Dangling in the Tournefortia
Sam Gerard stood, arms crossed, leaning bonelessly, silently, unmoving, against the wall opposite the women’s bathroom in the Emergency wing of Hennepin county Medical Center, doing what he did best, which was waiting. Waiting for his mother, as a child, to pick him up from school. Waiting for the signal from his contact, which may have taken hours, to lift his rifle and fire upon unsuspecting Vietcong. Waiting for a fugitive to fuck up and show himself so that he and his kids could make the grab.
He would wait indefinitely, perhaps forever.
No rest for the wicked, no answers for the vigilant.
His life had been simple a few short years ago, doing his usual routine, if one could call it that, because it was anything but predictable. Life had taken a strange turn, stemming directly from an anonymous tip that someone had left him via phone about a known gun-runner and murderer named William Strannix. Now, over two years later here he stood, his life turned upside down by events that would have crushed the average man. Sam simply shrugged the weight and walked on, heedless.
Protect ‘er, dawg. Watch after ‘er.
The only thing Strannix had said to him, the only moment of lucidity Sam had noted in the ride to the hospital. He’d squeezed Sam’s hand hard, harder than he thought the man capable in his condition.
Of course I’ll protect her, you bonehead... I have to. It’s what I do.
I failed the last time. It won’t happen again.
Sam examined his hand, the one Strannix had grasped. An everyday necessity, this hunk of bone, blood, muscle. It could kill and it could comfort.
The door opened, derailing his train to thought, and he put on a crocodile smile for her. She managed the same for him, her face flushed and eyes puffy and red.
"Sorry I took so long."
He shook his head.
"No apologies, little sis. Although you do look like you need some sleep. Why don’t I—"
"No, Sam. I can’t go home." She was firm, and he didn’t press, although he knew that as soon as they heard something substantial, he’d throw her over his shoulder and carry her out if he had to. They’d been waiting an hour and a half with literally no word on Bill’s condition, save for what they’d been told before they took him into surgery. They’d found an old infected wound in his lower abdomen and had taken him in for emergency exploratory surgery, a routine piece of work that the surgeon explained would take an hour at most. They had found him to be dehydrated, malnourished, extremely exhausted, slipping into shock, and they didn’t want to waste any more time than necessary with tests. They believed that the root of the problem was with the wounded abdomen, and possibly another ominous wound in his left upper thigh, for they both appeared to be teeming with infection.
Minutes before they’d taken him to surgery, they’d let her see him, as Sam stood out in the hallway, counting the tiles in the floor. She said he’d been in and out of consciousness, and shaking like a leaf. It had unnerved her terribly, about as much as the excruciating waiting that they were enduring.
"I’m going to give you something to help you relax, Mr. Strannix..."
It sounded to him as if the person was talking down the far end of a tunnel. It could very well have been, since he was staring into a hugely bright light, but the person was right there in front of him, wearing a surgical mask and a shower cap. She looked incredibly silly. Her eyes were blue.
"Speak up, girl."
His tongue was made of lead, and the words sounded like a groan. Goddamnit. The blue-eyed woman was fiddling with a needle and a tube. She rid herself of the needle and he started to feel flaky, like running his mouth was a good idea, if only he could get it to cooperate with his brain.
"... it’ll help you sleep."
Sleep was nice. It saved him from the wall of pain. It brought the memories and the dreams, but he’d dealt with worse, and didn’t mind it so much...
… he didn't mind it so much that he was sitting in shit, but the rattling of the ancient truck might very well drive him mad.
He'd walked into Pakistan three days prior and had been truck-hopping as much as possible ever since. The latest vehicle was a rusty old military truck which was hauling about a ton and a half of horseshit. Perhaps less than a ton, but it felt like the whole world of crap underneath him. "King Shit of Turd Mountain," he heard Deb say in his mind, and he halfway grinned. He had no idea how far the truck was going, or why anyone needed equine feces, but it made for good cover come border-searches. No one wanted to go near it.
