I expected to see Matt and Jake’s faces when I opened my eyes for the first time since the debacle at the house yet those weren’t the ones that I saw. These faces belonged to men in sharp suits with regulation haircuts and fraternity ties. I didn’t need to see their government IDs to know that they were from the FBI or other agencies.
“Where’s Matt? Jake?” I demanded, the first words out of my mouth. The next ones were moans as pain hit me with teeth-gnawing intensity. I howled and both a nurse and doctor separated from the crowd around my hospital bed.
“Try not to move, Cris,” the doctor said. He was in a suit covered by one of those white doctor jackets with his name embroidered on the breast pocket. Dr. Kerry Abrams. “I can give you more morphine if the pain gets worse,” he added.
I moved my hands. Both at the same time. Both were wrapped in gauze so thick that they resembled boxing gloves. Or mittens. They burned and itched along with my throbbing chest. Like a bad case of sunburn and poison ivy. The noises coming out of me were horrible and tears streamed down my cheeks into the sheets. My nose ran with mucus and I couldn’t wipe it off on my sleeve.
“Cris, if you can’t answer their questions yet, or you just don’t want to, tell me,” Abrams said. “I can make them all go away.”
I looked at the one in charge. Sniffled and turned my head. “Hurts really bad,” I whined.
“Okay. Special Agents, that’s enough. He’s just come out of surgery for a GSW and severe chemical burns to both hands. You can speak with him when he’s had a few days, when the pain isn’t as acute.”
He injected something into my IV and seconds later, I was floating. It felt so good that I giggled even when I knew that I should be crying. He lifted my eyelids and flicked a penlight in both. The pain had receded where I could ignore it. Their faces turned shapeless and faded into the dark.
I woke in pain. Moaning and twitching until one of the nurses gave me more of the good stuff. I wasn’t hungry, even though they brought me food, I had no interest in any of it. Besides, with both hands bandaged, I couldn’t feed myself anyway. I had no idea how many days I had gone without eating, how many days I had been in the hospital or since I had woken up. I felt halfway human.
My hands still hurt but it was bearable. Same for my chest. Lifting my right hand, I explored the sore spot on my front. Not a very big bandage so the doctors must not have had to cut me open to get to the bullet. I could feel the pad with my fingers, too, so some sensation was coming back.
When I tried to move my left arm, it wouldn’t go anywhere. It hurt. Taped up to my side, it hurt the same way that my broken leg had ached. I felt around for the bed controls and slowly raised the head up. As soon as I did, the beeping in the background that I had ignored got louder and faster. My heartbeat spiked and brought a nurse into the room.
She was young, in her twenties. An RN. Her name tag hung from her neck on a lanyard, a laminated card with her name and the hospital. Terry something. Boston General.
“Boston?” I said. She responded by sticking a thermometer in my mouth and taking my vitals.
“How do you feel, Cris? Any pain?”
“What day is this? Since I came in?” I asked instead.
“It’s Friday. You came in on Tuesday night. Dr. Kerry kept you under for three days, so you could get out from under the pain.”
“Where’s my dad?”
Her face fell. “I’m sorry. Your father is deceased,” she answered. “They found his remains in the house fire.”
I shook my head. “Not that one. Matt. Mathieu Eachann. And Jake. Where are they?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know anything about the case. Besides, we were told by the police and the FBI not to discuss it with anyone. Including you.”
I stared at her. Sat up and threw the covers off as I tried to slide my legs off the bed. “Whoa. Whoa. Where do you think you’re going?”
“I gotta get out of here. Gotta find Matt and Jake,” I returned angrily. Pushed her out of the way but she yelled for help. Other people came running in and grabbed at every part of me within reach. I struggled but no part of me was on the ground and I had no leverage. My body ran out of steam before two minutes had gone by. I sagged in exhaustion.
“Let me go!” I yelled. They laid me gently down on the bed and one of the nurses, a big dude in blue scrubs stuck me in the butt with a big needle. I melted. Felt like I was flying. “Hey,” I drooled. “Tha’s some good shit.”
One of them laughed, patted me on the leg and they left me alone. Of course, by then I was in La-La land. I wouldn’t have noticed a marching band playing the 1812 Overture if they had paraded through my room.
*****
I woke because I was trying to roll over and couldn’t. Something was stopping me. As I opened my eyes, I was frightened because I didn’t know where I was. Or why I was there.
