*1*

 

Some Time After... 

 

Small. Oval. Pale orange. Sitting in his palm. What was it? Why was it there? He put his head to one side, staring at it. What’s that word printed on it? Its letters are so tiny…ah. The name of a pharmaceutical company, I believe. Oh, right – this is medicine! But why do I have it?

“Please put that in your mouth and drink this.”

The voice sounded like it was coming from a deep cave. Raising his eyes from his palm, he looked up. Not very far – the woman standing before him was much shorter than he was. Older. Dressed in white and blue. Holding a small cup of water. Holding it out to him and looking…annoyed?

“Come on, now. Take that, drink your water, and you can go back to your room, okay?”

Why do I have to take this? What is it? Who is this person? She has a gray hair growing out of her chin.

“Listen. There are others behind you waiting for their medication, too. If you’re going to stand there and, well, here. Why don’t you stand off to the side a bit, yes?” She reached out and put her hands on his upper arms, pushing him to the right. Trying to. He didn’t budge. “Orderly?”

Why is she doing that, I wonder? It hurts. What’s orderly? I’m afraid to go anywhere. She should leave me alone. If I move…I might think. No. Won’t. Not yet. Soon. Maybe.

“Let’s go, sir.”

This voice was much deeper than the woman’s and was coming from behind him. He didn’t turn. It didn’t matter. But then he felt himself being nudged.

“You gonna make me pick you up? You need to take that pill and get back to bed.”

He sounds angry. About what? He regarded the item in his hand more closely. Pill. But I still don’t know why I have it. I suppose I should swallow it, though. He popped it into his mouth. Gulped. Choked a little.

“Drink your water, please!”

Now the woman sounded alarmed, so he took the little cup from her and downed its contents. Ah. Better. That’s why she gave it to me. How nice of her.

“Thank you. You may go back to your room now.”

His room. Was he in trouble? Was this his mother? He didn’t think so, but he didn’t want anything to make sense, so why not?

The person who had been behind him came to stand beside him and took his arm. “Come on, I’ll get you back there.”

There. To his room, he presumed. But why? And who was this man? His father? He doubted it, but again, something that made no sense was preferable to anything that did. He nodded and let the man lead him out of the area in which he’d been standing. Wherever that was. And why did it seem that almost everyone was shorter than he was?

A long hallway, the walls covered in a dull color with shiny paint. Elevator. Another hallway. Strange sounds, strange voices, none of them pleasant. A door, and behind it, not much. Not something he would call a room, his room. Small window with wire in the glass. Ugly tan curtains with no pattern on them pushed open to either side. One chair, metal. A dresser of some sort, painted tan like the curtains. Against the yellowed walls, the tan was depressing. And a bed. Single. No headboard, no footboard. A pillow and mattress sheathed in dingy, well-worn white sheets. A narrow metal vented door he’d not bothered to explore. Probably a closet. Stop thinking.

“Here you go. Sweet dreams.”

That means I should go to sleep. Okay. Tan blanket over the sheets, scratchy, ugly, but the mattress was nice and soft. So was the pillow.

He slid in under the blanket, noticed that it wasn’t nighttime yet, didn’t care. Curled in on himself, closed his eyes. No dreams…no dreams…please, no dreams…no…dr…

 

 

Satisfied that the medication was working, the orderly shook his head, his mouth twisted by pity, and went out.

 

 

*+*+*+*+*+*+*

 

Some Time Before...

 

“Damn reporters.”

“Celia, dear, please. That’s the fifth time you’ve said that in as many minutes.”

Celia Kinsley regarded her husband with an expression that could not, even on a great day, be called apologetic. “Yes, I have. Why can’t they leave us alone, Bry? I mean, I understand their fascination with the kids, but must they crawl up our pant-legs, too?”

Bryson Kinsley chuckled in spite of his exasperation. His wife’s unique way of stating things was an ever-renewing source of entertainment, and he loved her for that and so much more. “I suppose they must, love. They have nothing else to do while waiting for Jett and Atarah to arrive, eh?” He thought about Jett, pride filling his chest. The younger of Bry’s two sons, Jett was an Olympic athlete and brilliant mathematician. An odd combination of abilities, to be sure, and reflecting on the boy’s unique traits, Bry recalled an interview he’d given when Jett had first made the Olympic Track Team.

“How do you explain your son’s almost freakish superiority?” The journalist sitting across from him at the kitchen table had been young, clearly unaware of how offensive her question had sounded.

Dismissing the phrasing as evidence of immaturity and nothing more, Bry had smiled with his response. “Jett combines his talents in a dynamic way, applying math to enhance his skill in every sport. Using algorithms, he’s able to anticipate – and outpace – each possible outcome based on the performance of his team-mates, rival players and challengers, as well as his own.”

“I see. So you believe this puts him at the top of all of the disciplines that qualify him as a decathlete. How interesting!” She had tapped words into her electronic notepad, nodding, not looking at Bry as spoke. “He owns more than one gold medal from his participation in the two Olympic Games in which he’s participated so far. Do you anticipate him taking home more?”

“Who can predict that? He’s doing what he loves, so to be honest, I doubt it matters.”

At that point, the interview had turned to the darker consequence of Jett’s talent. Bry had known this was coming, but this made it no easier to discuss, no less infuriating.

“Now, as you must know, Mr. Kinsley, your son is a constant source of speculation among those who can’t believe a human being is capable of so much greatness without help from illicit and unethical drugs – steroids and other performance-enhancing substances specifically.”

“Are you among them, Miss Plavil?”

The young woman had looked up from her typing to give him a wide smile. “I’m his biggest fan.”

She hadn’t answered his question, but he’d chosen not to pursue it. Besides, the journalist had begun talking about Jett’s photogenic features, saying his good looks were mostly what kept the rest of the media looking for excuses to shadow him everywhere he went. Bry loved hearing positive things about his son, even when wrapped in negative innuendo.

“I imagine it must be difficult, having reporters and paparazzi around your family all the time. How does Jett feel about that?”

“My son left the pleasures of privacy and personal space behind almost as soon as he’d won his first medal. To be honest, he doesn’t seem bothered by it, even though I know he misses his anonymity to a degree.”

The journalist had gone back to typing, but then sat back and asked about Atarah Johanan. With a sigh, Bry switched off the memory, his awareness returning to his present situation. He glanced at his watch. “They’ll be here any minute,” he murmured, leaning closer to Celia’s ear.

“Good. I just want to get home. It’ll be fun to hear about their trip.” She frowned suddenly. “Well, not all of it, of course, since it was their honeymoon.”

Bry chuckled, of the same opinion. He suspected the two had spent more time in their bedroom, but was also looking forward to hearing about Tuscany and the villa they’d rented.

A reporter approached, asking if they’d heard from “the kids.” Bry resented the familiarity and shook his head, not otherwise answering, and the reporter backed off.

“What nerve!” Celia glowered at the newsman’s retreating back, then sighed. “Unfortunately, I doubt the press could have manufactured a more perfect target.”

“True enough.” Bry nodded, considered the sculptress who produced magnificent works in bronze and marble, her nudes rivaling those of Michelangelo, some said. That talent alone had brought her a great deal of attention; what made her irresistible, however, was her beauty.

She was, Bry always said, a perfect match for Jett. Her six-foot frame was slender, graceful, always draped in something delicate and flowing. The perfection of her figure was complemented by a face that was equal parts sweet and gorgeous. With hair that fell in lovely auburn waves to her waist, cobalt-blue eyes made intriguing by soft silver specks, and a clear complexion that hinted at something middle-eastern beneath its translucent blush, she had been described by more than one source as the most beautiful woman in the world.

These two had met when Atarah was commissioned to do a sculpture for the Olympic Committee three years earlier. One of the models for the four athletes to be rendered in bronze was Jett Kinsley. Instant attraction, quick infatuation, had concluded with a depth of love that would never be shaken.

The media was itself in love once again. In its obsession, both Jett’s and Atarah’s families had been swept into the mix, so to speak, and before long, no one on either side of the family had a single day without a camera in it somewhere. The wedding had failed to be small and private as planned, paparazzi and other media types having breached all efforts to keep them out. They’d followed the couple to their limo, followed the limo to the airport, one carload of photographers even braving the tarmac and getting shots of the hired Lear as it sped off down the runway. The only thing they hadn’t been able to ascertain was the couple’s destination.

Still, Bry mused, they’d somehow found out when the two were going to be back, and locust-like, had swarmed into the small terminal. The airport was a private one, and as such did not boast a full contingent of TSA workers, or multiple buildings through which to walk to get to a multitude of arrival and departure gates. There were, in fact, only two.

“Mrs. Kinsley!”

Celia turned, one eyebrow arched. She said nothing.

“What time does their flight arrive?” Apparently undeterred by the woman’s projected frost, the reporter took a step closer, microphone extended.

She turned away again, grasped her husband’s arm and whispered, “Can we wait somewhere else, Bry? These people are giving me a headache.”

“Of course.” He patted her hand, the gesture old-fashioned and very much who he was. He lifted his head and addressed the sea – well, more like a pond, considering the limited size of the room – of expectant news-and-gossip gatherers. “My wife isn’t feeling well. Kindly excuse us.” He offered a stiff smile and waited. When none of the reporters moved, he tried again. “We need to get through here. Would you be kind enough to step aside?”

Before anyone could respond, the loudspeaker buzzed, and a second later a voice came through. “Ladies, gentlemen, Flight 27 will be landing in five minutes. Please clear the area immediately surrounding Gate 6.”

Problem solved. The forward shuffle of an almost instantly hysterical media was alarming. Bryson, after pulling his wife safely aside, suppressed a grin and headed for Gate 7 at a slow trot, Celia in tow. How easily misled those reporters were! The idea for this subterfuge had been his. He hadn’t bothered to tell his wife, suspecting she’d give it away without intention.

The decoy plane that taxied up to Gate 6 was nearly identical to the one pulling in on the other side of the building. The one hired by the Kinsleys came to a smooth halt and discharged its two passengers into the flexible tunnel that temporarily connected it to Gate 7.

Holding hands, Jett and Atarah hurried into the terminal, radiating happiness despite the rush to escape to their waiting car before the plague-like hordes of reporters discovered the deception and descended upon them. A quick hug from Celia and Bryson for their son and daughter-in-law, a nod toward the small door leading to a back packing area, and they rushed out, silent.

As the car pulled away, the driver glanced into his side mirrors and chuckled. “Looks like the villagers are revolting.”

Celia turned to stare out the window past the snuggling duo in the back seat. In a comic, undignified jumble, reporters and their equipment came pouring around the outside corner of the terminal. Many seemed to be shouting, all of them waving arms, microphones, camera equipment, and running. The woman snorted and turned back around, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she gave in to voiceless laughter.

Before any of the reporters could get to their own vehicles and give chase, the Kinsleys had been driven into a nearby parking lot to switch cars. Where the one they’d been in was a powder-blue Mercedes, this new one was the color of a metallic pumpkin, and probably cost about a tenth of the other.

“Get down,” Bryson ordered the young couple as he got behind the wheel. The driver slid over and Celia climbed into the back with the kids, still giggling in silence.

He pulled out onto the street behind a bus, driving at a conservative pace. A few minutes later, they were passed by several cars of varying types and sizes, from sports cars to SUVs. What connected all these were the cameras aimed out the windows and the eager faces of the reporters trying to locate the Mercedes. None of them gave the economy-class vehicle a second glance.

Once on the highway headed for home, Bry grinned as Celia informed her son that he could stop doing embarrassing things to his wife and sit back up on the seat with her. Jett complied with a grin, pulling Atarah onto his lap, blocking her father-in-laws view through the rear view mirror.

“Oh, no you don’t,” said his mother. “You’re going to sit side-by-side like civilized adults and put your seatbelts on.”

Bryson’s grin widened when a quick glance in the now unobstructed mirror showed Atarah giving her husband a quick, soft kiss on the cheek as she positioned herself between him and his mother. It was clear to Bry that she, too, was controlling her amusement.

Of course, the respite from fanatical members of the Fourth Estate didn’t last for long. By the time they entered the Kinsley’s neighborhood, the street in front of their house was lined with reporters with more arriving every moment. Bryson drove past, unnoticed, and parked in the driveway of the house directly behind theirs. The owner, a good friend who resented the media’s intrusion nearly as much as the Kinsleys, came outside as the orange car pulled up.

Bryson got out and grasped his friend’s hand. “Can’t thank you enough for this, Warren.”

The other man, whose white hair belied his youthful features, offered a hard smile. “You know I take a lot of pleasure in sticking it to those vultures. Hi, Jett!” He peered over Bryson’s shoulder, his smile softening. “Atarah, you look more ravishing than ever.”

“If either of you say anything with the word ‘ravished’ in it, you get no lunch.” Celia’s mock glare fooled no one. “Warren, you’re a peach. Thanks for the help. Now we just have to get into the house without being spotted, and we may actually manage to have a pleasant day!”

“Will you need me after I drop off the rental?” The driver had finished removing the two garment bags from the trunk that Jett and Atarah had brought with them, handing them over and preparing to get back into the car.

Bryson shook his head. “Nope. In fact, I think you’ve earned the next couple of days off. Great job, Mickey.” He smiled and handed the driver an envelope. “Go have some fun, okay?” He turned back to his neighbor. “Care to come with us? We can celebrate the safe return of our kids, the so-far-successful thwarting of the piranhas, and take it easy for a while. I have a bottle of century-aged Scotch with our names on it.”

Warren chuckled. “You had to trot that one out, did you? Fine. Consider my arm twisted, my interest piqued, my whistle looking to be whetted. Lead on, MacDuff!”

A small gate in the back fence opened onto the Kinsley’s beautiful yard. None of the camera-wielding crowd had intruded yet, in part, Bry knew, because of the four lethal-looking Rottweiler’s lounging around on the grass. The dogs stood when their masters came through, but were too well-trained to start barking their pleasure at seeing them.

“Good work, boys,” Bryson said quietly, making a point of going to each animal and rewarding him with an ear-scratch and a pat on the back. Once inside, he asked the cook to go give the dogs some of the large bones they kept in the refrigerator for rewards.

“Yes, sir,” he said, smiling. “I’m so happy to see everyone back safe. Hope you had a great honeymoon, Jett, Atarah.”

“We did, indeed,” Jett told him, giving his wife a side-ways hug.

At about seven-thirty, the day grew dark enough to require inside lighting. That was when the reporters outside would begin to realize the family was home, that they’d been effectively tricked, and that the only way they’d get any pictures was if they broke down the doors. One or two of them might have actually considered such drastic behavior were it not for the five patrol cars that had pulled into the Kinsley’s long driveway an hour earlier.

Bryson was not stupid. Even without several years’ experience in fending off the media, he would have called for help against the potential onslaught. Normally, the streets in this upscale neighborhood were cleared by ten o’clock of any vehicles parked along the curbs; the current siege might have lasted later than that despite the posted law to vacate, were it not for the officers waiting in the Kinsley’s drive. A quick glance through one edge of the living room curtains shortly after the deadline showed Bry that all traces of the media were gone.

Dinner had been quiet, satisfying, delicious; it had also been free of interruption – the family had turned off their cell phones, the land line put on silent. Warren’s wife, home from work, had joined them, waving her husband’s note as she’d walked in shortly after the Kinsley’s arrival. An altogether pleasant meal with family and good friends – hoped for, not expected, and therefore gratifying in the extreme.

“So where did you two go?” asked Trish, picking up her tea cup as they enjoyed dessert.

“Tuscany.” Atarah smiled, her eyes going distant. “The people were wonderful, and the area absolutely magnificent.”

“What we saw of it,” Jett muttered, blushing.

“True. We, um, didn’t go out too much.”

Celia patted her daughter-in-law’s hand, her smile affectionate. “It was your honeymoon, after all. You can always go back there again and maybe do some serious exploring next time, yes?”

“I think we may go to Florence next time,” Jett said. “Atarah never tires of the art and sculpture there, and quite frankly, neither do I. We’d like to maybe get a small villa in Tuscany, though, after we have a few kids – it would be a great place to go on vacation.”

Now Atarah blushed. “I hope we have lots of kids.”

Jett stared at her for a moment, looking like he was about to burst. “Have I mentioned how totally, deeply, and overwhelmingly I love you, ‘Tarah?”

“You have – and that’s a lot of ‘l-y’ words.” She giggled.

“Not enough.”

Her eyes filling with emotion, she gazed at him for such a long time and with such intensity that the two older couples gave up trying to have a discussion and quietly slipped away from the table. Not long after, the stunning new bride and her strong, beautiful husband made their way upstairs, unable, apparently, to even say good-night to the others as they seemed to melt together in an unbreachable fortress of mutual adoration.

“I’d say they’re going to be married for a long time,” said Trish, standing in the living room and staring though the arched doorway to the hall as she watched the couple disappear into their private universe.

“Can’t argue with you there,” Warren replied. “The ultimate couple, eh?”

“They’ve been like that with each other almost since the day they met,” Celia told them.

“You did mention that they’ve been inseparable since their first date,” said Warren. “Any more of that Scotch available, old neighbor of mine?”

Bryson ducked behind the mahogany bar in the corner, smiling. “For you, always.”

“Gee, I hope the reporters weren’t too disappointed.” Celia went to the window and peeked out through the velvet-lined damask curtain.

“You do?”

“No, Bry. Not even a little.” She let the curtain drop back into place, turned to face her husband and their company, and let out a little triumphant whoop, raising her glass of schnapps.

An altogether lovely day.

*2*

 

 

A bright, vast space with pale blue walls on three sides, a massive bank of floor-to-ceiling arched windows on the fourth, the studio was very much like its owner – beautiful, impressive, the embodiment of classic and modern art. Something about it was also comforting – perhaps the blocks of rosy marble, or the old-fashioned potter’s wheel, or maybe it was the tall, dark shelving that held an eclectic array of items. Whatever it was, Ondine loved going there.

After a month of honeymooning, her dearest friend was back, and had managed to sneak in without being followed by every reporter on the planet. Once there, Atarah had called and invited Ondine to join her in the studio for some lunch. Two or three paparazzi types had obviously been staking out the front of the building, and as soon as Ondine got out of her Mini-Cooper, they zoomed to her side.

“Is Atarah in there?” asked one, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

“Are you crazy?” Ondine shook her head. “Like she’d be stupid enough to come here right now! Besides, if she was, wouldn’t you have seen her arrive?”

“Hardly.” This one, a woman, smirked. “She and her yummy hubby were able to elude us at the airport, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d managed to get in here without being spotted.”

Ondine pretended to give this some thought. “Oh. Huh. Makes sense.” She took a breath through her nose. “Irrelevant, though, since she didn’t.”

“So what are you doing here, then?” asked a third who had stepped between Ondine and the door.

“Waiting for the Ice Cream Man. Want to buy me a cone?”

“Come one, sweetie. Where is she?”

Ondine turned on the woman and glared. “Call me ‘sweetie’ again, and you’ll be picking pieces of camera out of your teeth for weeks.” She pulled out a key. “Since I realize none of you will leave me alone, I will tell you this – she called, yes. And I know she’s back. However, she and Jett are staying out of sight for a while and she asked me to pick up a few things for her here. Seems they haven’t gotten all their luggage back yet, and she always keeps a few outfits in the studio. So go away.”

“Mind if we tag along?” The reporter blocking the door stepped back and leaned against it, clearly going nowhere.

“Right.” Ondine pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed 911.

At first, the reporters rolled their eyes, probably figuring the police wouldn’t want to be bothered, but when the girl said she had reason to believe one of them intended to do sexually deviant things to her if he managed to get her alone inside the building, all of them disappeared.

Smiling, Ondine unlocked the door, went in, and locked it again behind her before running up the stairs to the studio. Unlike Atarah, Ondine was tiny – only five-foot-three – and of a pixie-ish build. When she reached the top of the stairs, she wasn’t even winded.

Upon entering the studio, she paused to take deep, satisfied breath, enjoying as she always did the aromas that accompanied the industry. Atarah was standing near one of the marble blocks, a delicate frown on her lovely features.

“What do you see, my friend?”

“Ondine!” Atarah rushed over and gave the other girl a warm hug. “I see you, and that make me very, very happy! How did you get in without being tackled by the press?”

“Who said I wasn’t?”

“Ondine!”

“Okay, not literally. But they did surround me for a few minutes and tried to get in.”

“And?”

“I called the police, told them one of them looked like a sexual predator, and – voila! Ils ont disparu! Works every time.”

Atarah giggled. “Your French roots are showing.”

“As they often do in times of stress. So tell me about your honeymoon. Seriously. I want to know. What’s it like to make love with Jett?”

A deep flush made its way up Atarah’s throat and engulfed her face, and she ducked her head, her smile turning shy. “Immersive.”

Ondine gave her a crazy look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, my beautiful, nosy friend, that making love with Jett is like drowning in joy. The physical pleasure is only the surface – all that he is and all he means to me is the undertow, and honestly, I never wanted to come back up for air.” She grinned and went into the small kitchen off the main room.

“So poetic!” Ondine shook her head and laughed, following. “I wonder if that much dedication to one person is healthy.”

“No, probably not.” She pointed to the table in the middle of the room, which she’d set with antique, mismatched plates. “Sit. I made us salads and bread, and we have fruit and cheese for dessert.”

“You made the bread, too?”

“At Jett’s parents’ house, yes.”

Ondine sat, watching her friend take two full bowls from the refrigerator and set them on the plates. Returning to the fridge, Atarah took out a pitcher of lemonade, pouring it into the glasses before setting it down in the middle of the table. It was like watching a dance.

“When does Jett start his job?”

“The University asked him to come in a week early to help reconfigure the phys-ed curriculum, so he’ll be going in tomorrow.” She took a large, round loaf of bread from the oven as she spoke, brought it to a side table and cut it into neat, even slices. “He’ll be dividing his schedule between that and teaching mathematics. Clever boy.”

Yes, he is. Good-hearted, too. “I’m glad you guys finally married, even if I do think you’re both too young.”

“Nonsense. You can’t be too young when your love knows nothing about time-limits.”

“Stop sounding like a philosopher.” Ondine took a bite of her salad. “Mmm! Delicious! So have you talked to him about having kids?”

“I have – he’s delighted! Wants as many as we can have without it hurting me. After all, he knows he’s not the one who has to bear them, so if that means we have one, we have one. But if I’m happy with having more, then that’s what we’ll have. Simple.”

Nodding, Ondine wanted to say something about how perfect her friend’s life was, but something radiating the stench of superstition held her back. “I’m glad – you’ll make awesome parents.” There. Safer.

They ate the rest of the meal in easy silence. When they were finishing the last few strawberries, Ondine said she could definitely see the sculptress as a mom.

“I hope so. Oh, Ondine, I almost feel as if I don’t really deserve this much happiness, but I won’t reject it. I also think that maybe…” She looked down, reddening again.

“What is it?”

“A feeling. Not a certainty, of course. Intuition, maybe.”

“What are you talking about?”

Atarah reached suddenly across the table and grasped Ondine’s hand. “I think I may already be pregnant.”

“For real?” She wasn’t totally shocked.

“I think. It’s too soon to know unless I get a blood test.”

“When will you do that?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. I haven’t said anything to Jett or his family, of course – or mine.”

“Speaking of your family, are they still in Greece?”

Atarah nodded and got up, taking her empty salad bowl to the sink. “They called last night, though. Said they were glad we got home safe, and that they’d be back in another two months.”

“That’ll be nice. Here – I’ll wash mine.” She had joined Atarah, shouldering her away from the sink with a smile.

“Well, yes, it will. Especially if I am pregnant. Coffee?”

“When have you ever had to ask?”

When at last they were done and everything was washed and put away, Ondine stretched, content, and stood. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Working on an idea. Care to hang around and keep me company? I have to do some sketches before I start hammering at that block.”

Ondine loved watching Atarah work. Their long friendship had taught her how to keep the artist company without being a distraction: watch, smile, speak only when asked something, be there. In return for her kind patience, she got to see beauty brought into being under the strong, graceful hands of her brilliant friend. “You aren’t going to do anything in that outfit, are you?” She waved at the diaphanous lavender sheath flowing around her friend’s lissome and magnificently-proportioned frame. A slender Amazon, Ondine thought. Only when standing next to her six-foot-six husband did she ever look more human and less like some classic goddess.

“No, silly. I’m putting on a sensible pair of jeans and an old sweater.”

“You know I love your clothes.”

“You covet them, too, I suspect. Like I often covet being as delicate and exquisite as you.”

Ondine sighed. “If you weren’t in love with Jett, would you be my girlfriend?”

Atarah laughed. “Only if you broke up with Wolfe.”

“Ah, yes. My fierce man-child.” She thought about the gentle-hearted man with whom she’d been sharing her bed – he was only a few inches taller than Ondine herself, but much stronger than his stature would make most people believe. “Don’t know what his parents were thinking when they named him, though.”“Have you asked them?

“Never had the courage. Besides, I’ve only seen them twice. It didn’t seem an appropriate question either time.”

Atarah nodded and opened the closet. They were back in the main room of the studio, where the sunlight had changed position and was currently bathing everything in lemon.

“Have you decided where you’re going to live, now that you’re back?”

“We were actually taking last night about getting a villa in Tuscany for vacations.” Atarah slipped the dress over her head and put it on a hanger, completely uninhibited about having nothing else on except a thong. “Other than that, no. We’ll probably look for a house somewhere between here and the University campus.”

“Tuscany – sounds like you really liked it there.”

“What we saw of it, yes. I’ve been to Rome and Florence, of course, and Venice once, but this was the first time I had a chance to see Tuscany.” She smiled, her eyes filling with something that Ondine suspected had nothing to do with the Italian countryside.

“So…you spent most of your time indoors?”

“Wicked girl. Yes.”

Laughing, Ondine got up from the chair where she’d been lounging, watching her friend change clothes, and went to the window. Her laughter faded.

There, looking up with a storm-cloud expression, was the reporter who had blocked the door. He was alone, from what she could see, but that didn’t make her feel any better. What if he tried to break in? “Looks like I need to make another call to our local constabulary,” she muttered.

Behind her, Atarah appeared unaware that anything was wrong; she was taking a battered sketchbook from the shelving, her back to the window. Not that the man down on the street could have seen her from there, but Ondine suddenly wished the studio had curtains.

Shaking her head and staring back at the paparazzo, she took out her phone. She’d made an enemy, and she knew it. Still, if this would keep her dearest friend safe, it was well worth any future risk that might come from it.

“Is this a police emergency?” asked the female voice on the other end.

“It is. I called a little while ago…”

*3*

 

 

Silence, stretching out like a languorous cat.

The Board of Directors of the Athletics Department had convened to establish the upcoming year’s curriculum. Normally, this was easily handled through emails, but this year, they had a new instructor, an alumnus who also happened to be wildly famous – an Olympic gold medalist, in fact. One whose abilities seemed to defy several laws of physics. So instead of opening with a discussion about how the year should shape up with this young man teaching Track and Field, Professor Pierre St. John, one of the Board members, had asked if anyone honestly believed the Olympian’s athleticism could have been achieved without the use of steroids.

Thus the silence.

No one had intended to go there, the Professor knew, even though more than one of the members had speculated about it – privately. Perhaps his query, stated with controlled anger, would have felt less uncomfortable had the young man in question not been in attendance.

After staring around at the group and noting their unwillingness to continue the discussion, much less answer his question, Professor St. John sat back, eyes narrowed, nodding. “I see. Fine. Let me ask you, then, Mr. Kinsley – do you, or have you ever, taken performance-enhancing drugs?”

“You know,” said Jett, “had I not already had so much blood drawn for testing that I was beginning to feel like the main course at a mosquito convention, I wouldn’t expect any of you to believe a denial. But, see, I have been tested – over and over again, before and after every game in which I participated, by Olympic Committee doctors from several different countries, doctors who work for the NCAA, and medical professionals from several other watchdog groups. Not a single test has come back positive, even after I was detained and monitored for a full week, during which I broke several records in a number of independent field trials for the decathlon. So I do expect you to believe this: no, sir, I have never taken performance-enhancing drugs. Of any kind. Ever. The thought of putting something even remotely as harmful as one of those drugs into my system is repulsive to me, okay?” He smiled, but there was a hard edge to the expression that St. John suspected was normally absent. “Feel free to keep asking, though. And if you like, I’ll continue to let you draw blood and test me.”

This time, the silence was briefer and seemed to contain a measure of annoyance on the parts of the other Board members. The Professor, however, was unapologetic in both demeanor and reply. “It’s my job to make sure about these things, Mr. Kinsley. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

Jett nodded, but said nothing more.

“Well!” The Board President cleared his throat before continuing. “Yes. Now that we’ve gotten that white elephant out of the room, let’s see if we can formulate a curriculum that takes advantage of our new colleague’s expertise, shall we?” He gave Jett a friendly grin, and the meeting continued without further acrimony.

Two hours later, the meeting adjourned. As the room cleared, another faculty member entered, one who, as far as Professor St. John was concerned, had as much to do with the Athletics Department as Gregor Mendel had to do with NASA. However, Dr. Mitchell Frommer was the head of the Mathematics Department, and had been largely responsible for the University hiring Jett as a part-time Math Professor. He had been the Olympian’s third-year professor, and as he’d expressed to every teacher who would listen, had been so astonished to find a die-hard athlete who was a math whiz, too, that he had decided to work with the then-student outside of school, giving him advanced math tutoring until Jett graduated and entered the Masters program a year and a half later.

A colleague in the Math Department had been forced to reduce his classroom hours because of health problems; he might have been put on leave because of it, but Frommer suggested having a fill-in for part of the week, which would allow the ailing teacher the time he needed for hospital treatments while keeping the class viable so there would be no question of forcing the man to take an unwanted medical leave. Upon recommending Jett Kinsley to the Board, he had been granted permission to approach the Olympian and see if he’d be interested.

By this time, Frommer and Jett had become good friends, and when he’d proposed the teaching post, he reported to the Board, the athlete had agreed readily. Only Professor St. John had verbalized reservations.

“Listen,” Frommer had told him, “I believe I can count on Jett’s generous spirit and kind nature, even though this means the young man will have to push himself harder than expected.”

“Can you, now!” St. John’s voice had held a sour note he wasn’t trying to hide. “Sees to me that between his new responsibilities with the University’s sports division and his personal training time, the added burden of teaching in the classroom will be too great a strain.”

