24

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JACK WAS PULLED from the respirator, discharged from ICU, and wheeled into a private room. A nurse took his vitals while the resident physician informed him he was lucky to be alive and kicking.

“We’ll keep you under observation for a few days, just to make sure everything is okeydokey.” Prior communications had consisted of sign language on Jack’s part and dictates on Dr. Chatterjee’s part. Having set the boundaries of their relationship in which the good doctor held all the power and the patient none, Chatterjee was a bit more optimistic this morning. The patient would survive, it appeared, and furthermore, would experience few if any lingering effects. “You overdosed on a cocktail of drugs, but probably you already figured that out, being the smart-ass I know you to be.”

Jack was known to be dense sometimes, but not now. The world had always been slightly out of focus, like watching a parade of strangers pass him by on a busy street and wondering where they came from and where they were going, each wrapped up in their own worries or happinesses, each the center of their own universes, and each disappearing behind him as if they had never been. Considering the psychedelic trip he had taken and his descent into temporary madness, he understood something about those thousands of strangers. None gave a damn whether Jack Coyote lived or died.

His throat still sore from the breathing tube, it took a while for him to get the words out. “What was in the cocktail, Doc?”

“I thought you might be able to tell me. No? Well, that being the case ... preliminary lab tests indicate a combination of club drugs. MDMA, gamma-hydroxybutyrate, Rohypnol, Ketamine.”

“Translation.”

“Perhaps you’re acquainted with one or more of their street names. Ecstasy, GHB, nitro, roofies, K, special K, super K, vitamin K, kit-kat, keets. Need to hear more? I didn’t think so. We’ll know more when the full toxicology report comes back.” He checked his watch.

“Don’t let me keep you, Doc.”

There was nothing to do but sleep, smile at the nurses who stared at him with a mixture of curiosity, fear, and loathing, and watch cable news. The scandal of a government worker having killed his co-worker in a cold-blooded frenzy fueled by sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll was the lede on every channel. The commentary went on ad nauseam, ignoring riots in Italy, a typhoon in Miramar, another war in Iraq, renewed tensions between America and Russia, the latest outbreak of violence in Israel, the disappearance of a jetliner over the Indian Ocean, a madman opening fire in a Florida mall, a revolution in Bolivia, and a widespread heat advisory. Though the media had struck with its usual fury, developments were not forthcoming since much of the evidence was being withheld. Finer points surrounding the incident were vague, prompting everyone from garbage collectors to politicians to opine theories. Supposition, hearsay, gossip, and guesswork became the mainstay of talk shows and news segments. The story was eventually spun into a romantic tumble that got out of hand. S&M was brought up. TV prosecutors, profilers, and criminal defense attorneys fabricated multiple scenarios as to the how and why, not one coming close to the truth. Rumors surrounding a ménage à trois were either discounted or used to condemn the prime suspect, a cybersecurity expert in the employ of a little-known government agency. Characterizations of John Jackson Coyote came in multiple flavors, from fun-loving and clever, to mysterious and depraved. Though his neighbors didn’t want to believe a nice guy like him capable of a sadistic murder, their statements sounded over-rehearsed and lame. Old girlfriends came out of the woodwork, one claiming he had slapped her around. Conjectures connecting him with other missing or murdered women in the Tri-State area branded him a serial killer. Jack Coyote had become a symbol of what had gone wrong in America. The victim was vilified as a loose woman partially responsible for the dreadful fate that befell her. The public was gobbling it up whole and spitting it out.

The previous days and hours had melded and split apart like a deck of fifty-two cards containing only one picture card: the queen of broken hearts with blonde hair and green eyes. She hid the joker behind her back and smiled wickedly, saying, It’s candy, Jack. Candy for the soul. Do you even have a soul? He supposed not.

The day ended in clouds and rain. He opened his eyes to see a storm rolling in from the northeast, thunderclouds stacked high. He blinked, ran a hand through his hair, remembered where he was, and swiveled his head.

Liz was seated in a chair against the far wall beneath the wall-mounted television screen. She was hugging herself, emotionally chilled, hands gripping opposite arms, feet planted on the floor, head lifted high. A sleeveless blouse emphasized her shapely arms, lightly tanned. Bermuda shorts flattered her runner’s thighs. Sandals revealed her slim feet and polished toenails. She had gathered her usually high-maintenance hair into a knot at the top of her head, allowing coiled strands to fall where they may. Having intently watched him until he came fully awake, she smiled. She had the winningest smile of anyone he had ever known. She could launch ships with that smile. She still carried the same effervescence of the girl he fell in love with all those years ago. Time had not diminished her beauty; it only enhanced it. She leaned forward, lacing her hands together. “How are you feeling?”

