by Cat Connor
From memory I punched in a phone number. I never believed I’d be calling it again. The wait for the automated system to answer seemed interminable.
“You have reached the Shangri La Laundry. Press one for business hours. Press two for accounts. Press three for—”
I cut off the robotic voice and pressed three. More waiting. Seconds seemed like minutes.
Finally I heard a woman’s voice.
“Shangri La special services.”
“I have a bird problem.”
“Can you be more specific?” she replied.
“I keep chickens.”
There was a click and then silence. Two breaths and then another voice.
“It’s been a long time, Demelza.”
My words felt sticky in my throat. “Yes, yes it has.”
“Do you need to come in?”
“No, Jonathon, I need to know why Habib Faisal Arbab is in the country.”
“How did you come by this information?”
“He thought he killed me yesterday morning. I’m betting he knows now he didn’t. He also knows my name.”
“That is not possible.”
“No, it should not be possible. But. It. Is.”
“He cannot enter America without alerting every agency known to man. He’s on the watch list. He’s also on the no-fly list. Are you sure it’s Habib?” There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
“I have not seen him and would prefer to keep it that way.”
“Is your source reliable?”
“Very.”
“I will look into it myself.”
The burning question in my mind was identity. To my knowledge, there were two people who were in the room before the blast in New Zealand ten years previously. Habib and an agent named Tim Cosgrove. They survived because I sent them away before the explosion. Tim did not know who I was.
“How would he find out who I am?”
“We’ll look into it, Demelza.”
“It had to come from inside. How would anyone recognize me after all this time?”
I hung up and paced some more.
Sure, I had a moderate-to-high profile, what with the Butterfly Foundation and the poetry book Mac and I wrote. But not high enough that a terrorist would come looking for me after ten years. I wasn’t a green-eyed red-head. I was my regular natural blonde blue-eyed self. There is nothing in my FBI records that suggested I was ever deep-cover with the CIA. According to my files, ten years earlier I had been working an undercover FBI operation in Florida. I hadn’t been chasing all over Iraq, or in New Zealand attempting to bring back the terrorist we believed had killed a CIA operative.
I wasn’t there. It didn’t happen. I searched my brain for anything anyone knew about Operation Kiwi. The director knew I’d been seconded to the CIA, it was her idea. She thought I would benefit from the experience.
I wasn’t pacing anymore; I was sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the wall. Sitting in hallways was becoming a habit, much like long-sleeved tee shirts and baseball caps.
My fingers extended beyond my sleeve. I tapped my nails together which called my attention to their uneven length. Four longish on one hand, three on the other. One recently broken but showing growth.
Good, Ellie, think about how much you need a manicure, never mind that a terrorist knows who you are and wants you dead. Nothing new there. But how could he know? Not even Dion Edwards knew who I was. America’s most wanted rotated past me on a carousel. I had an overwhelming urge to scream, “Sit on that and spin!”
Think Ellie! Doc knew something. He’d seen my medical records. He knew I’d been in New Zealand and injured in an explosion. No details as to how it came to be. Just the resulting shoulder reconstruction and the air lift to a U.S. naval vessel.
I was no closer to any answers.
Suddenly the boxes of meat seemed almost irrelevant. I rubbed my face.
I knew Noel was standing there, just outside the door to my room. Watching. Trying to decipher my facial expressions.
Carla would still be on her bed, lying on her stomach and oblivious to the drama around her. Between bouts of texting her besties and cartoon heaven, there was little room for mundane adult goings-on. Her focus was on staying at Rowan’s and how excited her friends were; it was more than enough for my fourteen-year-old daughter.
Footsteps.
The vibration closed in.
I recognized Noel’s footfalls. He crouched in front of me. Eye contact. Direct and unwavering.
“El, do you need to tell me something?”
Yes, I do.
“No.” I smiled. “It’s all good.”
“So this JAG lawyer and his wife were the intended targets of some random Arab terrorist?”
“It didn’t sound random. I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it. He must’ve had some involvement with Habib what’s-his-name.”
“If he does I’ll find it. Alexandria PD has copied me in on the other Conway murder. Seems Conways are the target of the moment and as a living Conway you might take a few extra precautions.”
“I’m in a hotel – that’s about as extra as it will get,” I replied and watched a shadow butterfly dance above his head on the wall.
“When is Rowan picking up Carla?”
“About lunchtime.”
“Want me to hang around?”
“Not necessary. Doc will be over soon. He’s wants me to look over a case with him,” I said.
“Not working the boxes of meat thing then?”
“I’m a recipient.” I shrugged. We both knew that meant I was out as lead investigator. Then Gracey came into view. “But not the only one.”
“There’s nothing you need to tell me regarding Arbab?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yep. I’m going to hang around the hotel until Rowan picks up Carla. Then I’ll head into the office.”
“You have nothing to tell me?”
“Nope, not a thing.”