“I doubt it. Jett has proven himself capable of working well under extreme pressure. I doubt any of us would have the ability to concentrate and succeed so much that we’d earn a gold medal for it. For that reason, I expect and am hopeful things will work smoothly for everyone.” Frommer had crossed his arms, his own determination obvious, and St. John had backed down.

He nodded to Frommer as he headed out of the room, and prayed nothing would ever be revealed about the Olympian that could sully the school’s reputation.

 

 

“Dr. Frommer!”

“Mr. Kinsley.”

The Professor and his former student grinned at each other and shook hands.

“How’d it go?” Frommer had been sitting right outside the room, which was hardly sound-proof, and had heard the opening salvo. Jett’s response had pulled a deep chuckle from him, but he’d grown quickly bored once the meeting continued. So he knew how it had gone, but was curious to hear it from Jett’s viewpoint.

“It went. After asking me about steroids – ha. Didn’t see that one coming…er, sarcasm alert, by the way. Anyhow, after that, we got some pretty cool ideas for improving the T-and-F Team’s record. I think it should be a great year.”

“Sounds terrific. Hey, you up for some lunch? I have information you need to study about your class, and thought I’d give you the file while you were here. I didn’t have time for breakfast, so – ”

“Say no more, Mitch. I’m starving.”

When they got to the school’s cafeteria, Frommer pointed to a windowed door at the far end marked “Faculty.” He smiled. “Might as well get used to using that – you’re one of us now.”

“No more lunch-lady specials, eh?”

Frommer snorted. “Right. Believe me, Jett, what we eat in there comes from the same place, unless we bring our own or order out.”

“You can have food delivered?”

The professor shrugged. “No big deal. The most popular delivery is Chinese, and since none of the pizza places around here deliver by the slice, when someone orders a pie, it usually gets shared with the rest of us. Nothing more elaborate than that, though.”

The Faculty lunch room was an uninteresting space – grey walls and floor, white Formica-topped tables with wooden chairs painted white, the seats covered with yellow gingham tie-on cushions, no windows, a few still-life prints of daffodils framed in gold on one wall. A refrigerator tucked between a wall and a narrow counter on which resided a coffee machine and a microwave completed the room.

“I hope you weren’t looking for ambience,” Frommer said, his tone as wry as his smirk.

“Ambience, no. Food, yes. How do I get some?”

“See that clipboard?” The professor pointed to one hanging on the other side of the fridge. “The top sheet is a list of today’s fare; remove one of the pages under it, fill out your request, and slide it into the large slot in the wall on the far side of the fridge. You’ll find a few choices you don’t have out there.” He nodded back at the door to the main cafeteria.

“Awesome.”

Frommer, who had retrieved his lunch from the refrigerator, was almost done eating by the time Jett came back with his own meal. “You’ll get used to ordering.”

“That was the easy part – it was finding that strange side-hall thingy into the staff kitchen to go pick it up that took forever.” He peered at the plates of food on his tray. “Looks good, though.”

“Meh. Have a seat. Tell me about married life.”

“What – don’t you know what it’s like?”

“Funny, Jett. That isn’t what I meant, smart-ass.” He grinned and took the last forkful of his pasta salad. His own marriage of five years was still going strong, but he’d been older than Jett when he’d married.

“Yeah.” He poked at the spaghetti in front of him, a slow smile growing at about the same tempo as a deep blush. “It’s amazing.”

Enjoying the younger man’s uncharacteristic shyness, Frommer sat back, uncapping his bottle of water. “How so?” As if he didn’t know…

“I don’t, it’s – it’s Atarah. She’s incredible in so many ways. We spent as much time talking as we did, um, doing…other things.” He finally looked up and met his friend’s gaze. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Yes. In a nice way, though.”

“Huh.” He took a bite of his food, nodding.

“Come on, Jett – you’re not the most outspoken person I’ve ever met, but you almost never have a hard time expressing yourself, or your ideas. In fact, you’re one of the most easy-going, sociable individuals I know. So, well, it’s kinda interesting to see you at a loss like this. See?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay, yes, I do. But I don’t have to like it.”

Frommer laughed. “I suppose not. Anyway, what plans do you two have for the future?”

Jett shrugged. “Nothing specific yet. We did discuss getting a vacation home in Tuscany, but after we have kids. So that won’t happen too soon. And that’s about as specific as we got about anything. Well, except us both wanting lots of children.” He started eating again.

“I think you’d make great parents.”

“You do? Why?”

“Aside from being so in love with each other, you mean? Or the fact that you’ll be able to afford to give them everything they need?”

“I think there’s a little more to parenthood than that, Mitch.”

“There is, and that’s my point. You’ve got the hardest stuff covered already. All that’s left is loving them enough to give them lots of attention, care, things like that. And from what I know of you, that won’t be a problem. I can only assume Atarah is every bit as devoted and caring as you are.”

Jett closed his eyes for a moment, sighing. “She’s more of everything good I can think of.” He opened his eyes again. “Not that I haven’t told you that a billion times since I started dating her. Did you think our getting married would change any of that?”

“Did it?”

Jett chewed his bottom lip for a second or two. “Yes, now that I think of it.”

“How?”

“It all got even better.”

“Wow. Looking at you, one would never imagine you to be such a romantic.”

“What does how I look have anything to do with…and I’m not a romantic, Mitch. I’m just in love. Forever. With the most perfect woman on the planet. That doesn’t make me a ‘romantic.’”

“Really.” Frommer was trying not to laugh. “What does it make you, then?”

“Blessed, I guess.”

“So you’re a religious romantic, now.”

“I’m also a lot bigger than you.”

Silence.

“Wise-ass. Eat your lunch.”

An hour later, after appeasing several wild-eyed fans begging Jett to autograph their tee-shirts, crumpled receipts, and other bizarre objects, Frommer and Jett made it across campus to the Mathematics and Sciences Building. The people they’d encountered had been among the year-round attendees, and one summer school student.

“I have a feeling you’ll be dealing with a lot of that once the actual semester begins,” Frommer said as he unlocked his office door. “You handled it rather nicely, though.”

Jett gave him an odd look. “How else was I supposed to handle it? They’re kind enough to support what I do, and I appreciate them.”

Frommer pursed his lips, nodding, watching the twenty-four-year-old athlete as he took a seat by the desk. Jett was almost movie-star handsome with dark brown hair, light green eyes, and symmetrical, sensuous features. And at six inches taller than Frommer’s own six-foot height, all of it chiseled muscle, the young man was impressive on many levels.

Despite this, Jett was kind-hearted, pleasant, unassuming, and of a genuinely humble nature. It was almost impossible not to like him, even for the ones who envied all those physical stats. In fact, the only thing anyone could resent him for, perhaps, was his social status. Even without the fame he was privileged, having been born into a family of generational wealth. His parents seemed nice enough, though, not at all haughty or snobbish. Which was probably why their son was so down-to-earth, and why Frommer had found it so easy to like him.

These ruminations only lasted a few seconds, during which the math professor went to one of the file cabinets by the door and took out a thick folder. He dropped this on the desk as he sat, and then pointed at it. “The requirements for Professor Crandall’s class are extensive. I believe you’ll be able to teach it with no problem, but don’t hesitate to come to me if you have any questions or hit a snag.”

“You said Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other Monday, yes?”

“Right. Those are the days he has either Chemo or blood work at the hospital. Fortunately, his Chemo sessions are mild – that’s how he explained it – so it doesn’t keep him from coming into class the next day, as long as he goes home and rests immediately afterward.”

Jett shook his head. “That’s got to be rough. I’m glad this works out for him, though. I mean, my being able to fill in for him. I’d hate to think he might lose his job otherwise. He’s a great guy.”

“How many classes did you have with him?”

“Just one, in my Sophomore year. He really knows how to teach. I hope I can do half as well for his students.”

Frommer smiled. “You’ll be fine, Jett. Just don’t let any of them side-track you about sports.”

“True. Did you want me to take this home?” He nodded at the file.

“Not all of it.” Frommer opened the folder, licked his middle finger and began shuffling through the papers. After getting past a sizeable number, he pulled these out and set them aside, then went back to sorting. When he was done, three piles of paper were stacked into a crisscrossed pile. What remained was still a hefty amount of sheets, but less than half of what had been in the folder originally. He closed it and handed it to Jett. “There you go.”

“What did you give me here?”

“Last semester’s class plans, notes about the work to be covered this semester, and some source material lists. You can take the books referenced on them from the Teacher’s Archive Library downstairs.”

“Okay.” Jett picked up the folder and stood. “Are we finished for now? I have several errands to run before I go home.”

“Yup. That’s it. You have my phone number if you need anything.” He leaned back, making the chair creak. “Classes start one week from Monday. I don’t know what your schedule is for the Athletics Department, but your first Math class is that Tuesday at nine.”

Jett grinned and headed for the door. “Not a problem. Thanks, Mitch.”

“Say hi to Atarah for me.”

As the younger man went out, Frommer thought he detected a blush making its way up the back of Jett’s neck, and he gave a quiet huff of laughter. What a guy…

*4*

 

 

Chara Johanan stood in the glare of midday, allowing the blast of Greek sunshine to distract her from the dark reality in the room behind her. Here on her balcony of whitewashed stucco trimmed and accented in Mediterranean blue, she could take herself back to years of peace, of memories with nothing more painful in them than the awkwardness of growing up.

Decisions. Her husband’s failing health had thrust decisions into her mental solar-plexus, an invisible fist leaving her breathless with iron-hard implications. She hadn’t told her daughter what had happened, how only a week after their arrival at her family’s home on Paros her father had fallen ill. Seth Johanan had always been what could only be described as robust, yet now, a mere three weeks after collapsing in their kitchen while looking for a clean glass, he appeared to have shrunken into himself. The rare neural condition that was doing this was reversible, but there were only a few doctors in the world who were skilled enough to operate on his brain with any chance of success.

Naturally, Chara sought these doctors out, consulted with them, and offered to pay whatever they asked. She adored her husband, needed his vitality to fuel her own. Without him, she believed, she’d be unable to continue enjoying anything about her life.

Only one of the doctors had been willing to try and operate – the tests had shown a high level of danger because of the location of what he called a synapse breach that was causing certain chemicals to leak into areas where they didn’t belong. Despite Chara’s assurances that she wouldn’t sue if things went wrong, the other doctors had refused to go near this.

One of the shuttered doors behind her was pushed open. She didn’t have to turn – the doctor was the only one there with Seth. “Well?”

He stopped next to her and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. You know my price. I did another check through his left eye. It is as I thought. I can help. But it will not be simple. Not…sure.” He shrugged. “You see how poor is my Greek, and English worse. Still. I gave you my price.”

“You did. No language barrier there, eh?”

“No, Mrs. Johanan. Price is in a universal tongue.”

Especially that particular one…“So it seems. I will call you.” She still didn’t turn, wouldn’t turn. Didn’t want to face him for fear he’d read what was in her eyes, in her heart. “Thank you.”

“Yes. Of course. I await to hear from you.”

After he was gone, Chara went back inside and sat on the edge of the bed – the bed in which she and Seth had enjoyed so many hours exploring each other, even after so many years of marriage. The bed in which Atarah had been conceived. The bed where he might die.

A quiet knock pulled as sigh from her, and she stood. “Come in.”

“I have put your call through, Kyria. Can you speak with Atarah now?” The girl who had entered held out a cell phone with one hand, brushing a stray dark curl away from her eye with the other.

“Thank you, Iole. Yes.” She walked to the other side of the bed and took the phone, noticing how the girl was avoiding obvious stares at Seth. No one liked to observe imminent mortality, even someone else’s. “’Tarah?”“Yes – what’s wrong, Mom? Iole sounded strange. Is everything okay?”

“No. Your, uh…” She gulped and tried again. “Your father is sick. He – he needs an operation, and I don’t know if it will do any good. I need you here, love. You should come and see him before, uh, before the operation.” How hard it was to say any of this!

“What? My God, what happened? When did he get sick, and what’s wrong with him? Did he catch something?”

“No, love. Apparently, he had this condition for a long time, but it only just manifested itself. It’s a neurological anomaly, the doctors say. I’m not sure what that means, exactly, except that they must operate if he’s to have any chance of surviving this.”

“Oh, Mom, no!”

Hearing her daughter’s genuine distress, Chara almost lost her already fragile self-control. “Please, dearest, get the next flight. You must get here soon. I need you, too.”

“Of course I will! Do you want Jett to come with me?”

“No! No, too many people will only complicate things.”

“He’s one more person, not many people.”

“I would so much appreciate it if you would come alone. I prefer having you to myself, selfish as that may be.”

Atarah said nothing for several seconds. Then she sighed. “Of course, Mom. I understand. Besides, he’s only a month into his teaching job and they probably wouldn’t appreciate him running off somewhere so early in the semester.”

“Thank you, thank you, my dear, wonderful child.” She was not going to be able to keep from crying if this conversation lasted much longer. “I must go now – I have things to do and have to see to your father. Text your flight information, will you?”

“I will. Not…wait. Since when do you know about texting?”

Chara nearly smiled. “Your father has been educating me in the ways of modern life. He said if I was going to have a cell phone, I should at least know how to make the greatest use of it.”

“Smart.” She got quiet again. “This is horrible, Mom. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“All right. Talk to you soon.” She hit the red phone icon that disconnected the call and handed the device back to her housemaid. “You can put that on my dresser in the other room.”

“Yes, Kyria.” With a nod, the girl left.

Chara sat on the bed again. This was the bedroom she and Seth would normally share, but since his illness began, she’d been sleeping in the guest room. “Our daughter is going to come here, and everything will be – ” She stopped, gulping down a sob, and bowed her head.

A tear fell on the white and lavender sheet. Then another. And then the flood began in force, and Chara slid off the bed to the floor, resting her head on her arms next to Seth’s unmoving hand. Sobbing hard enough to cause her ribs to hurt, she allowed her misery the release it needed to keep from killing her outright.

Oh, Seth…oh, Atarah! Why?

 

*******

 

Jett was holding his wife’s hands, the couple standing near the picture window in the living room. Bryson, sitting in his chair near the fireplace, watched them from behind his newspaper, sliding his gaze sideways around it to see them.

“Are you sure you’re okay about not being able to come with me?”

“Yes, ‘Tarah. I get how your mom must feel. I may be family, but not in the way you are. Your mother’s culture is a little more restrained about that kind of thing.”

“True. If she was the one who was sick, Dad would be fine with your being with me.” She had been looking down at their joined hands, but now raised her head, her eyes meeting Jett’s. “I feel helpless.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I know. I do, too. I don’t want you to go, but it’s okay – you have to do this.”

She dropped his hands and slid her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. Bryson moved his gaze back behind the paper, not wanting her to see him staring. But her eyes were closed, busy squeezing out tears, and she noticed nothing. He realized this upon allowing himself another brief glance and shook his head, feeling terrible for her.

He also felt awful about her father. Seth Johanan was a jolly, kind, thoughtful individual with a fantastic sense of humor. He was also brilliant in his own way; his antiques dealership was one of unusual success in a field that was currently not doing all that well.

Jett was murmuring something into his wife’s hair, but Bryson couldn’t catch the words. A minute later, they separated after another quick, ferocious hug. As they headed for the foyer, Bryson lowered his paper. “When are you going, ‘Tarah?”

She stopped and turned back, her sadness plain, stark. “My flight leaves at nine this evening. I was going to take a commercial flight, but at the last minute, my mother managed to hire a pilot for me. She said she didn’t trust the airlines to get me there soon enough.” She ducked her head, gulping.

Bryson folded up his paper and put it on the table beside his chair, got up, and went to her. “Our hearts are with you and your family, ‘Tarah.” He gathered her into a fatherly embrace, wishing he could take away some of her sorrow.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his shirt.

When the couple had gone upstairs – presumably to get her things packed – the man returned to the living room, planning to go back to his paper, but changed his mind and went to seek out his wife instead. He found her in the small greenhouse in the backyard inspecting the last of the mums.

“What brings you out here?” She put down the flower pot she’d been inspecting and gave him a surprised look. “Is everything all right?”

“As all right as it can be, I suppose. I think they’re upstairs packing.”

“Hmm. Or something else. Anyway, I heard her taking a call from her mother earlier. Don’t know what that was about.”

“Based on what she told me a few minutes ago, I’d guess it was about her taking a private plane at nine tonight instead of the commercial flight she’d booked for this afternoon.”

Celia frowned. “That’s odd. Why would Chara want her to leave later if she’s so concerned about her getting there as soon as possible?”

“No idea, my love. Maybe the charter flight is quicker?”

“I don’t see how. And I – I don’t like this. I’m getting an uncomfortable feeling about it.”

“Oh, come on, Celia. I trust private flights more than commercial ones any day. The pilot is always extra careful about pre-flight preparations, and there’s certainly no risk of a terrorist taking over.”

She sighed. “I suppose. When does she leave?”

“Well, since she doesn’t have to deal with early check-in, and since the airfield is only about thirty minutes from here – ”

“Assuming that’s the one she’s using.”

“Yes, assuming that – she’ll probably leave around eight-fifteen or so.”

With a nod and a shrug, Celia gave him a quick smile and went back to what she’d been doing. Bryson left her to it, hoping the woman hadn’t been exercising any of that “women’s intuition” stuff, that her uncomfortable feeling was no more than maternal concern for the girl who had become as much a daughter as Jett and his brother were her sons.

When he got back into the house, he found two suitcases sitting near the front door, but neither Jett nor Atarah were anywhere in sight. He had to assume they were busy doing that “something else” to which his wife had alluded, and smiled in spite of the unhappy circumstances.

As much as he adored Celia and she him, Bryson didn’t think they – or anyone else he’d ever known – was capable of loving that deeply, with that much intensity. It occurred to him that while it was very romantic and all that, so much devotion to another human being carried with it an incredible level of risk. He only hoped that they wouldn’t burn out too soon, that their love would continue long into their twilight years.

 

*******

 

“You say your daughter is on her way tonight?”

Chara dabbed at her eyes and pulled her emotions out of the whirlwind in her head. “Yes, Doctor. I sent a private plane for her. Who knows what kind of delays might happen on a regular flight?”

Looking satisfied, the doctor clasped his hands behind his back. “I will begin the operation right away.”

“What? Can’t you wait until she gets here to see her father before you do that?”

“No. My latest examination showed some new problems that need care of taking now. Please arrange for airlift to the hospital in Athens, Mrs. Johanan. Now, if you can.”

She was upset about this newest development, but thought that perhaps Seth would be in recovery by the time ‘Tarah got there – assuming all went well. As she spoke with the hospital’s emergency airlift service, she tapped her fingers on the table, nervous, distraught, hoping with everything in her that ‘Tarah would have a chance to see her father again. But it seemed too many things were working against that happening – her hand became a fist, and as she hung up, everything settled, she banged the table in frustration and burst into tears once more.

“How bloody unfair!” she wailed, not caring who heard. “It isn’t right…”

 

*******

 

No other flights were taking off that night, the small two-passenger plane looking almost forlorn as it sped down the runway. By the time it lifted off the ground, it had taken on the appearance of a gigantic firefly, the distance making it seem too small to carry anyone.

Celia put her arm around her son’s waist and gave him a squeeze. “She’ll be all right, hon. And we’ll all miss her, but she’ll be back soon enough. Let’s hope things go well for her dad, and that she can come home happy.”

Jett nodded, staring hard at the plane as it vanished into the night sky. “Yeah. Let’s hope.” He sighed, returned his mother’s squeeze, and released her. “Meet you both back at the car.”

“Where – ”

Bryson interrupted her with a fierce shake of his head. “Okay, son. See you in a few.” He waited until the young man was gone and took his wife’s hand. “Sorry, love. I don’t think he wants to be answering questions right now. Let him be.”

“You’re right. I keep forgetting I don’t need to know every single thing he’s doing or every place he’s going.”

“Yeah – it’s that ‘mom thing,’ right?”

“You know it. Coffee? I don’t feel like rushing home just yet.”

He nodded, giving her a hug with one arm, and they left, heading for the kitschy coffee shop at the other end of the private terminal.

*5*

 

 

Seven o’clock in the morning was late for Celia, who normally wouldn’t stay in bed past six-thirty. This day was no exception. She stood by the counter in the kitchen near their house phone, her cell beside it, waiting to hear from her daughter-in-law. The ten-hour flight to Athens should have brought her in at about seven, but when the promised phone call didn’t come, Celia figured the girl was probably overwhelmed with a number of things upon landing. Luggage, her mother, the ride to her parents’ house – she’d probably call as soon as she settled in.

On the other hand, Atarah had mentioned something about the operation on her father possibly taking place before she could get there, and wasn’t happy about it. Celia only hoped it hadn’t happened yet, and possibly gone wrong. Sighing, she poured herself another cup of coffee and went to the table.

The sound of footsteps out in the hall alerted her to someone about to enter the kitchen, and she turned. Jett greeted her with a smile, dressed but looking exhausted.

“Didn’t you sleep last night?”

“Not very well.” He went to the cabinet and took out a cup. “Did ‘Tarah call you?”

“No. But I expect she’ll be busy for a while. I do hope Seth is okay.”

He nodded, helping himself to the coffee. “She did mention she might not be able to talk to me as soon as she got in.”

“Is that all you’re having?”

“I’m not hungry.” He drained the cup, brought it to the sink, and filled it with water. “Got to go – don’t want to be late for class.”

“All right. Drive safe, sweetie.”

He gave her a narrow stare. “Heck. And here I was planning to try and break the land-speed record.”

“Brat. Go.” She grinned and watched him leave.

A few moments later, Bryson came into the kitchen, yawning, unshaven, looking like he wished he hadn’t tumbled out of bed.

“And what’s your excuse for being so tired, young man?”

“None. I slept like a cured insomniac.”

“You…right.” She gave her head a quick shake and set a cup of coffee in front of him as he sat at the table. “So what are you planning for today?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Thought I’d shoot spitballs at the reporters outside, then maybe switch to water balloons.”

“Do you think they know our daughter-in-law has left the country?”

“Who cares? I gotta say – you’d think they’d appreciate the fact that Jett is always so nice to them, even when I can tell he’d like to throttle every last one. Must have inherited all that patience from you.”

Celia smirked. “I doubt it. But – ”

Her cell phone went off, and since she had it on both Vibrate and Ring, she had to dash to the counter to catch it before it buzzed itself over the edge. Without looking to see who was calling, she pressed the connect button. At first she didn’t recognize the voice, but then realized two things at once: it was Chara Johanan, and she was crying hysterically.

“…can’t believe it! Oh, God!”

“Chara, what is it? Is Seth all right?”

“He – he – he’s fine. The operation was a success. No, the…oh, my God, oh God!” She burst into throat-tearing sobs.

“What’s wrong?” Bryson got to his feet and came to his wife’s side.

Celia shrugged, frowning. “Chara, please – tell me what happened!”

“It – it – the flight – I – no, no, no! Oh my God!!!”

Celia stood straighter, suddenly going cold as the blood drained from her face, feeling like it was being flushed out through the bottom of her feet. “Chara. What. Happened.”

After gulping down more sobs, the woman on the other end gathered enough air to speak, and told her.

 

*******

 

Wait until his class is ended, Bryson told himself, pacing up and down in the hallway outside his son’s classroom. After a lot of discussion, he’d volunteered to be the one to speak with Jett, and hopefully before anyone official could get to him.

Only fifteen more minutes, but it felt like five times as long. And then the bell went off, making the man jump. A second later, the door to all the classrooms in the corridor opened, flooding the space with noise and movement, turning it into a pedestrian freeway.

“Dad? What are you – what is it?”

“Um, are you finished for the day?”

“Yes. Why? You don’t look…what’s wrong?”

Bryson put a hand on his son’s arm. “Let’s go out to the car.”

Jett began to walk with him but stopped when they were almost at the side door leading to the parking lot. “Tell me. Is it Seth?”

Keeping the pity out of his expression was hard but possible. Keeping the sorrow out was not. “No, Jett. He’s fine. Apparently, he had his operation and it was successful.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“It’s…” He swallowed hard and tried again. “It’s Atarah.” Before Jett could ask, he rushed into the next sentence, the sentence that would, he knew, change his son’s life forever. “Her plane went down about fifty miles from the Greek coast. From what they could tell, there were no survivors. No bodies, either – the waters there are full of sharks, apparently. Both she and the pilot are gone, son.” He bowed his head, reigning in a desire to weep.

Jett put his head to one side, a slight frown appearing between his eyebrows. “From what they could tell? What does that mean?”

“Like I said, they didn’t recover either of the bodies. But they’re pretty sure, based on the fact that the aircraft is no more than splinters that neither of them survived hitting the water at 500 miles an hour.” He gulped. “What remained would have disappeared into the water and eventually, um, eaten by the sh-sharks.” He stopped, biting his lip.

“I see. I’ll go home with you now. Can you send someone to pick up my car later? I won’t be needing it.”

“Jett? What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. What can I do? I need to go home.”

His son’s behavior was terrifying – Bryson had seen people deal with sudden loss and grief in a vast number of ways over the years, but never like this. As he watched, he felt as if he could see Jett disappearing into himself somehow. No more was said on the way home, and when they pulled into the driveway, Jett walked up to the reporter who lunged at him and smiled.

“Hey, Jett. Since they won’t let us on campus, I have to talk to you here, okay?” He extended his microphone.

“Not really. In fact, I need to go inside right now.” His smile grew, but it wasn’t pleasant.

“What’s wrong with you, kid?”

Bryson reached out and grabbed the man by the collar. “I suggest you leave him alone. You’re trespassing, and I will have you arrested if you don’t get the hell off my lawn.”

By this time, Jett had made it to the side door and gone inside. Glaring at the reporter but not bothering to elaborate, Bryson finally released him and followed Jett.

Celia was standing by the bottom of the stairs when he came out into the front hall; she was looking up at the retreating figure of her son, tears gleaming down her face. As soon as she saw her husband, she pulled him to her, hugging him with the ferocity of wretchedness, crying hard against his chest.

“Ah, love,” he whispered. At least her reaction he could understand. He stroked her hair, containing his own emotion as best he could for her sake. Still in shock that Atarah was gone, he forced himself to try and think calmly, logically.

Jett was going to be a mess, and something would have to be done to help him through this loss. But what? Therapy? One of those group things for other people who had lost loved ones? And would any of it be enough? Well, he had no answers. It was too soon. But he’d have to have one before much more time passed or his son might do something desperate, permanent.

And that would be the final grief that would end Bryson, too.

 

*******

 

Ondine sat in the art studio, the only illumination coming from the dial on the radio and the streetlights outside the bank of windows. For the longest time she could do nothing else. Nothing else physical, anyway. Her thoughts, however, were tearing around her mind, screaming.

Learning that one’s best friend was dead was horrible. Learning about it from a news broadcast was worse than watching someone murder a kitten. So her inner self wept, railed, shrieked at the heavens, cursed the earth, and when she could take no more, she picked up the radio and ran at the windows. With all her wiry strength she flung it through one of the large panes, not caring if it landed on anyone two floors below on the sidewalk, not caring that she was destroying private property, not caring…

She was still looking down at the splintered glass glittering on the concrete – the beauty of the sparkling reflections mocking her, reminding her of Atarah’s fate – when the sobs began. Eventually, she collapsed to the floor, unable to move, barely able to breathe. Her best friend was gone.

Gone.

*6*

 

 

The media presence outside had ebbed and flowed, waves crashing against an implacable, unyielding cliff. None of the reporters had been able to coax anyone outside, but they weren’t giving up, apparently. Or not until the police came and forced them to vacate the street (once again) in compliance with the neighborhood curfew.

Jett watched all of this from his bedroom window, not having moved from it since coming home earlier in the day. Reporters – they knew by now what had happened, of course, and he didn’t blame them for wanting more information.

With his first appearance at the Olympics, Jett had become the center of a lot of media focus, but he’d never minded. In fact, he appreciated that so many people were calling themselves his fans. Unlike most who found fame, he had never sought it. What he did, he did because he not only loved sports, but recognized this physical ability as being his very life-force. Until he’d met Atarah, whose energy had instantly merged with his and given him the best reason of all to greet each day.

So his following, which was a result of merely doing the only thing he ever wanted to do, was valued. He had always been nice to the reporters, pleasant and respectful, even on days when he was so tired that this behavior was difficult.

The ones parked outside all day were probably expecting him to talk to them, an expectation that no doubt was born of that willingness of his to talk to them. Only…not today. Maybe never again. Every time he saw a reporter from now on, he knew he’d be reminded that his beloved wife had been torn from him. To go out and tell these people any of this was simply beyond him, and all he’d been able to manage through the day was to stand there, watching them, as his mind slowly numbed. Jett had become paralyzed with sorrow, not changing his position at the window by so much as an inch.

But now, finally, as the last of the cars drove off, he allowed himself to turn away, walking stiffly to the light switch near the door. He went to the silver-framed mirror on the wall over his dresser and stared at himself. What he saw was the place where his soul had once lived – familiar, unchanged, empty.

And then he saw the rest of what the mirror was reflecting: the bed, the nightstands, one of them sporting the wedding photo that his mother had placed there while he’d been in Tuscany, the open closet in which a number of lovely dresses and other outfits still hung. Reminders. Stabbing him in the eyes. Pointing out the vacuum left by someone who wasn’t coming back.

Enough of his mind was still capable of rational thought to devise a plan. He realized killing himself would be epic-level selfishness. His parents were already devastated, and losing him, well, who knew what it would do to them? But he wasn’t ready to fully accept the truth yet, and recognized that he would soon be shutting down.

Arrangements would have to be made, then. That was the only answer. He went to his computer and began looking for the right place, and when he found it an hour or so later, he made a few phone calls. Then the bank transfer…an email to Mitch…last, a letter to his parents explaining, in part, what he had to do to keep himself alive.

Not where or how, only what. That would have to be enough. There wasn’t much time left. Jett desperately needed to sleep, but refused to try and do so naturally, and not in his bed. Not in…

Shut up. Stop. Don’t go there.

