion just by knowing the longitude and latitude. And the US wasn’t the only country that experimented in this area. While the parapsychology tests have been inconclusive, I know that some people can tune into a person from their name alone. Others need a photo, while some need to touch something personal to the subject. There’s certainly no harm in me trying my usual relaxation techniques while staring at a name. I lean back in the hospital bed and consciously slow my breathing, concentrating on each breath. Then, I open my eyes and look at the first name, Chi Ho, and close my eyes. Nothing, so I move on to the next name. After the tenth name, I close the Excel document and bring up the pics. I’m about to try again to induce a vision when Mum walks in.
“Morning, sweetie.”
I casually place my BlackBerry on the bedside table. “Hi, Mum.” She follows my hand.
“Darling! You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I am, Mum.”
Dad enters. “What’s up?”
Mum turns around. “She was working…again.”
Dad looks at us, one then the other, torn between whose side to take. His eyes settle on me. “Sophie, you’re not doing yourself any favors.”
I grimace. Damn. “Come on, Dad. I’m bored stupid in here.”
“What about your books? TV?” Mum crosses her arms.
I shrug.
“It’s for your own good, Sophie. The more you rest now, the faster you’ll be back on your feet…and at work.”
Ouch, that’s below the belt. “Nice try, Mum.”
She plonks into the armchair. “Fine. I give up. Work.”
Silence.
“So you’ll bring in my laptop then?” I’ve been asking for it since Tuesday—the small BlackBerry screen hasn’t been helping matters. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to induce a vision.
Mum stands up. “Talk to your daughter, Bob.” And she leaves.
Uh-oh.
Dad gives me a look. “Do you have any idea how worried your mum’s been? How hard it is to see you like this?” He takes a breath. “To know what could have happened to you that night?”
“Umm…”
“Sophie, think. Please. If you’d seen her in Melbourne, on that airplane, you wouldn’t be doing this.”