Resistant

by Michael Palmer

  How long?… How long have I been here?… Maria. What happened to Maria?

  He was seized by an image of her—a distorted mental picture, woefully out of focus, swirling like smoke. She was falling—melting like the witch in The Wizard of Oz. Moments later, faces intruded on the unsettling picture.

  Who are they? When will the pain in my head go away? Where’s Maria? What happened to her?

  “Tim, are you with us? Can you hear me?… Will he be able to speak?”

  The words dragged Vaill out of his fog. He recognized the steely, authoritative voice immediately. It belonged to Beth Snyder, FBI director of Special Operations—his boss. Snyder, whose notion of time off was a Sunday afternoon nap in the office, rarely went to see an agent in person unless it was to attend their funeral or visit them in the hospital. Barring some great cosmic joke, the hard-boiled woman was far from Vaill’s idea of heaven, so he assumed he was in a hospital somewhere.

  “Give him time,” a man with an accent said. “His wound was not life-threatening, but it was a serious injury.”

  Wanting to change positions, Vaill pushed back on his elbows to prop himself up. Even that slight movement sent lightning bolts crackling through his head. Clenching his teeth, his vision having gone white, he forced himself to move past the pain. He needed to look Snyder in the eyes and ask the question he could not seem to answer for himself.

  “Maria,” he managed. His voice was a strangled croak, with barely enough power to escape his parched throat. He tried again, digging deeper, ignoring the pain the way he had been taught at Quantico. “Maria … where is she?” Even though Vaill wanted water more than air, all he could do was keep asking for her. Each time he spoke her name he expected a sliver of memory to return, but nothing came.

  “Agent Vaill, you should try to keep your movements to a minimum.”

  The stranger’s accented voice again—a doctor of some sort, Vaill now believed.

  “Who … are you … Where is Maria?”

  Vaill inched his head around to face the man—an Indian or Pakistani, wearing turquoise hospital scrubs beneath a long, white coat with his name stitched in blue script above the breast pocket. Beth stood beside him, her expression grave.

  “Agent Vaill, my name is Dr. Nayan Gunter. I’m a neurosurgeon here at Eisenhower Memorial Hospital—your neurosurgeon. You were shot while on duty. You’ve suffered a fairly significant injury to your left temporal lobe, but the bullet was easy to remove, and you seem to be recovering nicely.”

  The gunshot.

  Vaill’s memory began to solidify. A bullet had struck him mid-chest, impacting his Kevlar vest hard enough to knock him off balance. He was falling backward when a second bullet hit. The fall prevented what most certainly would have been a kill shot to the head.

  “Maria … where is she?”

  Beth spoke now. “Tim, you’re doing well, but it’s going to take some time for you to recover. It’s a miracle that you’re alive.”

  Then why don’t I feel like a miracle? What’s gnawing at my guts? Why do I feel like I’ve been handed some sort of death sentence—something that would leave me crippled for the rest of my life?… Maria …

  Beth took hold of his hand—not a normal gesture for her. Her heart had been calcified from years of wading waist-deep in human misery.

  “Tim, you need to brace yourself,” he heard her say.

  Then it came to him, like a tsunami crashing down, drowning him in despair. He swallowed back a jet of bile. What was a hazy recollection gave way to vivid detail. Maria’s head snapping back … The hole in her forehead … Blood exploding out from her ruptured skull … The gruesome crimson spray on the wall behind her … Her body going limp as though she’d been unplugged from some life-giving machinery … Her horribly vacant eyes.

  Vaill remembered now. He remembered his programming kicking in with knee-jerk speed. He remembered going for his gun, obsessed only with shooting Alexander Burke dead. But either the man was simply faster, or seeing Maria crumple had cost Vaill a split second. Now, he was imprisoned in a hospital room, about to be told by his boss that his wife was dead.

  Tears stung the corners of his eyes as Snyder talked on, but he battled them back. He would cry for Maria later. He would cry rivers. But first, there was a promise to be made—a commitment to vengeance. Vaill had always been cautious when it came to making promises. But not this time.

