Days passed. Then another week. The bandages on my hands were changed to gloves slathered with a white cream that had silver in it. Real metal. The docs said it helped burns heal. It was called Silverdene. My shoulder felt sore, but I could move it and the return of movement was welcome. They took me out of the PEDs unit and put me in a private room with security just outside. I had my own phone but the only number that I wanted to call was my lawyer, Matt's relative. He promised to come as soon as the cops and doctors gave permission. When he did come in, I was surprised at his looks.
The lawyer didn’t look anything like Matt and when I said so, he told me that it was because Matt wasn’t his blood relative but his brother-in-law. He told me that his name was Jason Levinger and that he was the only Jewish man in a family of Irishmen. I said that I didn't think Matt was racist and that I had been Jewish myself. He didn't ask how or why I wasn't now, and I assumed that Matt had told him about my past lives.
I looked around at the room where they had stuck me, a small conference area that doctors used to give families the bad news. It was the only way the Feds would let Jason in to see me as the FBI and cops were keeping me in protective custody until the docs released me. And then, I would be whisked away into federal custody.
The first thing I wanted to know was the whereabouts of Jake and Matt. His brother-in-law's answers made my blood pressure spike and I screamed.
“I want to know where my father is!” I yelled. “Why won’t anyone tell me?”
“I just found out myself, Cris. Both men are being held in Federal custody at FBI headquarters in NYC. I’m working on getting them released but it’s taking time and resources.”
“I have millions, right? I authorize you to spend it on them,” I said. “I don’t
care what it costs, get my father and Jake out of there.”
“See? That’s the problem, Cris. You’re not related to them in any legal way."
"Then how do I make it happen? Can I get emancipated child status? How old do I have to be?"
"Sixteen is the youngest I've ever seen but with your money and obvious intelligence, fortitude and exploits of the last year, no judge can say you aren't responsible. I can contact the FBI, if you're willing to talk to them, we can work out a deal."
"Jake and Matt's careers? Will they be able to resume them with no consequences?"
He shrugged. "I don't know how. There are federal charges against both men."
"But they didn't kidnap me. I went with them willingly," I protested angrily. "They were trying to save my life." I wanted to rail, to scream and cry but I sensed that showing such emotions would not help my case.
"When can I get out of here?"
Jason Levinger said, “that's up to your doctor. He's been keeping you here, so the cops can't bully you. Says you're too medically fragile to be questioned.”
“I'm ready to get out of this hospital. Any ideas where they might send me?” I asked cautiously. “Are they going to arrest me for killing my...Tempe?”
My throat instantly dried out and closed up. I swallowed past the huge lump. I wasn't sure if I was still in the hospital or a building close to it. We had traveled through so many corridors and back ways that I wasn't sure where I was.
“They've threatened to, but you told them that you were in imminent danger and Matt said the same. In fact, there are photos of fingermarks on your neck along with blood from Neige. And scrapings from under your fingernails where you clawed at his hands and face trying to get him to release you. His DNA.”
“Did they find his body in the house?” I asked quietly.
“They found the bodies of four men in the basement, the firing range,” he answered.
“Four? There was one in the garage and my...dad was in the hallway.”
“There were six men?” he returned sharply.
I nodded. “I hit one dude with a tire iron. In the legs. He fell face first onto the concrete. I didn't kill him! I swear!” I turned scared eyes on Matt's brother-in-law. “Tempe's body can't be gone! He died. I felt the knife quiver in his heart. Oh my God! What if he can't die? Like a zombie? Or a ghost? Will he haunt me, come after me until I'm dead?”
I looked around frantically and bolted for the door, oblivious to the men in the room and the guards outside the conference room door. I didn't get very far, due in part to my weakened condition but more because the people around me didn't let me get past the doorway. I never even managed to touch the doorknob.
I finally gave up fighting when Jason's roar in my ears penetrated my frenzy. He told me to quit, or I'd be sedated for my own good and kept that way until I could prove I was capable of remaining calm. His hands were the heaviest on my shoulders, his voice the loudest in my ears. What I really wanted was Matt's voice and Matt's hands holding me.
After my meltdown, I was escorted back through the maze of corridors, underground walkways and tunnels until we arrived at a parking garage. I hadn't been there before. Once we were all there, Mr. Levinger stood aside as the men in suits urged me into the back of a dark Cadillac Escalade with blacked-out windows.
I pushed my hands against the door frame and resisted their urging to get inside. I looked back at the lawyer. “Where am I going, Mr. Levinger? Not back to my room at the safe house? The Hospital? You're not coming with me?”
“Go with them, Cris. Answer their questions honestly and truthfully. The sooner that you do, the sooner you can come back.”
One of them pulled me in and another shut the door. I heard the locks engage, locking me in. I knew that I wouldn't be able to open them from my seat. Child-proof locks.
