Authors: Vicki Hinze
“You’ve told me everything you
want
me to know. There’s a difference. Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t held out on me.”
He looked away.
“Good grief, Foster. Your body language has been screaming at me since you walked through my door. It’s still screaming at me now.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “What exactly is it screaming, Doctor?”
Sara stood up. Though a good six inches shorter than his six two, she glared up at him. “It’s screaming that you’ve got a hidden agenda.”
Foster stared at her for a long moment, as if torn between choking her and laughing at her. “Of course I’ve got a hidden agenda. I’m AID, for Christ’s sake.”
He had a point. Still
. . .
“You know what I mean. Don’t you dare make this sound trivial. Not when you’re talking about lives.”
“There’s nothing trivial about any of this.” Foster picked a piece of lint from his dark blue slacks. “But my agendas are of no consequence to you.”
Was he joking or suffering from delusions? “Let me get this straight. I do what you want or I lose everything—including my license, right?”
“Simplified, but, yes, that’s correct.”
She crossed her chest with her arms. “Well, for something that is of no consequence to me, this proposition stands to have a huge impact on my life.”
He ignored that remark and dropped a business card on her desk. “You have twenty-four hours. Phone me at the handwritten number on the back.”
Sara glared across the desk at him. “I won’t call.”
“Yes, Sara, you will.” Foster spoke softly, just above a whisper, and his eyes reflected pity and regret. “Because if you don’t call, Brenda is going to marry and divorce again, Lisa is going to run away from home, and an innocent man, who has devoted his life to his country and to keeping people like you safe, is going to die.”
Where am I? What happened to me?
An electric chair. He remembered being strapped into an electric chair. He hadn’t been able to breathe. Why could he remember the chair and not remember who he was? What was his name? He had to have a name—everyone did—and he had to know it. John? Matthew? Kenneth?
No, no, no. None of those felt right. The chair. That felt right. He vividly remembered the chair.
Sprawled on the floor, he cranked open an eye and covertly looked for it. Nothing there. Only hospital smells, bright light, white-padded walls and floor.
White
. . .
Images flashed through his mind. The chair. Straps binding him in it. A black, cone-nosed machine, emitting a pinpoint ray of red light aimed at his head. An upsurge of rage came with the images, and knowing what the rage let loose inside him, he fought to keep it leashed. He hated the rage. Hated it, and feared it.
His arms were bound to his sides. A straitjacket. He frowned down at it, rotated his shoulders, and maneuvered. With little effort, he removed the damn thing and then tossed it to the floor. It slapped against the cushion, and he went statue-still.
Where did I learn to do that? To take off a straitjacket?
He tried and tried, but couldn’t remember. The mental strain and frustration of being a stranger to himself, of not knowing what kind of man he was, what he stood for, loved, hated, believed, stirred the rage. He gripped his head, squeezing the rage out, and paced the length of the room, counting his steps. Twelve paces. Twelve. Where was the chair? It had to be here.
Why isn’t it here?
Maybe it never had been here. Maybe it never had been
. . .
anywhere.
Panic surged from his stomach, tightened his chest. No, it had been here. He remembered banging his ribs against the chair arm. He looked down at his bare chest, touched a hand to his left side, and flinched. Sore and slightly bruised. The chair had been real. Relieved, he sighed. “Real.” The enemy must have moved it.
His bare feet sank into the cushioned floor. Hadn’t it been concrete? He looked down. White. Was he walking on clouds? Maybe the chair wasn’t here. Maybe he had died, and this was heaven.
Rage, in heaven? No, no, no. Impossible.
Confusion. So much confusion. He was coming to hate it as much as the rage. He paced faster, gripped his head harder, squeezed tighter. The enemy had to be tricking him again. They were playing games with his mind to convince him he was crazy. Was he crazy? This place appeared to be an asylum and, straitjacketed and restricted to a padded room, he had to be a patient. He could be crazy. Why else would they isolate him?
Uncertainty swarmed him. Resentful, perplexed, he slumped back against the wall, loosened his grip on his head, rubbed at his stinging temples. Staring at the ceiling, he squinted. God, but he hated those lights. They never went off, and they burned so bright his eyes ached. He looked down at the floor. White. The jacket. White.
The red pinpoint image again flashed through his mind. The rage roiled in his stomach, surged deeper, grew stronger.
Bury it. You have to bury it to figure this out. Who are you? Where are you? Why are you here?
His skin crawled. Clammy, baffled, irritated, he darted his gaze to the door, the only entrance in or out. No windows. Why were there no windows?
The chair. Strapped in. He greedily gulped in air, as he had craved to do then. His cheek stung. He touched it and remembered a beefy man slapping him. His lip had bled, and he heard his own voice.
I’m a POW. I get the message
. . .
If he was a POW, then there must be a war. Was he a soldier, then? Or a civilian the enemy had captured?
Neither felt right or familiar. Dispirited, he squeezed his eyes shut, fisted his hands at his sides. Just more mind clutter. Nothing real. Yet he remembered saying those words. He could actually hear them inside his head in his own voice. Where was that place? And how had he come to be in
this
place? Nothing there was here. Here, there were only bright lights. Only the enemy. Only white.