  He and Maria had dated for two years after they met at Quantico and fell instantly in love. More than once over those two years, she laughed at the irony that he was afraid of nothing except commitment. His response was that he had been raised never to break a promise, and the promise of marriage was a commitment unlike any other. A month after that, she gave him a final chance to step up or lose her, and he proposed on the spot. He had never once regretted making that pledge, nor had he ever had any problem keeping it. Now, as Beth Snyder talked on, Vaill made another promise. He would find Special Agent Alexander Burke and kill him … or die.

  “Tim, I’m so sorry,” Snyder was saying. “Every agent at the Bureau is working nonstop to find the bastard. We’re going to get him, Tim. I promise we’re going to nail him.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days now.”

  Vaill’s throat tightened. Each breath was an effort. Maria had been dead for two days and until this moment, he did not even know it. What was her family doing? Who had been notified? Where was her body? When was her funeral? He should have been with her family, grieving alongside them, not lying helpless in a hospital bed. In twelve years of marriage, he had grown as close to Maria’s family as he was to his own. He and Maria had not been blessed with children of their own, but they had plans. Now, in a burst of noise and smoke, those plans had all been blown away.

  “I need to talk to you alone,” Vaill said to Snyder, his whisper stronger than it had been.

  Snyder looked to the doctor. Reluctantly, it seemed, Gunter nodded.

  “He needs rest,” the surgeon said. “Given the nature of his injury, his recovery is quite remarkable, but the damage to his temporal lobe might be significant.”

  “I’m sure a few minutes alone with me won’t do him harm,” Snyder said. “Thank you, doctor. Thank you for understanding.”

  Vaill waited until he heard the door close. His parched throat begged for water. Snyder, sensing his need, gave him some ice chips on a spoon, followed by a small sip through a plastic straw. She was as tough as anyone Vaill had ever worked with, but her compassion was genuine. Vaill knew she was sick with guilt at having been taken in by a dirty agent.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Trust me, Tim, you’re safe. We’ve got guards out there around the clock hoping that Burke tries to finish what he started.”

  “I need to get him, Beth,” Vaill said. “I need to hurt him, and then I need to kill him.”

  “Tim, you know we don’t operate that way. I want you to go on medical leave for a while. The agents, and me especially, want him almost as badly as you do. We’ll take care of it.”

  “That’s what I knew you’d say. But I’m not going on any medical leave. I’m going back on duty and you’ve got to put me on the case to get him.”

  “I’m sorry, Tim. I know you’re hurting, but I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Vaill took another few sips of water. This time he held the plastic cup himself.

  “Beth,” he said, “you know how close Maria and I were. We were getting ready to adopt a kid. The forms have all been filled out. I can show them to you. It could have happened any day. That fucker killed her. He killed the only woman I’ve ever loved. You’re the one who put us together with Burke on the Kazimi detail. Please. You owe it to me to let me find him.”

  Snyder took a step back from the bed.

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “But you’re not saying no?”

  “I’ll talk it over with
your doctor, and give the situation some serious thought, okay?”

  Vaill nodded.

  “She was my world, Beth. She was everything to me and I watched her head get blown apart.”

  “You stay strong, Tim,” Snyder said, squeezing his hand. “I’ll speak with Dr. Gunter, then I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

  Vaill dismissed her with a wave. Slowly, his eyes closed. He began to drift off wondering whether he had the strength to stand up, incapacitate his guard, and simply walk out of the hospital. If he had no other choice, it would happen.

  Unable to sleep, he rolled onto his side and for a time, stared out the window. He was lost in a montage of lurid, bloody fantasies, when Dr. Gunter appeared at his bedside.