“Mom?” I called out fretfully. I wondered where I was and why I felt so sore and tired.
A lady leaned over my face. She was young, almost a girl and she didn’t look anything like my mom. I remembered where I was the moment that I saw her clothes. She was wearing purple scrubs, plain ones that had no cute designs on them. Her hair was bright yellow and her eyes blue. A nurse. An LPN by her plastic ID.
“Oh,” I said flatly. My mom was dead. My biological father was dead, and I had killed him. I had no clue where my real dad and friend were. And I was afraid of the answers to those questions.
“Hello, Cris. How are you feeling? My name is Cindy. I’m your nurse tonight,” she told me with a genuine smile. She looked 18, maybe 19.
“What day is this?”
“Sunday.”
“I’ve been sedated since Friday?” I yelled. “What for?”
“You were hysterical. Trying to pull out your IVs and get out of bed. You don’t remember?” she asked. “Shouting that you wanted to find your father.”
“My father’s dead,” I said. I pushed the button to raise my bed, so I could see her and outside the door. There was a uniform sitting outside, a dude and he was craning his neck around at the sound of my loud voice.
Rising, he entered the room and stood at the foot of the bed. Boston PD. A Corporal O’Reilly.
“You Irish?” I asked in Gaelic. "Tá tú Gaeilge? An bhfuil Gaeilge nó Breatnais agat?" (Do you speak Gaelic or Welsh?)
He answered me in the accent of Captain Lacey’s soft brogue, and I closed my eyes in the memory of his loving tones. "Cá bhfuil mo chairde? Matt agus Jake?"
(Where are my friends? Matt and Jake?)
“Sorry, Cris,” he answered in Gaelic. “I don’t know anything and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you that the FBI has them in custody for kidnapping.”
I cursed. He laughed when he heard my ‘shit-fire and damnation’ which translated was ‘tine cáis agus damnacht!’
D'úsáid an sean-uncail agus Da liom an rud céanna a rá. Cá bhfuil do dhaoine ó?"(My old uncle and Da used to say the same thing. Where are your people from?)
“Killarney. My da…people came over in the early 1800s and settled in the capital,” I answered.
“Do you think you can talk to the detectives?” he asked me in English.
“Why? You think my story is gonna be different than Matt and Jake’s?”
“What happened?”
“I don’t remember. I was unconscious with a bullet in my chest,” I said snarky.
He sighed. “I’m supposed to call my captain when you woke up.”
“So? Go be a good corporal,” I told him. “I’d rather tell it once to all of them than twenty times.” He nodded and left me to the nurse. “Now what, Cindy?”
“Are you in any pain? Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten very much in the past few days.”
“That’s because you drugged me. I’m starving. Can I get supper?” I glanced at the industrial sized clock on the wall. It read seven o’clock. I was pretty sure that the kitchen was closed or would be soon.
“I can scrounge up a sandwich or two. Fruit cups. Yogurt. Cookies and ice cream. Soda, tea, coffee and fruit juice. Tomato.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“All of it. I’m starving. Except for the fruit juice. And iced tea, not hot. Sweet tea. Coffee with cream and sugar. None of that fake stuff.”
“You can eat all that?”
“I haven’t eaten in like…forever. I’m a growing kid,” I said dramatically. “And if I have to throw up to make the Feds leave me alone, I have to be really full.”
She laughed at me. “The doctor won’t let them get you that upset. You are a hero, you know. The Press has been camped out for a week trying to get in and interview you. We caught two of the more pugnacious ones pretending to be janitors. They made it as far as the ICU doors before we caught them. Luckily, you were in the PICU.”
“That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence or reassure me,” I said soberly. “There are still creeps out there trying to kidnap me for ransom.”
“Are you afraid?” she asked curious. I spread my hand. Only one because the other was still bundled to my chest.
“I’ve spent the last two years of my life being chased, hunted and used. What do you think? I’m still hungry,” I said pointedly, and she nodded. She left sort of in a snit because I was short with her. I hoped that she wasn’t going to spit in my sandwiches or something equally as gross.
She came back about twenty minutes later. Along with my sandwiches came a host of trouble. The FBI Special agents, detectives from Boston PD and my pain all arrived at the same time. Along with the doc on call and Dr. Kerry.