Bill had wedged himself between one of the outer walls of the truck and part of the load itself, which meant that he wasn't truly atop all of it, just the majority. He'd wrapped his wounded leg in what was left of his tattered flak jacket. The bleeding had stopped days ago, but it would have to be looked at soon. The skin around the wound was turning an angry red, and the entrance point was starting to ooze nasty colors. The truck might have been good cover, but the down side was that he could lose the leg as it was.
It was morning, second day in the shit-mobile, and the sun beat down on his head evilly. The leg was stretched out in front of him, where he could easily tend to it and keep it clean with the little fresh water he had left in his canteen. His black-bladed survival knife rested quietly in his lap. Better a knife than the gun, tucked into his waistband, which could, with one shot, ruin the cover he'd tried so carefully to preserve.
He was running painfully low on rations, even though he'd taken most of what he'd could off of the boys he'd had to leave behind. A grimace crossed his face for the briefest of moments, knowing they'd been ambushed at the rendezvous point. Ryback had a lot to answer for, and he'd get back to Washington if only to run the little man's head into the nearest brick wall. His own neutralization, himself being a deeply covert operative dealing with such sensitive matters and information on a daily basis… he'd pushed the envelope too far and Ryback had taken the initiative, believing that the program was in danger of… something or other. But to send him out with four boys, knowing they'd be killed? Two of them had been fuckwits, but the other two had showed true promise. All left to die, and he'd had no choice but to abandon them. Ryback would definitely have to explain some shit when he got back.
Bill fell to sleep and dreamed of home, the last pleasant rest he would have for six months.
The happy sound of a carrion-eater woke him up, and it was a big bastard. His eyes snapped open and fixed upon a huge buzzard perched atop a mound of dung and inching his way towards Bill's leg.
He groped for the knife, set his jaw against the coming pain, and eased the stiff leg closer, joints groaning with disuse. He watched the bird, poised and ready.
The bird lurched closer. One eye was milky, and it's beak had a chunk missing from it. It's feathers were tattered and dusty from the dry climate, and it shuffled like the dead. This was an old campaigner, and it looked as if it had never lost a fight, but had come damn close a few times.
First time for anything, Bill thought, and smiled grimly.
The buzzard, when it finally made up its mind, was fast, and had Bill not dodged to the side as quick as he had, the bird would have speared his kneecap. He twisted back as the bird made a second lunge. His hand shot past it's head and caught the bird's neck in one fist. It let out a surprised squawk and it was all Bill could do to avoid the claws as the powerful bird attempted to break free. The longer the fight lasted, the greater it's chances would be, and Bill was more than aware of it. It was still kicking after he had, with one savage slash, severed it's head from its body. Blood spurted from the neck, and with his good leg, he kicked the spasming body away from him.
The head went out the side of the truck. He settled back into his spot, body screaming at him from a dozen places, but mostly his abdomen, where he'd been kicked. The dull ache that had started deep inside was now a stabbing pulse. Dizziness washed over him, and he fought to stay clearheaded.
New Mission, he thought to himself: Get to New Delhi. Shower ASAP. Otherwise, the scent of blood would attract not only buzzards, but many other creatures he'd not have the strength to fight off.
He looked over the wall of the cargo area of the truck and saw that they were approaching a city. Leh, if he was not mistaken, not too far inside the Indian border. The truck stopped just past a few ancient buildings. Bill waited until he heard the driver get out of the truck and his footsteps recede before he carefully removed himself from the truck. His eyes scanned the city, looking for somewhere to get cleaned up, perhaps someone to fish the bullet out of his leg, a drink of something that wasn't rancid water… he started walking.
… walking…
"It doesn’t feel right, Sam."
"What doesn’t feel right?" He began to lead her down the hall towards the elevators. He wanted a cup of coffee in the worst way, but moreso he wanted to leave the oppressive machinelike silence of the ER for a while. It was starting to drive him nuts. He’d given the nurse on duty his cellphone number and instructions to call him if any information presented itself.
"This whole situation. First, those bruises up and down his back, then Cole, then that fucked-up trip to Washington. Now this... and as usual, I have no idea what is going on." If she objected to his sudden need to consume caffeine, she didn’t say anything. She simply followed, trusting his judgement.