Noel leaned in and pecked me on the cheek then stood up. He walked away leaving my face burning under his kiss.
“Call me if you think of anything.”
“I will.” Not.
Noel walked down the hall to the elevator and waved over his shoulder. A few more minutes of sitting followed. One of the maids, pushing a laden trolley, rumbled up the hallway. I slipped back into our room. Carla was still alternating between texting and television.
“Are you packed, Carla?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Any calls?”
“Uncle Lee and Uncle Sam.”
“Messages?”
“They’re in Merrifield.”
“Thanks.”
I texted Doc and let him know he should drop by to discuss his case, then I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Life was messy again. It didn’t used to matter much before Carla. Now messy meant danger for her and extra worry for me. Not good.
My eyes closed.
A hot wind stirred sand, blowing it over the boxes of meat, semi-obscuring the chunks of flesh with gritty gold. I could hear Dion calling me. His voice filled with fear as it wavered from the courtyard. There he stood, pretending he’d been captured, trying to lure me out. Working with Ameer the whole time. His cunning plan to have me report his death.
People don’t look for dead men.
The scene shimmered. We leaped forward eight weeks to New Zealand and Ameer’s re-entry to the west. I flew over to bring him back; he had a date with Gitmo. Then the last thing I saw before the world exploded – the thing it took me six months to remember – Dion Edwards alive and well. Calling the shots, running the terror cell. He watched me die in that explosion. Demelza was dead. Everyone but Tim and Habib were dead. He couldn’t know who I was. My cover was a CIA legend; it was excellent; there were no seams or cracks.
I was Demelza.
And then she died.
Ten
It’s Now Or
Never
“Mom!”
Half asleep, my hand reached for the Glock on the nightstand. Carla called out again, this time more panicked.
“MOM!”
I rolled off the bed as my eyes searched the room. That was when I realized it was the very same room I’d stayed in before.
“MOM!”
My index finger moved back and forth along the side of the barrel. “Where are you?”
“Here,” she said with a sob.
Bathroom.
I opened the door with my left hand, holding the gun in my right. Carla was in front of the mirror. I saw his reflection immediately and looked back toward the bath tub. I holstered my gun. It would do no good.
“It’s okay Carla, go into the other room,” I instructed. I don’t know where the calm came from but I sure hoped it would last, at least until she was out of the room.
She passed me, watching the mirror with a mix of confusion and terror. “How?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen him before?” She was behind me and feeling braver.
There’s a time for truth. Simple truth.
“Yes.”
I couldn’t feel her against me anymore and figured she’d gone back to the relative safety of her bed and the television, or maybe her laptop. I shut the door.
Mac nodded.
“This is new. Tired of Messenger?”
“Trying something else,” he replied and stepped out of the tub onto the thick bath mat.
“Scaring my child half to death by appearing in the mirror – not smart.”
“Didn’t expect her to be here.”
“That makes two of you. What is it you want?” I could see my reflection and his. Why wasn’t I freaking out? This isn’t a Messenger window. This isn’t an hallucination brought on by a migraine or head injury. Carla saw him.
He didn’t look incorporeal. In fact, apart from being a little thinner than last time I saw him in person, he looked pretty good, even for a dead man. Obviously not a zombie: no hunks of putrid flesh hung off his bones and he wasn’t trying to bite me.
“You know what room this is?”
“Yup.”
Oh, so it was a haunting of familiar places.
I wanted to reach out and touch him but half of me was scared my hand would go right through him and the other half was scared it wouldn’t. He looked so alive.
I see dead people. Carla sees dead people. Strange and yet normal at the same time.
“Why are you here?”
“Because you kept secrets and someone knows,” he said, adjusting the red baseball cap on his head. Red cap. He hadn’t worn that last time. Guess you can wear what you like on the other side.
“Yeah? So did you. I met someone in New Zealand who met you. Said you were FBI and working out of the embassy six, maybe seven, years ago.”
I picked up my hair brush and gave the impression I was brushing my hair. My heart wasn’t in it. I heard the door handle outside click and turn. Carla.
“What are you doing?” I called.
“Letting Doc in,” she called back.
Twenty seconds later Doc knocked on the door. “Conway, problem?”
Mac stepped back into the tub. I looked from him to the door and then replied. “No.”
“Mac, why were you in New Zealand?”
He started to fade. “Faye got the time wrong. It was ten years …” His face blurred and shimmered becoming one with the wet wall. “Always and forever.”
Doc knocked again. “Open up.”
I splashed water on my face, dried off, took a breath, and opened the door. I saw the gun in Doc’s hand. Doc moved in, he swept the room, checked the shower, and pulled the curtain back on the tub.
“Expecting someone?” I said, as he holstered his Glock.
“Carla said there was a man in the bathroom.”
I smiled. “A freaky mother-daughter moment is all.”
I made my way over to the bed and gave Carla a hug. “You okay?”