Instinctively, he recoiled, pressing deeper against the padded wall. He thrashed his head from side to side, trying to unscramble his scattered thoughts. Blood pounded through his veins, throbbed at his temples, and he cupped his head and squeezed it to ease the pressure. White. He stilled. Stiffened. Red.
The rage slammed through him.
He fell to his knees and tucked his chin, curling into a tight ball. Maybe if he got small enough, the rage couldn’t fit inside him and it would go away.
It didn’t. It coiled in his stomach, whipped through his chest, pulsed in his fingertips, strengthening, smothering everything inside him. It overtook him, and nothing else was left.
Torture.
He groaned in agony. Writhed on the floor, screamed until his throat was raw and every muscle in his body protested in continuous spasm.
Red was bad. The enemy.
He had to kill the enemy.
The phone rang.
Sitting in her office, Sara ignored it, then realized it was after five and her secretary already had gone home. A catch hitched in her neck, warning her she had been bent over her desk too long. She rubbed at it with one hand and lifted the phone’s receiver with the other. “Dr. West.”
“Aunt Sara?”
Sara’s worry antennae shot up. Her grip on the phone tightened. “What’s wrong, Lisa? You okay?”
“No. I mean, I’m safe and all that stuff.” Exasperation laced her tone. “The truth is, I’m pissed. Mom forgot to pick me up after school again. Second time this week. It’s not the walk, you know? It’s being forgotten. She’s getting to be a real pro at that.”
She was, but there was more to this. Lisa saved “pissed” for heavy-duty trials; rarely used, and all the more worrisome when it was. Knowing she was waiting to see if she’d get the “go ahead and gripe, I’m
all ears” or the “watch your mouth” lecture, Sara said, “I’m listening.” A little dose of guilt stabbed her. Staring at her desk lamp, she shrugged it off: Lisa wasn’t quite thirteen, and her cursing shouldn’t be condoned, but after all she had been through—and was still going through—Sara’s heart just wasn’t in disciplining her. Cursing was a reasonably safe stress valve, and not being compelled to object was the nice part about being “Aunt Sara” versus “Mom.” Sara could choose.
“She’s doing it again!”
There was no need to ask who or what. Deep down, Sara already knew. The muscles in her stomach clenched. “Your mother’s getting married again?”
“Yeah. There was a note on the fridge. She’s out celebrating her engagement.” Lisa huffed her frustration. “Can you believe it? God, Aunt Sara, I
think she’s lost it—and don’t you dare tell me to be grateful she’s not screwing up the holidays by being a Christmas bride again. It
doesn’t matter when she gets married. It’s how many times she’s been married.”
“She’s searching for something.” At a loss, Sara squeezed her eyes shut. How could she explain Brenda’s actions when she didn’t understand them herself?
“Well, whatever it is, she’s not finding it. She’s a wreck, and I’m sick of being the one to pay the price. She changes husbands like normal people change their underwear, and my friends look at me like I’m the one who’s cracked up. They say stuff about her that I know is stuff their parents are saying. Gwendolyn Pierce told me her mother won’t let her come over here anymore because Mom’s a bad influence.” Lisa’s voice was pitched high and tinny. “Gwen was my best friend.”
Sara’s heart wrenched. She braced her head on her hand and thumbed her temple. How had things gotten this far out of control? “I’m so sorry, honey.”
“You’re sorry? I’m starting to hate her for this.”
“Lisa, don’t. She’s not herself, and we both know it.”
“Well, damn it, she needs to get over it. I lost him, too, you know?”
“Yes, I do know.” And her niece was hurting. From the loss of her father, and from her mother’s reaction to it. “Is she marrying that dermatologist?” Brenda had been seeing him for a couple of weeks.
“No, she dumped him. It’s a new guy. Mr. Williamson. H. G. or G. H. Something like that. I dunno. I only met him once.”
Sara held off a sigh by the skin of her teeth. “Did you like him?”
“Not particularly. He’s stuffy.”
Great. Just great. “Wait a second. I thought her divorce wasn’t final for another couple of weeks.”
“Mr. Williamson fixed that. He’s a judge.”
What a day. Sara condemns a man to death by refusing to treat him, and now Brenda commits to marrying a judge she just met. Could the news get any worse?
Sara buried her chin against her palm, then rubbed at her forehead, silently cursing the jackhammers having a field day inside her head. She had a ton of work to do before morning, but Lisa needed her, and family always came first. “How about I pick up some burgers and come over so we can talk?”
“Talking about it won’t stop her, Aunt Sara. We’ve been there and done that, you know? You’re a shrink. Can’t you fix her?”
“Honest to God, I’m trying, honey.” When it mattered most, Sara had failed completely. Guilt shrouded her, and hot tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, refusing to give in, or to give up, and swearing she’d give all she owned if she could just end Lisa’s pain. No kid should ever be dragged through any kind of hell, but especially this kind of hell. “You know it’s complex.”