"Seems like life’ll never slow down, huh?" Coffee, hot and black, accompanied by an onion bagel. He thought better of it and took two, and a carton of milk. Deb was preoccupied and didn’t pick anything for herself.
"It’s chaos. I’ve not even had time to talk to him about the baby. It’s all moving so damn fast... and now, I don’t know, he might... might..." Her hand went instinctively to her belly and rested there, as if she were comforting the child that lived within. They both sat down at a table beside the window.
"Too damn fast. Always a sign of trouble. Here, eat," he said, almost absently, and slid a bagel and the milk across the table to her.
"I don’t know if I can, Sammy. My stomach’s full of acid."
He heaped cream cheese on one half of his bagel and spread it evenly across the flat-cut surface.
"You have to eat something... you’ll be sicker if you don’t," he said between bites. How long had it been since he’d eaten? And it had been Chinese, which never stays with you for long. The bagel felt like lead in his stomach, but it was a hell of a lot better than feeling hollowed out.
"I... don’t know that I care." She picked at her bagel. Sam opened the milk and turned it to face her.
"Drink it. Good for the stomach. And no arguments."
She nodded and took a few swallows. He noted that her hands were shaking, that she was having trouble keeping it down.
His voice dropped to a soft growl.
"You’re safe, darlin’."
"I know, Sammy. I heard him ask you to watch me."
He let out a long, deep sigh, as if a weight were lifted from him.
"I just don’t know what to do."
"Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do."
A long silence followed, where Deb stared at her milk and Sam finished his coffee. Without another word, he led her back to the hated ER, where they were shortly assaulted by a rumpled doctor in surgical scrubs, who offered to fill them in on Bill’s condition.
"It’s a very advanced infection. We’re doing all we can—we have to be very careful at this point. He’s in a very weakened condition. Too many powerful antibiotics could do more harm than good right now. The infection is originating from a gunshot wound to the upper thigh. It looks as if it’s been there for a few weeks. We cleaned up two major abscesses, but we’ll have to run a CT scan to see how extensive the infection is, if it has, perhaps, spread to the bone or other areas."
Sam nodded gravely. Deb merely listened, silent.
"The surgery did result in some good news, though. We had thought that the problem was his abdomen, for there was a major infection from an earlier wound in the lower left quadrant. It seems that there had been some blunt trauma, causing an intestine to become damaged. But it looks as if he’d had surgery some time in the last two weeks or so, because someone had sutured and cleaned it up. There was only a surface infection. It’s going to heal up really nice. Too bad you don’t know who did it, you could thank them for sending your boy home alive."
"When can we see him?"
Sam could feel her vibrating inside the protective circle of his arm.
"He’s in recovery now... it’ll be a few hours. You might as well get some rest."
"I can’t—"
Sam heard the shaking in her voice and knew it was from exhaustion. She’d been up all night and part of the morning waiting. He drew her closer, tighter.
"She will. She’s going home to bed. And she’s not arguing."
"Like hell!"
Sam let the comment pass over him.
"Can someone give us a call when he’s ready?"
"I’ll see that one of the nurses does just that."
"Thanks, doc. C’mon, li’l sis. Time to go home."
"Quit tickling my feet, damnit!"
"Och, but me lass’ feet are lovely. If I love to watch them dance, mustn’t I supply the music, now?"
Ryan smiled impishly from the foot of the bed. Jade yowled, sounding like a wet cat.
"Quit! Those are your fingers, not U2 down there!" She kicked at him, but he rocked back on his haunches and held up a hand.
"But they are, love." He started ticking off each finger. "’Ere’s Bono, Edge, Larry... ow!"
"Edge is Welsh, you freak, just like my dad," she laughed, tossing the other shoe at his head, hoping to clock him a second time.
Ryan ducked, with no time to spare.
"So you’ve informed me many times, child." He started crawling up the length of the bed, her body beneath him. She squirmed up to the head of the bed, her knees drawn up underneath her chin, laughing maniacally.
"You’re such a f—" Ryan leaned over her and kissed her full on the lips, deeply. The kiss lasted a delicious eternity, and when he finally came up for air, she was flushed and gasping.
"Well, now. What were ye sayin’ about me?"