He got up from the desk and changed into a simple outfit – old jeans, a light green tee-shirt with a black pullover sweater over that, clean socks, his old sneakers. Done. Nothing in his pockets. No watch, no adornments whatsoever. Except his wedding ring. Maybe. Can I see that and not go completely insane? Can I leave it behind? Closing his eyes for a few seconds, Jett tried to work that one out, but his mind kept dragging him back to the altar, to the moment he thought he’d captured forever. Yes. I can leave it. I have to. Removing it was like having a vital organ excised from his body with no anesthesia.

What else? Oh, God, I don’t want to hear my own heartbeat any more.

One more thing. He took the letter from the printer and left his room. Where are they? I hear…ah. Downstairs. His parents’ voices were muted by walls and distance, reminding him suddenly of bedtime when he’d been small.

“Jett? Are you all right, honey?” His mother had gotten quickly out of her chair when he appeared in the living room door.

“No. Here.” He handed her the letter, which he’d folded and stuffed into an envelope. “Don’t read it yet. I have to go…out. I’ll get a cab.” Hearing his voice, he wished he couldn’t. It reminded him – No! Shut the hell up! Stop thinking!

“We love you, Jett.” This from his father.

He wanted to say it back, but the word “love” had become a poison-edged razor Jett couldn’t touch. Wouldn’t touch. So he nodded and turned away.

Using his cell for what he figured was probably the last time – in a long time, at least – he called for a taxi, placed the phone on the table by the door, then went outside.

The front of the house was still free of paparazzi and other reporter types; only two patrol cars were on the street. He was glad, but also didn’t care. A few minutes later, a yellow cab slid up to the curb. Jett went down the driveway, opened the back door of the cab, and got in.

“Hey, you’re Jett Kinsley! I heard…uh, never mind.” The cabbie lowered his gaze from the rear-view mirror. “Where to?”

Jett pulled in a shaky breath, released it, and told him.

 

*******

 

“Didn’t he give any clue at all?”

“No, Bry. Only that he’d already made sure he’d be safe and cared for. And that we shouldn’t worry.” Celia uttered a loud, bitter laugh. “What are we supposed to make of this? As if it isn’t bad enough that we’ve lost ‘Tarah, now our son disappears on us?”

Bryson reached for the sheet of paper. “May I see that, please?”

“Sure.” She handed it to him, then went to the sofa and curled up in a corner of its blue and white stripes.

Frowning, Mr. Kinsley read his son’s note several times before joining his wife. He sat without grace, as if controlling his body’s descent was no longer worth consideration. “Sounds like he’s going somewhere to get psychological help. I’d have suggested it myself, if he’d been able to talk about it.”

“Should we look for him?”

“No. I’m about a million percent sure he doesn’t want to be found.” He leaned back and patted Celia’s closest knee.

“I’m sure you’re right. But damn it.” She bit her lip, frowning back tears.

“At least he’s doing something constructive.” He gathered her closer and held her tight.

“I guess.” The words came out as a sob, and a moment later, Celia let herself cry.

And quietly, Bryson did, too.

 

*******

 

“Welcome to The Bluebird Foundation, Mr. Kinsley.”

“Please don’t use my name again.”

“Of course. We have a room for you, and here’s a schedule of treatment, if you’d care to go over it?” The woman in the blue and white medical uniform picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them over the counter.

“Thanks.” He scanned the pages quickly, noting all the different medications they would be administering, and shook his head. There has to be another way – I hate taking medicine.

“From what you tell us, M…uh, right. What do I call you?”

“Whatever you like – but not my real name.” He handed back the papers. “I don’t suppose any of this is natural or holistic?”

“Any of what – the medications? I honestly don’t know. They all come from the same pharmaceutical company, though, and it’s a reliable one.”

“Oh. I need to go to my room now. I don’t believe I’ll be able to function clearly for much longer.” He could feel himself closing down, his mind going dark. The grief was beginning to make itself known, and he needed to detach before it could snare him.

The woman gave him a strange look, but it wasn’t an unsympathetic one. “I’ll have one of the orderlies help you. The room is on the fourth floor, if that’s okay.” Whatever she had wanted to ask him was apparently forgotten now.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Some people fear heights, even when they’re inside a building.”

“I climb cliffs.”

She looked momentarily embarrassed. “Of course – sorry. I forgot about that.”

“Don’t apologize, and for my sake, please try and forget who I am altogether. I’m another patient here. Nothing more.” And I really, really need to stop thinking now.

The woman agreed, picked up a hospital-issue cell phone, and requested an orderly’s assistance. “I’ll have him show you the various places here you’ll need to know about.”

“Places?” That photo on the wall has flowers the same shade as…NO! STOP! No flowers. Nothing. Nothing is in my head. No memories. No thoughts.

“Well, the Recreation Room, the Library, the Dispensary where you have to go every day for your meds, things like that.”

He blinked, stared, and said nothing in reply – he couldn’t. As she reached the end of her sentence, he was gone.

When the orderly left him, Jett had no idea where he was, no recollection about getting there, or how or when he’d changed clothes. He was in a room, but where? A room, unpleasant yet welcome because of that. He sat on the bed, reached over and switched off the light, then stared out through glass that wasn’t normal. He couldn’t see what was outside, nor did he care to know.

Well. Would you like to play a number puzzle? No? All right. How about a song, then? Ooh, no, sorry. What to do, what to do. Must do something. Something physical and intense so thinking is impossible. Hmm. Sit-ups? No. Too routine and boring, too easy to drift into mind-pictures. Jogging in place. That could…no. Stupid. What’s that mean? Am I stupid? Am I idiotic? What a nice idea! Ha-ha! Yes! I’ll be idiotic for a while! La-la-la…What an unattractive lamp! It’s too big for the room, and the color is gross. Well, then! I won’t use it. Nope. I’ll refuse to turn it on for the rest of the night – that’ll show ‘em!

What to do, what to do. Need to move, do something. Can’t keep sitting here, no, have to move. Shut up! Stop it! No, no, no, not thinking! NOT THINKING, THANK YOU!

Ha. There’s what I need to do! Jett got up and went to the thick exposed pipe running up the wall in one corner. He made a fist and punched it. Hard. Again. Again. The other fist. Over and over. Then he slammed into it with one shoulder. Kicked it. Ran into it with the other shoulder. Staggered backward, raised his head and screamed.

Darkness…

…Shards of light. Eyelids splitting open. Pain. Both hands were broken. He wouldn’t have known – or cared – except he’d heard someone say it. Somewhere. When? Who knew when? Didn’t matter. Painful, though. He raised one and stared with innocent curiosity at the cast covering all but the tips of his fingers. The other one was also housed in plaster.

Something was dislocated, too, he’d heard. And another something broken. He wondered what was for about a tenth of a second, then chose to stop wondering. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The view was telling him he was on his back, but he didn’t bother to consider why, or where he’d awoken. Turning his head, he noticed a thin, clear, plastic hose coming from…his arm? Oh. It was connected to something overhead.

That’s why the pain isn’t worse, you see.

But I want it to be worse. That would be glorious. Nothing to occupy my mind except to deal with pain.

Smiling, he sat up, slid off the bed, noticing something heavy was covering his right foot. Hard to walk, but possible. After moving far enough from the IV pouch where it was connected to the head of the bed so that the hose was extended as far as it could go, Jett yanked his arm in the opposite direction. The needle was torn from his vein, and he was immediately overwhelmed with a wave of agony that began at his hands and right foot, swept inward toward each other, and met at his shoulders. Unable to breathe, he fell to the floor where he offered himself to this new god, begging for more physical misery, welcoming it.

Until he could find another way to distract himself from hard reality, this would have to do.

At some point, although he couldn’t have said what point, someone entered whatever space he was in, said some strong four-letter words, and got him back onto the bed.

“What the hell happened?”

What the hell happened? When? Who is this person? Do I know him? I don’t want to be on this bed.

“Here you go. You could’ve ruptured an artery, guy.”

Please don’t put that crap back into my…aaahh. How nice…it feels…NO! He began thrashing around, trying once more to dislodge the IV.

“Shit! Ouch! Quit…son of a…” The man stopped trying to communicate and spent the rest of his energy strapping Jett to the bed. “You do realize you’re paying us to keep you alive, yes? So knock it off! Don’t you dare try something like this again!”

Fine. Hit me, then. I won’t mind. And why would I pay you to keep me alive? Who are you? Who am…nope. Not going there. Don’t want to – ouch – know. Sleepy, dammit…what’d you just do? Give me a shot? Why? What wuz…in’t….aw, no dreams…no d….

…….

“Why do you look so sad, Jett?”

“You know why.”

“Maybe you need to tell me. Consider it therapy.” She took one of his hands and kissed it, then laid it against her heart. “I love you, Jett.”

“Please, ‘Tarah. Don’t.”

They were standing on a hill that might have been in Tuscany, or maybe – maybe it was that place near his parents’ house. He couldn’t tell; he had never been good at identifying the odd places his dreams took him.

At this moment, though, his dream had brought Atarah back to him, and he wanted to run.

“What’s wrong, my love?” She reached out and brushed her fingers across his mouth.

“How can you ask that? You – you’re – you’re dead, ‘Tarah. Dead.”

“Am I? Search your heart, beloved. Wouldn’t you have sensed me departing this earth when it happened? You didn’t? Then maybe it didn’t happen.” She circled him with her arms, resting her head on his shoulder.

“That hurts.”

“What does?”

“I, um, I injured myself.”

She pulled back enough to look up into his eyes. “Why would you do something like that, Jett?”

“To keep myself from thinking about you. About how you’re dead.” Wow, that really sounds stupid.

“Am I? You could be wrong about that. Everyone could be wrong about that. About me being shark bait.” She grinned, displaying a mouthful of shark-like teeth. “May I have a nibble, sweet Jett?”

With horror, he flung her away and turned, planning to run as far as he could from the nightmare chuckling behind him. Only he couldn’t. In a classic bad-dream moment, he found his feet anchored to the ground. Looking down quickly, he saw ankle-weights had somehow been attached, both of them bearing a tag that told him they were a thousand pounds each.

“One ear. Let me bite off one ear. You may keep the other, and one day, I’ll chisel you a new one from green marble.”

“Stop it! For the love of God, stop it! Leave me alone!”

“You have my permission to use a nasty word, Jett. You’re such a goody-goody all the time, it’ll be cathartic to give in to the call of profanity. And while you’re screaming the F-bomb, I’ll help myself to your ear, okay?”

Unable to take it, he bellowed his rage and broke free of the weights, only to find himself plummeting downward with no recollection of there having been a place to fall into. The speed of his body’s descent into this inexplicable abyss sang like a monsoon in his ears. He could only hope that he’d hit the bottom hard enough to die instantly.

Instead, he woke up. Daylight now coming in the window. He was still on the bed, still in restraints, a face that was distantly familiar staring down at him.

“That must’ve been some nightmare, buddy. You nearly broke the straps! Anyway, I’ll take them off if you promise not to pull another stunt like the one you tried two days ago that put you in strap-down in the first place.”

Did that make sense? What did he say? I’ve been asleep for two days? What? Why? No. Don’t want to know. No thinking, okay?

So he yelled instead. No words, just the satisfying feel of his throat going raw. He kept at it for as long as he could, which wasn’t all that long. A needle-prick in his arm.

Lights out.

“…true. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as torn up about losing someone as this guy. I mean, he really did go off the deep-end about it.”

“Can’t blame him, though. They’d come back from their honeymoon, what, three weeks before the accident? And have you ever seen her?”

“Who hasn’t? I mean, no disrespect intended, but daaaanggg! Would certainly never turn down a shot at that body! And those – ow! Damn it!”

“Looks like there’s still someone in there, bro.”

“Shut up. The son of a bitch nearly crushed my finger!”

Laughter. “Imagine what he could have done if he was awake, unrestrained, and didn’t have those casts. Have you forgotten who he is?”

“Shit. No.” Shuffle, rustle, sigh.

“We done?”

“Yeah. The sedative is obviously wearing off, though. May I please increase his dosage?”

“Uh, no. Can’t – too much morphine in his system right now, remember?”More shuffle, rustle, sigh. A clunk – something being closed, perhaps. “Okay. Let’s go. Freakin’ – I better have this checked. It really hurts.”

Footsteps retreating. Door shutting. Solitary confinement re-established.

Morphine? Is that why I can’t open my eyes? Whatever. Now what? I feel so strange. Wonder what else they’ve done to me? Am I still –

“There you go, sweetie.”

“Mom?” He stared at her, horribly confused until he realized he was dreaming again. Must have dozed off – crap.

“Well? Are you going to take this, or do you expect me to stand here holding it for the rest of the day?” She raised both hands. In them was a large trophy shaped like a boxing glove.

“Wait – I won this when I was twelve!”

“And since you still are, I fail to see the significance of your observation.” She put her head to one side, her features finally folding into a deep scowl. “Oh, for the love of God, Jett! Take this and put it back on the shelf! It weighs a ton!”

“Oh.” He grabbed it, noticing as he did that his hands were not only free of the casts, they were smaller somehow. What – hold on. What had she said? That he was still twelve? How? Oh, right! I’m having a dream here. May as well go with it. “Er, sorry, Mom.” He turned around and saw in front of him the huge trophy-display shelf next to his desk. Why had he removed this one?

“By the way, Mrs. Clemson next door asked if you could help her with the toilet paper. Honestly – why do kids do that? Don’t they know that aside from looking silly, the stuff can actually kill the tree if it isn’t all removed?”

“I doubt they do. It’s not like they teach us stuff like that in school.” Why did they t-p her tree…I remember that happening on Halloween when I – right. I was twelve! Aha! So what am I doing back here? “Anyway, sure. I’ll help. I don’t think she’ll be able to climb that tree.” Then again, this is a dream…

“Thanks, hon. By the way, before he left, your coach recommended you try out for the track team in the spring. He says you’re very fast.”

Right. This was when I started thinking about field sports. Which led, of course, to my being involved in track and field in college, which led to the Olympics…Atarah. Shit. I want to wake up, now.

“Why? Is thinking of me that unpleasant, Jett?”

Oh, God. “No. Why would you even ask that? What’s unpleasant is remembering that you’re dead! Leave me alone! You aren’t real!”

He was no longer in his house, but standing in the bleachers of his old High School, overlooking the oval track where he’d first been observed by the University’s athletic liaison. Beside him, Atarah was hammering at a block of pink marble, the chips flying about, some of them hitting her face, gouging out small chunks of skin. Her eyes had already been destroyed by the tiny stone projectiles, but she was smiling.

“Hey, what’s she making?” asked a man who Jett suspected was the orderly who had started to make a crude remark about her. His voice…

“Go away.”

“Yeah? Who’s gonna make me? You? You’re crippled.” His unfamiliar smile widened as he came closer to the heavily-bleeding sculptress. “Can I play with her when she’s finished?” He reached a hand toward her backside.

Jett yelled with a rage that had no time for words, and swung a fist. But instead of connecting with the man’s chin as intended, he hit Atarah, who fell sideways, then tumbled down the bleachers. Her body came to a stop when it hit the cement wall in front of the lowest row of benches. She was splayed out at unnatural angles, completely broken, her head twisted too far to the side and facing him. Her eyes snapped open, and she giggled through a bloody, toothless grin.

Too much. Too, too much. Jett climbed to the top of the bleachers, sobbing, barely able to see. When he got there, he looked over the back and saw he was not only a good mile up, but that instead of solid ground below, a choppy, cast-iron-dark sea roared at him. Something lighter, gray-blue and white, pierced the surface. Then another, and another. He recognized them as sharks. Perfect.

Without looking back, he dove off the end of the bleachers, only to see the blur of something falling even faster past him.

“Me first!” came Atarah’s voice, sounding gleeful.

No…not again…just let me die…

Like the last time, he simply woke up. Only this time, he wept.

*7*

 

 

Mornings were the nicest, in the girl’s opinion. Nearly every day was sunny, the breezes as bright and pleasant as the reflections on the water. Her mistress, Kyria Johanan, had tasked her with refreshing the linens, something that had to be done early, and before getting to her other work.

“Issa! Here you are!” A little girl rushed up, her big smile comforting. “I found this in the kitchen and though someone might have dropped it!” She held aloft something that sparkled in the new light.

“Let me see.” She finished draping one of the sheets over the line and turned, crouching to the girl’s eye-level. “Oh! Looks like a very pretty earring!”

“’Course it is!” Giggling, she dropped into Issa’s hand. “Is it yours?”

“No, Kleio, you know I could never afford something like that.” She smiled and ruffled the girl’s dark curls. “I’ll ask the Kyria – she may know.”

“I found a turtle!”

“Oh, my! You seem to be finding all kinds of things lately! Be sure to feed it right if you’re going to keep it.”

Kleio gave a quick nod, threw her arms around Issa’s neck for a hug, then ran off again.

Standing, Issa’s smile began to fade. She turned back to the large basket of linens and continued her job after tucking the earring into an apron pocket. No thoughts had changed her expression. Only another of her headaches, the one thing that made her days less than idyllic. She loved hard work, keeping the Kyria’s lovely home clean and organized, being available to help with extra things whenever she could – especially with her mistress’s husband recovering from such a serious operation.

Now she frowned because she did think of something. The sadness. Why was Kyria Johanan always so sad? Someone – the family cook, in fact – had told Issa the Kyria had had children once, but one of them was gone – something like that. This made little sense to her, however. With all the cleaning and arranging she’d done since being hired, Issa had never once come across any pictures of children. So why would the cook have told her that? Even if someone lost a child, certainly photos would be kept, if not out in the open, somewhere.

How very strange. She sighed, finished putting up the last sheet, and took the basket back inside. There were many things to be done yet before breakfast, and she wanted to get them accomplished quickly so she would have time to help the live-in nurse move Master Johanan to his wheelchair.

Pushing back against the throbbing in her head, she took a deep breath, focused on her schedule, and got to work.

 

********

 

“What if Iole decides to come back for some reason?”

“Why would she do that?” Chara was standing on the balcony beside her wheelchair-bound husband, staring out at the ocean. Her delight at his slow yet sure recovery was in no way the joyful thing it should have been. And now he was whining.

“I don’t know – you fired her without explanation, and she may want closure. I don’t think you handled it right.”

“Probably not.” In addition to losing his ability to move about, he also seemed to have lost his sense of humor. “Look, Seth, don’t worry about it. I sent her a huge severance check and a letter telling her it wasn’t her fault, that we were having some difficulties as a result of your operation. Let her make of that what she will, but I doubt she’ll come back here demanding a better answer.”

“How huge?”

“What?” She turned to look down at him for the first time since they’d come out there, incredulous that he’d even care how much the servant had been paid. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

“Seriously? No. Relax, my wife. You’re so Greek.”

Maybe he hadn’t lost his sense of humor after all. The hard line her mouth had taken softened into a smile. “If you weren’t sick, I’d smack you.”

“You probably would. Or try.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, well, I’d feel obliged to stop you, you know.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, doing a horrible Groucho Marx imitation. “And we both know how that would end!”

Now she laughed, not wanting to, but unable to stop herself. “What a crazy man you are!”

A knock on the frame of the balcony doors interrupted whatever Seth had been about to say. He turned his chair as Chara looked up to see who was there.

“Ah. Um. Issa, yes?” Seth tilted his head. “Unless you prefer Narkissa, Miss Xenakis?”

“No, sir, ‘Issa’ is fine.” She had switched to English, imitating his choice of language.

“Is there – do you need me for something?” Chara, one hand on her husband’s shoulder, gave the girl a pleasant smile.

“Oh, no, just…well, nothing important, really. I probably shouldn’t have pestered you. Um, Kleio – Markos’ daughter – found this on the kitchen floor and thought it might be mine. It isn’t, naturally, so I wanted to give it to you in case it was yours. Or maybe you know whose it is.” She handed over the earring the little girl had given her that morning.

“Oh!” Chara stared at it: an obviously expensive piece of white gold jewelry, the sapphires and diamonds studding its heart-shaped outline real. “I, er, yes. In fact, I have the other one – didn’t realized I’d dropped it. Thank you, Issa.” She wanted to give the young lady a warm hug, but didn’t dare overstep the employer-employee boundary she’d established.“You’re welcome, Kyria. I’ll tell Kleio it’s found its real home.” She smiled, nothing in her eyes betraying the pain behind them. With a nod to the man in the wheelchair, she went back into the bedroom and out to the hall to get back to her work.

“How unfair life is,” Chara murmured, unable to keep tears from forming. “I miss Atarah so much.”

“As do I, my love. Honestly, though, my deepest concern is for her husband. What must he be going through? I – I can’t even imagine.”

Chara sniffed, nodded. “According to Celia, he’s checked himself into a sanitarium somewhere, or at least, she’s pretty sure that’s where he’s gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t I tell you? No, I guess not. Too many other things happening and needing our attention. Anyway.” She went to one of the wrought-iron chairs at the iron-and-glass table nearby where they often ate breakfast, and sat before continuing. “Celia called me about a week ago and told me that after Jett was told of the accident, he disappeared into his room for several hours. When he came out, he gave her and Bryson a letter, told them he was going out and not to read it until he was gone, then left. They haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“Good God! What was in the letter? And I can’t believe you didn’t tell me of this sooner!”

Chara rolled her eyes. “It was hardly at the top of my priority list, what with everything else we’ve had to deal with. The letter said Jett was going to go someplace where he could get help, because he knew if he didn’t, he’d end his own life. Said he didn’t want to be that selfish, so he had decided to put himself in the hands of people who could get him past this, and that when he could function again, he’d call.”

“And that was it?”

“I think so, yes.”

Seth frowned. “Everyone told the kids that their insane level of devotion to each other was unhealthy.”

“Like that could have stopped them.” She got up and peered over the edge of the balcony. “Remember when Atarah was about nine or so, and she found a hand-blown glass swan at one of the antique shops in Athens?”

“I do. She loved that stupid thing, said it was the most beautiful creation she’d ever seen. Kept it wrapped carefully in tissue.”

“Yes, and took it with her everywhere so she could take it out and hold it up to the sunlight. It made her laugh and smile, and she never tired of staring at it.” Chara straightened and turned back around. “Until the day she put it in the back window of the car, and a sudden gust of wind blew it out the open window. Before we could stop and retrieve it, another car crushed it.” She shook her head. “I though Atarah was going to die right there.”

“I know. She screamed and cried as if it had been a person – one of us, even!”

“You’d think that would have been a strong enough lesson for her, that she would have known better than to become that enthralled with something. Or someone. Sadly, the same is true for Jett, and now he’s suffering terribly for it.”

“Jeez. I feel awful for him, now that I know…and there’s nothing we can do about it, is there.”

“Not right now, no. Maybe never.” She took a long, deep breath, then came forward, grasping the handles of the wheelchair. “Come on, let’s go find something more pleasant to do.”

He didn’t argue.

 

*******

 

“Hey, are you Jax Kinsley?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Jett’s older brother leaned back against the door of his rented car, crossing his arms over his chest. Only a year separating the two of them, the brothers were often mistaken for twins. They were approximately the same height and build, Jett being a bit leaner because of his constant exercise routines; both had dark brown hair and green eyes. Up close, the differences were more obvious, but they were equally intimidating at any distance.

Now, filled with disgust that the media was still camping out in front of his parents’ house, he waited until the reporter was a few feet away before pushing himself straight, glaring down at the man with the full force of hard-earned self-confidence. “What could you possibly want to talk to me about?”

A flash of fear flared in the man’s eyes, and then he swallowed hard, clearing his throat. “It seems no one has seen your brother for a few weeks. Is – is he still…I mean, why hasn’t he come out of the house? I know he’s in mourning, but – ”

Satisfied that these plague-rats still had no idea that Jett had gone away, he said, “I think I should tell you that I’m nowhere near as nice as my brother. In fact, I’d have no qualms about throwing you into the street.”

“Heh. Right. You can’t do that – it’s assault.”

“Nope. See, you’re trespassing, my friend. That means I am legally within my rights to kick your stupid, intrusive, smug, insensitive ass. In fact, I’m sure I’d enjoy it, too.” He uncrossed his arms and took a step closer.

The reporter took off.

“Jerk.” Swinging his key ring around one finger, he went to the front porch. His parents were expecting him, so he unlocked the door and went in.

“Ajax! Good to see you!” His father, who looked a lot less okay than he sounded, had entered the foyer at the same time.

“Hi, Dad.” They hugged. “Anything?”

The older Kinsley sighed. “Not a word. I suppose that’s good. If something bad had happened, I’m sure we would have been notified, yes?”

“As long as we rule out the Ditch Theory.” Ajax offered a smirk, referring to Jett’s label for their mother’s often-expressed concern that one or both of her sons could end up lying in a ditch somewhere if they did something stupid. He almost laughed now, remembering his brother’s comeback the first time she’d used that old saw on them.

Apparently Bryson remembered it, too, because he uttered a snorting laugh and nodded. “Come on – your mother is in the yard catching some sun.”

Ajax Kinsley was almost exactly a year older than his famous sibling, their birthdays less than a month apart. Because of the twin-like closeness they shared, Jax had spent the entire trip to is parents’ house in reflection about the similarities – and differences – between them.

There has to be some clue in the past that will show me where he chose to go now to deal with this, he told himself as he stared out the window of the 727. Like Jett, he was a natural athlete and had an innate love of mathematics. Using that similarity might, he concluded, provide at least a clue to the method Jett had used to decide where to go.

Unlike Jett, however, Jax saw sports as a hobby only, and had used his number skills to establish himself in a successful, lucrative career as a structural engineer. I doubt sports had anything to do with his decision, though…what else? Another difference in life paths was that Jax – his preferred and professional name – had put his work ahead of his social life. He was still single as a result, and happily so. Jett, however, had always been a true romantic, and it occurred to Jax that in light of this tragedy, it could lead to his little brother’s destruction.

“You okay?” asked Bryson.

“What?” His father’s soft question had pulled Jax out of his current introspection which involved an unexpected recollection of the stewardess’ blatant flirting throughout the non-stop flight.

“Nothing, son. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks, dad.” Jax offered a smile, glad that his view of relationships was more down-to-earth than his brother’s.

As he followed his father through the house to the back door, Jax thought about his brother’s ability to focus with unusual intensity on whatever he was doing, and had to admit that if Jett were as incapable of tearing his thoughts away from the horror of what had happened to Atarah as he was of changing his concentration when training for an event, there was the manifest possibility that he would never recover from her loss.

Celia was standing in the middle of the yard, staring up at the sky, hugging herself in the chill air.

“Ajax is home, love!”

Celia turned and gave her son a smile seemed to him to have little life in it. He went to her, circling her with a warm hug – how frail she was! – and kissed the top of her head. “How are you, Mom?”

“Sad, darling. Otherwise all right. I – as much as I wish ‘Tarah would suddenly show up and tell us it was all a mistake, I know that isn’t going to happen. But your brother…I want him home. In fact, I think I’d like you both here for a while, but I’m not being realistic.”

“It’s okay. I’ve taken a couple of weeks off, so if you haven’t rented out my old room, I can stay.” He raised questioning brows, smiling, working hard not to let his own sorrow show in his expression as he looked down at her still-pretty face.

“Oh, Ajax, that would be wonderful! It’s so hard having you four states away – we simply don’t see enough of you.” She stopped hugging herself and hugged him instead. “And no, I haven’t rented your room, silly boy.”

This is awful. I’ve never seen her look so miserable, not even when Dad got sick. “I’m sorry. Maybe when I get set up in my own business, I can move back here.”

“Now that would be nice,” said Bryson. “In the meanwhile, I think we should go inside. You won’t be making any career changes in the next five minutes, son, and I swear the temperature has dropped another five degrees since you got here!”

Jax laughed. “Wow, I hope it wasn’t something I said.”

“Very funny.” Celia slapped him on the arm. “Your father is right, though. I could use a steaming cup of coffee. You?”

Ten minutes later, as they sat the table enjoying the warmth of the house and the coffee, Jax decided something had to be done. He was worried about both parents, but mostly his about his mother, who looked like she might fall into a pile of shards if her unhappiness got any deeper. That meant he had only one job now.

Find Jett.

 

*******

 

His fee – his price – had been reasonable. No money needed to be paid, and for an operation of that type, this was more than generous on his part. All the years spent honing his skill as a neurosurgeon, not to mention the breakthrough techniques he’d devised, the cost of an operation like the one he’d performed on Mr. Johanan would have been appropriate had it been in the millions. But no. He had charged nothing.

Not money, in any event. No, all he wanted was the one thing his heart had desired since the day he’d casually perused an art magazine while waiting to see his banker. He had carefully cut the photo of the young sculptress from the publication, using his pocket knife, and then placed it, unfolded, in his attaché case. Later, he had put it into a silver frame and placed it on the nightstand so he could see her, think about her, dream about her, when he went to bed at night. It had looked as if he would finally have her, too, but fate could be so cruel.

Her mother had, as a result, paid him an astronomical fee for the operation, but it provided little comfort. If he didn’t have to go to Paros to do follow-up examinations, he would never allow himself to go anywhere near Greece again. The news that the girl’s plane had crashed had been the worst moment of his life. Why be reminded that he could never have her? The photo had become a shrine, and now he only looked at it when he needed –

“Dr. Kobienko? Your taxi to the airport is here.”

He glared at his secretary and stood. The clinic had remained open, income still a necessity, but he was feeling less and less like dealing with people these days. As he passed her at the door, he failed to catch her look of outrage. Not that he would have comprehended its cause, having no concerns about being polite.

The next follow-up visit was scheduled for three days later, but he didn’t care. The Johanans would have to accept him being there a few days early, and that was that. The sooner he got this final examination over and done, the sooner he could make good on his promise never to go back. It was torture, knowing he was walking through rooms his goddess had lived in, slept in, bathed in…

He got into the back of the cab quickly and covered his lap with his case. “You’ve got to stop that kind of thinking in public, Yvgenyi,” he whispered.

“Sir?” The cabbie glanced into the rear-view mirror.

“Nothing. Airport.” He took out his cell and called Chara Johanan.

 

*******

 

“Athens! But Kyria, I can find most of these things right here.” Issa frowned at the list, certain that at least seven of the ten items on it were available in the small but thriving tourist town.

“Most, yes, but I’d like the other things at the same time, so it only makes sense that you get everything from Athens.”

