Waking when I did caused a minor sensation among the rank and file of the Rehab place. The doctors subjected me to a battery of tests that left me tired, cranky, and whining. But then, I was only eleven-years-old, I’d had a birthday come and go while I was in the coma. No one had celebrated it then or now and I pointed out to them that I was only ten-years-old in my mind. Which caused more consternation as they had wrongly assumed that I was seven or eight. Some had even guessed six which made me mad. I knew I was small, but how could anyone think I was still a baby?
Policemen came to talk to me, about the accident. I was no help, I didn’t remember anything, and they wanted to know all sorts of things about the driver, drinking, falling asleep at the wheel and was it an accident or something else?
They asked me for my name, and I gave them the one I had been thinking about nearly every second since I’d woke up. Crispin Lacey. I liked it. Sounded cool.
The lawyers came to see me. Fast-talking, smooth, and oily men in fancy suits. A pack of vultures with greedy eyes fighting over the corpse but I wasn’t dead, yet. And according to most of the doctors, not likely to be for decades.
Things had changed they said. The doctors said I had every chance of living a normal healthy life. The settlement had made them all wealthy men and would eventually do the same for me. I was rich beyond my dreams and yet I couldn’t touch a penny until I was legal age and even then, I had a court appointed ombudsman who would decide if my monetary requests were legit. So, no buying an amusement park or a Lamborghini.
The staff at the Belle were delighted to have me there, now that I was no longer comatose. Unfortunately, I could not stay because I was no longer in need of their skilled services.
After the forty-eleven thousandth test, I was told that I was being transferred to a facility better able to cope with the needs of an 11-year-old who had lost a little over a year of his life. I needed extensive physical rehab to gain control of my weak muscles, increase my learning ability, my academic standing, and social interactions.
So, it was with a huge lump in my throat and an equally heavy one on my chest that I sat in a chair next to the Director’s desk. His office was stuffed with papers and books, overflowing the desk and the shelves onto the floor. I wished that I had had access to the books while I was there, but no one had known my love of reading. I hoped that there would be time to read once I arrived at the new place, they were sending me.
I was wearing the first new clothes I had ever received, bought just a few days earlier when it was clear that I was not going to relapse. Jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt and a vest made of nylon and stuffed with goose down. I could use it for a pillow if I wanted.
I still had not seen my face and even though I’d been told that I had had plastic surgery because of some of my injuries, I had been afraid to look in a mirror.
When Mark, the nurse had brought me a hand mirror, I stared at the face I had last seen a year earlier. Blonde hair mixed with red and brown, they had cut it short and kept it that way. Easier to keep clean but it showed the shape of my skull and the scars on it where hair did not grow. There were shadows under my deep blue eyes and my face looked very thin. My cheekbones stuck out and made my eyes look haunted. There were only a few white lines where stitches had pulled the skin together, barely noticeable unless you were looking. Mark told me that the plastic surgeon had been one of the best in the country, the lawyers had made sure that the bus company had paid for everything and used only the very best medical people.
The worst scar on my body by far was the jagged, raised flesh on my throat. A wound they said had been made by a piece of glass from the bus window which had torn through my throat and cut one of the jugular veins. I had almost bled out when the paramedic had found me. In fact, he had found me because my blood had shot out across the bus aisle and hit the window. He heard it and found me, saved my life by keeping pressure on the gash.
Mark told me that I had actually died three times before the helicopter had landed and several more times on the table during surgery. He had mentioned something called hemorrhagic shock, said that almost no one came back from that and if they did, it was always with brain damage. For me to survive, come out of a year-long coma and not be mentally damaged was considered a miracle. It was, I told him, a good thing I did not remember any of it.
F
itz followed the Captain into the coach house carrying his own pack. He’d offered to carry Lacey’s but once again, the Captain reminded him that he was a free man and didn’t have to wait on him even if he still called Fitz his manservant.
The coach house was a long rambling affair built of stone and raw lumber with a central front parlor and tap room. The lamps were all lit, and the room was busy with patrons swilling beer out of pewter tankards. A rail-thin man wearing an apron and poking at a huge fireplace turned around, wiped his hands off on the stained apron as he approached them.
“Jason Greaves. You’ll be wanting a room, Major Antony said?”
Captain Lacey nodded. “Army posting.”
“Horses, too?”
“No.”
“There’s a room out back. Quiet. In the courtyard next to the stables. That suit you? You wanting to eat, too? My barmaid can bring you something or there’s a place just down the street called the Park’s Rest. Food’s good.”
“Sounds good. We’re looking to buy some horses,” the Captain mentioned.
Greaves laughed. “Good luck. Any horses left out here belong to the Army and folks who won’t part with them.” He paused. “You’re Army and you can’t get a horse?”
“Major Antony told us they are all earmarked for other campaigns,” Lacey shrugged. He did not add anything to the bland explanation. The innkeeper nodded, showed them the room, and handed over the huge wrought iron key that probably opened every room in the coach house.