The big SUV slid smoothly through the parking structure and out onto city streets like a grand old battleship. I didn't recognize anything, had no clue where I was. It all looked the same - tall skyscrapers climbing overhead and small businesses on the streets, especially the street corners. Yellow cabs everywhere. Even the street names were no help. Mulberry. Decatur. MacArthur. 2nd, 3rd and 4th Avenues.
I tried asking questions of the two men who sat on either side of me. They both looked like the typical FBI agents, the only difference was in their skin colors, hair and eyes. Both were around six-feet, dressed in nice suits and physically fit. Each carried a service weapon that I knew was either a Glock or Sig Sauer. I had seen them as they entered the SUV and pulled back their suit jackets.
The driver was the youngest and he looked as if he had recently been in the Armed Forces, hair cut high and dry, almost scalped. The other agent in the front seat was the oldest and the SAIC, or Special Agent-in Charge. I hadn't seen any of them before and the only FBI agent that I knew was Special Agent Dennison.
“Who are you?” I asked. “Where are you taking me?” No one answered me which pissed me off. “I have to pee,” I stated and when they ignored me, I added a caveat.
“Look, I don't like you either but if you don't pull over, stop and let me pee, I'll just piss all over your nice leather seats. Explain that to your accounting office. And maybe take a dump, too. Want to spend hours smelling like dirty diapers? Not to mention my DNA will be all over your seats, too.”
The SAIC turned around to look me over. He was old...gray-haired with tanned skin, wrinkles and sharp brown eyes. A thin blade of a nose but he didn't look as if he were weak. He looked as if he could take down a gator.
“I'm Special Agent-in-Charge Virgil Morton,” he said calmly. I almost laughed. Virgil? Why do parents do that to their kids? “Behave yourself and we'll stop once we hit the Thruway. You can go to the restroom and get something to eat. Then, we'll drive to the FBI building for debriefing.”
“Why not the FBI building in Boston? Are we still in Boston?”
“Because Mathieu Eachann and James Jacobs are in NYC at the Federal building,” he answered calmly. “You promise to behave?”
“My word good enough for you?” I asked.
“Is it?”
“I've never broken a promise,” I said. “Not in two-hundred years.”
He stared at me, his lip twitching as if he was going to smile. All he said was, “the blonde is Agent Mike Fisher, and Agent Paul Rhodes. Special Agent Dennison whom you've already met is waiting for you in NYC.”
“Okay. I promise that I'll behave. No yelling, shouting, crying or temper tantrums. No fighting or cursing.”
“No running away or lying to Special Agents,” he said. “No crossing your fingers behind your back, either.”
I rolled my eyes. “I'm not a baby, doofus,” I retorted. “Besides, why would I want to run as long as you're bringing me to my...dad.”
“Your dad? He's dead.”
I shrugged. “Matt Eachann is my father. He's been reincarnated as Matt so he could save my life and so I could stop him from taking his life this time. Tempe Neige wasn't really my father, he was Cris Snow's dad.”
“But you're Cris Snow,” he pointed out.
“This body was Cris Snow but Cris died out in the swamp. What's left is only a little bit of his memories and the rest is Crispin Lacey. Course, I'm not wholly Crispin, either. We're sort of an... amalgam of all Crispin's reincarnated lives.”
He seemed interested, not like he thought I was crazy. “How many lives? Did you die in all of them? Who was Crispin Lacey?”
So, I told them our story and if at the end they didn't believe all of it, at least they had been willing to listen and seemed fascinated by the tale.
I was too excited to sit still or fall asleep although I did get quiet. Lost in my head, I guess. So, when the big SUV slowed down to take an exit ramp to a state-run travel plaza, it caught me by surprise. There were dozens of gas pumps for cars and big diesel trucks and several businesses inside the plaza. A restaurant catering to the long-haul drivers. MacDonalds, a pizza place, KFC and a Dunkin Donuts. Plus, a store that sold maps, snacks and state crap like china bells with the New York State seal, bird and flower. Ball caps, t-shirts and sweats with NY teams. Mostly the Yankees. Other sports teams like the Giants. Plus, they sold cold drinks, milk and beer.
I saw several State Trooper cars parked outside and two of the cops were in line to get coffee and burgers. Their eyes immediately went to the agents' jackets, noting the bulge of their service weapons. They didn't relax until SAIC Morton showed his ID. In an expensive black leather badge holder like the one I saw on an episode of the X-Files. I wondered if he thought he was Fox Mulder. The cops studied me curiously, but I was more interested in the restrooms than in them or food. Although food was a second urgent priority.
“Paul, you go in with him. Mike, you stay outside until he's done,” the senior agent said. He wouldn't let me go inside until he was sure that the stalls were empty. The troopers came over to exchange a low-toned conversation with the FBI agent.