Issa nodded, not wanting to argue with her employer. Besides, if memory served, shopping in the beautiful, ancient city had always been fun. What memory didn’t explain, however, is how it was possible that she had, in fact, ever done any extensive shopping there. She recalled buying dresses, jewelry, gifts…yet there was no way she could have afforded any of that, unless what she was remembering was a buying trip for someone else.

“Are you all right, dear?”

I must have been staring off into space. Silly me. “Yes, Kyria. I’m sorry. I was thinking about the shopping.”

“And you’d better be going, too – it’s a bit of a trip. Now, if it gets late, please feel free to spend the night. I gave you my friend’s address, and she’s expecting you to stop there either before you begin or afterward. She made it clear that you must stay the night should you not finish until the shops close. It wouldn’t be safe to travel back so late, all right?”

“All right. Thank you, Kyria. May I call my mother first? She’ll be worried.”

The older woman waved a hand. “I’ll take care of that. You just get moving. I won’t have you missing your flight.”

Issa started to leave, but stopped. “Wait. Why not take a ferry?”

“It takes about two hours each way, is why.”

“True, but…sorry. I’m leaving.” The Kyria had given her a purse-lipped, eyebrow-arched stare, and Issa realized she was pushing things too far. For whatever reason, her employer needed her to make her purchases right away. Then again, if that were the case, why encourage her to spend the night?

As she went out to the front of the house where her taxi waited, she glanced at the list again. One can of Venizelos coffee, a pound of Kefalotiri cheese, ten kitchen towels, some new pot scrubbers, three pair of therapeutic socks, some flower baskets…once more, the girl had to wonder why she was being sent all the way to the mainland for these things.

Several weeks had passed since she’d last experienced one of her headaches. Issa reminded herself of this happy fact, and told herself to enjoy the trip. Why spoil it by wondering about the Kyria’s behavior? Maybe she could pick up a gift for her mother, too, while she was there. The woman always looked so frazzled – an unexpected present from the capitol might be exactly what she needed. Helena Xenakis was a hard worker; while Issa’s memories of her mother were incomplete, she was well aware of her calloused hands, weathered face and the slight hitch in her walk from a bad back. A laundress, she had raised Issa alone after a boating accident had left her widowed many years earlier.

Issa sighed and closed her eyes. Her neurological condition had deprived her of much of her long-term memory, while leaving only recent events clear. If only –

Sitting straighter, her eyes flashed open – neurological condition! That morning, Kyria had gotten a phone call from the neurologist who had saved her husband’s life. Apparently, he was arriving earlier than scheduled for Kyrios Johanan’s check up. If anyone could help Issa with her problem, this doctor could! Would it be too much to ask if he could at least examine her? The other problem, the one she’d discussed with no one, and which no one else seemed to have noticed, could wait.

Yes. That was what she would do. The stupid shopping would only take a few hours, even if she did have to stop and visit the Kyria’s friend first. But either way, Issa was determined to get back to Paros before the doctor was gone. Because she’d been the one to give the message to her employer, she knew the doctor would be arriving later that afternoon. She had not been there the last time he’d visited, so she didn’t know how long the check-ups took. Still, there was a chance he might not have left by the time she got back.

Satisfied with her plan, she sat back again, smiling. Maybe she could finally be cured.

*8*

 

 

Jax rubbed his eyes, the computer screen’s light beginning to cause a more serious fatigue than the trip to see his family.

After an early evening meal, he’d gotten himself settled in his old room, then gone into Jett’s to look for clues. Other than a few empty hangers in the closet and two gaps on the shoe rack, there was no indication that his brother had gone. He stared around, baffled, but then his gaze swept past the corner, only to return with a snap of his fingers – of course! The computer!

If what was in the letter was a clue, it indicated Jett would have done some research. Where does one go for help like that? Sitting at the desk and starting up the state-of-the-art PC, Jax had immediately checked the search engine’s history. A long list of rehabilitation centers, mental hospitals, sanitariums and hospitals known for accommodating those with severe mental disorders popped up. Any one of them would have fit, but which? And most recent one listed wasn’t necessarily the one Jett had chosen.

Now, three hours and four cups of coffee later, Jax had narrowed the list to eight, based on what he knew about his brother’s view of things. He blinked several times, sat back, and sipped at the fourth cup of caffeine, cold but still effective. One of the places was only four miles away. He considered it, thinking Jett may have chosen it as a hide-in-plain-sight location.

No. That was too subterfuge-oriented; Jett’s mind was far more straightforward. Delete.

The next one to catch his attention did so because of its size – massive. A great place in which to get lost. The only problem was its high-profile patient list. Being so high-profile himself, Jett would never put himself in a hospital that not only got lots of media attention, but that, because of the size of its staff, increased the odds of one of them having a big mouth. Well, then. Delete.

Wait - odds…in this, he and Jett thought very much alike, so instead of trying to come to a conclusion based on psychology, he began to apply mathematics. This was common ground that suddenly made the whole process, and its conclusion, clear. Only one of the places on the list ran parallel with the numerical and logical answer to the formula he’d applied, and after doing a little on-line research, Jax was convinced he was right. Far enough away, not too large, extremely familiar to the psychiatric community and hardly at all by the rest of the population, this one had all the correct indicators, fit every model he could throw at it, every formula into which he inserted it.

The Bluebird Foundation. Cute. Jax wondered if its name was a sly reference to the proverbial “bluebird of happiness.” Possibly. Irrelevant. What mattered was that this was the only hospital that Jett would have gone to in order to save his life. Of course, what was most important wasn’t so much the place’s reputation as how willing his brother was to allow them to keep him from committing suicide. He had a feeling that to succeed, they would have to be extraordinary. Like Jett himself, only more.

Yawning, Jax shut down the computer and went to his room. A quick glance at his watch told him it was too late bother his parents with what he’d found – not that he had told them what he was doing. Besides, he was exhausted and needed to sleep. The morning would be soon enough to discuss this.

A quick shower, set the alarm, put on the pajamas still in one of the dresser drawers – that made him smile – and he slid under the covers with a sigh. Within minutes, he was asleep.

 

*******

 

Therapy. Therapy, therapy, therapy…sounds like “syrupy” with a lisp. Why so much therapy? Physical therapy for my hands, physical therapy for my shoulders and foot, group therapy for my attitude, private therapy for my screwed up mind…blah, blah, blah. I want to jump out a window and fly away. Maybe that’s why they still keep me strapped down when I’m not doing THERAPY!!!!

He was sitting up, at least, and could stare out the window through which he would have jumped given half a chance. Still strapped in, yes, but they’d moved him to a bed that could be adjusted into several positions for greater comfort.

A television sat on a shelf high up in one corner of the room, but it had been turned off. Without words, he had indicated that he didn’t want to watch it. The last time the nurse had turned it on, he’d yelled and begun thrashing about as best he could in his restraints. So she’d turned it off, and he’d grown quiet again. Looking up at it now, he could make out his reflection in the flat, shiny screen.

Not much to look at these days, eh? Your hair is a mess, your face is all bony, and you’re strapped in like Frankenstein’s monster. Are you a monster? Who are you, anyway? Do you have a name? No. No, no, no, no, no. No name. No past. No history, nope. Shut the fuck up!

He turned his head so he didn’t have to see himself and concentrated instead on the lack of scenery outside his wired window. A bird flew past. He bared his teeth, silently daring it to try that again. Instead, he saw something that might have been a bird, but was too far away – besides, its wings weren’t flapping. A plane or a jet, and why was that last word to be avoided? A plane, then.

Planes flew. They also stopped flying, sometimes involuntarily. When that happened, they could hit the ground and be pulverized. Or hit the ocean.

He turned away from the window and began making sounds. No words, sounds. Like harsh groans, which eventually turned into deep-throated screams, then subsided, becoming silence without thought. Nothing. Stare at nothing. Hmmm. His mind emptied itself, after a while not even recognizing things within his eyes’ view. He stayed like that for a long, long time.

Eventually, though, Jett noticed that the room had gone dark. He blinked, and was about to try sleeping, but the door opened and lights were switched on. He blinked again, this time with discomfort.

“Time for your medication, dude.” This nurse was male, and he smiled as he held up two tablets and a cup of water. “You okay? We heard you making some noise before. Maybe you can talk to the doctor about it at your group session this evening, yes?”

Jett felt like spitting the pills into the man’s eye for even suggesting such a thing. Oh, why bother. They’ll just inject you, make you sleep, and you’ll start dreaming. When he fell asleep naturally, the dreams didn’t come. When he was heavily medicated, though, the dreams not only were constant, they were horrible. So he nodded without thinking, for something to do that seemed right, perhaps.

“Good. You relax now. By the way, I was asked to tell you that if you stopped trying to hurt yourself, they’d let you get up and move around a little. You wouldn’t have to be wheeled into your sessions, either.”

I know. I’ve heard that before. But you can’t keep me from seeing things that make me think, and that’s when I start looking for ways to fill my head with painful distractions. Didn’t you realize that?

“Still not talking. Okay.” With a deep sigh that Jett found theatrical enough to warrant a smirk, the nurse took the cup and headed for the door. “Hope to see you later.”

Hope. There is no hope. Yoda said, “there is no ‘try’” but that’s stupid. It’s hope that isn’t possible, you idiotic green-faced puppet! Get up and move around…why? Why bother? I have no strength anymore, don’t want any. No reason for it these days. I have to pee. Dammit. Better push that fucking button to get the fucking nurse back in here. Hey, I used a bad word three times today! Yay, me! I must be getting liberated! He looked down at his restraints and almost burst out laughing. But he didn’t. He remembered the person in one of his dreams who had told him it would be okay to use bad words. So, no, he didn’t laugh.

He cried.

 

*******

 

“You can’t keep this up, my friend.”

How am I your friend? I don’t know you. Heck, I don’t seem to know anything. Right?

“Look at me. Please. I’m trying to help you. That is why you came here, isn’t it?” The psychiatrist stared for a moment, then reached out, grasped Jett by his upper arms, and shook him gently – the young man’s shoulders were still not well-healed enough for anything rougher. “Look at me. Unless you want me to use your name?”

So you use blackmail. Ah. Fine. I’m looking. Who are you? I forgot the name you said. Whatever. I’m looking.

“I know you’re in there. You have to mourn. You do know how important mourning is, don’t you?”

Jett let his gaze wander to the window, to the early daylight.

“No. You know I don’t mean that. Mourning. With a ‘u’. If you keep avoiding the truth, you’ll never get past it. The longer you stay where you are, the less likely your mind will ever be able to go anywhere else. You can’t get past the sorrow until you deal with it. You have to face your loss.”

If I were Freud, I’d peer at you over my glasses, tap my lips with a pencil, and with a thick Austrian or German accent – don’t recall which – I’d say, “And what have you lost? Do you still hate your father?” Then you’d…naw. If I did that, you’d get all disgusted and give up. Like I gave up. Sort of. What loss? Why should I get past - ? Oh, hell. That is why I checked in here. But the pain is, is, is, the pain IS. I can’t handle it, doc. So shoot me. Please? Then no one can say I did myself in.

“You’re going away on me again. Focus, please.”

I’m thinking a bad, four-letter word. Can you guess what it is?

“Focus!”

Jett slowly shook his head. This was the first indication he’d given in over a month that he could even hear what was being said to him, the first sign of communication. If the doctor was surprised, Jett was positively astounded – at himself. Why had he done that?

Something was beginning to crack.

No, no, no, no, no….

“Look – the casts are coming off your hands tomorrow, and will be replaced with compression bandages, I’m told. That means you’ll be able to do more things. I’d like to see you moving around. You’ve developed bed sores and have almost no muscle tone left, despite the massages and forced physical therapy. You’re worth more than that. Everyone is.” Now the doctor looked like he was about to cry.

Too much. No one should care that much about me. Stop it. Closing his eyes, Jett leaned his head back against the pillow and uttered a hoarse, painful yell. It meant nothing, but expressed everything. It was the best he could do.

The psychiatrist stood, put a hand on the tortured young man’s head. “You will get past this,” he whispered, and went out.

The following morning, he was brought into another room. They undid the straps across his chest and lifted one arm. Using a tiny, circular saw the man in the white lab coat and yellow goggles cut through the cast that went from Jett’s knuckles almost to his elbow. This was repeated with the other arm.

The second person in the room, a middle-aged woman in blue scrubs, brought a basin of warm, soapy water to the bed and washed Jett’s arms, drying them with scratchy white towels.

Wow. I have stick-figure arms. I look like an anemic snowman. Ha. Now what are they doing?

The man who had removed the casts repositioned the goggles onto the top of his head and took several items from a nearby drawer. He pulled a rolling stool to the side of the bed, sat, and began wrapping Jett’s arm and hand in an ACE bandage. When he was done, he asked his patient to try flexing his fingers.

Is this more therapy? There. Happy? It hurts, too, but that’s okay. Flex, flex, flex.

“Excellent! I’ve scheduled X-rays for this afternoon to make sure the bones have knit together properly. I’m sure you’ll eventually want to get that legendary strength of yours back some day, yes?”

Jett let his eyes glaze over and looked through the man’s forehead into a distance that had nothing in it. He didn’t notice that the other hand was being bandage, nor was he aware of being wheeled back to his room. When he did return to cognizance, he was shocked to see the straps were no longer holding him to the bed, that his hands and arms were nicely wrapped and free of plaster.

He tried to sit up further so he could get off the bed, but his body wouldn’t respond. As much as he didn’t want to admit to any memories about anything whatsoever, Jett recognized that something like this had never happened to him before. He was simply too weak to do more than turn his head and lift an arm less than one inch off the bed. No wonder they weren’t keeping him in restraints anymore!

How unfair. Well, Alice, when you had the key, you were too big to get through the door. Now that you’re small enough, you don’t have the goddam key. He closed his eyes, wanting to weep, but too far beyond caring to do anything of the kind. Hurting himself was no longer a distraction he could manage, but he could make noise. Yell. Something. So he did, his voice no longer normal but still audible enough to be a focal point that kept him from actual thought.

The door opened and he looked away. Didn’t want to see whoever was there. Heard something being rolled toward him. It stopped. Sounds of someone doing something to whatever was on whatever had been brought to his bed.

“You can stop that, now.”

The doctor. Who? He wanted to laugh at his idiotic joke but couldn’t quite remember how. But he did stop yelling and look down.

A laptop computer. On one of the mobile table thingies they served his food on. Why?

“This isn’t connected to the internet. All you can really do is play games on it, but I thought, since you seem so obsessed with distracting yourself from life, this would be a distraction that was a little less manic. Find a game – you’ve got Solitaire, Mine Sweeper, Mahjong, Free Cell, and a few others. Using the mouse will also help you regain a degree of dexterity, I’m told. Can you do this?”

At first, Jett wanted to turn away and start yelling again, but the logic of the doctor’s words broke through some minuscule fracture in his wall of resistance, and he considered the offer. A moment later, he tried lifting his arm again so he could use the mouse, but couldn’t get it far enough up to reach the top of the table.

“Here.” The doctor went to the other side of the bed and lifted the wounded athlete’s arm, resting his bandaged hand on top of the mouse. “How’s that?”

Jett didn’t answer. Not yet. Couldn’t yet. He looked at the screen, moved the mouse, found the proper icon, and with more effort than he ever could have imagined needing for such a task, clicked.

As the doctor went out, Jett caught a smile of relief lighting the man’s eyes.

Breakthrough.

 

*******

 

Another pot of coffee. Celia felt like she had been brewing far too many of these lately. True, it was breakfast time. Nothing went with a hearty winter breakfast like coffee. It was also Saturday, so she didn’t expect to see either her husband or Jax until a bit later, so took her time preparing oatmeal, toast, sliced apples, a mushroom and bacon omelet, and – of course – the coffee.

Through steamy windows the growing sunlight gave no warmth, but was comforting in the way only a winter sunrise could be. She found herself hoping that wherever he was, Jett was enjoying the daybreak, too.

“Right, Cele – not much chance of that,” she muttered, stirring the oatmeal so it wouldn’t scorch. Even if no one else was up, she could have a bowl herself and warm the rest later for the others.

How sad life had become…with that thought came renewed acceptance of her decision not to tell Jett or anyone else about Atarah’s secret. She never would tell anyone, either – what would be the point? It would only hurt everyone.

“Mom! You’re up already?”

She jumped a bit, not having heard Jax enter the kitchen. “Oh! Well, have you ever known me to sleep in?”

“No.” He gave her the smile of the still-half-asleep and a quick hug. “Something smells great.”

“Oatmeal and coffee, so far. I haven’t started anything else. Didn’t think either of you would be up for a while yet.” She went to the coffee machine and filled two of the three cups she had set there. “Get out the cream, please?”

At the refrigerator, Jax took a deep breath as he grabbed the carton of half-and-half.

“Something on your mind?”

“Mind-reader. Yes.” He handed her the carton, grabbed his cup, and sat. “I’m pretty sure I figured out where Jett went.”

Eyes huge, she paused and turned. “You did? Oh, my! How?”

“I checked the history on his computer to see what sites he’d visited recently. Seems he was looking into various mental facilities, which tracks with the letter he wrote you guys.” He sipped at his coffee. “Nice. I needed the warmth.”

“What?”

“Well, the house isn’t exactly freezing, but you two have always liked to keep things on the brisk side in the colder months. I’m used to warmer weather, is all.”

“Okay. But…what did you figure out?”

“Oh. Sorry. I finally narrowed the list down to a few, then to two, and then one.”

“Are you sure about it?”

“At least ninety-nine percent. Only one way to find out, though.”

She nodded. “I take it you’re going to go there, yes?”

“I am. I mean, come on, Mom, he’s been gone now for over two months! Whatever he’s going through, he’s got to start getting better soon, wouldn’t you think? He needs to contact you and Dad – it isn’t like him to be out of touch for this long, even if he is a mess.”

“You won’t get an argument from me on that.” Bryson had come downstairs and stopped at the doorway to the kitchen, tying his robe closed and looking thoroughly rumpled. “Are you going by yourself?”

Jax nodded. “I think I should, at least until I can find out what’s going on with him. Besides, I don’t even know if they’ll let me see him. It all depends on…heck, I don’t know. I’ll call you from there when I find out, though.”

“When are you going?” Celia poured Bryson a cup of coffee and brought it to him as she spoke. “Soon, I hope?”

“Right after breakfast. Which is why, uncharacteristically for a Saturday morning, I’m fully dressed.”

She smiled. “What a good son you are.” She sat next to her husband. “Oh, who am I fooling? You’re both good sons. It’s just that one of you has been horribly wounded…”

The silence following her remark was, in Jax’s opinion, too sad.

Giving his wife a quick kiss on the cheek, Bry stood up and stretched. “May I ask how far this place is?”

“Nope. Look, Dad. I have to respect that Jett doesn’t want to be found, so my going there is already violating that wish. I can’t risk you or anyone else deciding it might be in his best interest if we all tried for a group hug, if you know what I mean.”

Bryson grinned. “You sound so much like your mother sometimes. Yes, I do. All right. And I’ll trust your promise to call.”

Celia sniffled, but smiled and agreed.

Jax finished his coffee, grabbed a spoon and scooped out a mouthful of oatmeal from the pot, gave his mom another hug, and got ready to leave.

“I wish you would sit down and have a real breakfast, Ajax.”

“No time. I have a brother to locate, remember?” He went out into the front hall to retrieve his jacket from the closet, his parents following him into the foyer.

“Thank you for doing this, darling. If you aren’t too far away, you’ll be back soon, yes?”

“I haven’t re-packed my stuff, Mom. See?” He held out his hands. “No suitcase. I’m coming back.”

“All right. Be safe.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll call.” And with that promise, Jax went out, got into the small rental car he’d procured at the airport, and drove away, confident in his conclusions but fearful of what he’d find.

 

*******

 

After locking the front door, Celia frowned, lips compressed, arms crossed. Whatever else happened, she mused, she might at least know where her younger son was. But whether Jett would ever recover with Ajax’s or anybody’s help remained to be seen. All things considered, however, she was sure beyond all doubt that she’d made the right choice in not telling anyone that Atarah had discovered, a few days before leaving for Greece, that she was pregnant.

*9*

 

 

With relief Issa crossed the last item off her list. Kyria Johanan’s friend, Kressida Laganos, had volunteered to help with the shopping. A woman who looked quite a bit younger than the Kyria, she had seemed startled when she’d opened her door to Issa’s knock that morning. But then she had welcomed Issa inside, given her some lovely Greek coffee, and helped her plan her shopping route based on the list.

Now, everything obtained, Kressida invited her back to her spacious apartment for lunch.

“I would love that,” said Issa, hoping her next words wouldn’t hurt the woman’s feelings. “But honestly, I need to get back to Paros. There’s something extremely important that I have to do, and I arranged to get a flight back before one o’clock. Please don’t feel offended. I am ever so grateful for your wonderful help today.”

“Offended?” The woman laughed – it was a pleasant, genuine sound. “Don’t be nutty. Of course I’m not. It was an hon…um, a – joy to spend the day with such a nice person! Be sure to give Chara my love will you?”

Issa made herself appear as if she hadn’t caught that Kressida had been about to say “honor,” and gave her a warm handshake. “I will, indeed. How kind you’ve been! I hope some day I can be of help to you, as well!”

Kressida handed over the bags she was carrying, and finding the extra burden only somewhat awkward, Issa hurried away to where she could get a taxi.

Now that was odd, indeed! Why would she consider spending time with me an honor? It’s not like I’ve been in the Kyria’s employ for years and years! But maybe…maybe she knows my mother or something, and I’ve simply forgotten? No, that doesn’t make sense. Issa sighed, readjusting the handles of one of the heavier bags. Grateful that her height made it possible to carry everything without any of the bags dragging on the ground, she reached the taxi stand without incident.

Getting everything checked at the airport was a lot more difficult than getting there, but eventually the porters and flight personnel got it all sorted out and safely put onboard the small plane. Once in her seat, Issa ran a hand through her wavy, short-cropped hair, ruffling it comfortably, then leaned back and closed her eyes. With any luck, she’d get to the house while that doctor was still there.

When at last the cab she hired at the small airport in Paros dropped her off at the Johanan’s, her carefully contained anticipation turned to breathless joy when she saw an unfamiliar car parked in front on the curved driveway. She wasn’t too late! Issa paid the driver, dragged her purchases out of the back seat with her, and hurried to the front door.

Because her hands were full, she pressed the doorbell with one elbow rather than drop everything to get to her key. One of the older housemaids answered and helped her inside.

“Looks like you got everything you were sent for,” the woman noted, peering inside one of the bags.

“I did, and thank goodness! Um, is the doctor still here?”

“Yes – he’s upstairs. I think he – wait.” The maid had begun walking toward the back of the house, intending to help Issa put the kitchen items away, but stopped. “Someone is coming down the stairs. Did you wish to see him for some reason?”

“I had a question for him, yes.” Issa placed the two remaining satchels she was carrying on the long bench against one of the walls in the hallway and went back out to the foyer.

A pudgy, balding man with a beard and wearing what she recognized as an expensive suit reached the bottom step at the same time Issa emerged from the hallway. He headed for the door, his eyes sweeping over and past her, the brevity of his notice making it obvious he wasn’t the sort to stop and make pleasant small-talk.

Determined, Issa cleared her throat. “Excuse me, are you the doctor?” She’d spoken in Greek, not sure of his nationality.

Now he did stop and turned, looking annoyed. “What are you saying, girl?” This demand was in heavily accented English.

“I – I’m so sorry to bother you,” she replied in the same language. “I have a question I was hoping to ask you. May I walk you to your car?”

He started to reply, but then put his head to one side, frowning. “I…who are you?”

“My name is Issa Xenakis. Well, Narkissa.”

“Is it?” He took a step closer and looked up slightly to meet her gaze. “You are a relative of Mr. and Mrs. Johanan?”

“Oh, no. I only work for them.”

He said nothing for a few moments, but continued to stare. Then, almost too low for her to hear, he said, “It couldn’t be! She would never do that to me!”

“Sir?”

“Narkissa, you say?” He nodded. “Yes, please, I will hear your question. Walk with me outside to my car.”

She smiled. “Thank you, sir.” His English had some flaws, but was good enough, Issa believed, for him to understand her request. She opened the front door for him, and then followed him out.

“Tell me, do you know what your name means?” They were at the car when he said this.

“Yes. It’s Greek for ‘sleepiness’ or ‘numbness’. My surname means ‘stranger.’” She shrugged. “Is that significant?” The only reason she asked this was because he was staring at her again, making her suddenly uncomfortable, uncertain.

And then he flashed a smile that was, somehow, one of the most unpleasant expressions she ever remembered seeing. Sly, angry, sour, and all these at the same time. “How long have you worked here, Narkissa?”

She wondered why he hadn’t answered her question. “Not long – a little under three months, I think. My mother tells me I have known this family longer, but I can’t remember. You see, that is what I wished to speak with you about. She told me I have a neurological condition that has left huge gaps in my long-term memory. It gives me terrible headaches from time to time as well, and I was curious to know what it would cost to have you examine me. Perhaps there is a cure for this?”

He was staring again, only this time, there was something else in it. Comprehension, maybe? Satisfaction? “Miss Xenakis, come with me if you would – we can talk over a coffee, yes?”

“Really? Oh! How kind of you!” She glanced back at the house. Kyria Johanan didn’t know she was back, had certainly not been expecting her yet, so she doubted she’d be missed for a little while longer, unless the other maid said something.

“Not at all. Please – get in.” He held the passenger door open, closing it gently after she’d settled herself inside. A moment later he opened the driver-side door and got in. “I know a place, very pleasant, private, where we can speak freely, yes?”

“Um, yes. Where?”

“In town, of course. It is a café near the water.”

She relaxed. “Ah. All right.” It was dawning on her that getting into a car with a complete stranger, even if he was the Johanan’s doctor, was probably not the wisest thing she’d ever done. And that weird smile…

“What time did you want to be back?”

Her nervousness subsided further – he wouldn’t bother asking her when she needed to return if his plan was to abduct her or harm her in some way. “Before five would be best.” And the other maid knew she’d been back and had wanted to talk to this doctor. She tried to stop worrying.

True to his word, he took her to one of the familiar waterside cafes so prominent in Paros. They ordered their coffees and some pastry, and Issa would have found the entire outing pleasant were it not for the bizarre way in which the doctor kept staring at her. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but an inner sense told her to keep quiet.

“So, Miss Xenakis, how is it your English is this good?” They were finished eating and were sipping on a second cup of the delicious beverage.

For some reason, Issa hadn’t questioned this herself, but now she did. How, indeed? “I don’t really know. You see, I remember many things, like shopping in Athens when I was younger, things like that. But I don’t know when or why I was taught English.”

“You realize, do you not, that you also speak very American. No Greek accent is there.”

She frowned, thinking about this and admitting, at last, that he was right. “I am more confused about that than you can imagine.” She sighed and sat back. “I’ll have to ask my mother.”

“Your mother. Who is this mother?”

“Helene Xenakis. And she is very poor. She could never afford surgery for me, if that’s what I need. But perhaps I could do something for you in exchange, and also pay you a set amount each month?”

His eyes seem to light up with a flash of interest, but it was so brief, Issa wasn’t sure she’d seen it. “First, we should do scans to find cause of this forgetting, yes? I will do this at, as they say, no charge.”

Issa frowned, thinking this was odd. “Why would you do that?”

“If surgery is indicated, there will be charge that includes these scans. If not, well, we doctors are required to do a small number of free services. I cannot remember term for that in English. So. What do you say we do this right away?”

She laughed. “That depends on what you mean by ‘right away,’ sir.”

“Ah. Today. I have flight back to mainland in – ” He jerked his right arm out and then at an angle, exposing a gold watch. He nodded at it, then looked back at Issa. “Five-fifteen. Now it is three. But you say you must be home by five?” He shrugged. “There may not be another chance for me to be at Athens’s big hospital where equipment is for such scans. Not soon.”

Oh, dear. What should I do? I suppose I could call my mother…no, I didn’t bring my phone. Blast. Well, they must have phones at the hospital, so I could call from there, and she could tell the Kyria. Or I could call Kyria Johanan myself and let her tell my mother. I hope she isn’t angry with me, but at least her shopping is done and she has her items. I just hope she takes no offense at me talking to her doctor like this.

“Miss, er, Xenakis?”

“Sorry. All right. Yes. I can go with with you – how kind you are, sir!”

He smiled again, and while this time there was less in it to cause alarm, his eyes were still not…right. “I am only too glad to help Mrs. Johanan’s servant.”

She smiled, too, and sat back, finished her coffee, and did her best to ignore the growing mistrust knotting the pit of her stomach.

 

*******

 

Jax waited for the woman at the front desk to recover. Well aware of how much he looked like his brother, he had grown used to this kind of reaction. When the color returned to her face, she began to speak but he interrupted her. “I’m sorry. As you’ve probably figured out, I’m Jett Kinsley’s brother, Jax. I’d like to speak with one of his doctors.”

“Wow. Are you twins?”

He smiled. “No. We’re a little less than a year apart, though. I’m older.”

“Amazing.” She inhaled a quick, deep breath and turned to her computer, tapping something on the keys. “Okay, that would be Dr. Rufino. He’s in a session right now, but they should be done in fifteen minutes or so.”

“No problem. Is there somewhere I can wait?”

She nodded at something behind him. “We don’t really have a reception area, just private lounges on the wards where the patients are. And…according to the records, no one is allowed to see, um, your brother.”

“Why the ‘um,’ if I may ask?”

“Yes. Well, he asked us never to use his name, and if anyone came in asking for him, to say there was no here called, uh, by that name.”

“Sounds like getting a wrong number. So why did you tell me?”

“Honestly? You freaked me out and I forgot. Not very professional of me, was it.” She shrugged and her mouth twisted into something not happy.

“I understand. But I’m also glad you did. Forget, I mean. I wasn’t really sure he was here.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no! I am going to be in so much trouble…”

“No you aren’t. I won’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Hmm. That’s nice of you, but I can’t lie if I’m asked how you knew you were in the right place. Anyway, as I was saying, there’s no reception area, but you may wait over there – the chairs by the wall. I’m sorry. It’s the best I can offer.”

“Don’t apologize. It isn’t like I made an appointment.” Another smile, this one aimed at making her feel a little better, and he went to the chair on the end, laying his coat on the one beside it.

