Long Lost Page 15

  We wrestled, but he was no match for my rage. I gouged his eye with my thumb, weakening him. I grabbed his windpipe and started to squeeze. He started to flail, hitting me in the face and neck. I held on.

  "Freeze! Drop it!"

  Voices in the distance. Commotion. I wasn't even sure they were real. More like something from the wind. Might be something I was hallucinating. The accent sounded American. Familiar even.

  I still squeezed the windpipe.

  "I said, freeze! Now! Let him go!"

  Surrounded. Six, eight men, maybe more. Most with guns aimed at me.

  My eyes met the killer's. There was something mocking in them. I felt my hold slacken. I don't know if it was the command to let him go or if the bullet wound was ebbing away my strength. My hand dropped off him. The killer coughed and sputtered and then he tried to take advantage.

  He brought up his gun.

  Just as I hoped.

  I had pulled the small gun from my leg holster. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand.

  The familiar American voice: "Don't!"

  But I didn't really care if they shot me. Still holding his wrist, I took my gun, pushed it under his chin and fired. I felt something wet and sticky hit my face. Then I dropped the gun and fell on top of his still body.

  Men, a lot of them from the feel of it, tackled me. Now that I had done what I had to, my power and will to live drained away. I let them turn me and cuff me and do whatever, but there was no need for restraints. The fight was out of me. They flipped me onto my back. I swiveled my head and looked at Terese's still body. I felt a pain as enormous as any I had ever known consume me.

  Her eyes were closed and soon, very soon, so were mine.

  PART TWO

  22

  THIRSTY.

  Sand in the throat. Eyes won't open. Or maybe they do.

  Total darkness.

  Engine roar. I sense someone standing over me.

  "Terese . . ."

  I think I say it out loud, but I'm not sure.

  NEXT snippet of memory: voices.

  They seem very far away. I don't understand any of the words. Sounds, that's all. Something angry. It gets closer. Louder. In my ear now.

  My eyes open. I see white.

  The voice keeps repeating the same thing over and over.

  Sounds like "Al-sabr wal-sayf."

  I don't understand. Gibberish maybe. Or a foreign language. I don't know.

  "Al-sabr wal-sayf."

  Someone is shouting in my ear. My eyes squeeze shut. I want it to stop.

  "Al-sabr wal-sayf."

  The voice is angry, incessant. I think I say I'm sorry.

  "He doesn't understand," someone says.

  Silence.

  PAIN in my side.

  "Terese . . . ," I say again.

  No reply.

  Where am I?

  I hear a voice again, but I can't understand what it's saying.

  Feel alone, isolated. I'm lying down. I think I'm shaking.

  "LET me explain the situation to you."

  I still can't move. I try to open my mouth, but I can't. Open my eyes. Blurry. Feels like my entire head is wrapped in thick, sticky cobwebs. I try to scrape the cobwebs away. They stay.

  "You used to work for the government, didn't you?"

  Is the voice talking to me? I nod but stay very still.

  "Then you know places like this exist. That they've always existed. You heard the rumors, at the very least."

  I never believed the rumors. Maybe after 9/11. But not before. I think I say no but that might just be in my head.

  "Nobody knows where you are. Nobody will find you. We can keep you forever. We can kill you any time we please. Or we can let you go."

  Fingers around my bicep. More fingers around my wrist. Struggle but pointless. Feel a pinch in my arm. I can't move. Can't stop it. I remember when I was six my dad took me to the Kiwanis carnival on Northfield Avenue. Cheesy rides and attractions. The Madhouse. That was the name of one. Mirrors and giant clown heads and a horrible laugh track. Went in alone. I was a big boy, after all. Got lost and turned around and couldn't find my way out. One of those clown heads jumped out at me. I started to cry. I spun around. Another giant clown head was right there, mocking me.

  That was what this felt like.

  I cried and spun around again. I called for my dad. He shouted my name, ran inside, knocked through a thin wall, found me, and made it okay.

  Dad, I think. Dad will find me. Any second now.

  But no one comes.