It gladdened him to see her and to also see she cared. The heart monitor beeping in the background reminded him of his brush with death. It was still difficult to swallow. Nausea came and went. His ribs twinged with every breath. Bruises and needle marks ran along the insides of both arms. Intravenous tubing and wires leading from beneath the hospital gown impeded movement. He couldn’t take a leak on his own. Other than that, everything was hunky-dory. He lifted a shaky hand to his head. Roughened and phlegmy, his voice still didn’t sound like himself. “What the hell happened?”

“You tell me.” Seconds before, she had been relieved to see him open his eyes. Now she was riled. He had experienced both women countless times. The angelic version and the bitchy version.

There was no better way to say it, so he said it. “There was a woman.”

“I know that. Oh, don’t I know that.” She spoke the words with a flip of her head, old jealousies resurfacing as if their years of separation hadn’t erased a single slight.

“Not Milly. Another woman.”

“Really,” she said flatly. “Another woman.”

“It was a setup.”

They looked at each other from a remote distance. Liz way over there in some sort of dreamland of the way things ought to be. Jack way over here in the only reality he knew. There was no explaining it. No way to set it right. No way to wind back the clock. No way to bring back Milly.

It took a while for Liz to absorb the impact of those four words. Her first reaction was one of disbelief. Her head tilted in a debate with herself. Her eyes shifted before widening. She started to say something but stopped herself. She was visibly upset. Then fearful. Finally, angry. As pale as the moon and quiet as the crypt, she rehearsed what she was about to say. “Who was she? This other woman?”

“I picked her up at the club.”

In college, their fling had been brief but intense. He was wandering through life back then, unsure of what he wanted to be when he grew up, only knowing he liked to play around with code and break into computer networks as a lark. MIT seemed like the perfect fit to realize his calling. He drove cross-country and signed up for a few engineering courses. He noticed Liz sitting in the lecture hall of one of those courses. One day after class, she was standing outside with another guy, hips swaying rhythmically as though a tune were playing in her head. The guy went his way and Liz went hers, head angled downward, shoulders hunched against stiff autumn winds, sheaves of hair veiling her profile. She wore a short-cropped suede jacket, tight jeans, and cowboy boots. It was probably the cowboy boots that made Jack flip for her. The way she walked in those boots defied physics, as if she were walking on air. He followed her, staying several yards back, letting other students come between them. She glanced back once and didn’t look again until they reached campus housing. Upon arriving at her dorm, she spun around and with an angry toss of her head, confronted him. Strong autumn breezes swirled her unruly hair. The tip of her nose was pink with cold. Her lips were pressed together in pique. She gazed at him the way a royal queen gazes down her nose at a lowly subject. Hers was a lovely face, an inquisitive face, an indomitable face. She strode boldly up to him, and with a sly smile, recited her name and phone number. “Can you remember that? Ah, I see that you can. You pass the test ... John Jackson Coyote.” How she knew his name, and not just his name but his full name, he never found out, except to appreciate she had noticed him long before he knew she existed.

“I saw Milly,” she said quietly. “I saw what happened to her. It was awful.”

Even through the mist of his memories, he could still see Milly in her repose of death. The whiteness of her face. The terror in her eyes. The lividness of her bruises. She had been snuffed out by brutal hands for reasons unknown. He mourned her and missed her. Never again would he hear her impish giggles or look into her mischievous eyes or listen to her off-color jokes or embrace her yielding body. She didn’t deserve to die so young. Or so horribly.

“The woman I took home?” he said. “She must have spiked my beer. I don’t remember much after that.” He knew how crazy his explanation sounded. He still hadn’t wrapped his head around it. He couldn’t explain what happened. Or rely on his memory. Or separate the real from the surreal. He could only replay the sequence of events as he remembered them.

Liz slowly rose to her feet. Then she paced the floor, whipping back and forth like a summer storm. When she finished working confusions out of her mind, she swung around. Exhaustion showed in her eyes, along with something else. Something like regret. Remorse. And reminiscences of things that passed between them a long, long time ago. “I don’t want to ask, but I have to. Did it have anything to do with the Firm?”

“She’s dead,” he said, his voice restrained. “Milly’s dead. Murdered. And you’re worried about how it’ll look for the Firm?”

A male nurse entered the room, set down a stainless-steel tray, and went about his scheduled tasks. Liz looked askance at him before speaking in hushed tones. “I hired you, remember? I vouched for you. I’ll take the blame for bringing you in.”