Several people came and went through the small lobby where he waited. The building itself was huge, if what he saw from the outside was any indication. In fact, it seemed to be several buildings clustered together on a wide hill, lawns surrounding it that were probably peaceful and lovely during the warmer months. The interior was austere, but not unpleasant. Despite a lack of fancy furniture, paintings and plants – the usual fare in special care facilities these days – Bluebird Foundation didn’t feel institutional, either. Simple. Bright and airy. Efficient. Nice. Probably what his brother needed and nothing more.

One man, a doctor, according to his nametag, paused and stared at Jax for a moment. He seemed about to say something, but did not, moving on again. A couple of other people did subtle double-takes, and that was all the attention he got. It did make him almost laugh, though.

When he glanced at his watch, he saw that nearly twenty minutes had passed since his conversation with the woman behind the desk, and he stood. At almost the same time, she looked up and smiled, beckoning him forward.

“The doctor is back in his office; I sent him a message. As soon as I hear from him, I’ll let you – oh. Never mind.” A chime from the computer had drawn her attention back to the screen. She peered closer, reading. “Okay. He’ll meet you out here, he says.”

Jax decided to remain standing, and picked up his coat. Either the doctor would agree to speak with him or he wouldn’t. Either way, he’d need to take the garment with him. He began to pace, but when he caught the receptionist watching him, he stopped, feeling strangely self-conscious. He couldn’t have said why, though – because he was in a mental hospital?

“Mr. Kinsley?”

Jax turned and was treated to that same startled look. Ignoring this, he checked the identification tag on the man’s lab coat and nodded, extending a hand. “Thanks for seeing me. I’m Jax Kinsley.”

“Of course.” They shook hands. “I’m curious,” said the doctor, who Jax now knew from the tag was Charles Rufino, Doctor of Psychiatry. “What made you come here?”

Unlike the receptionist, the doctor hadn’t admitted outright that Jett was there. Jax shrugged. “I know how my brother thinks. And like him, I’m a mathematician, so I used some simple formulae and algorithms as applied to the process of elimination, and everything pointed to this hospital.”

“I see. Very well. Why don’t we go to my office – I have some things to tell you that might take a while, if that’s okay.”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“True. This way. Would you like some coffee, or soda, perhaps?”

“Coffee would be great.”

They stopped on the way at a pleasant kitchen that looked more like it belonged in someone’s house than in a hospital. It was equipped with one of the new coffee-makers that produced single servings of the beverage using small plastic cups of various flavored coffees.

As Jax was adding milk and sugar to his cup, the doctor opened the refrigerator and removed a large pitcher marked “Ice Tea – Sweetened” and poured himself a glass.

When they continued down the corridor from the kitchen, Jax became aware of many sounds – voices, machines, the hum of lots of electronics. The voices were what interested him the most, since many of them were loud despite being muffled by distance and the walls. Shouts, shouted words, a few shrieks. He suspected that all such facilities through the ages had resonated with various decibel levels of the same or similar noises.

Dr. Rufino’s office was large and bright, the walls a soothing shade of grey-blue, the large bookcase against one wall painted creamy white to match the crown moldings. His birds-eye maple desk looked ancient but well-preserved, and on the hardwood floor, a Persian carpet with pretty designs in blue, beige, pale green and ecru. All five chairs and a small sofa were of leather, including the one behind the desk where the doctor sat.

“What can you tell me?” asked Jax when they were settled.

“All right. According to our Statement of Confidentiality, I would never be able to answer that, or to have even given any indication that your brother is here. However, part of our Promise of Quality – another document we present to all patients and their families – compels me to overstep that first one. Something tells me you might be able to break through where the rest of us have failed.”

“Break through? Through what?”

The doctor shifted and sighed. “When he got here, Jett was clearly at the end of his tether, so to speak. He didn’t tell us what was troubling him, only that there was an excellent chance he would try and end his life if he didn’t get help. He gave us a hand-written statement – said he’d written it in the taxi on his way here – which contained specific instructions for his care.”

“Aren’t you supposed to determine that?”

“Normally, yes, if the patient is remanded here by law enforcement, his doctor, ordered to remain here by court order, or is brought in by relatives and against the patient’s will because he or she is incapable of acting in his or her own interests. Jett, on the other hand, came in voluntarily and paid us enough to keep him here indefinitely.” He took a sip of his tea, eyes narrowing. “Before you say it was this last thing that made us decide to accept him on his own terms, I must explain that our funding comes more from outside sources than from the patients. However, with no doctor’s referral or recommendation to give us an idea of how long a course of treatment he would need, an up-front amount was required, something I believe he must have read on our website.”

Jax nodded – sounded like the kind of logical behavior he would have expected from his brother. “All right. So what were these specific instructions?”

Dr. Rufino opened a side drawer in his desk and drew out a sheet of legal-pad paper, which he handed across the desk. “As you’ll see, it’s brief but quite clear.”

Jett’s familiar neat printing covered the page, and as he read, Jax began to see how extensive his brother’s pain was, and realized that the true purpose of his coming here was to be able to block out reality – completely. “Wow.” He scowled. “Damn. You can’t even call him by his name?”

“That is correct.”

“Huh. No conversation with him about anything outside this hospital, either. He – you do know what happened, yes?”

“About his wife? Yes, of course. I believe anyone with a television or radio knows, and that’s the only clue we had about his condition.”

“Did you also know how much he despises being pitied?”

“No, Mr. Kinsley. You see, I interviewed him at length when he first arrived, but we only discussed those terms.” He nodded toward the ledger paper. “I thought to get into other aspects of his life and personality later on. In the meantime, I prescribed a course of medication, which I sent to the front desk to be typed out and given to Jett when he was ready to be brought to his room. I admit I didn’t anticipate how deep his despair had gone, and by the time an orderly was called to accompany him upstairs, he was functional, but unresponsive. He had shut down almost completely.”

“Almost.”

The doctor nodded, shifting again, and began to look worried. “I – he was put in a private room like he’d asked, given hospital clothing which he changed into by himself, I’m told, but after he’d been alone for less than an hour, he became self-destructive. He didn’t try to kill himself, but…”

Jax sat straighter, brows drawing together – he didn’t like the direction in which this narrative sounded like it was heading. “What did he do, Dr. Rufino?”

“There are heating and water pipes running through all the rooms and are located in a corner to be out of the way. Jett – he punched and kicked them several times, ran into them, and in the process, broke both hands, one foot, and badly dislocated both shoulders. The most upsetting thing is that he wanted to be hurt and even tore out the morphine drip we put him on after operating on the broken bones and resetting his shoulders. So, er, we had to strap him down, and because every time we released him he tried to hurt himself further, we’ve had to keep him restrained this entire time, or at least until a few days ago, when the casts were removed from his hands. He’s too weak to do anything now.” He took a deep breath and look away. “I’m afraid his present appearance will be shocking to you.” He returned his gaze to Jax. “I’m sorry.”

“What about his foot?”

“What?”

“Can he walk?”

“He can barely move. And yes, we took the cast off his foot this morning.”

“I’d like to see him now.”

“Uh, there’s another thing. He hasn’t spoken a word since that first day. All he does is yell and scream. He has terrible nightmares, too. I’m afraid his voice is ruined. In time, perhaps, his throat can heal some. But at the moment, when he does make any kind of sound, like a moan or sobbing, his voice is hardly even there.”

“Well!” Jax got up. “At least you were able to keep him alive. That’s one thing on the list that you’ve managed to handle right.”

“I do believe we’ve also met his other criteria, Mr. Kinsley. There was nothing we could do about the rest, despite our best efforts.”

“Uh-huh. And keeping him strapped to a bed for what – almost three months? Was that part of your ‘best efforts’?”

“Have you forgotten how strong he was when he first got here?”

“Yeah, well, not any more, right?”

“Mr. Kinsley, please! We aren’t God!”

“No, you aren’t. Where is he?”

“Perhaps you should calm down before I take you to see him.”

Perhaps I should tear your stupid head off! He made himself take several deep breaths in an effort to talk himself off the ledge. He knew how stubborn Jett was, and under normal conditions, Jax would not only have understood the doctor’s position, but been sympathetic. He pointed out to himself that since he’d been completely unprepared to hear that his brother had been seriously injured, he was probably over-reacting out of raw, emotional devastation. The very idea of his highly capable and almost physically perfect brother being too weak to get out of bed made him feel sick. And how bad had the breaks been? Would Jett ever be able to hold a javelin again? Or do the high-jump? Or climb a cliff-face? What about running?

Something in his head reminded Jax that his brother would still be able to teach math, and he suddenly wanted to punch himself in the face. With that realization, he also saw that he had cooled down enough to treat the doctor more reasonably. “All right. Sorry. It’s just that we’re very close.” There. That sounded nice.

“It’s all right Mr. Kinsley. I rather wish you’d phoned us first, though.”

“Would you have talked to me about Jett if I had?”

The doctor stood, a twisted smile on his face. “No, probably not. Good point.” He checked his watch. “Lunch is over, and I believe Jett will be in the rec lounge. We started bringing him in there when his hands were free of the casts, and gave him a laptop to mess with. All he can do is point and click, which is perfect, since all that’s programmed is a list of games.”

“Does he play any of them?”

“Free Cell, I’m told. They say he plays two or three times in a row, several times a day, and hasn’t lost a game yet.”

“That’s Jett…sounds like you don’t need me, then.”

“Well, simply because he’s finally doing something besides having psychotic episodes, doesn’t mean he’s ready to be checked out of the hospital. He’s still a mess, Mr. Kinsley, still won’t talk to anyone, and we can’t seem to crack that one.”

“And you think I can?”

“I don’t know. You’re his brother, and it’s obvious, as you pointed out, that you’re very close. I’d say you have a better chance than we do at this juncture.”

Jax nodded. This was awful. “Fine. Where is he?”

“This way, Mr. Kinsey. And please – prepare yourself.”

*10*

 

 

Chara felt her whole body relax as she heard the front door closing downstairs. He was gone. A brilliant doctor, yes, and he had assured her that Seth was going to be fine. Other than that, he had offered no words that had changed her mind about him otherwise: brilliant, yet disturbing. He wasn’t normal, and had he been anyone else and not the one person who could keep her husband alive, she would have reported him.

What kind of doctor wanted a human being in payment for his services? And was willing to possess that person even though she was married, going so far as to threaten to kill the young lady’s new husband! Well, all those options had been swept off the table in one simple move. Chara shuddered and went down to the kitchen. She didn’t even want to see Kobienko leave – it was enough to know he had. No, what she wanted, what she needed right then, was a glass of wine.

As soon as she entered the kitchen, she noticed the pile of boxes, bags and half-unpacked items scattered across its surface and on the floor and chairs. Coffee. Cheese. Baskets…she went cold.

“Issa? Are you back already?”

One of the housemaids, an older woman who was also a new hire, came out of the pantry. “She was here, but left again, Kyria Johanan.”

“Left? Left where? Where did she go?”

The woman shrugged and continued taking things out of one of the bags to be placed in the pantry. “She told me she wanted to ask the doctor something. They were talking in the foyer, and then she left with him.”

Chara nearly screamed. This couldn’t be happening. After all her careful plans to avoid this very thing…

“Kyria, are you ill? Should I call someone?”

Chara, her breath leaving her, had collapsed into a chair. She fought to regain control, and several moments later she nodded.

“Who? Another doctor?”

“No.”

“Who, then, Kyria?”

She raised terror-filled eyes to her employee. “The police.”

 

********

 

Oh, look. I won again. It seems to impress everyone, though. Maybe I’m a Free Cell Master and after never losing a tournament, I went up against some newcomer who kicked my butt, and I went off the deep end. Huh. That sounds like an almost reasonable assumption, doesn’t it? Sure. There we go. That’s who I am and how I ended up here in the cuckoo’s nest. Boring.

“…a different game, okay?”

I’m sorry – did someone say something to me? Why is there a hand pointing at the screen? Jett turned and realized it was one of the doctors, who was jabbing at the small circle at the bottom left of the screen. For no reason he would allow himself to consider, Jett clicked on it. A menu of applications popped up, and he clicked on Mahjong. After staring at the arrangement of decorated, stacked rectangles, his perplexity became recognition, and he began to play. A few minutes later, the board was cleared. He’d won.

“Great!”

“Hey, Mr. Nobody won this one, too!” The person who had made this exclamation was an older gentleman who had been peering over Jett’s shoulder since the first Free Cell game.

Jett didn’t bother to look and see who his audience was, but he liked the name this man had been using for him over the past couple of days since first being brought into this room. Mr. Nobody. That sounded right, somehow. He started another game, this time barely seeing the screen as his mathematical mind figured out what tiles were hidden where, devised a strategy, and within minutes, he’d won again. Cheering near his ear. Another game. Then another. After the fifth one, his constant victories had become as boring as those he’d been achieving at Free Cell.

And then, suddenly, he was exhausted. Pointing and clicking for anyone else would have been nothing. For someone whose every muscle had atrophied from near-total disuse, it had been borderline grueling. Jett let his hand slide off the mouse, and closed his eyes.

“All right, let’s get you back to your room,” said the doctor. “You did well today. Maybe tomorrow you’ll let me introduce you to some of the people here. I’ll tell you their names, but you don’t have to say anything or give them yours, okay?”

They already have a name for me. Didn’t you hear that guy? He called me “Mr. Nobody.” That’s my name. I thought doctors were supposed to be smart. I don’t want to know anything else, either. Drop me off in the Tulgey Wood and let me burble with the Jabberwock. If I don’t know who I am, am I?

With the light jolt that accompanied the brake on the bed’s wheels being disengaged, Jett felt himself being rolled out of the room. He was too tired to open his eyes, but didn’t need to anyway. He knew where he was going – back to the ugly room with the metal-clad window where he slept and despaired, had horrendous nightmares and longed for death.

Home sweet home.

 

*******

 

Jax stared around the room at the bathrobe-clad inmates of the Foundation. The doctor had pointed out the only one that mattered, but a quick glance bounced his mind and line of sight in other directions. No way was that skeletal, wan individual propped up in a rolling hospital bed his gold-medalist brother.

“Mr. Kinsley?”

“How many patients are here?” Jett wasn’t the only one whose first line of defense was denial.

“Six hundred and thirty-three throughout the facility. Look, I know this isn’t pleasant, and I did warn you. Do you want to try talking to him?”

Taking a deep breath, Jax stared hard at the floor, jaw set. He did, in fact, want to talk to his brother. His brother. Not that – that thing playing on the computer.

“Mr. Kinsley, please.”

“How? How could someone like him go from being one of the world’s top athletes to…to…in only what – three months?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t look a thing like him.” He raised his head and glared at Dr. Rufino. “How do I know he didn’t die, and this is someone else who you thought might be able to pass for him if you told me he – ”

“This is not the movies, Mr. Kinsley! It’s real life, and that’s really your brother! Don’t display the same kind of neurosis that’s destroying him and keeping you from possibly saving his life, unless you want to encourage me to have you committed!”

Jax almost smiled. “Denial in a healthy mind can’t possibly be the same as it is for someone whose heart has been destroyed. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s a normal reaction. Chill.” He looked again at the person he was told was Jett. His hair color was like his brother’s, but that was the only thing he could say was the same.

A stooped man with salt-and-pepper hair and no teeth who had been standing beside the bed let out a loud whoop and shouted, “Hey, Mr. Nobody won this one, too!”

Jax glanced down automatically at the ledger sheet which for some reason he was still holding, and read once more the first stipulation his brother had written: “You will not use my real name, ever.” Oh, boy. It had to be Jett.

One of the orderlies, or perhaps he was a doctor, was talking quietly into Jett’s other ear, and the toothless man leaned in closer toward the laptop screen.

“What’s going on? Is he playing the games you were talking about?”

“It certainly looks that way. Will you speak with him?”

“Not yet. I need to watch him for a while, I think.”

Rufino nodded. “I understand, believe me.” He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I wish there was something more we could do, but he won’t be able to get this health and strength back until his mind gets right. You realize that, yes?”

“Yeah. I realize that.” Shit.

More cheering came from the other side of the large, bright room, tempting Jax to go see what his brother was doing that had everyone so excited. But…no. He simply wasn’t ready.

And then they were wheeling the bed back out.

“What happened? Is he okay?”

Dr. Rufino signaled to the man who had been helping Jett with the computer. When he came close enough, Jax could see he was, in fact, a doctor, his nametag identifying him as Dr. Richard Belmonde. He gave Jax the usual double-take.

“How’s our nameless patient, Rich?”

“Tired. All that mouse-work wore him out.” The words had been humorous, but the man’s expression was not. He went back to staring at Jax.

“This is his brother – I think he might be able to help. Any opinions about that?”

Dr. Belmonde nodded. “Are you guys twins?”

“No, but we’re close in age, less than a year.” Jax put out a hand.

Offering a firm shake, Belmonde smiled. “Something tells me you’re the older one, yes?”

“Very good.”

“He looked almost exactly like you when…listen, I’ve spoken with his physical therapist and a couple of medical doctors who have dealt with this sort of atrophy before. They all agree that with a steady course of exercise and a good diet, he’ll eventually get back to where he was before all this happened. The breaks in his hands and foot were clean, and while he may have some residual achiness in his shoulders, he should recover completely.”

“I take it you know who he is, yes?”

“Well, no. Or I didn’t until I saw news reports about his wife’s death, which showed photos of the two of them. Before that, I never paid attention to sports or the Olympics. No time or interest, really.” His shrug was unapologetic. “So he was good at what he did? What was his sport? The news reports only called him an Olympic gold-medalist. I suppose they assumed everyone knows him.”

“Mostly track and field – he was a decathlete.”

“Really! His medals are for the decathlon?”

“Twice, yes.”

“Oh, damn. No wonder he was so strong! Hey, I’m really sorry. We’re doing all we can for him, and lately, he seems to have begun coming out of his self-imposed amnesia.”

“We’ve talked to him about the importance of the grieving process. It was obvious he didn’t want to hear it, but he couldn’t go anywhere to avoid hearing it.” Rufino put out a hand and nodded at the paper Jax held.

“Oh. Here.” He passed it to him after another quick glance. “To be honest, I have no idea what to say to him. Any suggestions?”

“No. You know him, Mr. Kinsley. We don’t. I’m sure you’ll know exactly what he needs to hear, and you don’t strike me as the type who would be callous or idiotic about it.” Rufino raised an eyebrow.

“I hope I’ll know. I’m just terrified I’ll say something that will make it worse. Or that…aw, hell. You know what I’m really afraid of? That he won’t know me, or acknowledge that he does.”

Dr. Belmonde scratched his ear. “I doubt that’ll send you over the edge, though. If anything, you’ll probably get even more determined to get through to him.”

Jax gave him an odd look. “And what makes you say that?”

“I’m a psychiatrist.”

“So you’re good a reading people?”

“Something like that.” He smiled. “Gotta go. Miss Terry on Ward Eight had a near-fatal episode last night.” He addressed this last remark at Dr. Rufino.

“I heard. The ward nurses did a fantastic job – I’m giving them both an in-house commendation.”

“They’ll appreciate that. Well! I expect I’ll see you around, Mr., uh, Kinsey?”

“Kinsley.”

Grin. Wave. Gone.

“I believe your brother is going to need to rest for a while. Why don’t you go get something to eat. What’s your cell number? I’ll call you when he’s built up enough strength to have a visitor.” Rufino took out his own cell and pulled up the ap for his phone book.

Jax gave him the number. “Thanks. Uh, where can I get lunch around here?”

Dr. Rufino told him, then said he would have Reception make up a Visitor Pass for both him and his car, and walked him out of the building through the nearest side door. This led to an area of walkways with a fountain in the middle. “Go that way, turn left at that first building, and you’ll be back in the visitor parking area.”

“Okay. Thank you. And, uh, sorry for being a jerk before.”

“No worries, Mr. Kinsley. Drive safe – it’s a little icy out there.”

It wasn’t until he was sitting in his car waiting for the heat to kick in that the full impact of his brother’s condition hit him. He put his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes, and let himself cry.

 

*******

 

The hum of bees mingled with the gentle, rhythmic pulse of someone playing a single, primitive drum somewhere beyond the tree line, making a pleasant, relaxing ambient sound. Jett leaned back against the large rock and smiled. Its sun-soaked surface warmed and relaxed his shoulders, filling him with a sense of energy that wasn’t exactly physical, but made him feel better than he had for a long time.

Sitting beside him, Atarah stroked his hand with one finger. He turned his head, allowing the sight of her to become, at last, a part of the strange world in which he’d been living for…how long had it been? He wasn’t sure. Didn’t matter. He also couldn’t have said when, exactly, he’d begun accepting her presence in his dreams as a positive inevitability rather than a gruesome and, frankly, terrifying one. So he kept his smile in place as he gazed into her eyes.

“There’s something I need to point out, Jett.”

He nodded.

“You aren’t alone in this. What you’ve done to yourself has to be fixed.”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“Well.” She snuggled closer, resting her head against his chest. “Your family. Your brother. What makes you think he’ll be able to handle the way you’ve all but destroyed your body and abandoned your mind?”

“Is that what I’ve done?”

“Yes, Jett. You can’t even sit up on your own.”

“And what makes you think my brother or anyone else will see me like this? No one knows where I am.”

“Really? Let’s be logical here.” She reached out and grabbed a tiny white rabbit that had tried to skitter past, and held it up by the ears. It was wearing a vest, had human hands sheathed in white gloves, and if the way its eyes were bugging out was any indication, it was deeply afraid. “Silly wabbit,” Atarah whispered. “Tricks are for treats.” She dropped it and it zoomed off, presumably toward its hole. She turned her head so she could look directly at Jett. “How much like you is Jax?”

“Quite a lot, as you well know.”

“Hmm. Exactly. Which means he’s probably figured out where you would have gone. That means he’s come to visit you.”

“When?”

“You know when. Before you fell asleep, goofy boy. You saw him but wouldn’t admit it. I know you did.” Atarah was now sporting the robes of a judge and was holding a gavel. “My verdicts are never wrong.”

“Aw, crap. Really? But - ”

“And there’s more! What if I’m not really dead? What if I’m in danger somewhere and need you? Can you help me in the condition you’re in? Nope. You could have, the way you used to be. Not now. Don’t you think you should fix that?”

“But you are dead, ‘Tarah. If not, wouldn’t someone have told me?”

“Who? No one here is supposed to know who you are, remember? And even if your brother did show up here today, he might be afraid to tell you. You’re already so unbalanced.”

Before he could respond, he noticed the warmth at his back was gone. So was the ground. In fact, he was standing up, arms out, balancing on a thin wire that a quick, terrifying glance told him had to be at least five miles above the ground.

“Thirty thousand feet, Captain,” said Atarah. “You’d think the water wouldn’t be as hard as the earth, but when you hit it at the right speed, it certainly is! Aha! How’s your balance, Jett-Plane?”

For the first time since the dark dreams had started, he found he didn’t want to fall, to plunge to his death. “How could you still be alive?” He had to shout, because up there, the wind was fierce and loud.

“No idea, but without a body, it’s entirely possible. And like I said, wouldn’t your instincts have told you there was no hope? Or…did they?”

He thought about that one for a long while. Long enough for his location to change; he found himself sitting in the front pew at the church where he and Atarah had gotten married. “No. My instincts haven’t told me you’re dead. But I figured I was in denial.”

“O promise me that someday...” she sang, and then scooted over from the end of the pew where she’d been. She grabbed him by the arms and turned him to face her. “Promise me something, Jett.”

“What?”

“NO. Promise. PROMISE!” The shark teeth, which had always been there during these nightmares, and which he’d learned to ignore, shrank to nothing, replaced by her normal ones as she shouted her final demand.

“Okay! I promise.”

“Good. What I want you promise is to get well again. Strong. To get back to who you were. Look, there are two ways to see this.” She stood, paced to the altar, came back, and knelt in front of him, her eyes pleading. “If I died, where do you suppose I went?”

“Heaven. Absolutely.” He smiled.

“Right. So if I’m alive, I have to be somewhere, yes? And probably need your help. But if I am dead, that means I’m somewhere else watching you self-destruct. That isn’t heaven, Jett. It’s hell, pure and simple. Is that what you want for me?”

“No! Of course not, and you know it!”

“Do I? Your behavior says otherwise. The only way to be sure that I’m all right, then, is for you to get well.” She leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. “STOP MAKING THIS ABOUT YOU!!!”

He woke up. And sitting next to his bed, his eyes red and puffy, was Jax.

Time to reboot.

 

*******

 

“I never thought of you a naughty person, Mrs. Johanan. I am standing corrected.”

“What do you want, Doctor?” Chara demanded, trying not to think about how far away that nasal, accented voice sounded. Or how much she hated it.

“I want you to suffer as I have suffered. You lied to me, dear lady, and for it, you will pay my original fee regardless of your attempt to renege. You will also never see her again, or your grandchild.”

“My what?” As soon as she asked, she was nearly knocked over by two hard facts – one, the girl was pregnant, and two, she had just admitted she’d been unaware of this. A third fact followed immediately and made Chara want to hit her head against the wall, which was that she never should have let the monster on the other end of the phone know of her ignorance. “What have you done with her, you pig?”

“Nothing. Yet. I shall wait until she gives birth to the spawn of that idiot athlete, and then will make her mine. In the meantime, I shall refrain from operating to alleviate the cause of her amnesia. And yes, Mrs. Johanan, I have given to her, the thorough neurological examination and several MRIs, and know exactly what is wrong. She suffered some kind of head trauma. You call me name, but what did you do to her to make this happen?”

“I did nothing! It was an accident – she wasn’t supposed to get hurt!”

After jumping from the plane with the pilot, Atarah should have landed safely near the boat waiting for them, but the aircraft spiraled closer to the two rather than farther away, and she was hit by debris in the resulting explosion. Originally, Chara had arranged to hide her daughter with a good friend, the woman who Atarah now thought was her mother. Jett would have been notified immediately, of course. Once International law enforcement and the FBI could get proof of the doctor’s plan, and he was arrested, the young couple would have been happily reunited and it would have been over. But when Atarah regained consciousness and didn’t even know who she was, the plan changed. They cut her hair, told her she had a brain disease that caused her to forget things, and arranged for her to be with Chara and Seth as a housekeeper and maid. A soon as Seth was healthy and no longer needed Dr. Kobienko, they would send Atarah to a neurologist in the United States to see about restoring her memory. She hadn’t been sure when or how to inform Jett, but then he had disappeared…Naturally, Chara said none of this to the doctor. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

“An accident? You are terrible mother, Mr. Johanan. Now I take care of this angel. She is mine as always she should have been. She is too good for some stupid…what is this word…jock! They are all of them morons, even Russian ones. I am sorry this magnificent girl was violated by him and am only glad child mostly has intelligence of mother.”

Guess you didn’t bother to learn more about who Jett is, you disgusting fiend! And now you’ve ruined his life, too! “Burn in hell, Dr. Kobienko.” She hung up. There was no way to find him at this point, no point in continuing the conversation. If she was reading him right, he’d be calling again – to gloat, to torture her, to pay her back for making him think her daughter was dead.

In the meantime, she’d have to inform the authorities. Kobienko had admitted to administering tests, MRIs – which meant he’d had to use well-equipped medical facilities. Surely there was a record somewhere of his having been in one of them with Atarah. Or not. Chara’s only real comfort was the man’s assertion that he hadn’t touched her, and would leave her alone until she had her child. That gave Atarah at least seven months before she’d have to deal with being raped as well as kidnapped and held prisoner. Wonderful.

She took a few minutes to get her emotions under control, to stop shaking, and went to talk to her husband. She hoped he was healthy enough to hear this without having a seizure or worse, but there were simply no alternatives. He had to know, she had to tell him, and they both had to try and rescue their daughter. Again.

*11*

 

 

How does one explain that it wasn’t the hard work of the psychiatrists, or a family member’s valiant attempts at communication, or some cosmic force that finally pulled away the fog of self-inflicted mental isolation, but a dream? A long, sometimes recurring, always progressive dream? Not only that, but the spectral and often ghastly presence of a dead wife who even from another plane made more sense than, well, more sense? One probably didn’t.

After waking up and finding his brother there, Jett had instantly recoiled into the deepest place in his psyche, the presence of an actual connection to his source of heartbreak far too real, too undeniable. Nonetheless, for the next three or four weeks he had allowed the physical therapist to work with him to get him walking again. Shuffling, actually, but no longer prone. Jax had gone away at some point – Jett wasn’t sure when, and wouldn’t think about it – and therefore missed his younger brother’s outward improvement.

Jett’s muscles were so wasted that getting off the bed unaided had been, at first, impossible. Only by a course of constant, painful exercise, had he at last succeeded in getting to his feet, but that, too, had been disastrous. He’d fallen instantly, his legs unable to support even his much-reduced weight. So the exercises had continued day after day, the rebuilding of muscle tissue so agonizing it often brought involuntary tears and always left him breathless. He liked it. A beautiful, excruciating distraction.

When he didn’t think about the pain in quite that way, but only as a necessity, his dreams were peaceful or non-existent. When he exulted in the pain and welcomed it in a reversion to his earlier way of escape, the nightmares returned. Atarah would scold him, rail on him, say things that made him want to physically rip his heart out of his chest, but in the end, convince him, at least temporarily, to get back to making himself well and strong again.

He was finally able to go unsupported to the dispensary to get his medication. Standing in line became less exhausting, but his mind was still wandering about, refusing to focus, and more often than not, he would need an orderly to accompany him back to his room so he wouldn’t get lost on the way. And on it went. Until.

Until Jax came back to see him again, joining him in the rec room where he continued to win the solitaire-type computer games. Jett didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last seen his brother, but he hadn’t given it enough thought for that to matter anyway. He still hadn’t spoken a word; he would still wake up screaming, but not as frequently, because the nightmares were fewer now. It was during this time that Jax returned.

One day that meant nothing more than any other, Jett looked up from the laptop and found Jax standing there, giving him a half-smile. He was sitting at a regular table now, and had gained about ten pounds. Still far from where he’d been, but an improvement. He tilted his head to one side, offering Jax a curious stare.

“It’s good to see you up.”

Why? Have you been talking to my wife’s ghost?

“I won’t use your name because you wanted to remain anonymous. But I will ask if you know who I am. Do you?” Jax pulled out the chair opposite and sat.