  "HOW do you know Rick Collins?"

  I tell the truth. Again. So exhausted.

  "And how do you know Mohammad Matar?"

  "I don't know who that is."

  "You tried to kill him in Paris. Then you killed him before we grabbed you in London. Who sent you to kill him?"

  "Nobody. He attacked me."

  I explain. Then something horrible happens to me, but I don't know what it is.

  I am walking. My hands are tied behind my back. Can't see much, just small dots of light. A hand on either shoulder. They roughly pull me down.

  Lying on my back.

  Legs bound together. Belt tightened across my chest. Body lassoed to hard surface.

  Can't move at all.

  Suddenly the dots of light are gone. I think I scream. I may be upside down. I'm not sure.

  A giant, wet hand covers my face. Grabs my nose. Covers my mouth.

  Can't breathe. Try to flail. Arms tied. Legs bound.

  Can't move. Someone is holding my head. Can't even turn it. The hand presses down harder on my face. No air.

  Panic. I'm being smothered.

  Try to inhale. My mouth opens. Inhale. Must inhale. Can't. Water fills my throat and runs up my nose.

  I choke. Lungs burning. About to burst. Muscles screaming. Must move. Can't. No escape.

  No air.

  Dying.

  I hear someone weeping and realize the sound is coming from me.

  Sudden searing pain.

  My back arches. My eyes bulge. I scream.

  "Oh God, please . . ."

  The voice is my own, but I don't recognize it. So weak. I am so damned weak.

  "WE have some questions for you."

  "Please. I answered them."

  "We have more."

  "And then I can go?"

  The voice is pleading.

  "It's pretty much your only hope."

  I startle awake to a bright light in my face.

  I blink. Heart racing. Can't catch my breath. Don't know where I am. My mind travels back. What is the last thing I remember? Putting the gun under the bastard's chin and pulling the trigger.

  Something else is there, in the corner of my brain, just out of reach. A dream maybe. You know the feeling--you wake up and the nightmare is so damn vivid but even as you try to recall, you can feel the memory dissipating, like rising smoke. That is what is happening with me now. I try to hold on to the images, but they're fading away.

  "Myron?"

  The voice is calm, modulated. I am afraid of the voice. I cringe. I feel horrible shame, though I'm not sure why.

  My voice sounds meek in my own ears. "Yes?"

  "You'll forget most of this anyway. That's for the best. No one will believe you--and even if they do, we can't be found. You don't know where we are. You don't know what we look like. And remember: We can do this again. We can grab you anytime we want. And not just you. Your family. Your mother and father down in Miami. Your brother in South America. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Just let it go. You'll be fine if you do, okay?"

  I nod. My eyes roll back. I slip back into the dark.

  23

  I woke up scared.

  That wasn't like me. My heart raced. Panic seized my chest, making it hard to breathe. All of this before I even opened my eyes.

  When my eyes finally did blink open--when I looked across the room--I felt the heart rate slow and t
he panic ease. Esperanza sat in a chair concentrating on her iPhone. Her fingers danced across the letters; she was working no doubt with one of our clients. I like our business, but she loves it.

  I watched her for a moment because the familiar sight was so damn comforting. Esperanza wore a white blouse under her gray business suit, hoop earrings, her blue-black hair tucked behind her ear. The window shade behind her was open. I could see that it was night.

  "What client are you dealing with?" I asked.

  Her eyes widened at the sound of my voice. She dropped the iPhone onto the table and rushed to my side. "Oh my God, Myron. Oh my God . . ."

  "What, am I dying?"

  "No, why?"

  "The way you rushed over. You usually move much slower."

  She started crying and kissed my cheek. Esperanza never cried.

  "Oh, I must be dying."

  "Don't be a jackass," she said, wiping the tears off her cheek. She hugged me. "Wait, no, be a jackass. Be your wonderful jackass self."

  I looked over her shoulder. I was in your basic standard-issue hospital room. "How long have you been sitting there?" I asked.

  "Not long," Esperanza said, still holding me. "What do you remember?"