He took one look at my white face and didn’t ask but told Cindy to bring me a Percocet 10 mg. He then asked the feds and cops to step out for a few minutes while he checked my wounds and vitals, allowing the drugs to tamp down my discomfort. He called it that…discomfort when I wanted to scream that it was effing pain. They obliged him without complaint, so I guess I must have looked really bad.
“How bad is it on a scale of 1-10?” he asked quietly as his hands went to my bandages. They were cold, but gentle as he pulled the gauze and plastic back. “Looks good.”
I gritted my teeth, sucked in my breath and allowed that maybe it was only a 7. It eased off a little and by the time Cindy had come back with my pink pill and water, I could swallow it without expecting to whine and sob like a baby. He made them all wait 15 minutes until my head felt like a balloon and the pain had all but disappeared. He said my face melted in relief.
The Feds and cops trooped in like a herd of chastened kids. One of the nurses must have chewed on them or maybe the doc. Couldn’t really see their faces – they were shapeless blobs because of the drugs. Didn’t really care, either.
“How is he doing, Dr. Abrams?” the shorter, older man asked. He held his hand out and Kerry shook it. “I’m Special Agent Ryan Dennison. I was part of the original John Doe Task Force when the kidnapping case broke.”
He went on to introduce the others, but I didn’t pay attention. I was smelling the food and my stomach growled even though my appetite had deserted me as the pain meds hit. They let me eat about half of my food before their impatience grew too much for me to ignore them. I would have made them wait until I was done eating but since both my hands were bandaged like boxing mitts and the nurse had to feed me, she let the cops’ cold stares make her nervous enough to quit. Their stares made her hurry up.
“So,” Special Agent Dennison drawled with just the hint of a Southern accent. “Tell me what you remember.”
“About what?” I licked the spoon for the last speck of black cherry yogurt. Greek style. Yum. “I mean, like, where do you want to start? From when I left the Prep school? Or when the mercs kidnapped me and dumped the bodies in the swamp? Or when Matt and Jake rescued me from my father?”
“I want to hear about Captain Faille Lacey, Seamus Fitzsimmons and Jimmy Johannsen,” the FBI agent said. That wasn’t one of the questions that I had expected to hear. Or answer.
“Why? No one believes it. Or me,” I returned, setting forward. I stared at his face, his eyes, mostly. Saw an openness that was lacking in the others.
“Dennison? Irish?” He nodded.
“My grandmother was fey,” he said. “So, I’m more open than most to the…paranormal. Plus, we’ve dealt with some high rated psychics whose success rates are just too high to be explained. Unless they were the killers and we proved that they couldn’t have been.”
“Then, if I tell you my murder has been played out over and over since 1833 you might believe me?”
“Maybe. Maybe not believe but I’m open to your story,” he said easily.
“You can check most of my story,” I shrugged. “Some of it is still classified so it isn’t available on the internet. So, I couldn’t have known about it, unless I hacked the Pentagon’s archives. Like the missing gold payrolls.”
“Which you say Tempe Neige found.”
“And sold. Both of them.”
“Both? We heard about the one left in the Shenandoah National Forest. Where was the other?”
“A fort in St. Louis that was burned to the ground.”
“Any ideas where he deposited the money from the gold?” he asked.
“I’m reincarnated,” I said shortly. “Not psychic.”
The meeting deteriorated after that—each group wanted information that I didn’t have. They weren’t happy that I could only tell them what I remembered after Matt and Jake had carried me out of the house via the escape tunnel. In truth, I didn’t remember anything until I woke up at the boat house. I didn’t say anything to contradict the story that Matt had told me as we’d waited for the EMTs. That had been my only chance to get our stories straight, we kept it close to the truth, anyway.
They hadn’t wanted me to claim that I had shot Tempe or disarmed the bombs. Over my protests, Matt took responsibility for the shooting and stabbing of my father. Once they were gone, I had time to sit there and contemplate what I needed to do to help Matt and Jake. I asked the nurse for a phone and she told me how to access an outside line. Not that I knew the number, so she looked it up on her smart phone and then, dialed it for me.
I called the lawyers for the Trust and Matt’s brother-in-law. He promised to come see me that afternoon. All I had to do was wait for him to drive up from the city. I was used to waiting. Any decent hunter learned that first thing and one of the things I was really good at was waiting.