"Such a... such a... fool..."
"Eh?"
"A fool!"
He leaned back into her for another kiss when they heard the front door open and slam shut. Ryan and Jade locked looks.
"They’re home," they said in unison. Jade rolled her eyes.
"I hate it when you do that," she said.
He chuckled.
"I know ye look forward to it. Come on, lass."
He held out his hand and pulled her up out of the bed. He snuck a kiss as she rose.
"Bugger," she muttered, and put on her robe.
They walked through the house. Jade noted that it was strangely quiet.
"Where is everyone?"
"’Tis Friday eve, love. They’re all at yon wee pub."
"Uh... shouldn’t you be at the Corner too, Ryan?"
"Young Elmore gave me a few hours to m’self. He does that once in a while, if I ask."
Jade smirked back at him knowingly. She and Ryan’s time together was vastly limited between the children and working at the Corner. That he took the short time out of his workday to be with her, even to tickle her feet, was something.
They both arrived in the living room to find Deb in a sleeping lump on the couch and Sam dutifully covering her with a blanket. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a month.
"She fell right to sleep," he said quietly, sitting on the far end of the couch and resting one hand on her ankle. "I didn’t have to cajole, beg, or threaten this time."
"What happened, Sam?"
He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and the gesture made him look world-weary.
"I received a call yesterday from Strannix..."
Sam told the story, from beginning to end, of going to the airport, finding Bill, and taking him to the hospital. His voice remained quiet and neutral during the entire tale, never straying from the subject.
"... and now we’re just waiting."
"But you don’t know what happened...?"
"No, girl, I don’t. I have my ideas though."
"Which are...?"
"I know he tried to get out, on account of the little one, and some other business I don’t know anything about, but again, I have my ideas. He’s gettin’ old, darlin’. When we get old, we start re-examining things in our lives, or we get killed by them. He’s lived this long on more than just luck. Anyway, I know he attempted to retire, from what Deb has told me. My assumption is that they tried to stop them."
"’They?’"
"Whoever he works for. He never said, but..." Sam paused, remembering the ‘conversation’ he’d had with a certain Mr. President. Leave the boy alone... does Point Barrow, Alaska mean anything to you, Deputy Gerard?
"CIA?" Ryan volunteered. "NSA? INS?"
"More like SMERSH or UNCLE."
Ryan’s face was engulfed by the familiar confused look that appeared whenever someone mentioned pop culture. "Huh?"
"Never mind, honey." Jade patted him on the head.
"It may be a blanketed branch of the CIA or NSA, but I don’t know. Hell, for years I thought he was a criminal, and I'm still not sure that he’s completely innocent. Then again, maybe that’s what he wants me to think... oh hell." Sam moaned, his mind running in circles.
"But I don’t—"
There was a muffled chirp, Jade stopped mid-sentence, and Deb sat up instantly, blinking from sleep.
"Wha..." she muttered thickly, rubbing her head.
Sam had his cellphone to his ear instantly. "Gerard." He listened intently for a half a minute, thanked the caller, then snapped the phone shut.
"You wanna go see your boy?"
"Of course."
Sam surprised himself. He was sickened by the wasted physical appearance of the man who usually gave Sam his fair share of headaches and fistfights. Bill looked at least a decade and a half older than he was, and gaunt as a tree in the middle of January. A mess of liquids hung above the man’s head, dripping slowly into the lines that disappeared underneath the sheets. Even though he looked like some sort of strange medical experiment with all the tubes and wires snaking every which-way, Strannix seemed to be sleeping peacefully.
He came closer to the bed, and realized that someone had bleached Strannix' hair.
No, he thought, it's white.
Whatever had happened to the boy was bad enough that it turned him grey in less than six weeks. Completely silver-white. Sam had only seen it happen one other time, which was once more than most people had ever experienced it. A fugitive he had been chasing in Northern California had gotten trapped in a cavern underneath the mountain that the fool had tried to lose Sam on. The man had been inside, hiding, when a rock slide had covered the exit, leaving the man in the utter darkness for over a week. It had driven the man completely mad. The team would never have found him, save for the faint screams they had heard below their feet. Even then, as they had hauled him off to a padded cell, only a few locks of the man's hair had turned bright white. It had disturbed Sam to the bone.