  I thought about it. Karen and Terese being shot. The guy who killed them. Me killing him. I swallowed and braced myself. "How is Terese?"

  Esperanza stood upright and released me. "I don't know."

  Not the answer I was expecting. "How can you not know?"

  "It's a little hard to explain. What's the last thing you remember?"

  I concentrated. "My last clear memory," I said, "was killing the bastard who shot Terese and Karen. Then a bunch of guys jumped on me."

  She nodded.

  "I was shot too, wasn't I?"

  "Yes."

  That explained the hospital.

  Esperanza leaned back into my ear in and whispered, "Okay, listen to me for a second. If that door opens, if a nurse comes in or anything, don't say anything in front of her. Do you understand?"

  "No."

  "Win's orders. Just do it, okay?"

  "Okay." Then I said, "You flew to London to be with me?"

  "No."

  "What do you mean, no?"

  "Trust me, okay? Just take your time. What else do you remember?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing between the time you got shot and now?"

  "Where is Terese?"

  "I already told you. I don't know."

  "That makes no sense. How can you not know?"

  "It's a long story."

  "How about sharing it with me?"

  Esperanza looked at me with her green eyes. I didn't like what I saw there.

  I tried to sit up. "How long have I been unconscious?"

  "I don't know that either."

  "Again I repeat: How can you not know?"

  "For one thing, you're not in London."

  That made me pause. I looked around the hospital room as if that would give me the answer. It did. My blanket had a logo on it and the words: NEW YORK-PRESBYTERIAN MEDICAL CENTER.

  This couldn't be.

  "I'm in Manhattan?"

  "Yes."

  "I was flown back?"

  She said nothing.

  "Esperanza?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, how long have I been in this hospital?"

  "A few hours maybe, but I can't be sure."

  "You're not making any sense."

  "I don't quite get it either, okay? Two hours ago, I got a call that you were here."

  My brain felt fuzzy--and her explanations weren't helping. "Two hours ago?"

  "Yes."

  "And before that?"

  "Before that call," Esperanza said, "we didn't have any idea where you were."

  "When you say 'we'--"

  "Me, Win, your parents--"

  "My parents?"

  "Don't worry. We lied to them. Told them you were in an area of Africa with spotty phone service."

  "None of you knew where I was?"

  "That's right."

  "For how long?" I asked.

  She just looked at me.

  "For how long, Esperanza?"

  "Sixteen days."

  I just lay there. Sixteen days. I had been out for sixteen days. When I tried to remember, my heart started racing. I felt panic.

  "Just let it go . . ."

  "Myron?"

  "I remember getting arrested."

  "Okay."

  "Are you telling me that was sixteen days ago?"

  "Yes."

  "You contacted the British police?"

  "They didn't know where you were either."

  I had a million questions, but the door opened, interrupting us. Esperanza shot me a warning glance. I stayed silent. A nurse walked in, saying, "Well, well, you're awake."

  Before the door could swing closed, someone else pushed it open.

  My dad.

  Something akin to relief washed over me at the sight of this admittedly old man. He was out of breath, no doubt from running to see his son. Mom came in behind him. My mother has this way of always rushing at me, even during the most routine visit, as if I were a recently released POW. She did it again this time, knocking the nurse out of the way. I used to roll my eyes when she did it, though I would be secretly pleased. I didn't roll my eyes this time.

  "I'm okay, Mom. Really."

  My father hung back for a moment, as was his way. His eyes were wet and red. I looked at his face. He knew. He hadn't bought the story about Africa with no phone service. He had probably helped peddle it to Mom. But he knew.

  "You're so skinny," Mom said. "Didn't they feed you anything there?"

  "Leave him alone," Dad said. "He looks fine."

  "He doesn't look fine. He looks skinny. And pale. Why are you in a hospital bed?"

  "I told you," Dad said. "Didn't you hear me, Ellen? Food poisoning. He's going to be fine, some kind of dysentery."

  "Why were you in Sierra Madre anyway?"

  "Sierra Leone," Dad corrected.

  "I thought it was Sierra Madre."

