by Nick Petrie
“Suit yourself,” said the doc. “Give me a minute, we’ll find you a wheelchair.” He handed Peter a plastic bag for his clothes, then took his phone from his pocket and stepped out of the exam room.
Peter stuffed his clothes into the bag. Breathe in, breathe out. Fill those goddamn lungs.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the doorjamb. An older man with a neatly trimmed beard and glasses stuck his head through the opening. “Somebody need a ride to Radiology?”
The older man with the beard didn’t look like Peter’s idea of an orderly. Usually they were younger guys, sized for the heavy work of lifting patients from a gurney to a bed and back. This orderly was old enough to be Peter’s dad, and looked like he spent most of his time in the library. And he didn’t have a name tag, unlike everyone else Peter had seen in the hospital.
“I’m Don.” He must have seen something in how Peter looked him up and down. “This isn’t my regular job,” he explained. “We’re a few people short tonight. I’m just helping out.”
“Great,” said Peter. “Let’s roll.”
• • •
THE ELEVATOR WAS A CHALLENGE. Peter closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying hard not to think about being stuck in the basement of this giant building. He’d need to rehydrate after all this sweating. And change his clothes. He didn’t want June to see him like this.
He couldn’t believe he’d actually considered spending a night in jail to kill the static.
“Pain must be pretty bad,” said Don, behind him.
“It’s not the pain,” said Peter. Breathe in, breathe out. “I don’t like enclosed spaces.”
“Ah. Claustrophobic.” The elevator door opened. “That sucks.” He pushed Peter out of the elevator and into a big waiting area, where a young woman stood beside an opening marked RADIOLOGY. She was efficient and strong, and the X-ray of his lower leg only took a few minutes. The CT scan was more complicated, but she got Peter plugged into the giant white doughnut with a minimum of fuss. “This will take forty-five minutes or so. You need to keep still for the machine to take accurate pictures. I’ll be in the control room, but we’ll be able to talk if needed.” If she noticed Peter’s barely contained panic, she didn’t mention it. She stepped to the doorway of the control room. To the orderly who wasn’t an orderly, she said, “Please come back into the shielded area.”
“You bet,” said Don. But he stopped next to Peter. “Seems like you’re working on your breathing,” he said. “Take it up a notch, if you want. When you close your eyes, picture yourself in a favorite place, someplace safe and comfortable. A beach, your backyard, a favorite hike. Anyplace that feels good.”
“Thanks,” said Peter, but the click of the door latch told him Don had already slipped out of the room with the wheelchair and Peter’s clothes. And the wad of cash. But somehow Peter knew Don wasn’t interested in the cash.
While the machine whirred and clicked, he closed his eyes and called up a memory of Copper Ridge in the North Cascades. A long open spine of rock with mountain views on all sides. Peter had spent three perfect summer days exploring the area and sleeping under the stars, tucked into a stone hollow. The female ranger stationed at the little fire lookout became a friend, then something more. She was happy to sleep under the stars with him. The nights were pretty perfect, too.
He felt his chest begin to open, just slightly. Breathe in, breathe out. Think of Shannon’s smile. She was a park ranger, but also an artist. She’d spent her free time drawing trees, in pen and ink. He sat with her for hours, watching the light change across the mountains as she made the trees come alive on her pad. Silence and the natural world. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The technician’s voice over the intercom broke into his reverie. “You’re all done, sir. Nice job keeping still, I got some great pictures.”
It hadn’t seemed like forty-five minutes.
Don came in and helped Peter into the wheelchair again, put the bag of clothes on his lap.
“Gonna take a while for the radiologist to call in,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Back into the elevator, eyes still closed, Peter remembered June moving through the tops of the giant redwoods, strong and capable. The tree-covered mountains behind her, the sun warm and bright above the clouds. The look on her face as she clipped into the zip line.
Shannon was sweet and fun, but June was something else entirely.
He felt the wheelchair roll down another hall, around a series of corners, the unnatural fluorescent light bright behind Peter’s eyelids. Then he heard the sound of automatic doors and felt the cool night air of southern Oregon in late March. The smell of rain on asphalt.
He opened his eyes. Don had taken him through a side entrance with a small covered portico. The damp spring wind blew through his sweat-drenched clothes, making him shiver. It felt wonderful.
“Thanks,” said Peter.
“Happy to help,” said Don, still behind him. “I’m a veteran myself. Combat, not a fobbit. First Cav, tail end of Vietnam.”
First Cavalry was the real deal. “You’re not just helping out,” said Peter. It wasn’t a question.
“Did it work?” asked Don. “Picturing yourself in a favorite place?”
“It did,” Peter admitted. “More than I thought it would. I’m guessing you’re a shrink?”
“Clinical psychologist,” said Don. “At least in my day job. I’m only your wheelchair driver because your doctor was worried about your panic attack.”
“I’m working on it,” said Peter.
“And it’s going so well.” Don’s voice was even, but his meaning was clear.
“Maybe not,” admitted Peter. “Is sarcasm part of your therapy?”