“Uh huh,” she whispered. “I knew him, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you knew him. It was Mac.”
“But he’s—”
“I know. Just not sure he does, baby.”
Doc interrupted. “You got time for this case of mine?”
“Sure,” I replied and hugged Carla again. “You going to be okay?”
She nodded.
“We’ll be right here, talking shop. Headphones?”
She pulled her headphones from her bag and plugged them into her laptop. I watched in silence as she chose music and turned up the volume.
“You wanna tell me what happened in there?” He indicated the bathroom with his hand.
“I see dead people,” I replied with a small grimace.
“Shared hallucination? I don’t think so.” He smiled. “I’m a doctor. Hence I have seen plenty of dead people – none of them have ever talked. And I heard talking.”
He heard talking.
“You heard me talking to myself.”
“No, Conway, I heard a male voice answer you.”
Holy freaking shit.
“Can we not do this, please?”
“Shall I call a priest? I’m pretty sure you both didn’t share an illusion, and I sure as hell know I wasn’t part of it.”
I laughed it off, despite the worrying fact that Kurt heard a male voice. “We’re good. It was nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. We’re good. Tell me about your case?”
He didn’t look as though he believed me but moved on anyway.
“A friend called. He’s a doctor in a small town. Specialized in emergency medicine and went back to his home town to take over the ER there.”
“Tremendous. And the problem?”
“Inexplicable deaths. Over and above what would be considered normal.”
“There’s a level of normal for death within a hospital?”
He shrugged. “People die.”
“Imagine that? But do they stay dead? Because in my experience they freaking don’t.”
“You’re special.”
“So – someone’s running around a hospital killing people?”
“He thinks so.”
Air escaped through my teeth. “Have you seen the files?”
“Some. He forwarded me copies of five recent deaths. I think he’s right.”
“How?”
“This is the bit that sounds a little bizarre.” Doc grinned. “Which makes me think I’ve come to the right place ...”
“Smartass. Spill it!”
“They died of various things, but all were recovering well, then without warning died. An asthmatic about to be sent home. A flu case, about to be sent home. A migraine sufferer, about to be sent home. A moderate concussion under observation …”
“About to be sent home? I’m sensing a theme.”
I’m pretty quick like that.
“Ditto. The patients are well enough for discharge yet die hours before their release.” He relayed the information with clinical precision yet consternation lurked in his eyes.
“Spending time in hospital is detrimental to one’s health. It’s as I have always maintained – hospitals are for dead people.”
“We may have a medical professional killing within a hospital.”
“I concur.”
“Good. I want you to come with me on this.”
“Come with you?”
“I told Grant I’d be coming home and bringing my wife.”
“Doc, you don’t … oh crap!”
He grinned. “You might want to practice calling me ‘Kurt’ not ‘Doc’, Mrs. Henderson.”
And I thought having Arbab after me made for a bad day. Whoa! Back up. Home?
“Home? This is your home town?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose you were in the same class at school too?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so two small-town b
oys from the same class became doctors. Anyone else get a look in or did you two steal the glory for the entire town?”
“I’m sure other people did well.”
I had the impression Kurt didn’t go home very often. Probably had never been to a reunion (nor had I) and hadn’t kept in touch with many of the people from his youth. It’s a familiar theme within our circle.
“Local boy makes it big and goes home to save the town folk from serious accident and illness … nice.” I piled up pillows and leaned back on them. “Back home, who knows you are FBI?”
“Grant.”
“Your parents?”
“It was easier to just let them think I was a doctor.”
We all have secrets.
“Was?”
“My parents both passed away in the last five years.”
That makes it easier. That’s two people fewer to break the cover story.
“I’m sorry. Any siblings?”
“No. I was a late addition to their lives.”
Good to know.
“I can think of things I’d rather be doing, that don’t involve being your wife … but I’m in. Carla is going away for a few days slash weeks. Until the boxes of meat thing is resolved.”
And the terrorist out to get me is caught, but that’s an aside, I don’t want to make a fuss about it.
Small town America sounds awesome. I do small town America. Sometimes I miss Mauryville and country living. Not so much the way it all came crashing down around me. But some days, part of me wants to go country again.
A smile crept across my face.
“This might be fun. Where are we going?”
“Lexington.”
Nope, didn’t hear that. Try again.
“Pardon?”
“Lexington,” he repeated, louder.
“Oh jeez. So the hospital we’re talking about is Stonewall Jackson?”
I could feel the world spinning out of control. So not good! Lexington, Virginia. Stonewall Jackson Hospital. I saw Mac studying my face with his hazel eyes, telling me I’d been unconscious for some hours, had a skull fracture and a broken arm. Not my finest moment. The best thing about it all, I couldn’t remember how it happened. I was stunned to find myself in hospital and with such injuries. I recalled that Mac was less than delighted to know I could remember nothing. In all fairness we did find out that I’d been drugged with Ketamine and that didn’t help the memory situation.