The Park’s Rest was a small four table café with honest to God curtains and checkered tablecloths. There was a small cowbell on the door that announced their entrance and the proprietor met them at the half doors that opened into the kitchen. To their surprise, it was a young woman with light hair tucked under a cap, in a blue dress covered by an apron and her sleeves rolled up.
“Good evening, sirs,” she called out. “Please sit and I’ll bring you a plate and some tea or ale?”
“Tea,” both said and picked a table near the back where they could watch both doorways being careful men. She was back in minutes with heaping bowls of chowder, biscuits, and fresh tea piping hot. Neither man spoke but ate, not stopping until their bowls were emptied twice. She was quiet while they ate, taking their bowls and refilling their cups, a thing to be admired as China was usually the first precious item to break on the journey westward.
“Limoges,” Lacey murmured, and the girl smiled.
“My mum brought it over from Suffolk,” she said proudly. “I don’t generally use it for most folk, but you seem like gentlemen to me.”
Lacey gave a half bow. “Captain Lacey and Mr. Fitzsimmons, my freedman.”
She curtsied. “Maddy Young. This is my father’s place but he’s up country for a few days, bringing supplies down river. Are you staying at the coach house, Captain?”
“Yes, Ma’am. How much do we owe you?”
“Nothing, Cap’n. It goes on the billet voucher with the room. Three squares a day. Ale is extra, though.”
“I’ll do without,” Lacey said. “But Fitz might like a cup or two.”
“I’m good, Cap’n. We’d best keep a clear head if we want to get an early start tomorrow.”
Lacey laughed sharply. “Nothing ever gets done fast in the service, Fitz. Not before every Commander has his say in the chain of command, all the way up to the Generals. We’ll be by for breakfast and coffee. If you have it.”
“Chicory? Coffee beans are a bit more than most can afford this far from the Capital,” she apologized.
“Chicory?”
“It’s a native plant that they use down in New Orleans to brew with the beans. Makes them go further. Tastes like coffee.”
“We’ll try it next morn. Good night, Miss Young. Thank you for a lovely meal.” The two men walked back through darkened streets to the coach house, the half full moon providing enough light to see their way. No one bothered them, and no drunks wandered the streets, that was tempting fate when the last hostile attack had been less than a year past. Hence the reason for the Army post.
In the morning, they were met by a returning squad as they rode in from patrol leaving their mounts at the livery. Lacey had pulled on his uniform and been saluted by every soldier in the troop but not one asked his name or the reason for his appearance. The highest ranked man in the unit was a Sergeant and it was evident that he knew his way around a fight. He must have been a combatant in the war of 1812 for he had the air of a man who had seen battle.
“Sergeant,” Lacey greeted.
“Cap’n.” The man watched as the pair walked over to the café, following soon after. The little eating place was soon bustling with men chowing down, but the conversation was kept to a minimum. It was clear that the presence of an Officer intimidated the Army men.
The pair ate quickly and departed for the Major’s office and briefing. He was already up and waiting on them and escorted the pair into his office where fresh coffee waited. Antony offered them each a cup and let them drink before he gave them further orders which was merely to hand back Lacey’s original dispatches.
“Your wagon and team are ready at the livery and I’m sending four of my men to guard the wagon,” he said.
Lacey kept his face still even though he did not agree with the Major’s decision. It was Fitzsimmons who pointed out that outriders would only draw attention to the wagon and its contents.
“Johannsen already knows what you’re carrying,” Major Antony said. “And he’ll be back to get it. Without enough Troopers, they’ll just walk away with the cargo.”
“We didn’t see him tracking us,” Fitz added. “And Johannsen isn’t woods-savvy enough to find the spot where we cached the Cap’n’s cargo.”
“Never-the-less, I’m ordering you to take the men with you,” Major Antony said. “You are to leave as soon as you arrive at the stables. You are dismissed, Captain Lacey. Good luck.”
Lacey saluted and left the Major’s office with Fitzsimmons. His heart hammered in his chest, the worry over his son’s disappearance the greatest fear that he could imagine. Fitz took over and made sure that the Captain was ready to leave with the wagon and men.
The livery stable had harnessed four heavy geldings that had more than a touch of work horse in them. They wouldn’t be fast but fast wasn’t needed – just pulling power. The four men were enlisted and equally stout. Two of the four were privates and the other pair battled hardened sergeants who had experience from the war. They had been assigned from the Fort and Lacey had not met any of the four prior to then. They saluted but eyed Fitz with misgivings.
“You driving, Cap’n?” the older Sergeant asked. He looked French with dark hair and deep brown eyes. His skin bore the marks of sun and harsh life, his scars a road map of near misses with death.
“Sergeant Lonnie LeFevre,” he said. “Corporal Pierce, Private Dunleavy and Sergeant Eagle. Dunleavy was a corporal until he got busted for drunken shenanigans. We’re your detail to St. Louie.” He eyeballed Fitzsimmons, decided he wasn’t Army and therefore, not of interest.
“Fitzsimmons,” Lacey introduced. “He’s my friend and a freedman. I’m resigning my commission after this mission. We ready to go?”