  "You're thinking of the movie."

  "I remember. With Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hep-burn."

  "That was The African Queen."

  "Ohhh," Mom said, now understanding the confusion.

  Mom let go of me. Dad moved over, smoothed my hair off my forehead, kissed my cheek. The rough skin from his beard rubbed against me. The comforting smell of Old Spice lingered in the air.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  I nodded. He looked skeptical.

  They both suddenly looked so old. That was how it was, wasn't it? When you don't see a child for even a little while, you marvel at how much they've grown. When you don't see an old person for even a little while, you marvel at how much they've aged. It happened every time. When did my robust parents cross that line? Mom had the shakes from Parkinson's. It was getting bad. Her mind, always a tad eccentric, was slipping somewhere more troubling. Dad was in relatively good health, a few minor heart scares, but they both looked so damn old.

  "Your mother and father down in Miami . . ."

  My chest started to hitch. I was having trouble breathing again.

  Dad said, "Myron?"

  "I'm fine."

  The nurse pushed through now. My parents stepped to the side. She put a thermometer in my mouth, started checking my pulse. "It's after visiting hours," she said. "You'll all have to go now."

  I didn't want them to go. I didn't want to be alone. Terror gripped me, and I felt great shame. I forced up a smile as she took out the thermometer and said with a little too much cheer, "Get some sleep, okay? I'll see you all in the morning."

  I met my father's eye. Still skeptical. He whispered something to Esperanza. She nodded and escorted my mother from the room. My mother and Esperanza left. The nurse turned back at the door.

  "Sir," she said to my father, "you'll have to leave."

  "I want to be alone with my son for
a minute."

  She hesitated. Then: "You have two minutes."

  We were alone now.

  "What happened to you?" Dad asked.

  "I don't know," I said.

  He nodded. He pulled the chair close to the bed and held my hand.

  "You didn't believe that I was in Africa?"

  "No."

  "And Mom?"

  "I would tell her you called when she was out."

  "She bought that?"

  He shrugged. "I never lied to her before so, yes, she bought it. Your mother isn't as sharp as she once was."

  I said nothing. The nurse came in. "You have to leave now."

  "No," my father said.

  "Please don't make me call security."

  I could feel the panic start up in my chest. "It's okay, Dad. I'm fine. Get some sleep."

  He looked at me for a moment and turned to the nurse. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

  "Regina."

  "Regina what?"

  "Regina Monte."

  "My name is Al, Regina. Al Bolitar. Do you have any children?"

  "Two daughters."

  "This is my son, Regina. You can call security if you want. But I'm not leaving my son alone."

  I wanted to protest, but then again I didn't. The nurse turned and left. She didn't call security. My father stayed all night in that chair next to my bed. He refilled my water cup and adjusted my blanket. When I cried out in my sleep, he shushed me and stroked my forehead and told me that everything would be okay--and for a few seconds, I believed him.

  24

  WIN called first thing in the morning.

  "Go to work," Win said. "Ask no questions."

  Then he hung up. Sometimes Win really pisses me off.

  My father ran down to a bagel store across the street because the hospital breakfast resembled something monkeys fling at you in a zoo. The doctor stopped by while he was gone and gave me a clean bill of health. Yes, I had indeed been shot. The bullet had passed through my right side, above the hip. But it had been properly treated.

  "Would it have required a sixteen-day hospital stay?" I asked.

  The doctor looked at me funny, at the fact that I had just sort of shown up at the hospital unconscious, a gunshot-wound victim, now mumbling about sixteen days--and I'm sure he was sizing me up for a psych visit.

  "Hypothetically speaking," I quickly added, remembering Win's warning. Then I stopped asking questions and started nodding a lot.

  Dad stayed with me through checkout. Esperanza had left my suit in the closet. I put it on and felt physically pretty good. I wanted to hire a taxi, but Dad insisted on driving. He used to be a great driver. In my childhood he would have that easy way about him on the road, whistling softly with the radio, steering with his wrists. Now the radio stayed off. He squinted at the road and hit the brake a lot more.