This seemed... somewhat comparable.
"Jesus..."
Jade’s voice was a mere whisper, and Sam barely heard it. Gaerity’s girl had decided to come along as additional moral support. She’d said nothing as they entered the room, her previously garrulous mood slowly dying out as they walked up to the hospital. She was leaning against the far wall, hands behind her back, face ashen. Seemed she was shaken as well, but was valiantly attempting to fight it.
"...Billy?"
The man in the bed managed to pry one eye open a slit. He groaned.
"fffuck."
Strannix sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of cold oatmeal, but at least he seemed focused.
"Well, he still knows how to talk," Jade quipped with a shaky smirk.
"Shaddap, yous... wherezat Punk?"
"I’m right here, Billy. You gave us a scare, you freak." From the side of the bed, Deb sat on pins and needles on the edge of the chair. She tried for a grin, but it looked like a grimace.
"S’not tha’ bad... justa hole’n th’ leg dere."
Strannix looked as if he were falling asleep again, but struggling for consciousness. Deb bent over him with a look of concern.
"You okay, Billy?"
"Jus’ sssleepy, das all..."
... sleepy, that’s all it was. Unfortunately, Bill couldn’t get a wink in because it was so noisy. What in hell possessed you to pick a bus, he asked himself, and one that was made during the stone age so that it rattled more than that damn shit-truck? He rode in the last seat, crammed in beside an old man who only looked at him once the entire trip, when he'd squeezed past him to sit next to the window. Otherwise, the trip out of Leh, where he'd taken a decent bath, dressed up his leg (which had seen better days, but there was no time to sit around), and bought a bottle of water, was uneventful. He'd been able to take in only a swallow or two of water before he'd vomited it and a troubling amount of blood into the bucket beside the bed in the room he'd rented for the hour or two he'd allotted himself to stop. He had held his burning, aching head in both hands and fought the thoughts that he might not make it back to the States. Ryback needed a talking to. The Bailjumpers needed a frontman. Gerard needed someone to make his life miserable. His boy needed a father. His punk needed him back in one piece…
He shook his head, stretched his muscles, trying to keep them from stiffening up, which was a futile attempt at best. The old man who sat next to him seemed not to notice that he was even there, until they entered Delphi.
Man: Are you living?
The man spoke in slow, quiet Hindi, shook him gently by the arm.
Bill chuckled, but it sounded more like a strangled cough from his parched throat. He answered in same, but his knowledge of the language was rusty.
Bill: No, I haven't left the earth yet.
Man: My son is a healer. Come with me.
Bill shook his head. No time to stop, really.
Bill: Sorry, I'm in a hurry… but thanks.
The old man shook his head.
Man: You, my friend, are too much a ghost to hurry anywhere, let alone walk.
He rested a gnarled, brown hand on Bill's shoulder.
Man: You come with me.
Bill: I--
Man: You have a family.
Not a question, but a statement, made very firmly.
Bill: I… well, yeah… I do.
The man nodded again, as if confirming something he already had knowledge of.
Man: Then you must come with me.
Bill: I--
The man held up a finger. Bill could faintly smell burned wood, fruit, incense.
Man: You have something precious. Do not forfeit this chance, as I can see that you have very little left.
Bill felt very bare. He turned back to the window.
Bill: I can't stick around, though.
The old man nodded but once more, pleased, then was silent again. Bill's hand returned to his churning guts, which seemed to hurt a hell of a lot worse now then when they were stapled together. He couldn't ignore it, true, if he were to make it home. He wondered if he could move if he wanted to anyway, considering it had been fourteen hours since they'd left Leh. He closed his eyes, and when they made New Delhi, the old man tapped him on the shoulder to wake him up.
Man: Can you stand?
People started unfolding themselves, pulling bags and suitcases and plastic baskets out from under the seats.
Bill: 'Course I can, boy.
Bill took hold of the seat in front of him, wondering if he could back up his words. He stood up slowly, gradually easing weight onto his leg, every inch hurting worse than the last. He gritted his teeth nearly to the point of breaking.