I went straight for the closest stall and pushed the door open, checking to see if it was clean enough to use. Paul pointed to the urinals on the wall but there wasn't no way I was peeing in front of him. I shut the door in his face and did my business. It was a pain with the gloves on, so I pulled them off. I didn't look at my burned hands. Afraid, I guessed to see how bad.
I came out and stood in front of the sink, afraid to wash them, to wash off the ointment. I stood there and finally dared to look at the nearly healed blisters and red gnarled skin. They itched more than they ached. The skin pulled uncomfortably tight with lots of scar tissue that was ridged and puckered. I held the greasy gloves in one hand and swallowed, nearly jumping out of my skin when Agent Paul took my hands in his.
One hand dug into his jacket pocket and came out with a small jar. Opening the screw lid, he carefully spread the white ointment on my right hand, easing it over every inch of my palm, fingers and top before he pulled on the glove. When he was done with my right hand, he started on the other. Giving me a small smile, he checked to make sure that there were no creases in the gloves.
“You okay? No pain? I didn't hurt you? I have your meds if you need something for the pain.”
“Thanks,” I said in shock. “It doesn't hurt that much anymore. Itchier than anything else.”
“Burns are the worst,” he agreed. “How did the Swede kill you?”
I stared at his eyes. Blue. Forthright. Honest. He held that little smile and it prompted me to trust him. “The first time?” He nodded. “Actually, Johannsen didn't. One of his crew strangled me. Caught me when I wandered away from the Sheriff in St. Louis and tried to drag me back to Johannsen. I fought him, screamed and he held my mouth shut so I couldn't call for help. But his hands were too big and covered my nose. Just as well, Johannsen would have raped me first and then killed me once he was done. I was kinda surprised that he didn't fuck me even after I was dead. It didn't make much difference to him. Dead. Alive. Willing or not.” I shrugged. Didn't look at the appalled face he was making but he abruptly changed the subject by asking me in a false, cheery manner if I was hungry.
“What do you want to eat? We're buying.”
“The Colonel's fried chicken, extra crispy with honey, please. I never got to eat out much. It was too expensive for my mom -” I paused. Remembered eating as Cris at the Subway and having pizza with mom on the bus trip up to New York. All of a sudden, I felt lost, broken, in so much despair that I burst into tears. We had lost so much Cris and I. We had lost our mothers, mine from an accident, his from childbirth. We had lost our fathers, mine because I had stabbed him and his to suicide. We had lost our lifetimes to grow up and experience life. Lost our innocence and our childhoods. I was damned if I was going to lose Matt and Jake or the chance to live this life past the age of 15.
He patted me on the back and hugged me gently, as if I were still fragile. From his compassionate touch, I guessed that such wasn't unknown to him. He did it with the ease of long practice.
“You must have kids?” I asked, wiping my watery eyes on my sleeve. Argh, snot. Why did your nose always run when you cried?
“Four. Two boys and two girls.” He waited patiently for me to compose myself. “You ready for a bucket of chicken?”
I nodded, and he made me wait until he cleared the way out of the restrooms first. All five of us stepped up to the counter at KFC and conferred over what to order. We decided on a bucket of twenty, extra crispy, mashed taters with gravy, cole slaw and baked beans. Chocolate chip cookies for me. Pepsis, diet and Morton got an ice coffee from DD.
They picked a booth in the corner, so no one could sneak up behind us and it also left a clear escape route. Better yet, they let me have first choice in the bucket. By the time I was done eating, I had greasy, sticky fingers, a full belly and a contented smile on my lips. Also, crumbs on my shirt and honey all over me. I sucked down the last sip of my third cup of Dr. Pepper.
“Dudes,” I announced. “That was...epic. Awesome.” I burped. Long and loud. “Whoops. Sorry. Excuse me. Soda water always makes me burp.”
They laughed. Most of the people in the place laughed. Morton said, “you need to use the facilities now or can you wait another two hours?”
“I think I need a nap,” I said. I looked in the bucket. Nothing left but bones and crumbs. Same for the cups of sides. We'd eaten everything but the paper. Even the biscuits were gone. I liked mine with honey instead of butter. Like my fried chicken. It was a Southern thing.
“Everyone ready to leave? Need to wash up?” Morton asked and all of us hit the bathrooms together. I washed most of the sticky stuff off with wet paper towels, no need to remove the gloves again. Waited patiently for the men to finish up.
We were back on the road less than an hour after we'd eaten. Ten minutes later, I was sound asleep from a full stomach and the release of the stress of worrying about Matt, Jake and my safety. Tucked between the two agents, I think I used one of them for a pillow and if he pulled me into his shoulder, I didn't fight it.