To respond in any way would mean a return to real life. Jett wrestled with this for several minutes. In the end, he thought about how he’d have to answer to Nightmare ‘Tarah if he didn’t, and decided that at last, it was no longer worth it. She was right – for her sake, not his, he needed to get over himself and the tragedy that had torn her from him.

So he nodded.

Jax’s eyes widened. “My God!” he whispered. “You – thank you.” His chin trembled. “You’re still there.”

Jett nodded again and closed the laptop. He’d stepped over a line of latitude and needed to keep going. He knew he couldn’t speak – the sound of his own voice when he cried out in sorrow was a pointed indicator that his vocal chords were no longer functioning right. Besides, his throat hurt whenever he did make a sound. So why bother? He didn’t need to be distracted by pain right then and could communicate silently.

“What can I do for you?”

A few seconds of considering, and he pointed at his throat, shook his head, then pantomimed a request for paper and something with which to write.

Jax jumped up so fast, he nearly knocked his chair over. “Be right back!” He headed for the nurse’s station at the far side of the room.

Jett watched him engage in conversation with the male nurse, who suddenly gave a soft exclamation that sounded like “Are you serious?” as he peered around Jax to stare at Mr. Nobody. And Mr. Nobody stared back, his lips curving into the first indication of a voluntary facial expression in almost five months.

When Jax returned to the table, he was carrying a small white pad and a pen, which he gave Jett, and sat once more.

A deep breath. Words. I haven’t said anything to anyone since coming here, but…this is Jax. And I promised. Oh, God. I can’t. I can. Damn it! His grip on the pen tightened, and he began to write. When he was done, he slid the pad back across the table.

Jax swallowed hard as he read, compressing his lips, his effort not to cry intense and obvious. Finally, he put the pad down. “I love you, too, bro. We all do. And…and we understand a little bit about why you, why you did this. We’re all hurting over it, but our relationship with her was nowhere close to the same depth as…aw, hell. Are you really back?”

Taking back the pad, he wrote again. “Yes. I wouldn’t lie. I don’t want to be, but who am I helping by continuing to pretend nothing happened? At least when I’m awake, that is. A lot of the time when I’m asleep, ‘Tarah is there, too. It’s really bad.”

“Why? What does she say?” asked Jax after reading and sliding the pad back.

“Mostly she yells at me. Tells me to stop making everything about me and how I feel. She’s right. I was doing that. I have to stop it. It isn’t fair. Killing myself would have been the ultimate act of selfishness, but what I did instead wasn’t much better. I’m sorry.”

This time, Jax let the tears come. “Damn, dude. Look, all that matters is that you’ve come back, so to speak. Are you…do you think you can come home?”

Jett wrote, “Not yet. I’m still too messed up, and I really need the physical therapy they’re giving me. It’s working and I think I’ll be able to leave in another few months.”

Nodding as he read this, Jax said, “I can see that. Any chance you’ll let Mom and Dad come visit now?”

Instead of writing his answer, Jett simply nodded. Then he got up slowly – he couldn’t move very fast yet – and came around the table. Something told him physical contact with his brother was all that remained to solidify this new resolve to recover. They were about the same height, Jett being about a tenth of an inch taller, but his inability to stand completely straight had him looking up a fraction. Whatever. Weird, but whatever. He gave Jax as tight a hug as he could manage, smiled, and turned away.

The efforts of this meeting with his brother had caught up with him in that last moment, and he needed to go back to his room and rest.

Okay, ‘Tarah. Let’s see what you have to say about me now, my ghost-love.

 

*******

 

When he left, Jax realized that none of the ready emotions always so easy to read in his brother’s eyes had been there. At all. His writing had been emotional by implication, but where was the rest of Jett’s heart? He suspected that his sibling had suppressed his feelings so hard and for so long, that they were buried too deep now for anyone but Jett himself to see.

He hoped this change wasn’t permanent. Part of Jett’s charm had been his open-heartedness, the fearless way in which he’d let everyone know what he felt without being hurtful or obnoxious about it. The iciness in his brother’s eyes and expression that had replaced the usual heart-on-his-sleeve warmth was eerie.

The five-hour drive brought him home in darkness. One or two members of the paparazzi were parked on the opposite side of the street in front of his parents’ house, and he hoped none of them would be stupid enough to approach him as he got out of his car in the driveway.

“Mr. Kinsley! Have you seen Jett?”

Looked like at least one was. “Fuck off or I’ll hurt you. I don’t like you guys, remember?”

Appearing shocked by Jax’s language, the man took a step back and didn’t pursue his question.

Even though he’d threatened them with physical harm before, Jax had never used foul language on these people until now. But it had been a long day, and for the first time in months, his brother had communicated with him. Probably the first time he’d communicated with anybody, he realized. That should have made him happy enough to simply ignore the reporter, but Jett’s strange coldness and the words that had said, by omission, just how badly his emotions had been damaged, were killing Jax. On top of that, he was tired from the long drive, and now he had to explain all of these things to his parents.

Yeah, telling the guy to “fuck off” had actually been something that was a lot kinder than he could have been right then.

When he came inside he found his parents sitting in the living room, each buried in a book. His oldest memory was of them doing that, and it made him smile. But then he thought about what he had to say, and the smile disappeared. He knocked lightly on the frame of the arched opening.

“Jax! You’re back! Why so soon? Is everything all right?” His father had stood, dropping his book onto the chair.

Celia had also put her book down but remained seated.

“Yes. It’s fine. He – he talked to me, sort of.”

“What? Really? This is the first time he’s said anything, yes?”

Jax shook his head. “I said ‘sort of,’ Dad. He, um, I don’t think he can actually talk. His voice isn’t working.”

“Why not?” His mother’s alarm was cushioned by her natural ability to remain calm in most situations. Even this one.

“Oh.” Jax hadn’t told them about the screams that had rendered their other son incapable of making normal sounds, mainly because what he had told them had been disturbing enough.

“What is it, Ajax?”

He took a deep breath. “Look, Dad, there’s something I didn’t want to talk about before, but I guess you’ll find out. I mean, he thinks he should be well enough to come home in a few more months, and unless something changes radically, you’ll…right. He – Jett had horrible nightmares. I don’t know if he still does or not, but, um, and I explained about how he kept trying to keep himself from thinking about what happened, right?”

Bryson’s raised brows were the equivalent of crossed arms and impatient foot-tapping.

“Okay. He’s been screaming in pain almost every day, and his voice is pretty much gone.”

“Why wouldn’t they give him pain medication?”

“They did, Mom. For his injuries. This pain was different. It couldn’t be treated with medication. Something the doctor told me the last time I was there made me think that the nightmares were worse when they did sedate him, so they eventually stopped doing that. I have no idea how that would be possible, but there you go. They said the yelling and all that increased every time they knocked him out.”

“Well, that sucks,” she said, surprising her son. “All right. How did he talk to you, then?”

“He wrote. Said he loved us all and was sorry for putting us through all these months of worry. He told me he’d tried to avoid hurting us by not committing suicide, but what he ended up doing instead was probably worse. Something like that.”

Bryson sat again, moving his book to the table beside his chair. “How does he look?”

“He’s gained a few pounds since the last time I saw him, and he’s walking on his own. His eyes aren’t the same, though. They’re, I don’t know, cold. Could be a continuation of whatever defenses he set up in his mind.” He shrugged.

“But he’s getting better, you say?”

“Yes, Mom. He also said you could both visit him if you wanted.” Before they could say anything, he added, “But I think you should wait a little while. He doesn’t look like himself at all, and that would upset you guys more than you might want to admit. Why not wait a couple of months? They tell me his appetite has improved, and now that he’s talking, well, writing, he’ll probably start trying to get back in shape, too.”

His parent exchanged a look he couldn’t quite interpret, but that gave him the impression they were agreeing on something.

“You’re right, of course,” said his father. “We’re plenty upset enough as is, so why make it worse, eh? We’ll wait, but I’d like some kind of progress report. Are you up to making another trip out there in the interim?”

Given the choice to do so, Jax would have gladly stayed at the Foundation until his brother decided he was ready to come home. “I am. When would like me to go back?”

“A couple of weeks, maybe? Yes?”

He nodded. “That makes sense. Thanks, Dad. I’ll do that.”

Celia stood and stretched. “All right! That’s settled and now I think I’d like to make us an early supper. I need to get some sleep – I have to be up practically at daybreak to go shopping with Trish. Her son is graduating early and they need to find him a suit.”

She’d made it sound like an impossible task, so Jax gave her an odd look. “Is this something unusual?”

“Have you met Brad?”

“I live out of state, Mom. And if I’m not mistaken, they had him after I moved away six years ago. So…wait. Graduating? How the heck old is this kid?”

Bryson laughed. “It’s a kindergarten graduation, Ajax. He’s only five.”

“Wow. Weren’t his parents a little old to be having another baby?”

“Trish is only forty-one – it’s perfectly normal these days to have children late in life.” Celia patted him on the arm as she went past, heading for the kitchen.

“Whatever.” He gave his father a shrug and removed his coat – he hadn’t bothered after coming in, and realized he was still wearing it. “Good thing Jett and ‘Tarah hadn’t had any, though.”

His father’s steps toward the door faltered for a nanosecond; Jax dismissed it as one of the man’s leg twinges.

After supper, they went to their respective rooms, but Jax paused at Jett’s door. It occurred to him that with all the traveling he’d been doing he hadn’t kept up with his personal life. His business life was still intact – he’d been given a paid leave of absence after returning from his two-week absence. His brother was practically worshipped by two of his bosses, and when he explained the situation, they had readily agreed to give him as much time as necessary to make sure Jett recovered. The next Summer Olympics were only two years away, and without the astounding skills of Jett Kinsley, the American team would be in serious trouble.

Jax found their willingness to help an act of selfishness more than one of compassion. After all, they invested large amounts of personal funds betting on the winners in the Games. Regardless of the motive, however, he was grateful for the time. Staying in touch with them was a peripheral consideration at this point. His friends were another story. He may not have been in a committed relationship, but he did have a large circle of friends – both male and female – who cared about him for him and not for his relationship to some famous athlete.

The last time he’d been at his parents’ home, he’d brought his laptop. This time he hadn’t bothered. Well, he’d use Jett’s. It wasn’t all that late, and he needed to check his emails, perhaps answer one or two.

Like the last time, being in his brother’s room felt strange, even though he now knew where Jett was and that he was recovering. In fact, this made it harder not to feel like he was violating his brother’s privacy. Couldn’t be helped, though.

Because he used the same email service as Jett, his brother’s account automatically popped up. Jax was about to log out and enter his own information, when an email address caught his attention.

ajohanansmom123@....

Why on earth would Chara be sending Jett an email? Hadn’t his mother told her he was MIA? And as far as Jax new, there hadn’t been any further communication between the two women since. How odd, then, that she’d be emailing – and wait. Why would she email Jett and not Celia?

Proving too much of an enigma to be left alone, he opened the email. A minute later, he was overjoyed that he had, yet almost wished he hadn’t.

Atarah Kinsley was alive and well. It had all been staged to protect her from some doctor…but he had found her and she was with him…had severe amnesia…wouldn’t touch her until after she had the baby…WHAT?!

Jax suddenly remembered his father’s miniscule stumble when he’d expressed relief that Jett and Atarah hadn’t had any children. He knew! Which meant his mother knew, too! But…did they know his sister-in-law was still alive?

“Holy shit!” He sat back, struggling to get his emotions and thoughts unscrambled so he could make a sane decision about how to deal with this information. Emptying his mind, he closed his eyes, told himself to relax and stop thinking for a moment. Then, a tiny bit more calm, he opened his eyes again, blinked back a new wave of panic, and re-read the email.

When he was done, he realized he had some choices to make. Did he tell his parents about this? Did he write back? Chara had written the message with the understanding that Jett was gone, but that she had faith he’d be back at some point and would need to be told exactly what had happened. Fine. So what would Jax say to her if he did respond? And finally, should he tell Jett?

“Damn it!” He needed an aspirin. Or a glass of wine. Something. He wondered how dangerous this doctor was, if he would harm Atarah to keep her from being returned to her family and husband – that whole if-I-can’t-have-her-nobody-can craziness.

He read the email again to confirm something. Nope. Chara had given no indication that she knew where the doctor and ‘Tarah were. Was that because she was afraid Jett would try and go after them himself, or because she didn’t know? He groaned, frustrated, and went back downstairs to put on a pot of coffee.

Until he figured out some kind of plan of action, he for sure wasn’t going to be getting any sleep.

*12*

 

 

“Who has it? Who? Who? I want it!”

“Aw, shut up, Fitz. Mr. Nobody took it. He’s outside practicing his throwing, I’m told.”

The first man, a middle-aged former lawyer known by the other patients only as “Fitz,” scowled, crossing his arms over his chest, and paced to the nearest window. “I don’t see him.”

The second man, a much older gentleman named Jules who was at one time an EMT, and who had seen one too many mangled bodies, snorted. “’Course you don’t, Fitz. The field is on the other side of the building! Idiot,” he added under his breath.

“Great. Is that the only baseball we have? I really wanted to have a game of catch.”

“Yup, it’s the only one, and you know why, too.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. So we respect it, or some such crap.” Fitz took a quick, deep breath and went to the ping-pong table where he picked up a paddle and began to pantomime hitting a ball. “You notice Mr. N has started to look better these days?”

“Hmm. Yeh, almost like an athlete. They must have improved the way they do physical therapy, ha!”

“Well, it helps that he’s so doggone tall to start with.” Fitz tossed the paddle back onto the table and threw himself into one of the recliners nearby. “Young, too. Wonder what’s wrong with him?”

“Besides him not talking, you mean?” Another man, closer in age to Jett who was recovering from a drug-induced psychosis that had caused him to attempt suicide twelve times during the previous year, smiled at the other two. “Maybe that’s why we all like him. He never says anything that pisses anyone off.”

Fitz shook his head. “Maybe not, but taking the baseball gets pretty close.”

“Hell, man, it isn’t like he’s leaving the planet with it!”

“Shut up, Jules.”

Silence took over for a while, broken only when Jett and one of the orderlies entered. Everyone looked up, but before any of them could speak, Jett walked across the room to Fitz and held out the ball.

“Hey, thanks, kid. How’d you know I wanted it?”

Jett shrugged, smiling. He was still underweight, but now had a healthier glow to his skin; he had also begun filling out and no longer looked anorexic.

“N’s got one hell of an arm,” said the orderly. “Not that…uh, right. So! Fitz! Did you want to go outside and throw the ball around for a while before lunch?” He had caught himself about to make a remark about how Jett’s throwing skill wasn’t surprising, considering his Olympic and athletic record. Apparently, Jett had realized this and glared pleasantly, stopping him.

“Nah, not unless I have someone to throw to.” Fitz tucked up his legs and began to sing. He did that, it seemed, whenever he wanted to be ignored. If anyone tried to talk to him while he was doing this, he’d stop long enough to say, “Can’t you see I’m trying to sing? Leave me alone!” and then return to it. His singing voice was horrible, but this behavior was somehow relaxing for the man, so no one made him stop.

The younger man, who went by “Windowpane,” and which everyone knew was a nickname, shuffled up to Jett. “Hey, N, you gonna play Free Cell later?”

“Not tonight,” the orderly answered instead. “He has to work on strengthening his foot and ankle after lunch, and then has a private session with Dr. Rufino.”

“Too bad. I like watching him never lose.” Windowpane burst into laughter that was just this side of manic, and left the room.

Shaking his head and smiling at the retreating back of the strangely-named patient, the orderly turned to Jett. “You’ve done really well, today, Mr. N. How do you feel?”

Jett flexed his shoulder, gave a slight wince, then made the sign for “little” with his thumb and finger.

“Huh. That’s better than yesterday, though.” The orderly looked pleased. “I’ll let the therapist know. He wants to make sure you don’t overdo it.”

After one of the patients had come up with the “Mr. Nobody” reference, Jett had been called that for several weeks, but eventually it got abbreviated to “Mr. N,” and now many of the patients were calling him “N.” He never indicated that the name was a problem for him, so it stuck. Even his brother would call him that when he visited.

Jett seemed, finally, to be recovering in a meaningful way, and all were pleased with his progress. Except.

Except that the only person he ever actually spoke to with words by writing his thoughts, was his brother. Until he began communicating that way with the doctors, regardless of how physically fit he became, he wasn’t going to be allowed to leave without a whole lot of legal interference from the outside. Dr. Rufino had gotten permission from the hospital’s Board to detain Jett, despite his having checked himself in. There was, they all agreed, sufficient proof that the young man was still too unstable to be allowed out. Not that he was a danger to anyone but himself, but that was reason enough, they felt, to keep him there until deemed capable of handling life in a normal way once again.

Of course, Jett knew nothing of this, but what he did know and how he felt about it all was anybody’s guess. The other thing of which Jett knew nothing was the contents and import of the devastating email his mother-in-law had sent.

How he handled that information would determine his entire future.

 

*******

 

A lot of thinking, of weighing the possible outcomes, of considering things like impact, practicality and how to even talk about it, had gone into Jax’s decision to bring his parents in on what he knew. It had taken him a full month, during which he’d called Chara demanding details, and done a lot of research into international law and private-investigation organizations that got him nowhere. He had visited Jett twice, but couldn’t see the profit in telling him what was going on. He had hoped to fix the problem himself, but finally had to admit it was beyond his ability. So now, having made that decision to tell his parents, he saw it would not be easy. But what had been since the day they were told about the crash?

“Honey, why are you pacing?”

Jax halted in the middle of the kitchen, his untouched cup of coffee growing cold in his hand. He put it on the counter. Faced his parents who were sitting at the breakfast bar dividing the room. This is going to be a bitch. “Um, I have something to tell you that’s going to upset you a whole lot.”

Celia half-stood. “What happened, Ajax? Is Jett all right?”

“He’s fine. For now. This…this is something else, something…oh, hell!” He stared hard at the floor, dreading the next words crowding into the front of his mind, demanding to be shown the exit.

“Son, let’s hear it. Spit it out. We’ll deal with whatever it is together, okay?”

He nodded, looked back at them and said, “Atarah isn’t dead.”

After a long, tight silence, Celia whispered, “What are you talking about?”

No going back… “Chara sent an email to Jett. I saw it by accident – he was supposed to get it, uh, later, I guess. I mean, she knows he went off somewhere, but I got the impression she believed he’d be back soon and wanted him to know what really happened.”

“Chara…” Celia practically choked on the name. “Are you saying she had something to do with this? That she lied to me? To us? To Jett?”

“Yes, but she did it to protect ‘Tarah. She was going to tell Jett about it immediately, but something went wrong.”

“Ajax, I’m a few seconds away from calling that woman and giving her hell, so before I do, I recommend you fill us in on the whys and wherefores.” Bryson, eyes like a storm, had gotten to his feet.

“Okay. Please sit down, Dad.”

He complied, but slowly.

“Thank you. Okay. You know Seth was terribly sick and needed an operation, yes? It seems Chara couldn’t find a doctor who would risk doing that operation, and it looked like he was going to die within a few weeks of the onset, or whatever it is you call that. And then this neurologist contacted her. Said he’d examine her husband at least, and then tell her whether or not he’d operate.” He scowled, remembering Chara’s next words. “Anyhow, he went to Greece, examined Seth, and then – then he told Chara that he’d do it, but that she would have to meet his price.” Not wanting to so much as give voice to what that man’s price was, Jax fell silent and began pacing again.

“For the love of God, Ajax, get to the damn point!”

“Sorry, Dad. The point. Right. The son-of-a-bitch said his price was Atarah. Seems he saw her photograph in an arts magazine several years ago and became obsessed with her. Of course, that isn’t how he put it. He had the gall to tell Chara he was in love with her daughter, had actually been stalking her all this time. He had cut out every photo he could find in the gossip papers, magazines, art stuff – and he’d been following her wherever she went. Said he would save Seth’s life in exchange for Atarah becoming his. Not his wife, his. Period. He wanted to own her, to, I don’t know, make her his toy or some such thing. And when Chara said she had just gotten married, he said he didn’t care. That if necessary, he’d kill her husband! He’d better never cross my path, the bastard!”

“And what did Chara do?” Celia had gone pale for several minutes, but was flushed with anger when she asked this.

“Arranged to have the pilot jump out with ‘Tarah and crash the plane when they were almost at Paros, but still out over the water. A friend was waiting there with a boat. But something went wrong, and the plane crashed closer than it was supposed to, I think she said. I don’t really remember – I’ll show you the email later. The thing is, ‘Tarah was hit by some of the debris and got a severe head injury. She hadn’t even known about any of this!” He clenched his fists, but then made himself ease up enough to continue. “They brought her to a friend’s home as planned, but couldn’t get any doctors involved because Chara was afraid it would get out that she hadn’t been on the stupid plane when it went down.” He stopped pacing and sat opposite his mother. “Whatever. Anyway, the long and short of it is that she has amnesia. Doesn’t know who she is or what happened.”

Bryson shook his head, unconsciously covering one of his wife’s hands with his own. “As infuriating as this is to learn, I don’t understand why it’s as bad as your behavior is telling us it is. What haven’t you said?”

“The proverbial plot thickened quite a bit after that, and what I haven’t told you is the reason it took me a month to say anything to you at all. And don’t give me that look, Mom. Listen. You’ll get why I waited, why I had to be sure it was something I should tell you.” He took a long, deep breath, blew it out slowly, and continued. “Chara let the doctor know about the crash, indicating that her daughter was dead. By this time, he’d already performed the operation and Seth was going to be all right. She ended up paying the guy over a million dollars for the operation, but said she felt her daughter’s safety was worth it. After he left to go back to his clinic in…wherever, Chara arranged to have ‘Tarah brought to the house to work as a servant. That way, she’d have her back, be able to keep an eye on her, and…all that. She told me that since ‘Tarah’s such a high-profile person, someone might have recognized her. So she cut her hair real short, dressed her in ugly maid-like clothes, and almost never spoke English in order to reinforce ‘Tarah’s Greek. And since everyone thought she was dead, no one was expecting to see her, so in a way, she was hiding in plain sight whenever she went shopping and stuff.”

“And there’s more. Stop rambling.”

“Yes. Sorry, Mom. The doctor was supposed to come back for the last of his follow-up visits. The previous ones took place while ‘Tarah was still recovering from her head injury and was at that other woman’s house. Who, by the way, they told ‘Tarah was her mother.”

“Things this complicated never end well,” Bryson muttered. He took a sip of coffee and almost spat it out. “Yuck. Cold.”

Celia jumped up. “I’ll get you a fresh cup. If I don’t do something, I’m going to scream. Please keep talking, Ajax. I can hear you.”

I would hope so, Mom – you’re only a few feet away. “Well, yeah. So Mrs. J was going to arrange for ‘Tarah to be at what she believed was her mother’s house when the doctor came, but he changed his plans at the last second, and showed up three days early. ‘Tarah got sent to Athens several hours before he got there so he wouldn’t see her, but it seems she was still suffering from headaches. They had told her she had a neurological condition, which was why she had so many gaps in her memory.”

On the other side of the room, Celia snorted. “How clever.”

“Sure was. Well, because of that, and because she’s the one who took the phone call from the doc saying he was going to get there early, she was possibly reminded that he was a neurologist. She must have put two and two together, and concluded he might be able to help her with her, uh, condition.” Jax swallowed hard, reminded sharply of the other thing, the one he really, really didn’t want to discuss. “So, um, she came back early from her shopping trip in order to see him. Chara was upstairs when they met, so doesn’t know what was said. All she knows is what one of her other maids told her – that ‘Tarah spoke with the doctor, and they left together. That night, he called Chara, said he was going to make her suffer for lying to him about her daughter. That he could heal the damage that was causing the amnesia, but that Chara would never see her daughter again. He told her ‘Tarah was his, now, as was her…wow. Okay. Sorry. Give me a second on this part, will you?” He got up and went to the back door, opened it, and stared outside for a few minutes.

“Ajax?”

“Mom, wait. This is the worst part, and is something I have a horrible feeling you already know about.”

Behind him, his parents not only didn’t respond, they had stopped all movement and sound. He had his answer.

Somewhere between sorrow and outrage, he found the words. Returning to the counter, he didn’t sit, but kept as much emotion out of his voice as he could. “This monster said he wouldn’t touch ‘Tarah until after she had her baby. The way I see it, that gives us a maximum of five months in which to find her and get her away from him. It also gives Jett some extra time to recover. I don’t want to hear about him not getting involved in rescuing her, either. He’s been living in a version of hell that none of us can begin to comprehend, and deserves to either help get her back, or die trying.” He ignored the shock on their faces, finally letting them see the determination on his. “We’re going to get her back, with or without the help of police and other authorities. And neither of you is going to argue with me. That’s it. I’m done.” He started to leave the room but turned back for a moment. “I’ll open the email on his computer if you want to go upstairs and read it. I made sure to save it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Bluebird. Gotta check on Jett. And then I have some things to do. I may or may not be back some time tomorrow, but I will be back.” I hope.

 

*******

 

Things were not making sense. As she stared out the window of the small clinic, Issa wondered why she hadn’t been allowed to return to the Johanan’s. Dr. Kobienko had told her that Mrs. Johanan had, in fact, been furious that Issa had left without telling her, and had informed Kobienko when he called to give the woman her servant’s whereabouts, that Issa shouldn’t bother coming back.

That would be understandable, except that everything Issa had come to know about Kyria Johanan told her there would have at least been some kind of personal communication from her. To simply fire her like that without even a minor confrontation was not characteristic of the woman in the least. After all, her husband had nearly died of a neurological disorder. How could the woman not have so much as a shred of sympathy for Issa’s own condition? Furthermore, why weren’t her belongings forwarded to the clinic? The impulsive decision to leave immediately had perhaps been inconsiderate, but in no way incomprehensible.

No, it wasn’t making sense. Any of it. And then there was the matter of Issa’s accent. Why, if she was Greek, did she not only know English with such easy fluency, but more, how had she learned to speak it like an American? As far as she could recall, she’d never been to that country. The other situation – one she now recognized as undeniable fact – troubled her even more deeply. Who was the father of the child she carried? She may have gaps in her memory, but surely something like that would have some grip on a recollection here and there. But no, nothing.

And then there was Dr. Kobienko. He made her uncomfortable. Period. The way she would catch him looking at her, like an antiques dealer who had just acquired the signature piece for his collection. Yet nothing he ever said indicated he felt that way, felt like he owned her. He was more than kind, even when she asked a lot of questions she knew aggravated him to answer. Every once in a while he would casually talk about marriage – about the tragedy of his never having been able to find the right woman. He would then go on at length, listing all the amazing and wonderful things he would do for a woman who loved him back. He made it sound like he’d put her on a pedestal and treat her like a goddess. Yuck.

Finally, there had been the occasions when he thought she was asleep. He would sit on the side of her bed, not touching her, but whispering. And when he did, he’d call her by another name, one that sounded familiar and therefore bothersome. Why did he do that?

It was all upsetting in the extreme. He was obviously a brilliant doctor, and his treatments had already made her headaches stop. But her respect for him as a doctor was tempered by a deep mistrust. Of what, she couldn’t say. His motives, perhaps. Issa wasn’t stupid. All that talk about finding “the right woman” and marriage was a blatant ploy to manipulate her, and not subtle in the least. Unless he thought she was nothing more than a feather-headed female he was hoping to coax into his bed.

That thought made her want to vomit.

A car entered through the gates at the far end of the grounds and rolled slowly toward the building. A Mercedes. Not the doctor – I believe he’s still here. Besides, he drives a Bentley. How do I know how to recognize the difference?

When the vehicle stopped, the driver got out and opened the back door. A woman emerged wrapped in furs and wearing spiky-heeled shoes that looked like they’d catch in the cobbles if she wasn’t careful. Kobienko came outside a second later, arms extended in greeting. Issa stepped back from the window, not wanting to be seen.

From her third-floor vantage, she’d been unable to tell how old the woman was. Perhaps she was the doctor’s mother. Perhaps not. It hardly mattered. Ruffling her hair with one hand, Issa returned to her bed. She wasn’t supposed to spend too much time on her feet, but tended to grow restless after several hours of reading. That was all she was allowed to do.

And then the door opened.

“Here she is,” said Kobienko, stepping aside and sweeping one hand out toward the bed.

The woman in furs glided into the room, her movement graceful, her clothing impeccable and stylish, her hair like a blue-black cloud, her middle-aged face like stone. “Ah. Yes. Well! What a shock, then, Yvgenyi, eh? Where’s the ribbon?”

He chuckled, but it was nothing pleasant. “Er, Issa, this is Dr. Chevon from Paris. She specializes in cases like yours. I called her in to assist in your final operation and treatment.”

Issa was astounded. This woman was a doctor? She looked more like an over-the-hill, angry brothel Madam. And what on earth had she meant about a ribbon?

“Don’t you know how to speak, girl?” Dr. Chevon came closer to the bed, pushing a choke-inducing scent of cologne before her.

“I’m sorry,” said Issa, fighting a desire to cover her nose and giving a tiny cough. “How nice to meet you, doctor.” The woman’s accent was the same as Kobienko’s, which made Issa wonder why they were bothering to speak English. And why not Greek? Maybe the woman didn’t know that language. Her English was, without a doubt, better than Kobienko’s, but that didn’t explain why they were conversing in it.

“Yes, I expect it is. You need to gain a little weight before we operate, child.” She leaned over, causing the fur stole to separate and expose a plunging neckline that showed everything except her nipples. “Let me see. Look up. Ah, eyes nice and clear. Good.” She reached out and ran a finger down the side of Issa’s face. “Good complexion. Excellent.” Her finger continued downward, and then her hand brushed not very lightly over Issa’s breast. “Nice,” she murmured before straightening. “I think she’s healthy enough, Kobienko, as you promised.” Her gaze traveled downward. “And not showing yet, either.” Her smile was innately grotesque.

Suddenly, Issa wanted to leap off the bed, run downstairs and out the door, and keep running until she found someplace with normal human beings.

“Yes, well, Dr. Chevon, I think that’s enough exam for today, yes? Don’t forget my timetable.” The stare he gave her belied his smile, being too wide and bright.

“Your timetable. Yes, my beloved Puritan. Very well.” The woman backed away, turned, and went out.