When the Computer Fraud Division of the FBI discovered security breaches targeting key agencies, they discussed it with someone in the State Department. It was decided to bring in a cybersecurity expert, someone who wasn’t entrenched yet knew his way around. Because the Homeland Intelligence Division had close working relationships with most of the effected agencies, it seemed like the best place to put the effort. The State Department spoke to HID to get the ball rolling. Liz was chosen as the lead. Jack’s name came up as a likely candidate. He and Liz talked it over. How would it be if they worked together? Could they work together? Would they get in each other’s way? They agreed that history was history and the past was the past. Each had moved on with their lives. They could keep their relationship on a professional basis. And it worked. Or so they deluded themselves.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Jack said.

“Oh no? Tell that to the fat man sitting in the corner, shaving points and putting down bets.” Liz warily shifted her eyesight to the nurse, who was checking the patient’s chart, examining IVs, and scribbling notes. “There ... there’s something else I have to tell you.”

The tone of her voice did not bode well. It was a tone of conspiracy. And of dark secrets. She hesitated before dragging a chair to his bedside. A whiff of perfume sailed with her. Jack drank it up the way he lapped up everything about the woman he once loved.

Leaning close, she propped her elbows onto the mattress and folded fists beneath her chin, head bowed as if in prayer. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. They’re keeping it quiet. You won’t see it on the news. It ... it’s about Harry.”

Calmly and meticulously, the nurse replaced the clipboard, approached the patient’s bedside, disconnected one of the IVs, efficiently prepared a syringe, and injected the prescribed medication into the line before leaving and taking the tray with him.

Liz had waited before saying more. They both waited. When the door closed on a whisper, she said, “He’s missing.”

His stomach began to churn. His head started pounding. The room became hot and airless. He glanced out the window, searching for answers and finding none. He became aware of the beating of his heart. He gazed back at Liz, almost without recognizing her. She had become transparent, a woman half here and half there, and slipping farther away. He said, “I thought he was just held up.”

“Everybody did. But here’s the thing ...” She paused, breathless and overexcited. “He was in a car crash. Near Upper Lake Drive. That wooded stretch where the lanes reduce to two and it’s dark as mud. He turned off the road. A half mile north, his SUV rolled over and slid down an embankment. Nobody reported the accident. We don’t know what really happened. There were skid marks. The authorities are pretty sure another vehicle was involved and that Harry was deliberately forced off the road. It’s being kept quiet until he’s found. If he’s ever found.”

Jack closed his exhausted eyes and tried to think, tried to make sense of everything. The beating of his heart quickened. The pounding in his head intensified. “The three of us being targeted can’t be coincidence. You know that, don’t you?”

A dark silence hung between them. They gripped hands, a bulwark against the unseen and the unknowable.

“They think he was taken overseas to a black ops site. It’s only a theory, but―” She didn’t have to say more. It was more than a theory. It was fact.

“You do know they’re going to hang me for Milly’s murder. As soon as I get out of here, they’ll arrest me.”

Things were getting blurry ... fuzzy around the edges ... dark at the center. He was tired. Oh, so tired. Tired enough to sleep forever.

“You know something, don’t you?” Her voice had become agitated, her face worried. “What are you holding back?”

The room started to spin, slowly at first but quickly speeding up. “If ... if I knew I’d ... I’d tell you.” His voice had lowered a full octave. He tried to say something about moons and Junes and Ferris wheels but couldn’t get the words past his tongue.

“I’m sorry I brought you in. It was a bad idea, us working together.”

He wanted to lower his head into his hands, but they had turned into butcher’s cleavers, shiny and bright and sharp. “Wasn’t ... a ... bad ... idea.” He reached out one of the butcher’s cleavers.

She met it with her hand and didn’t flinch, as if gripping the hand of a man made of stainless steel instead of flesh and blood were perfectly normal. Her eyes became soft, almost tender. “You always do that to me. Get on my good side. When all I really want to do is strangle you.”

“Why?” he heard himself say. “For what?”

“For almost dying, you ass.”

She was turning into a ship with white sails and a wide haul, sailing toward the distant horizon.

“I felt so goddamn helpless. I thought ... never mind what I thought. I’m sorry, Jack. Sorry for everything.”

She brought her face close to his, close enough for him to sniff the foulness of her breath. It smelled like sulphur.

She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Jack! Talk to me, Jack! Don’t go away! Stay with me!”

Liz evaporated like rising mist, only to be replaced by the lady in black, who smiled benignly down at him and held out her hand. It’s candy for the soul, Jack. Go on. Eat it. You’ll feel much better in the morning ....

The beeping monitor stopped beeping and emitted a long thin wail.