The old man took him by the elbow, but he shook it off. Be damned if he'd not get out of the damn bus, he had to make it to Washington… better yet, Minneapolis…
Bill: 's okay man, really…
He took one step, and everything went from stable… to dizzy… to nothing…
… nothing but four small candle flames, flickering and sending weird shadows around the tiny room. A middle-aged man with dark skin and a short black beard bent over him and looked into his face, two fingers against his cheek. The eyes set in the dark face were ink-jet black, deeper than his own and staring directly through his skull. The fingers left his face and moved, smoothly, to his stomach. The hand rested on his angry abdomen, pressed down until Bill groaned, then nodded, just as the old man had on the bus.
The old man… must have brought him there. The guy had been so damn small… how the hell had he gotten him there? He was lying on a flat, hard bed, covered in an old blanket. His head felt like it was full of stones… he could barely turn it, let alone open his mouth to speak. But he felt… peaceful? Incense was burning in a far corner, and he recognized it from the old man. The pain in his belly felt very far away.
The dark man turned from him, busied himself with a few things that Bill could not see for the lack of light. He tried to say, "what are you doing?" but it sounded more like "ah ah ah." Damnit, can't even fucking communicate now…
He turned back to Bill, a small knife in his hand, a candle in the other. He was holding the blade in the flame as he walked, speaking to himself in some sort of less than modern Hindi tongue. Bill couldn't make it out. Either that or he couldn't think straight at all.
'My son is a healer.' The phrase came back to him just as the man kneeled beside him, rested the candle on the table next to Bill's head, and drew back the sheet. He was entirely naked, but couldn't see the shape that his body was in because of his inability to move his head. Instead, he was left with a view of the dark man's head, and the hand that held the knife.
The knife. Jesus fucking Christ… He found the strength to move, started to get up, but the dark man nodded past him, and hands fell upon his shoulders and arms, his legs, ankles.
Voice: Calm, my friend.
The old man, his voice filling Bill's ear, his head, and he closed his eyes, fought the searing pain brought with the coming of a hot blade to fevered flesh, cried out…
...cried out, and he heard Deb yelp.
"Sam! Go get a nurse!"
Gerard jumped to attention from the sleeping lump he’d formed in a stiff chair beside the door. He was gone before Bill could get a word in edgewise.
"Ah... dream, baby. Just a bad dream..."
She let out a long sigh, looking more at ease. He could feel her warm lips against his knuckles, his fingers, the back of his hand. She pressed her cheek against his arm.
"Okay, Billy... I thought you were in pain, or you’d... you, ah... I don’t know..."
She had an edgy sound to her voice that only cropped up when she was under great amounts of stress, and she was shaking. He squeezed her hand and smiled.
"Fine... right as rain," he croaked. Her smile broke and she started to cry.
"Shhh, girl. Quiet now. Don’t..." It was no use to try to get her to stop, he knew, so he just listened, uncomfortable, his head thick as a block of masonite, and his hand lost in her hair.
"Girl... Punk... no more, huh...?"
"Thought you were... goddamnit, you’re not leaving again, do you understand?" Quick as hell, her mood had shifted, something that happened when she was that shaken up, and she’d snapped. He normally found it amusing, and it hadn’t failed to make one corner of his mouth twitch up this time, either. He instantly smothered it as she continued her rant. "I don’t want it to be that the next time you come home I’m burying you, or that you never come back, do you hear me, William Eliot Strannix??"
"Loud ‘n clear, darlin’..."
"Good... good..." She dropped her head to the railing, exhausted. He was reminded of the position Ryan had adopted when he’d sat next to Jade’s near-deathbed for so long. It wasn’t something he wanted to see from the position he was in.
"Y’look like... ya need some sleep. Get outta here, wouldja?" His tone was gentle, and he mussed her hair.
"Okay," came her small reply. Gerard materialized behind her, a hand on her shoulder. After a long moment, she rose and kissed Bill on the forehead. Her smell lingered over him, and it felt like home. When he opened his eyes, they were gone, and he was left to himself and his thoughts.
TO BE CONTINUED...