Kobienko followed, not bothering to say anything to Issa, who listened to the progress of their footsteps along the hall and down the stairs. Kobienko had begun whispering to the woman, but all Issa could catch was what sounded like “fool.”

Which I would be to stay here! I don’t care if I never get my memory fixed! The only thing was, how could she get away without being stopped? That she could make it out of the clinic, she had little doubt. Her door had no lock, and she’d noticed only a few other people working there, none of whom looked like guards. Of course, she’d never been outside her room after everyone was asleep, and at an hour that might be great for an escape, there could well be guards, locks and even alarms.

Issa gave this dilemma her full attention, and for the next twenty minutes or so, became oblivious to all sounds and sights around her. She began by taking slow, deep breaths to calm herself, and then considered the possibilities. That she’d have to leave during daylight was a given. That she would be missed almost immediately was also a given. So how to make the two facts work to her advantage? It seemed clear that when she left, she’d have to hide somewhere nearby in order to get away successfully later when the darkness would keep her movements hidden.

Twice since coming to the clinic, Issa had been allowed out onto the grounds for exercise. She concentrated on what she’d seen during those outings, and after a while, remembered a ladder that looked like it went all the way to the roof. Of course, since she’d thought of it, so would someone else. No, hiding up there wouldn’t work.

There were wooded areas here and there within the brick walls surrounding the clinic; but no, she would be discovered almost immediately. Where else? Was there a basement window that was always left open, maybe? And how would she find out? Too complicated. Was there no solution? The way that woman had touched her, Issa no longer had any doubt that Kobienko’s motives were dark and horrible. That reference to the ribbon – it occurred to her that the ghoulish Dr. Chevon (if she really was a doctor) was planning to force herself on Issa in ways that made her feel sick. So the ribbon thing must have been the woman’s disgusting way of saying Issa was a gift, something that should have been wrapped in a ribbon.

Swallowing a sudden rise of bile, Issa got up and went to the dresser where a water decanter and glass had been placed. She could barely gulp the tepid liquid past the constriction in her throat. The idea of that woman, never mind the doctor, touching her even more intimately – she slammed the glass down, wanting to scream.

“Are you well, Miss?” One of the male nurses must have been nearby and heard the glass hit the dresser. He was standing politely in the open door, brows raised.

Issa forced a smile as she faced him, even managing to sound apologetic. “Yes, I am. I – I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention and the glass slipped as I picked it up. Thank goodness it didn’t tip over!”

“Oh. All right. Do you have enough water?”

“Yes. You’re very kind. By the way, I’ve finished reading my other book. Is there something else I could read?” It seemed that if she behaved like nothing had changed, no one would suspect how badly-shaken she’d been by her encounter with the repulsive Dr. Chevon.

The nurse put his head to one side, frowning. “Well, I could check the lounge to see if any of the ones borrowed by some of the other patients has been returned.”

“That would be lovely!” She smiled again, noticing almost subconsciously that the man’s uniform was too tight across his stomach. “Thank you!”

“No problem, Miss. That’s why I’m here.”

What? She picked up the glass again and headed to her bed. “I appreciate it.”

He was gone a moment later.

You’d think an exclusive medical clinic like this would provide uniforms that fit their personnel! Unless the guy recently gained weight, but…oh! Oh my God! Yes! The uniform!

If she managed to smuggle a uniform into her room and change into it without being found out, she could leave the building, hide somewhere on the grounds, and when the search for her began, join everyone else. With her height and short hair, she suspected she could pass for a man, if she used a nightgown to bind her breasts; her pregnancy made them sore so it would be painful, but worth it beyond question. What else? Sunglasses…where had she seen a pair lying around? Somewhere in the lounge, was it? Or maybe the kitchen? No – ah! They were on a shelf in the pantry where patients were allowed to go to get snacks for themselves. Maybe the glasses would still be there, and thus provide her with the final touch to make her disguise viable.

It looked like she had a working plan, and at that point, the only thing that concerned her, other than the possibility of getting caught after all, was that she’d be unable to get her daily medication, the small pills that kept her headaches away. According to Kobienko, the first two operations had been successful in releasing pressure on her brain, but the medicine was necessary to prevent its underlying cause from returning before the third and final one.

When she considered all her options and weighed headaches against being imprisoned as someone’s sex toy, there was no question that leaving the medication behind was practically irrelevant. So no, all that remained was to get her hands on a uniform, the sunglasses, and still be in her room when the nurse returned.

A little more thought, and she’d figured the rest out. Smiling with open relief, she put on her slippers and got started.

*13*

 

 

The pipe was hollow metal and had no tip, but the weight and length were right. As a javelin in an ancient battle where good weapons meant life or death, this would be useless. But as a tool for practicing while he continued to build up his throwing arm, it would do. He’d used medical tape to make a grip at the pipe’s center of gravity, and measured out his “runway” by eye, not having access to a tape measure that was long enough to give him the accurate 98-foot path.

Jett hefted it to shoulder level, disused muscles in painful revolt but remembering everything they were supposed to do – the position, the stance, the angle for hitting the right arc. His target within the sector he’d designated was a piece of paper in front of a tree he estimated to be about as far as he’d been able to throw at his last Olympic event. Not expecting the pipe’s tip to land anywhere near it, he was still curious to see how much strength he’d regained.

Several weeks of training with the facility’s equivalent of free-weights – large cans of soup and vegetables – had strengthened his arms and chest somewhat, but he needed a lot more work, and knew it.

“Come on, N! Throw the stupid thing!”

Without taking his eyes from the barely-discernible target, he smiled, gathered himself, and began his run.

Around him on the grass, about thirty patients stood watching. He’d been told he would have an audience because the patients needed the entertainment, but assured that none of them was aware of Jett’s real identity or of his Olympic record. All they knew, he concluded, was that one of their own looked like he was getting better, and they had all been invited to watch him do something unusual.

A few feet before the end of his improvised throwing area, Jett pulled his arm back a little further. Almost there…now!

It felt like someone had torn his arm from its socket and he gasped, gripping his shoulder and going to one knee. Through tears of agony, he saw where the pipe had landed, noting that the tip had barely touched the outside edge of the paper before its length clanked to the ground.

Shocked that he’d thrown it so far, Jett got back to his feet, still holding what felt like a small fire in his right shoulder joint and upper arm, and walked to where the pipe lay. He didn’t hear the cheers, but even during the Olympics he’d been deaf to the noise of approval and support.

“Incredible.” Jax had joined him and picked up the pole. “Even in your way-less-than-top condition, you nearly matched your record! I’d like to see someone accuse you of using steroids this time!”

Jett gave a silent laugh and shook his head.

“So, uh, how bad does it hurt?”

He mouthed the word “bad,” and turned. Now he couldn’t help but register the presence and sounds of his audience. He smiled at them, nodding. It seemed like the right reaction.

“You – you’re really good,” said Windowpane, approaching from Jett’s left. “I’ve watched people do that at school, and none of them ever came close to throwing that pole thingy as far as you did.”

“He’s fast too! Bet if you ran away, no one would ever catch you.” A man who looked more like a mole than a human, came to stand beside Windowpane. “I saw a kid in the Olympics a few years ago who looked a lot like you. He could run like that and throw the Javelin like it was nothing. Ever watch the Olympics, N?”

Jett nodded, amused at being his own look-alike.

“You’re still holding your shoulder,” Jax murmured, leaning closer. “Does it hurt that much?”

Nodding again, the former decathlete took the pipe from Jax, and before his brother could realize what he was doing, trotted off to the far end of the running strip.

“Hey! Dude! What the hell?!” Jax’s voice faded a little on each word as Jett got further away.

Holding the pipe in his other hand, he sighted down the imaginary path, raised it to the level of his left shoulder, and started his run. His ankle had begun to hurt now, too, but he didn’t bother worrying about it. The injury on his right side hadn’t been as severe for some reason; when he released the projectile this time, it felt like his entire arm went with it.

He nearly passed out.

“Jett! Damn it! What were you thinking?”

Lying on his side, teeth clenched, Jett was barely able to move but conscious. Don’t use my name, Jax! Ow, ow, ow…hell. Other feet came into his limited view and a moment later he felt himself being lifted upright. Sniffling, Jett peered around trying to locate the pipe.

Where – ah. Whoa! No wonder his shoulder pain was so terrible. He had taught himself to function with complete ambidexterity despite having been born right-handed, and would switch arms during various events that called for their use – like throwing the shot-put or the javelin, even when pole-vaulting. This had given him an advantage his competitors and team-mates would never have unless they trained themselves in a similar manner. Few of them ever did. Still, he was astounded to see that this time he’d overshot the target and hit the tree. The pole was resting at an angle against its trunk, the top a few inches from the ground.

“…stupid! You could destroy your chances for a full recovery!”

Jett turned to his brother, recognizing that the wrathful expression was fueled entirely by worry. He knew Jax too well to imagine his sibling was angry for any other reason. He wanted to shrug, but couldn’t. So he did the next best thing – he gently tugged himself away from the orderlies holding him, went closer to his brother, and leaned his forehead against Jax’s.

“Aw, hell. I love you, too, Je…uh, N.”

They both laughed, although no one could hear Jett.

“Looks like the fun is over, everyone,” one of the orderlies announced. “Let’s get back inside now – it’s almost lunch time!”

“I want that pole thing!” Fitz was whining. “How come I only ever get to play with the baseball? Huh? Huh? And – and the new kid has a pole thing? That’s not fair!”

One of the orderlies started walking next to him. “And what would you do with it, Fitz?”

“Uh, throw it?”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

Everyone stopped and watched as the orderly jogged to the tree, retrieved the pipe, and brought it to Fitz. “Here you go. Let’s see what you can do.”

The man grabbed it, grinning, but the grin went away quickly when he struggled to lift it, much less throw it like he’d seen the younger inmate do. He gave the orderly a twisted smile. “Yeah, never mind. The baseball will do.”

They resumed their walk back into the main building, during which Jett acknowledged something that surprised him so much, he almost forgot his pain. When it came time to leave this place, he was going to miss it.

 

*******

 

Visits to Bluebird Foundation had been all right, but having their son home again had been the ultimate goal. Now, at last, this was going to be a reality. Celia and Bryson had done a lot of talking about how to make sure Jett didn’t go off the deep end again once he was released. They agreed that the smartest place to start was his room – remove all traces of Atarah, at least for the time being. Let him get settled and thinking straight before hitting him with the other bombshell. Learning that his wife was alive would have been the best news he could get, were she there to tell him herself. The next best thing would have been to know where she was. Only no one did. It had been close to a year since the staged plane accident, which meant that if the young woman had, in fact, been pregnant, she would have had the child by now. Somewhere, they could very well have a grandchild they might never meet.

After reading Chara’s email all those months ago, Celia had called her. As nicely as she could, Celia had explained what the other woman’s subterfuge had done to Jett. When she was done, Chara had apologized through tears of deep remorse, and then expanded on her guilt, letting Celia know that Atarah was missing, abducted by the doctor she’d hoped to trick into leaving her family alone. Over the following months, the two mothers had stayed in touch, and once Seth and Bryson got involved, Interpol and the FBI were finally contacted. They found Dr. Kobienko, but no trace of Atarah. One of the male nurses at his clinic in the countryside town outside St. Petersburg – the Russian one – told the police that yes, a girl matching Atarah’s description had been a patient there, but that she’d run away several months earlier, and despite the doctor’s best efforts, had never been found.

Celia and Bryson weren’t sure how to tell Jett about all this – what a horrible, complicated mess it had turned out to be! As for the doctor whose sick obsession had started it all, no charges were brought because there was no proof that he had behaved in an illegal or illicit manner. Chara confessed to a logical fear that if her daughter eventually surfaced and it became publicly known, Kobienko would do something violent.

So far, the media knew nothing about Atarah, other than the old report of her untimely death (Celia hated that expression – when on earth was someone’s death ever “timely,” unless one was speaking of Hitler or some other evil individual?) so there had been little activity from the paparazzi in her neighborhood over the past six months. But now Jett had gotten well enough to come home. She was sure that if any of the reporters saw him, every news-shark in the country would be at her front door within hours.

“What about his emails?”

“What do you mean, Ajax?”

“Never mind.” He gave his mother a brief smile and disappeared into Jett’s room.

The clinic had arranged transportation to bring her son home later that day, and a final check on Jett’s room had been made to be sure nothing was there that would cause any major mental trauma. It looked the same, of course, but with some obvious exceptions – the wedding photo, Atarah’s clothes, her toiletries, the magazines with articles about her work and their marriage, and her small marble sculptures that had decorated several surfaces, all had been taken away and stored in plastic bins in the attic. But emails?

A moment later, she realized what Jax had meant, and went downstairs, leaving him to it. “Got enough on the old plate, eh?” she murmured. “Like making some food…”

 

*****

 

Leaving his mother to figure out whatever it was she had to do on her part to make things comfortable for Jett, Jax went to his brother’s computer and turned it on. The emails he thought he should hang on to for informational purposes he forwarded to his own in-box, then deleted everything that made reference to Atarah. All communication from the Johanans, a few from friends congratulating him on his marriage or making jokes about the wedding night, emails from everyone asking him where the heck he was – these were easy to find and delete, having been sent during the first few months after Jett went to the Foundation, but dwindling as time passed and eventually stopping altogether.

When he was done, it occurred to Jax that Atarah probably had a bunch of emails, too, and was pretty sure Jett could access them. The trouble was, he had no idea how to get into them himself. Frowning, he tried to remember the name of his sister-in-law’s best friend, the one who had been her Maid of Honor at the wedding. A tiny, delicate thing, he remembered thinking she was beautiful, but didn’t bother pursuing her because of his own lifestyle and the fact that he lived so far away.

He shut off the computer and went downstairs to find his mother. She was in the living room, checking, he assumed, for any objects related to Atarah that she might have missed.

“Did you take care of everything?”

“Sort of. Mom, do remember the name of ‘Tarah’s Maid of Honor?”

“I do. Ondine. I don’t recall her last name, but I have the program from the church with everyone’s name in the wedding party.” She pursed her lips, looking off to the side. “Hmm. Where did I put that?”

“You still have it?”

“I’m pretty sure I do. Come along.” After giving him a brief, odd look, she went past him and trotted up the stairs. “All right, let me think.” She opened her bedroom door, ushering Jax in ahead of her as she continued. “The day of the wedding, after making sure Jett and ‘Tarah had successfully escaped the crowds following them to the airport…hmm. We came home – I was exhausted – and I wanted nothing more than to get out of that dress and into something soft and comfy. Now what did I…tossed my dress purse into a box in the closet…I know I didn’t bother to empty it...” Her gaze refocused and she nodded at her son.

“You remember?”

“Of course. I’m may dodder once in a while, but I’m not senile yet.” She opened the closet door, and pointed at the shelf over the clothing rod. “Would you pull that box down for me, please?”

Grasping the pretty floral hatbox, he slid it off the shelf and handed it to her. “I know. It’s nice having tall children.”

Celia smacked his arm, grinning, then took the box to the bed. From its padded interior, she removed a satin purse and opened it. “All right, let’s see. Lacy handkerchief I’d never use to blow my nose, lipstick I won’t use again because it only matches the outfit I wore to the wedding and nothing else in my wardrobe, and…ah, yes. The program.” After unfolding it, she ran her eye down the facing page, eyes narrowed as she read the list of the wedding party members. “And… there. Ondine St. Michele.”

            “Thanks, mom. I appreciate you doing this.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I’m hoping she can help me access ‘Tarah’s email.” He bit his lip. “Trouble is, I don’t know how to explain my request without letting on that her best friend might not be dead. I also don’t know how to contact her. I don’t suppose Mrs. Johanan would have that information?”

“I have no idea. Do you really need to do that, though?”

Jax sighed and sat on one of the small sofas near the window. “I don’t know. I’m just concerned that Jett will get it into his head to read her stuff for whatever reason, and I don’t think it would be a great idea for him to be able to do that.”

“Maybe not, but don’t you think he’d be furious if he realized you – well, what are you going to do once you get access, as you say?”

“Delete her account.”

“Oh, Ajax! What if she comes back! She’d be quite upset if you’d taken it upon yourself to mess with her personal information like that!”

“Even if she knew I did it to keep her husband sane until she was found?”

Celia sat beside him. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. This is crazy.”

They were silent for several minutes.

“I’ve thought of something.”

Jax raised his brows. “And?”

“And. Well. I remember Chara saying something about the art studio.”

“What do you mean?”

“She called to cancel the lease, and found out someone had been paying the rent.”

“Okay, and when was this?”

Celia got up and began pacing. “About two months ago. Apparently, the rent had never not been paid, and Chara muttered something about thinking it must be her daughter’s best friend, who spent almost as much time there as Atarah did.” She stopped. “The only person I know who qualifies as a best friend is this Ondine.”

“So you think I could find her there?”

“Seems possible.” She looked at her watch. “I doubt you could get there and back before Jett gets home, though.”

“No, probably not, considering her studio is…uh, any idea where it is? I don’t live around here, remember?”

She laughed. “Sorry, sweetheart. Of course you wouldn’t know that. I’m getting old. It’s downtown somewhere. I’ve been there once or twice, but never paid attention to the actual address.”

“Aw, come on, Mom. You aren’t old. Yet.”

She smacked him on the arm again.

“Anyway, I still think I should go find this Ondine. Tomorrow, maybe. I’m hoping Jett’s too tired or something to mess with emails the minute he gets in.”

“We’ll keep him plenty busy, Ajax. Besides, it’s a five-and-a-half-hour drive, and he’ll probably be bored to exhaustion by the time he’s dropped off.”

They said nothing more about it. The back door had opened and closed a few seconds after Celia’s remark, indicating Bryson had returned from his visit with Warren.

“Better let him know we’re here,” said Celia, rising. “Come downstairs soon, dear.”

Assuming there were no major traffic issues, Jax figured the youngest Kinsley would be home at last in another hour. Or, perhaps, the youngest known Kinsley.

*14*

 

 

How had she disappeared so completely, so quickly? No one at the clinic, including Kobienko, had managed to find a satisfactory answer to that. The grounds and building had been well-searched, and then the surrounding areas and towns. At one point, Interpol had gotten involved, had sent frightening individuals to the clinic to question the neurologist. He’d admitted nothing, knowing there was no proof that the girl had even been there. A few of the nurses had been tricked into admitting that someone fitting Atarah Johanan’s description had, in fact, undergone two surgeries in their OR and had been a resident patient of Dr. Kobienko’s for several weeks, but that she had left some time ago. No one knew why or where she had gone. Someone, however, had wandered off, they said, and had been the subject of some intensive searching. But since Kobienko had never told the staff who it was by name, they couldn’t say for certain that it was this Atarah, or the Narkissa the police were seeking.

The FBI had then arrived, and learned even less. By that time, Kobienko had had time to speak more specifically to his staff about the situation, and assured them that the girl they sought had never been at the clinic. He also told them that the purpose of the investigation had nothing to do with a missing person, but was being conducted in an effort to find reasons to close the clinic. It was, he confided, such a good one that the American medical community felt it would give too much competition in the world market. None of that made any sense, of course, but Kobienko’s staff, he knew, was loyal and believed everything he told them. He paid extremely well.

So the questions remained: how had she escaped? Where had she gone? Was she still alive somewhere? Had she given birth? On and on. Not wanting to be seen searching for her himself, since he was certain the authorities were still watching him from time to time, Kobienko had convinced Dr. Chevon – who had her own reasons for wanting to find Atarah – to continue looking, hiring whomever she thought would be effective and funding the entire endeavor out of his own funds.

Now, almost a year later, there was still no trace. Perhaps she’d fallen into a river, or a ravine, or…or maybe, without the medication he’d been giving her, her memory had returned and she was trying to get back home. He knew she had no passport, and that she spoke no Russian. But he also knew she was clever, creative, quick-witted, and capable of getting herself to safety. She had to know, though, that if she ever surfaced, she and everyone she knew would be in danger from him. As a doctor with an almost limitless supply of finances and access to any number of drugs, together with his knowledge of how to use them, he could easily go to America, get close to her family, friends, and that idiot husband, and inject them with something deadly. Once free of their presence, she would be his again.

But where –

“Doctor?”

“Come in, Fedor. What is it?”

“May I sit?” The lab assistant pointed at the chair in front of Kobienko’s desk. He was flushed and appeared to be a little short of breath.

“Of course. What has happened? Are you well?”

“I am, thank you, but something – I don’t want to get your hopes too high, doctor, but my cousin told me a very strange story this morning on the phone. I was at the store when she called, and our conversation continued as I was driving home. When I got here, I ran from the parking lot because the more I thought about it, the more possible it seemed that what she told me could be what you are looking for.”

Kobienko frowned. “What in the world are you talking about, Fedor? Make sense.”

“I’m sorry. Here is what she told me. She said that a while back, a young man came to her door. He looked pale and barely able to stay conscious as he asked in broken Russian if he could come inside to get warm. Of course, she didn’t trust him, but was curious. He was tall, about six feet, and rather…pretty for a man. But he was dressed in hospital scrubs and didn’t have a woman’s figure, which confused my cousin. With curves, this man would make a very attractive girl, she said. So thinking he might simply be gay, and thus not a threat, she let him in. He sat at her table in the kitchen and gulped down nearly an entire pot of coffee and a great deal of her bread, some potted meat, and cheese, and said nothing more. Then he put his head down on his arms on the table and fell asleep. She left him there, it being late, and since she had nowhere for him to sleep anyway. The next morning he was gone.”

Kobienko leaned back in his chair, smirking. “I hope this gets more interesting, my friend, or I will have to ask you to leave. I have a lot of things to do today.”

“Sorry. Yes. Of course. About a week ago, my cousin was shopping in St. Petersburg, and saw a woman pushing a child in a stroller. You see lots of that, of course, but she was struck by the height of this woman. So she watched her, and when the mother turned, my cousin was shocked to see the face of the young man who had fallen asleep at her table all those months ago. At first, she thought maybe this was the man’s sister, but a second later, the woman made it clear that she recognized my cousin, and quickly went out of the store.”

“Did your cousin follow this woman?” Kobienko had leaned forward again, eyes wide, no longer bored.

“Yes, she tried, but by the time she went outside after her, the woman was nowhere to be seen. She told me the girl’s hair was longer now, but only about as long as it would have gotten in the same number of months since that visit to her house. I wasn’t sure about all this, because as far as I knew, your patient wasn’t pregnant when she was here, and the age of the child makes me think she would have had to be – ”

“She was about three months along when she was here.”

“Oh. It fits, then.”

“Yes. Fedor, thank you.” Kobienko stood and put out a hand. “You have given me hope once again. And an explanation as to how she escaped unseen.” He shook his head, smiling at the girl’s ingenuity.

“Es-escaped? What do you mean? I thought she left because she was confused, or so you said. Why would you now say she ‘escaped,’ if everything was all right?” He’d ignored the doctor’s proffered hand.

Kobienko stared at him for a moment, then sat again. “I’m sorry. There were details of her case I couldn’t disclose because of the sensitive nature of her situation. Here – let me show you something.” He reached into a side drawer, took something out, and raised it.

The shot was muffled by a silencer attached to the barrel, and the thud of the body hitting the floor was muffled by the thick, dark blue carpet.

“Idiot.” The doctor put his gun away, locked the drawer, and came around to the front of the desk. As he stared into the blank eyes of the lab assistant, he said, “Oops. I wasn’t supposed to use the word ‘escape.’ Sorry.” He sighed. Now he’d have to dispose of the body, but not right away. The clinic was busy at this time of day, so he’d wait until later. In the meantime…

Once the door to his personal supply closet was shut and locked, he took a towel from beside the sink near his desk and ran it over the carpet. Nothing. Good. The bullet was apparently stopped by the man’s spine after tearing through his heart, and he’d been moved before the blood had a chance to soak into his clothes.

Ah, my friend. I will miss your efficient help, but what choice did you give me, eh? You aren’t the first, though, and won’t be the last, I’m sure, so you needn’t feel that you were singled out in any way. He washed his hands at the sink to be sure there was no odor from the gunpowder on them, and went to lunch, pleased.

Finally, a breakthrough – the love of his life was alive and still in Russia. After he'd discharged his obligation to Dr. Chevon - a month to "play" with the sculptress was the agreement - Atarah would be his alone, forever. It was a good day.

 

*******

 

Jax stared up at the warehouse-like building, its turn-of-the-century architecture an interesting contrast to the more modern structures on either side up and down the block. “That’s it? Impressive.”

“Looks like someone’s there, too.” Celia pointed up at the massive bank of windows along the front of the second floor. A mellow light illuminated the arched frame, barely discernible in the early evening sunset. “I’m going away now. Call me when you’re done.”

Since Jax didn’t know where this building was, Celia had volunteered to drive him there – but nothing more. She didn’t want to see Ondine if in fact the French girl was there, because she didn’t think she could maintain the lie-by-silence that would be necessary in a conversation.

“Where are you going?”

“Still haven’t decided. Maybe clothes shopping.” She shrugged, leaned up, and gave Jax a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t forget to get that book for Jett. If you do, he’ll know we were lying about where we went.”

She nodded. “Indeed. I just hope that even with the book as evidence to the contrary, Jett won’t sense that we’re not telling him the truth.” As she got back into the car, Jax crossed the street and climbed the steps to the shiny black door. No one was around from what he could tell, but he could protect himself if any trouble arose. And after all, he was almost six-foot-five, and nearly as strong as Jett.

Jax got no response after pressing the bell several times. He tried knocking instead – not too hard or loud, since he didn’t want to alarm whoever was inside. He was about given up when he heard the distant sound of another door opening and closing, followed by what sounded like heavy footsteps. And then the footfalls ended right on the other side of the door.

“What do you want?” asked a male voice.

That surprised him. “Uh, may I come in?”

“You want to tell me who the hell you are?” A deep bark accompanied these words.

“My name is Jax Kinsley. I was looking for Ondine St. Michele, a friend of my brother’s deceased wife; I was told she might be here.”

“Were you. And why would she be here?”

“Because this was my former sister-in-law’s studio, and she and Ondine were best friends – I met her at their wedding.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove it! Slip some I.D. under the door. And keep in mind that if you try anything, I have a well-trained German Shepherd and my trusty AR-15 to greet you.”

Taken aback, Jax stopped in the middle of removing his license from his wallet. What kind of whacko said, “trusty” outside of the old movies? “Damn, dude! Chill! I…here. It’s my license and I want it back.” He stooped and slid the card under the door.

Whoever was on the other side took it, and a moment later it reappeared. Picking it up, Jax put it back in his wallet. “Well?

A moment or two of silence was followed by the sound of locks being undone. The door opened a crack, and then was pulled aside the rest of the way. He stepped in and found a person holding a dangerous-looking rifle, but no dog, and that person was certainly not the deep-voiced male to whom he thought he’d been speaking.

Ondine. She shrugged, giving him a weak smile, and held up a voice recorder. The name of the famous company that made the world’s most realistic-sounding speaker systems was displayed across its dark surface, explaining why he hadn’t realized it had been a recording. “I’ve been getting harassed by the media,” said Ondine, closing the door and locking it. “One reporter in particular has been a problem, since the day Atarah…since her plane…would you like to come up and tell me why you’re here?”

Astounded, he nodded and followed her up the stairs and into the studio loft.

“I’ve been living here,” she explained, gesturing at a metal folding chair and small love seat. A pock-marked coffee table took up the space between these, and an upturned wooden crate next to the love seat held the only lamp – the obvious source of the mellow light visible from the street.

That was it. No trace of Atarah’s work or sculptures, no sign that she had ever been here. Stark, echo-producing space with blank walls and one huge set of windows. Outside these, the day had become much darker, giving the sparse grouping of furniture the feel of a lamp-lit cave.

As he sat, he caught Ondine staring. He questioned her gaze with his eyebrows.

“I still can’t get over how much you look like Jett. Lots of us were talking about that at the wedding.” She lowered herself to the love seat, Jax having parked himself on the metal chair. “I’ve seen twins who look less alike.”

He nodded. Because he didn’t feel like getting into the whole, we’re-less-than-a-year-apart explanation, he said, “How long have you been here?”

“Close to a year. When I heard about the, um, accident, I needed to be close to her, if that makes sense. At that point, everything was still as she’d left it, but one day I came back from a trip out of town, and it was empty. I assumed it was her family who had taken everything, and hoped it hadn’t been the media or crazed fans. It didn’t seem as if that had happened, though – the place would have been torn up, not swept clean and washed down. So it had to be her family. The next day the Landlord came by and found me here. I told him I would pay the rent from now on if he’d let me stay. He had no problem with that, and here I am.” She shrugged and leaned back into the dark blue cushions.

As he listened, Jax kept going back to the way she’d hesitated over the word “accident.” Why had she sounded like she’d wanted to say something else? “Tell me – you don’t seem too upset. I mean, when you mentioned the accident, you made it sound like you thought it was something else. Why is that?”

She didn’t answer for a long time, like she was carefully weighing her reply. “Maybe it was,” she finally said, her voice so low he almost didn’t hear her.

“Maybe it was what? Something else? Like on purpose? Or maybe that there was no accident?”

She sat forward, looking upset. “What do you know, Jax?”

“What do you know, Ondine?”

Stalemate.

And then the girl got up and went into another room through a door Jax hadn’t noticed before. When she came out, she was holding a plain, white envelope with international stamps on it. “The only reason I think I can show this is because I’m pretty sure you already know what’s going on. The blue one arrived about six months ago.” She held it out to him, nodding for him to take it.

Inside, he found two letters, the first from Chara on light blue paper that explained the situation, her plan to save Atarah from her husband’s obsessive, stalking neurologist. She went into detail about how her daughter had been injured and lost her memory. She explained to Ondine that her friend was living safely with her and Seth, but that there was a good chance she would never recover from her amnesia. There was more, too, about the back-story they’d fed Atarah so she wouldn’t question too many things, about the woman posing as Atarah’s mother, about the new name they’d given her and what it meant – Narkissa Xenakis, or Numb/Sleeping Stranger. Not much more after that, except to say it was all right if Ondine wanted to stay in the loft studio. She ended with a promise to let Ondine know if anything new occurred.

The next letter was in a handwriting familiar enough to Jax to make him nearly leap off the chair.