  “Good news to share,” the neurosurgeon said, checking something in Vaill’s bedside chart.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “I had a long conversation with your chief, Agent Snyder. She told us of the discussion she had with you—specifically your desire to return to work as soon as possible and resume your investigative duties. I sent for the head of my department, Dr. Weitz. We reviewed your remarkable progress so far, and ended up assuring Agent Snyder that, barring any unforeseen complications, there is no medical reason why you would not be able to continue in the capacity to which you are accustomed. You are in fact one of the luckiest gunshot survivors I have ever encountered.”

  Tell that to my wife, Vaill thought savagely.

  “Thanks, doc,” he said instead, turning back to the window.

  The pounding in his head had intensified, and with it came an overpowering confusion. It was as if the passive neurologic process of thinking was a ball-peen hammer smashing down on his brain. He barely heard Gunter excuse himself and leave the room.

  CHAPTER 12

  A true Neighbor must be pure of heart to take the Oath of Secrecy and in doing so, swear to uphold the ideals of the society before God.

  —LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 167

  The powerful rotors of the twin-engine helicopter flattened the young crops and tall grasses of the field beside Floyd’s cabin. Lou had been unable to pick up a cell phone signal until they were in sight of the cabin’s fieldstone chimney and the river. At that point he and Floyd still hadn’t settled on a method of getting Cap to a hospital that wouldn’t further shorten his already dwindling odds of survival.

  The sparkling red-and-white paint job emblazoned on the cockpit doors showcased the company name—North Georgia Air Ambulance. It had taken forty minutes following Lou’s call for the chopper to arrive. Were it not for the GPS on his phone, it could have taken considerably longer. Lou had described the landing area to the pilot prior to take off. She required a hundred-by-hundred-foot minimum to land, more if there were surrounding trees or wires, of which there were none provided she made her approach from the south. Blessedly, the weather cooperated.

  Floyd’s wife, Rebecca, an ample, rosy-cheeked woman, wearing a gingham housedress, shielded her eyes against the swirling dust and debris. The pilot of the impressive-looking aircraft took advantage of the low foliage along the river to make an angled approach, and made a picture-perfect touchdown on the improvised landing pad. Lou noticed that Floyd, tugging on his beard, was watching the landing with a reverent expression, as though he’d been transported from his simple frontier life into the distant future.

  Two crewmembers in red-and-white jumpsuits emerged from the aircraft and raced to Cap’s side as the rotors were still slowing. They were followed by the pilot a minute later. Lou had provided them with details of the accident they would be dealing with, and what they could expect to find. The trauma nurse, Julie Bellet, sounded skeptical of the description of Cap’s injury, and what had been accomplished by doctor and patient in the forest. Lou didn’t blame her. He was still having trouble believing it himself.

  He quickly exchanged names with the team. Daniel, a paramedic, was a muscular man in his twenties with the grip of a bear trap. He hauled a trunk-sized mobile crash cart over to where Cap lay, carrying it as if it were a toy. Julie Bellet carried a much smaller case, which Lou assumed held instruments. She was an attractive woman, perhaps in her early fifties, silver-haired, fit and intense. She made a brief survey of their patient, focusing for a few extra seconds on the splint and tourniquet. Then, straight-lipped, she looked over at Lou and minutely nodded her approval.

  The pilot, Captain Dorothy Tompkins according to her name tag, was a slender five-six or -seven, maybe thirty-five, with short chestnut hair, and an EMT patch on her sleeve. She and Daniel removed a stretcher from the back of the aircraft, carrying it still folded over the damp, soft soil before snapping it open. For Lou, watching the team work was like immersing himself in the music of a top-notch jazz trio.

  “Stay close, Dr. Welcome,” Bellet said, “in case we need another set of hands.”

  Doubtful, Lou thought, realizing at the same time that if they needed him, there was serious trouble.

  Floyd’s wife had supplied him with a tattered flannel work shirt and a pair of hand-sewn cotton pants that fit him just fine. She and Floyd stood well off to one side, reminding Lou of the stoic farm couple in American Gothic. Just another typical day in the forest.

  “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Mr. Duncan,” Bellet was saying, her voice calm and unhurried. “You’re going to be okay, my friend. We just have to get you stabilized and then over to the chopper. If I do anything that hurts you, just signal me.”