“Just getting your attention,” said Don. “What are you doing to mitigate your symptoms now? Alcohol? Drugs?”
“Mostly I just, you know, stay outside.”
“What does that look like?” Don’s voice was gentle, curiosity without judgment. “You have an outside job, like a landscaper or something? Where do you sleep? Out on the porch?”
“I’ve been up in the mountains, an extended backpacking trip. I have some money put aside, so I don’t need to work right now. Give myself some time to recover. Let things sort of, you know, reset.”
“That’s one approach,” said Don. “Sounds like fun, for a while. Might limit your life a bit. How long have you been doing this?”
“Almost two years.”
“That’s a long trip.” A loaded pause. “Do you feel that this is a successful strategy?”
“Well,” said Peter. “Yesterday I was thinking about robbing a liquor store to get myself locked up. Extreme therapy.”
“That,” said Don kindly, “is a spectacularly stupid idea. You must be pretty desperate.”
“Jeez, don’t sugarcoat it,” said Peter, a laugh forcing its way out of him. “Tell me what you really think.”
“My professional opinion?” asked Don. “Your war experience changed you, like it changes everyone. Your mind and body learned how to keep you alive in a hazardous environment. What you’re going through now is a normal reaction to that. What matters most is how you adjust to get the life you want. There are tools that can help.”
“I can’t exactly see myself lying on a couch talking about my feelings.”
“Doesn’t have to look like that,” said Don, his voice calm and quiet. “Can be as simple as finding some people who’ve been through the same kinds of experiences. Hang out, shoot the shit, make some friends. Find your way toward your new reality. It’s called a support group. Lot of those out there for veterans. Helps a lot of people.”
“What about the claustrophobia?”
“Spend time inside, but start small. There are some techniques that work with this stuff. Some vets use meditation, others
use yoga or Tai Chi. Focus the mind to control the body.”
“Spend time inside.” Peter stared out at the rainy night. “Even if I hyperventilate and sweat through my clothes?”
“Did it kill you today? No. So you’re one step closer. You’ve been in combat, I’m pretty sure you’ve done harder things. The task here is to find your way back to the world. Take care of the people you love. Find work that matters.”
Peter wondered about his promise to protect June from her hunters, if that counted as finding work that mattered. It sure as hell did focus the mind.
Don’s pager beeped. “That’s probably Dr. Baird.” He unclipped his pager from his pocket and looked at the message. “Yep, he’s ready for you. I’m guessing you want to put your pants on before we go?”
“I can tell you weren’t a Marine,” Peter said, stepping out of the wheelchair and dumping the plastic bag of his clothing on the seat. The damp breeze was cold on his bare legs. “We’re so tough we don’t need pants.”
“I take it back,” said Don. “You clearly do need therapy. Years and years of therapy.”
Dr. Baird met them in the open exam area. The bags under his eyes were deeper, and his electroshock hair was starting to droop. The Red Bull was probably wearing off.
“You won the lottery on the leg,” said Dr. Baird. “You have an isolated fibula fracture, just a hairline. Probably because your legs are so strong.” He held out a plastic immobilization cast. “You’re stuck in this walking boot for six weeks. Ice it for the swelling, take some ibuprofen. Then physical therapy when it comes off, because you’ll have been immobilized for a month and a half. Got it?”
Peter nodded. He’d take the advice, up to a point.
“Now your ribs. The three bottom ribs on your right side are fractured. They’re worse than the leg, but there’s not much we can do there. We used to wrap you up like a mummy, but it turns out that tends to restrict people’s breathing and can cause pneumonia. Now we just tell people to avoid activity that causes pain in that area. If it hurts to take deep breaths without the wrap, I can give you a long-term anesthetic.”
“I’m fine,” said Peter. He’d been doing deep-breathing exercises for a few hours now. The pain wasn’t bad. It helped him focus.
The doc gave him a look. Even with the electroshock hair, it was a pretty good look. Peter figured it took some stones to work the night shift at the ER.
“Don’t be such a tough guy. This is serious shit.”
Apparently this was Peter’s day for lectures. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll pay attention. If it hurts too much to breathe deeply, I’ll see a doctor.”
“Good. Now let’s hear what Don has to say.”
Don looked at Peter. “Those panic attacks aren’t going to diminish until you start talking about your war experience. Find a support group, and get a real postwar life up and running. Home. Work. Personal relationships. You know that, right?”
Peter nodded.
“It won’t be easy. You’ll need help. And the gradual desensitization to being inside. Think of this as your next mission.” He handed Peter a business card. “My personal cell is on the back. If you want to talk, or you want a hand finding some resources, give me a call. Anytime.”
The doc Velcroed the immobilization boot onto Peter’s left lower leg, adjusting it a few times for the right fit, before Don pushed Peter back to the lobby in the wheelchair. June was pacing back and forth across the polished floor, face pale under her freckles. Peter could tell she had something on her mind. She clearly didn’t like the boot.
“How bad is it?”
“Not bad,” said Peter. “Hairline fracture. I’ll tell you later. We need to pay these people.” He turned to look at Don. “How do we do that?”