The Sarge nodded. “Just waiting on you, Cap’n Lacey.”
Lacey climbed up onto the seat and picked up the lines as Fitz did the same on the other side of the wagon. He hefted his rifle onto his lap, making sure that it wasn’t pointing at anyone.
“Git up, Hoss,” Lacey clucked, and the team dug into their collars and took off at a slow shuffling trot. The four soldiers followed already their eyes scanning to see who was watching. Curious eyes followed their procession down the dusty street and out of town.
I
wound up being sent to an exclusive boy’s prep school for foster children. The only unique thing about the student population was that I was the one with a fortune waiting for me when I got out that I hadn’t inherited or been born into. No one had told the others about my financial situation, but everybody knew it anyway.
The building was three-stories; brick with huge windows that went from the floor to the ceiling and the ceilings were all over ten feet high. Originally, it had been one of the Ward schools. A wealthy philanthropist had purchased the old empty building for pennies on the dollar and made it into a coveted satellite school with a reputation for graduating excellent students. Almost all of them went on to places like Harvard and Yale, or the prestigious tech schools like MIT, Stevens, or Cal-Tech. Some even attended Annapolis.
I hated the place the moment I saw it and stepped through the front door. We were escorted down the echoing hallway where our boot heels mocked us. An aide took us to the Head Master’s office. The lawyers had sent a junior paralegal to pick me up from the Belle, take me shopping for new clothes, necessary supplies, a pair of suitcases and drove me up to Reacher Hall Prep School.
We had spent six long hours in the car; in the back seat of a Mercedes sedan. The paralegal was a man, younger than most of the lawyers I had met. He had a hungry look to him and wore suits that didn’t quite make the mark. He’d told me his name, but I had promptly forgotten it; he was obviously a low-level player with less power than I had.
We exchanged a total of five words the entire trip and that had to do with eating and the restrooms. He did stop for lunch on the Thruway, one of those plazas that sold gas, maps, snack items and cheap tourist crap. Inside was Mac Donald's and other eating places but they charged ridiculous prices.
There were a lot of tractor trailers pulling in and out. Even several tour buses. The paralegal watched me out of the corner of his eye, to see if had any reaction to the buses, I guess. The sight had no visceral meaning to me, I didn’t remember anything about the wreck, so I had none.
I wandered through the gift section picking up ball caps, snow globes and other tacky state sponsored crap. My eyes widened at the prices. Everything cost so much especially when I compared it to stuff back home.
I stifled a sob. I wasn’t ever going home again. Home was gone. Mom was gone. I’d lost the paper that Mom had given me with my grandpa’s name, address, and phone number. I did not remember the name or the number, I could barely remember my own or the trailer.
When we arrived at the school and I had the obligatory meeting with the Head Master, i.e. the Warden, I was told to express my thanks to the paralegal who had driven me all that way. I did and then the head dude called for someone named Adam to bring me to my new room. I was to share it with a second-year student named Jeffrey Childs.
We waited in silence and presently, a tall thin man in his twenties arrived at the door. He knocked even though it was open and came in, his eyes inspecting me from head to toe in one swift glance.
“Adam,” the Head Master said. “This is our newest student, Chris Lacey. Show him to Childs’ room and give him a rundown on the rules.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hooper,” he said in a voice so colorless that I wasn’t sure he’d spoken. He walked out the door and I hesitated before following, after I picked up my two cases.
“Go along, Mr. Lacey,” Hooper ordered. I shrugged and followed the thin figure who didn’t walk but rather seemed to glide along as if his feet didn’t quite contact the floor.
We went down several hallways, up three flights of back, creepy dark stairs and finally, after a 15-minute trudge of utter silence, he stopped at a closed door next to a dormer window that looked out on the woods. I still had not seen another body or heard anything besides my own heart thudding in my chest. He pushed the door open.
The room was big enough for two twin beds and had those tall windows that went from the floor to the ceiling. Three of them. Barred which I thought odd. There were two iron bedsteads with mattresses covered with blue coverlets. Each bed had a night stand with a lamp. Two dressers and a closet with louvered doors. The left side was occupied, the night stand and dresser had someone’s things on it, an alarm clock, Chap-stick, box of tissues and an ashtray loaded with change. There was nothing on the opposite side table or dresser. No pictures anywhere, no books, and no magazines. Nothing stuck to the walls which were painted off-white. It was a boring room devoid of character or charm and from its lack of welcome, I had no way to judge my roommate.
“This side’s yours. Half the closet, too. Don’t mess with his stuff or mix yours with Childs,” he said. That was all he said as he turned to go.
“What about the rules?” I prompted.
He shrugged. “His rules are for downstairs. Up here, it’s different. You’ll learn as you go.
“Great. So, what am I supposed to do now? Do I get to eat? Meet anyone else like the teachers? Stay in the room?”
“I don’t care what you do,” he said. He turned around and left me standing there with my mouth hanging open.
I waited for a moment before I tossed my case on the bed and went after him. He was gone. No clue as to which way he’d left. I spent an hour wandering the upper halls and floors on my own.