  “Lou … comes … too…,” Cap managed.

  “We got room for one patient and one passenger, Mr. Duncan,” Daniel said, fixing oxygen prongs and a cervical collar in place. “You want this one, you got him. Besides, after seeing that splint and that litter, we’ll be making him an honorary member of the team anyway.”

  “Me, too,” Cap said, smiling around nearly clenched teeth. “I … helped.”

  “We’ll get you a set of wings when you’re settled in the ER at Arbor General. Okay, a little stick, now.”

  The IV, hooked to a large-bore catheter, was in and taped down faster than a Cap Duncan jab.

  “You make these?” Daniel asked Lou, gesturing to the makeshift contraptions as he took down the dressing.

  “All three of us,” Lou said as if apologizing for the workmanship. “We were pretty desperate.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been doing this job for five years and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I was taught by paramedics.”

  Bellet completed her evaluation with Cap still drifting in and out of consciousness. Even beyond his leg, his rock-hard body seemed somehow compromised, and for the first time in Lou’s memory, his best friend looked his birth certificate age.

  “We go as soon as we pour some antiseptic into that wound and get it redressed,” Bellet said. “Moving him isn’t going to be that easy. I think we should lift the drag litter as is. Daniel and Dr. Welcome, that’s your job. Sir, you and our pilot can get our stretcher set up in the chopper.”

  “Everyone just stay low at all times,” Captain Tompkins warned. “You don’t get a second chance to make up for forgetting that one.”

  Daniel gave Cap some more morphine.

  “How tough is this guy?” he asked Lou.

  “They don’t come much tougher.”

  “How long on the tourniquet, Dr. Welcome?” Bellet asked.

  “An hour forty.”

  “Mr. Duncan, I’m going to loosen this tourniquet. Sorry if I hurt you.”

  The trauma nurse waited until Daniel had redressed Cap’s gash, then gingerly removed the stick and set it aside, leaving the band of cloth in place. For a minute or two, the group waited in silence. No oozing. Julie looked over at Lou and again nodded. This time she was smiling.

  “You must be a hell of an ER doc when you’ve got some real equipment around you, and not just a bunch of sticks and ropes.”

  “As long as the nurses are as sharp as you are, I’m pretty good,
” Lou replied.

  “I believe you are. Okay, let’s get your friend to a real bed.”

  Thanks to morphine and Cap’s advertised toughness, the transport and transfer went off with just a few moans of pain. As soon as the cardiac monitoring equipment was in place, Daniel gave Tompkins the thumbs-up sign for liftoff. Lou took Cap’s hand in his and held it.

  It was time to leave the woods.

  Sound-dampening earphones in place, Lou knew he would remain on edge for the entire seventy-five-mile flight from the field beside Floyd and Rebecca Weems’s cabin to the Arbor General Hospital helipad. He was actually ready to climb into the chopper before he managed to wrangle a post office box number in the river town of Sledge Crossing.

  Weems felt certain he would have no trouble replanting the damaged part of their field. He had offered it up as a landing pad even before he learned that he would be saving Cap the pain of having to be hoisted up using a winch and basket. As he settled into his seat, Lou vowed that it was not the last time he would see the eccentric woodsman and his wife. He also knew that whatever material thanks he passed on to them would be insulting if not rejected altogether, unless it were carefully thought out.

  “We’re ready to lift off,” Tompkins yelled back over her shoulder. “Put on your helmets.”

  “Thank you again, Floyd!” Lou shouted out the open hatch.

  “Tain’t nothin’ I did. You two are good people. Jes get him healthy. Come back and visit Rebecca and me anytime. My woods are your woods.”

  The helicopter’s rotors sped up as the burly paramedic pulled the hatch closed and latched it. Through the porthole, Lou could see Floyd using his arm to cover his eyes as he backed away. The chopper wobbled a bit as it gained lift, and then settled down. Moments later, they were on an angled ascent, steadily gaining speed.