“You don’t,” he said. “Not right now. It takes a week or more to figure out what you owe. Just pay the bills when they show up.” He looked at June, at her wrapped arm and the black stitches in her lip. “Are you two together?”
“Yes,” she said, before Peter could answer. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but he wasn’t going to ask questions.
Don raised an eyebrow, his opinion of Peter clearly higher than before. “Why don’t you two go relax,” he said. “Try to limit the excitement for a while.”
That was an interesting idea. Peter stepped out of the wheelchair, testing his weight on the medical boot. It wasn’t too bad. The boot was fairly light, and came to mid-calf. He put out a hand to Don, and they shook. “Thanks.”
“It was my pleasure,” said the older man. “You have my number. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
Peter limped through the sliding doors, June at his side, both of them so glad to be leaving the hospital that they were oblivious to the pair of small cameras mounted in the ambulance bay, and others in the parking lot, watching them all the way to the minivan.
As they drove out, their license plate was clearly visible.
19
SHEPARD
The phone rang when Shepard was thirty miles from Eureka. The sky was gray and threatening.
He’d checked the chat room on the secure server the salesman used for their comms drop, so he had most of the background. The information was incomplete, but that was typical. The salesman never wanted anyone to know too much about what he was into.
Shepard hit the Bluetooth button. “Yes?”
“Bert reported back. He found Smitty’s team, up in the mountains.” Over the rental car’s poor speakers, he sounded more than ever like a pitchman doing a radio commercial. “A total loss.”
Four trained men, thought Shepard. Experienced men. Not at his own level, but very few were. It was enough to get his attention.
“How?”
“It looks like they were in pursuit but somehow left the road. Rolled their vehicle. It was burned to the frame.”
Vehicles didn’t simply burn, thought Shepard. Not without help.
“Tell me.”
“A logging truck was parked on the road nearby. There were a bunch of skid marks in the gravel. Bert said it’s a narrow road, not really wide enough for two, and he thought the logging truck forced the play. Smitty’s last report was that they were chasing the girl’s car, and from the tire tracks and debris, it looks like she left the road, too. But the girl and whoever she brought in to help, they drove out of there.”
“She had help?”
“Smitty’s report mentioned a man. That’s all I know.”
“How did they die?”
“The rollover killed two. One thrown, one crushed. Multiple gunshots on the third, probably after the wreck happened, he was still inside.” The salesman paused a moment. Then he said, “The fourth was killed by an arrow to the chest.”
Shepard felt his eyebrows rise. Perhaps this would become interesting. “And the truck driver?”
“He’s dead, too. Multiple gunshots.”
A clean slate. Good technique. “The vehicle, how did it burn?”
“Bert said it looked like someone took a can opener to the gas tank, probably used the gas as an accelerant. He could see the smoke from five miles away. Said it stank like hell.”
Shepard nodded to himself. He knew that smell, the combination of burning plastic and roasting human flesh. It was a stink he’d never forget.
Shepard had enjoyed those years in the desert. Shepard as asset, the salesman as controller, new challenges every day. The desert was where he had honed his abilities, where he had accepted that the only rules that applied were the ones he made for himself. The only limits were in his own mind.
Things were more complex in his current situation. Multiple clients, overlapping priorities. More caution was required, because circumstances were at once more constrained and more fluid. But he continued to exercise his abilities, to make a decent living and save his money.
And Shepar
d was now no man’s asset but his own. Despite what any of them thought.
Perhaps these were the best years now, even if he was turning forty. Wasn’t that supposed to be the human ideal, to have your current life be your best life? That’s what Oprah had told him in all those hotel rooms, as he waited for the next job to begin. He’d watched Oprah and Ellen and Dr. Phil and Jerry Springer and all the rest. He thought Oprah might know what she was talking about. He wasn’t so sure about Jerry Springer.
But Shepard knew he couldn’t live this life forever. It was only a matter of time. The internal signals were becoming clearer.
Perhaps his next life would be better still, growing tomatoes. He was considering including heirloom varieties. But it wasn’t quite time yet.
“What’s her latest location?”
“That’s the other reason I called. We got a quick ping from the girl’s laptop at a hospital in southern Oregon. Bert’s team is on the way.”
“Bertram and his men are a blunt instrument. You need a scalpel. Tell them to find a hotel and wait.”
“There’s a lot at stake here. This is looking more and more like the big one, the one we’ve been waiting for. The payoff will be, well, substantial.”
The salesman had always required some kind of external motivation, thought Shepard. In the old days it was recognition from his superiors, rationalized by some vague notion of national security. Now it was a desire for financial gain at the very highest level.
Shepard had always taken whatever money came along. He had enough already, but he knew that more money meant more choices in his next life. He also enjoyed managing it, the clarity of the financial markets. There was something pleasing in the purity of numbers that allowed him to set aside the complexities of the human world. But at the end it was just a form of play, like his work with the salesman. Once he’d crossed a certain threshold, money was incidental.
He’d always felt that the challenge of work was its own reward.