“Dearest Ondine,” it began, “I hope this makes it to you. I’m not yet familiar enough with the Russian language to be sure I sent it the right way. I have been through a very odd journey, my friend, and you are the only one I feel can hear of it safely. Whether my mother chose to tell you what really happened that day I traveled to Greece to see my father before his operation, I have no way to know. So I will tell you what I do know, and hope you indulge me if you’ve heard it all before.

“As we neared the coastlines of Greece, the pilot told me that my mother had asked him to help me jump from the plane, and let it go down into the ocean so everyone would think I was dead, but that she would pay him for a new one, as well as for his help. He said the reason she wanted him to do this was that Dad’s doctor had been stalking me for several years, and in payment for the operation which no other doctor could do, he wanted me. He didn’t care I was married, either. He wanted to own me, make me his prize, give me children. How sick!

“As I told you, I was already pregnant with Jett’s and my first child, but at that time was only about a month along. It seemed safe, then, for me to jump from the plane, and the jump itself went fine. I did exactly as the pilot instructed, and the landing was soft. Wet and cold, yes, but soft. A large fishing boat was nearby that we were to board, but before that could happen, our plane spiraled too close to where we were (I’m told – I still don’t remember that part), and when it exploded on the surface of the sea, I got hit with some of the flying debris. The worst was a head injury that knocked me out. When I awoke, I was bandaged in several places, had an awful headache, and absolutely no idea who or where I was.

“A woman calling herself Helene Xenakis was sitting by the bed and said she was my mother, that I’d had a terrible car accident which aggravated a pre-existing neurological condition, but that I was going to be all right. Over the next week or so, she showed me trinkets and places, which she accompanied with stories that she said might help me remember. I now realize, of course, that she was trying to replace and not restore my memories. Once I was well, she sent me to see someone for a job because my former employer had fired me after the accident. I had horrid headaches, and rarely felt like questioning anything, so I went along with her explanations. Anyway, this ‘new’ job was for a Mr. and Mrs. Johanan. Ha, ha, right? As you know, I grew up speaking Greek, and this was all anyone spoke around me, so it wasn’t until later that I found I also could speak English. Not like a Greek person with that lovely, clipped accent, but like an American!

“I worked as a maid and personal assistant to, well, to my mother, but I thought of her only as Kyria Johanan. It wasn’t until my real memory came back that I understood why she had always been so kind and affectionate toward me. There were other things, too, that I couldn’t grasp the reason for at the time, but was sure I shouldn’t ask about.

“One day, this doctor came to the house. I had gone to Athens on a shopping trip, which I now realize was designed to keep the doctor from seeing me. Even though they had cut my hair short (do not, despair, sweet Ondine – it has grown back!), and dressed me in unattractive maid-like clothing, there was nothing they could do about my features or my height, and within minutes, the doctor recognized me.

“To go back, I returned from Athens in time to see him. Little fool that I am, I asked if he could examine me to see if there was a cure for my headaches and memory gaps. He was only too happy to comply! I went with him (idiot!), thinking myself very clever for having found a solution to my problem all by myself. Ha. All by myself, indeed, because I was alone, and in the hands of the very man I’d been injured in an effort to avoid! He gave me an MRI at the main hospital in Athens, then told me I needed an operation as soon as possible. He said he’d do it for free, because Mrs. Johanan had been so generous with him over her husband’s operation.

“We ended up at his clinic in Russia, right outside St. Petersburg. I was given my own room and treated well. He operated on me twice, and then started giving me medication that he claimed was preventive only, and would keep any headaches from returning. Stupid me, I took it twice a day, an obedient little patient. And then one day another doctor showed up. A woman, who made it clear she was interested in me not as a patient, but as a sex toy. That was the day I decided to get the hell out of there. You see, she made her salacious remarks in front of Kobienko (my doctor), and all he did was imply that she’d have to wait a while longer. Something about his time-table. I suspected it had to do with my pregnancy, and that after I’d had the baby, he wanted me for himself first, before letting her have fun with me.

“Did I tell you how much I wanted to vomit? So I had to come up with a plan. It occurred to me that I’m as tall as most men, and had a boy’s haircut, so if I disguised myself as a male nurse, I could escape. It was more complex that that, but in the end, I did get away and eventually made my way into the city. There, I got help from some kind people, got a job, and have been living here since.

“Details: that medicine I was taking had to be left behind, and two days later I suddenly began getting flashes of memories that I’d not had yet. They kept coming, and within two weeks, I remembered almost everything! My first impulse was to contact the local American Embassy and call Jett. But then I thought about the doctor. He had to know I remembered since I no longer had that dastardly medication, so if he thought that my husband had been contacted, would he do something desperate? Would my entire family perhaps be in danger if I re-emerged into the public eye? There were things about Kobienko, words he used, things he did, that made me believe those I love would, in fact, be in jeopardy. So I decided to wait. I was also very concerned about my little boy.

“Yes, Ondine, I had my baby. He’s beautiful beyond words. Big and strong for his age, he has my eye color, Jett’s hair, and a pleasant combination, I think, of both of our features. That last one is a little hard to tell yet, since he’s only a few months old. But he’s quiet and good, and eats like a pony! I know what you’re doing about now, so I’ll tell you: his name is Chasin. I didn’t give him a middle name, because I believe I will one day be reunited with my love, and he can provide that. In the meantime, my boy is doing well, as am I, considering the bizarre circumstances. I’ve been struggling to learn Russian as well and quickly as I can, and so far I think I’ve done a pretty good job of it.

“Before I tell anyone else that I’m still alive, I have to be sure no one will get harmed when I do. So this is where you come in. I want you to contact the FBI. Or is it the CIA? Whichever one handles overseas problems, I suppose. I have no passport, no papers, very little money, and I’ve noticed people beginning to look at me more. So my situation is dire, lovely friend. Get hold of any authorities that are able to deal with this according to our diplomatic and international restrictions and laws, and get me out of here. I need to come home, Ondine. I need Jett, he deserves to see his son, and oh, what a mess! Do not, under any circumstances, write back to me. Instead, give this letter to the whoevers and tell them to find my address through investigation means. I’m not hard to spot, being six feet tall with long hair, a familiar face in the art world, and always dragging a stroller with me, lol. I will tell you I’m in St. Petersburg, but it’s a big city. Still, I’m sure experienced agents will be able to locate me with very little effort.

“Most important, tell them about Kobienko. That man is dangerous, Ondine, and if anyone is hurt by him because of me, I don’t know what I’ll do! I love you and hug you from afar, kissing your face all over with gratitude. Forgive me, sweet friend, for taking so long to tell you, but as my very long letter must make clear, it was impossible to contact you sooner.

“Tell Jett only if the FBI/CIA says it’s okay.”

 

She signed with a heart and her name. Jax closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath.

“Is this the first you’re learning of this?”

“No, Ondine.” He opened his eyes again, revealing tears. “I knew she was alive. But I didn’t have all these details. My God, she’s strong!”

“Yes. And smart. And you, sir, are an uncle.” She smiled.

“So now what? Oh – when did you get this?”

“Three days ago. I’m still waiting to hear back from the FBI. I left several messages, and was told they were already working on the case, but that they’d get back to me. I guess Chara is involved somehow, too, but if ‘Tarah didn’t write to her, how much could she know?”

“She contacted Interpol and the FBI months ago, when Atarah was first abducted. As far as I know, they hadn’t been able to locate her, but now that you’ve given them a lead, they’ll probably find her soon.”

Ondine nodded and stood, chewing on her lower lip. “Um, are you thirsty? Might I make you some coffee or tea?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, having suddenly found it difficult to speak. The thought that Atarah and – and her son were definitely alive, and that her whereabouts were somewhat known was incredible news. It meant there was hope. He blinked, remembering Ondine had asked him a question. “Oh. Sorry. Uh, sure, if it isn’t a hassle.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it were. I’m not that polite.” She grinned and went back through the door into whatever space was there – a kitchen, he suspected.

Now what? Should I tell Mom? And what about Jett? Would it be wise to let him in on this, especially since there’s a chance things could go wrong and ‘Tarah doesn’t make it home…shit, shit, shit.

“How’s your brother?”

Strange you should ask. “Better.”

She didn’t respond for a moment, but then came back out into the main room, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“He, well, he didn’t take things very well. I’ll tell you everything when you’re done in there.” He could smell the coffee beginning to brew and found it comforting.

“All right. How do you take yours?”

Five minutes later she had settled her petite frame into the cushions of the love seat once more, tucking her legs up and breathing in the luscious aroma steaming from her coffee mug. “Talk.”

He did. He told her everything, and how, even though Jett was home, he wasn’t certain if his brother’s apparent recovery was complete. “And now I need to access Atarah’s email account so I can delete it. I don’t think it would be good for Jett to be able to read things either to or from her at this point. He needs to eventually get over this, especially if for some reason she – she doesn’t make it back.”

“He would never get over it, Jax, not if she was actually dead. Anyway, I believe she will make it home, and refuse to give up. But you said Jett still can’t speak?”

“He sort of does. Kind of like a raspy whisper, and he says it hurts to talk, so he’s thinking of learning ASL.”

“Which means you’ll all have to learn it, too, then.”

“Yeah. Not sure I’m happy about that, but it’s for his good, not mine. At least Sign Language is English. That ought to make it a little easier.” He took a sip. “Wow, this is really good coffee.”

“Hmm. I cook really well, too.” She raised an eyebrow at him, a tiny grin lifting one corner of her mouth.

“Talented. What do you do for a living, though?” He’d wondered about that when she said she had gone out of town, assuming it had to do with her job.

“I’m a buyer for a modeling agency. I find unusual outfits and clothing designers – they don’t want their models wearing the latest from Paris and all that because the competition is too great. So they’ve started their own niche in the industry. It’s a lot of fun.”

“Are you a model, too?”

She laughed. “Too small, I’m afraid. I mean, yes, being an Amazon is no longer required, but I don’t have the right basic stature or…attitude or something. Don’t want to model, either. Too much crap goes on behind the scenes that I can’t see myself dealing with very well.”

“Yet you’re easily as beautiful as any of them.” The words were out before he could stop himself, and he turned several shades of red, feeling his blush and hating that he had been so filterless.

“Why, Jax, that was extraordinarily nice of you to say – thank you!”

As the blush faded, he marveled at how kind-hearted this lovely girl was. With those few words, she had completely diffused an embarrassing moment that might have sent him running for the door. “Um.” He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.” He sure as heck knew enough about women not to say he was sorry.

Whatever would have been said next was obliterated by a loud crash downstairs. Someone had obviously kicked in the door.

Ondine put her cup on the table and ran for the wall where she’d placed her rifle. “That son of a bitch!” she said, teeth clenched. “He promised he’d break in and get me for always calling the cops on him!”

Jax was on his feet, too. “Look, forgive me for doing the macho guy thing, but may I have that gun? I do know how to use it.”

Her eyes on the door, she handed it to him, nodding.

“Get in the other room,” he hissed.

She got.

A second later, the door was kicked open like the one downstairs, but with a lot less noise since it wasn’t locked.

He aimed at the doorway as a middle-aged man burst in, and who then stopped, gaping, as much at Jax as at what he held.

“Jett?”

“No, you stupid bastard, his brother. You have exactly three seconds to get your ass down those stairs and out of the building before I blow your fucking head off.”

“Oh, wait till you see what I write about you!”

“Wait till you see how much I don’t care.” He took aim.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m not my brother. One.”

“That’s murder!”

“Two.”

“Ass hole!”

Jax almost laughed at the lameness of that, but instead, said, “Three” and pulled the trigger.

The blast was incredibly loud in the open space of the studio. The reporter, whimpering, was on the ground, curled up, hands over his ears before the echoes died away. Jax went to him, shoved him in the backside with the toe of one shoe and told him to get up.

The man curled in tighter on himself.

“Great. What are you, two years old? Get the hell up and leave. I never miss, dude, but I do have mercy – the first time. If I have to fire again, that mercy will be gone and you’ll be dead. What were you going to do to the young lady if I hadn’t been here? Beat her up? Rape her? Or just scare her? Whichever it was, you’d still have proven yourself to be a total coward. So go ahead and write your story. I have enough connections to have one written about you that would assure you of being unemployed for the rest of your goddam life. GET OUT!!!”

The man uncurled enough to look up at Jax and see what was in his eyes. He was on his feet and out the door in seconds. His rush down the stairs took the form of him jumping several steps at a time, and then he was gone.

Jax, who had followed him out and watched his wild descent, returned and shut the studio door, put the safety back on the rifle, leaned it against the wall and turned around.

Ondine, her eyes huge, was biting one knuckle.

“Are you okay?”

Her answer was to rush forward and throw her arms around him.

Wow! The big-guy-defending-the-fair-maiden thing actually works? Dang! He returned her hug, gently, and noticed how good she smelled. How soft her hair was. Uh-oh.

And then she pulled back and looked up into his eyes, gratitude and something that looked like humor shining in hers.

That was all it took. He gave her a half-smile, admitting that his long-established bachelorhood seemed to have met a sudden and unexpected end.

*15*

 

 

Merely going to St. Petersburg and taking her back wasn’t going to be enough. Kobienko needed to get some revenge in the process, and as much as he adored Atarah, he felt she had betrayed him, and thus should be punished. Letting the French doctor have her for a while should have been torture enough, but his twisted sense of justice wouldn't let him be satisfied with that. So when his search had finally yielded an address, he chose to wait. Eventually, the girl would find a way to contact either her family or government. In that case, his lying-in-wait – what was it they called it in America? A stakeout? – yes, this would put him in place to carry out his plan for vengeance.

His lips curled upward as he thought about what he’d do. If government agents showed up, he’d follow them inside, shoot them if necessary, and then rape her until she bled before tying her up and hauling her back to the clinic. If her moron of a husband arrived, he’d inject the young man with a serum that caused instant paralysis, make him watch as he raped his wife, and then make Atarah watch as he dismembered her husband. Oh, yes, this would be wonderful. After that, she wouldn’t dare defy him again. Besides, she might understand that his love for her was so great, he was willing to do those disgusting things for her alone.

A light went on in the window of the second-floor apartment which he now knew was hers, and he leaned back against the door of the building across the street where he’d been watching for several hours. After seeing her go inside with her little brat – he had plans for that creature, too – he had stepped deeper into the shadowy recess around the door and begun what would probably be another long, unfruitful vigil. Oh, how he longed to run over there, let her know he’d found her, and make her his. All night long. And dear Dr. Chevon would have to settle for slightly used goods...unless he chose not to tell her he'd found Atarah. Yes. That would work, especially since it would probably take a long time for the sculptress to recover from what he was going to do to her.

He sighed, content that at least he could get to her now, any time he wished. And for the time being, that would have to do.

 

*******

 

Jett sat in the living room, staring at the floor between his feet, pondering what he had been told by the FBI agent. That afternoon, his mother and Jax had gone somewhere – shopping, they said, for a book of some kind on safe exercises following severe injuries. Not that he needed it. The physical therapists at the Foundation had shown him all the things he could do to continue rebuilding his musculature.

The exercises and therapy had worked, too, but there wasn’t a thing anyone could do about the nerve damage. He’d been told by his therapist – a man from whom Jett had demanded complete honesty, and who had therefore rendered it – that every time he participated in any kind of track or field event, every time he practiced his skills, any time he so much as did simple exercises, he would for the rest of his life experience one of several levels of pain, depending on how strenuous the activity was. Maybe that was what his mother thought this book could help him with.

Irrelevant now, though. As was everything except what the man on the phone had said. Russia. Somewhere in Russia. Atarah. Alive, safe, and with a two- to three-month-old child. What?

How was this possible? Why wouldn’t she have contacted him herself? Had he only imagined that her love for him was as strong as his for her? Had someone done something to her, brainwashed her for some reason? And a child? What child?

His first reaction to hearing that she wasn’t dead was nearly identical to his reaction upon hearing she was. He’d gone numb, his mind beginning to tick down like some weird kind of internal time-clock, a count-down timer on a bomb. The last time, when it reached zero, he had checked out of the realm of sanity. This time – who knew? Would he be overwhelmed with clarity or something?

What the hell, ‘Tarah. Where did you go and why? Why did they tell me you had died?

“Jett?”

He didn’t look up, mostly because his thoughts were louder than his father’s voice at that moment.

“What’s wrong, son?”

Tick-tick-tick…

The front door opened. He heard it, but it didn’t mean anything yet. Tick-tick-tick…

A hand on his shoulder. “Dude, what’s wrong?”

Now he did look up, saw his brother, and simultaneously reached the end of the count-down. He jumped to his feet, tears in his eyes, and grasped Jax by the shoulders. Gulped.

“What’s wrong, Jett? What happened?”

He whispered a name.

“What about her?”

He whispered a word.

“H-how did you…who told you?”

Letting go, he pointed to the phone. “CIA,” he rasped. Then he gave Jax a strange look, understanding dawning through the tears. “You knew?!”

“I, well, n..yeah, some of it. We didn’t want to say anything - ”

“WE??” If his voice hadn’t been ruined, the word would have been a shout.

“Yes, love,” said his mother. “We. But no one knew where she was, or even if she was still alive, so we decided not to tell you until we had more information. And even then, well, you’ve already been through hell, Jett, and none of us wanted to make you walk through there again.”

He stared. Too much needed to be said, but he had to start somewhere. Where? After a few moments, he found a starting point. Using his newly-acquired, if elementary, sign-language skills, he swallowed back the pain in his throat and with his hands said, “You are not making sense.”

It took several seconds for Jax to interpret the signs, and then he told Jett to sit down, that there was a lot to tell him.

Nodding, the younger Kinsley returned to the sofa, then sat, becoming immobilized by what his brother was telling him. He listened without allowing himself to question any of it so he wouldn’t miss a word. When Jax finished, he closed his eyes and released the flood he’d been containing. HHhHhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHThen he doubled over, sobbing with a combination of horror and relief, fear and hope, disbelief and joy.

No one touched him while he let go of it all; he didn’t notice or even think about that. But he did feel something else – Jett Kinsley – the stronger version. Coming back home. At that moment, he knew that even if Atarah was lost again, he’d get through it this time without going into automatic self-destruct.

The only part of this that he didn’t allow himself to consider was the detail about who she was with. That small person without whom she apparently never went anywhere. That little piece of her…of him. According to his mother, Atarah had found out she was pregnant shortly before leaving for Greece. No. Don’t think about it. Not yet.

When at last the raging emotions put themselves back in order, he sat up, wiping his eyes with the back of one arm, took a few quick breaths, then a few slower ones, and gave his family a twisted smile. “Sorry,” he signed.

Again, the lag for interpretation. “No need to apologize,” said Bryson. “I don’t think we owe you an apology, either, since this was all in your best interest, but I think we do all feel rather bad about not being able to give you this information sooner. What I am sorry about is that you had to hear it from some government agent. Which reminds me – how were you able to talk on the phone?”

Jett shrugged. “I SHOUTED,” he said in what for him was a shout.

“Well, don’t do it again.” Celia looked unhappy. “I heard there was some kind of device that could boost the sound of a person’s voice to make them easier to hear on the other end. We’ll look into it, but in the meantime, stop answering the phone, young man.”

He nodded. He could do that. What was going to be a problem right then, however, was relaying to his family what the FBI had told him. Certain he didn’t know enough signs yet for that many words and phrases, Jett got up, raised a hand to indicate they should wait, and went into the small office on the other side of the foyer. He took a legal pad and a pen from his father’s desk, and returned to the living room, then sat on the sofa and began to write.

When he was done, he tore off the sheet and handed it to Jax.

“Oh, crap. Mom, they said they found her, but they’re using her as bait for this doctor guy who abducted her. No wonder Jett was confused – if he didn’t know she was even alive, that kind of message wouldn’t have made any sense.” Jax handed the paper to his father.

“Why would they do this?” He shook his head as Celia peered past his arm to read Jett’s words. “They’re putting her and the boy in danger, yes?”

“I wonder if Chara knows any of this.” Celia went out into the foyer and came back with her cell phone.

“You’re going to call her?”

“Yes, Bry. She and Seth are back in the U.S., by the way. They came home a week ago – I’d like to know if their coming back had anything to do with this, this operation or whatever with the FBI.” She began pressing keys.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to call her?”

“I think it’s a bad idea not to. I mean, what if – hello? Chara?” She fell silent, nodding, and went back out into the foyer.

“According to this, Jett is expected to ‘sit tight’ and wait to be contacted,” said Bryson. “As if that’s possible.”

Jett took the page from his father and, bending down to write, added the words, “I want to go to Russia.”

Jax, leaning down and reading as Jett wrote, straightened. “Are you nuts? Look, little brother, as much as I understand your need to see her and maybe even help, you could seriously get in the way of whatever the government guys are doing, and possibly increase the danger to your wife!”

Jett rolled his eyes, and threw his hands in the air, frustrated. Before he could do anything else, though, his mother came back into the room.

“She knew, but they told her not to discuss the situation with anyone, and said they’d be contacting Jett themselves.”

“Great, Mom, but what did they tell her? I mean, was it any different from what Jett was told?” Jax seemed to be growing more and more alarmed by the way this thing was escalating.

“Just that they’d contacted ‘Tarah, and told her to go about her life as if they hadn’t. They said she asked them to take her son somewhere safe, but they said that would alert the doctor that something had changed. At the time they spoke with Chara, they had yet to locate the doctor, but had a feeling he was in St. Petersburg.” Celia shoved the phone into the pocket of her cardigan. “This is worse than a spy movie!” She scowled and plopped down into one of the wing-back chairs near the sofa.

Awesome. Okay, yeah, I’ll survive if that creep gets to her, but I really don’t want to go through losing her again. Sit tight…right. That isn’t going to happen. Jett stared at the paper still on the table, Jax having read it without picking it up. He re-read what he’d written about the message the operative had given, wondering why, if they hadn’t successfully rescued Atarah yet, they were telling him anything at all. Did they think he’d shrug and say, “Okay, whatever,” and let them get on with their plan without any questions from him or his family? Or maybe they were giving him a subtle suggestion to go there and help. But why would trained government agents seek the help of someone so emotionally invested, and whose training was athletic in nature, not military? Nope. Didn’t track.

And then he allowed the thought that had come to him immediately upon hanging up with the operative – the thought that he’d immediately pushed away. He couldn’t ignore it any more and asked himself what would happen if the agents failed? What if this doctor succeeded in getting to her and took her away again – worse, hurt or killed her out of a perverted need for vengeance against her for running away from him the first time? And his son…by God, he had a son! That did it. He knew his passport was still current, that he could get a flight by the next day and be in Moscow –

“Jett? What are you thinking?”

Without realizing he’d been doing so, and after picking it up, Jett had begun tearing the piece of paper into strips. He regarded his father with a deep scowl. What do you imagine I’m thinking, Dad? He made the sign for “going away” and went out of the room. He was halfway up the stairs before his family could interpret the gestures.

“What the hell do you mean ‘going away?’” demanded Jax, hurrying after him.

Shaking his head, Jett kept going. When he got to his room, he went to the computer, switched it on, and began a search for flights to either Moscow or St. Petersburg. Jax had followed and was standing beside him, watching as Jett searched, but didn’t speak.

While he waited for one of the sites to redirect him to the page with flight and price information, he pulled up a new window and opened the Notepad feature. “What do you want, Jax?” he typed.

“Just wanted to make sure you got two tickets, is all.”

“You want to go with me?”

“Come on, Jett – do you really think I’d let you do this alone?” He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We’re both sniper-level marksmen and I’m sure we can get hold of a couple of rifles once we get there.”

“What? Great, Jax. Think they’ll give us adjoining cells when they throw us in prison?”

“We won’t get caught. Besides, we might even be able to work with the FBI.”

“Uh, right. Bet they can’t wait for us to volunteer our services. This isn’t the movies, bro.”

“No, it isn’t. Wish it was, though. At least we could read ahead and know what was going to happen.”

Jett gave a silent chuckle and typed, “Hope Mom and Dad aren’t listening. All they’ll hear is your side of this conversation. Probably get a court order to have you locked up in Bluebird for a sudden loss of sanity.”

“You’re a riot, Jett. Can we get back to the airline page, please?”

Nodding, Jett reduced the Notepad window and got back to work finding the best flight, this time checking the price for two seats.

 

*******

 

A tiny gleam – nothing more, but it shouldn’t have been there. Atarah, having only caught this from the corner of her eye as she went past the window of her living room, stopped a few inches beyond it, turned around, and using the curtain as a screen, looked outside. Nothing. It had to have been the angle. She went past the window again, this time looking sideways as she went.

There it was! Something in one of the doorways of the building across the street. She’d passed the window every day at this time of the evening, but had never noticed it, and came to the conclusion that it didn’t belong. So what was it? Who was it? FBI agent? Or Dr. Kobienko? Maybe someone working for him.

She went into the bedroom, not sure if her movements were visible from that doorway, but since she couldn’t see it from the door to her room, she doubted it. No real comfort in that, though.

A small cry came from the cheap crib next to her mattress. She couldn’t afford a regular bed, and had been forced to put the poorly-made mattress on the floor.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” she whispered in Russian. It had occurred to her that a limited vocabulary would probably go unquestioned as long as her accent was right, so she’d made a point of speaking this unfamiliar language as often as possible, keeping in mind and practicing how the words had been pronounced by the few people with whom she interacted every day.

In his crib, Chasin was trying to sit up, using the bars for support, grasping them in his little fists. He was strong for his age, she thought. Every other infant she’d ever seen had been incapable of such strenuous movement until several months later than the age her son was now.

Smiling, she picked him up, and he began to make what she called “baby-joy noises.” Nuzzling him with her nose, she told him in badly-constructed Russian that she loved him with all her heart, that he was her little star, her sun.

Chasin grabbed a stray wisp of hair that had escaped her ponytail, and yanked on it, his sweet face split by a grin.

“Ouch!” She laughed, tugging the hair away from him. “You rascal!” That had been in English, but only because she didn’t know the word for it in her new tongue. “Are you hungry?” She sat on the edge of the mattress and opened her blouse. Breast-feeding him was one of the few things about her life that she honestly looked forward to doing. The feeling was indescribable.

As her child suckled, the fingers of his free hand grasping her wrist, his warm head soft against the cool skin of her arm, she thought about the glimmer she’d seen in that doorway. Someone was obviously standing there, unaware that light from the streetlamp that had switched on in the early twilight had caught a portion of what he – or she – was wearing. Or holding. Well, she certainly had no intention of going anywhere near the window again.

Because of all the years she’d lived with the uncovered windows of her studio in America, she rarely thought to close the curtains that had come with this apartment. She probably should, but would that alert whoever was down there that he (or she) had been spotted? Why was everything so bloody complicated?

When the FBI had contacted her, she had been on the verge of sending her husband a letter, similar to the one she’d sent Ondine. Of course, she didn’t know that her friend had gotten it until the U.S. agent spoke with her.

A week earlier, she’d been on her way home from her job as a dry-cleaner’s assistant, a place that allowed her to bring her son as long as he didn’t do a lot of crying. So far, Chasin had been wonderful in that regard, despite being in a place that smelled so heavily of the cleaning chemicals universal to that industry. On her way home that day, she’d paused in front of one of the fruit stands that was still up – most had shut down with the coming cooler months. As she had contemplated the practicality of indulging in an apple that would cost her a substantial percentage of her funds, someone had walked up beside her, picked up a piece of fruit, and said, “This is a nice one, don’t you think, Mrs. Kinsley?”

Forcing herself not to panic, she had faced the man, one eyebrow raised, and in Russian said, “What’s that?”

He had spoken in English, but now switched to Greek. “It’s okay, Atarah. Your mother, Chara Johanan, told us what happened, how you had been abducted by the Russian neurologist. We’ve been searching for you for quite a while now.”

Atarah had noticed the vendor staring, not even trying to hide his curiosity.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she told the man, again in Russian, but as she did, she’d given him a small kick in the ankle.

He had smiled and in Russian, replied, “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He put out a hand. “My name is Ilya, and that’s a beautiful little boy you have! Is he yours, or are you watching him for someone?”

He’d spoken rapidly, and it had taken a moment or two for her to process his words. She covered this lapse by smiling at him, looking down, stroking her son’s head. But then she’d gotten it all and said, “No, he is mine.”

“Well. I apologize again for my error. I, er, don’t suppose I could buy you a hot chocolate? It’s getting chilly out here and you seem to be turning blue.”

She had agreed, interpreting this a little more quickly and appreciating his cleverness. At the same time, she wanted to know exactly who he was, whether or not he had actually been sent by Kobienko. Because of that last thing, she insisted that they go somewhere crowded, public, abduction-proof.

They had settled for a café a few blocks away with outdoor seating. He had given her his coat – the one she owned was something she’d found in a trash barrel and wasn’t very thick – and she accepted it, admitting that she had, in fact, been borderline freezing. Before putting the man’s woolen one on, she had removed hers and draped it over the carriage to give Chasin an extra layer of warmth.

As they sipped their hot beverages, the man had told her he worked for the FBI, that they had been contacted by the Johanans and told the whole story of how Kyria had accepted the doctor’s terms out of desperation for her husband’s survival; how Chara had learned from another servant that Kobienko had taken Atarah with him when he’d left after his last check-up with Seth; how his movements had been traced to the hospital in Athens where he’d used their MRI and some other equipment to do scans on a patient who was with him. The man’s trail had been lost after that, but only for as long as it had taken him to get back to his clinic with this patient.

Atarah had asked if her mother knew of all these latest developments, was told that yes, they’d kept her informed, but that no one else had been contacted based on something her mother had said. When she asked what that meant, the agent had hesitated for the first time. She wouldn’t let it rest, and finally he told her that her husband had spent the better part of the year since her contrived accident in a mental hospital. He explained that, according to what Jett’s mother had told her, Chara had said he’d needed to go where he would be prevented from taking his own life.

At that moment, Atarah came as close to hating her mother as possible without actually doing so. Jett hadn’t been told?! He’d been living all this time with the belief that she was dead?! That fact alone had made up her mind for her that she would cooperate with anything the FBI wanted her to do. After revealing her husband’s ignorance about her survival, the agent had said they were trying to catch Dr. Kobienko anyway, who according to the CIA was suspected of having done a whole lot more than abduct Atarah, that he was possibly responsible for several murders. So Atarah had agreed to help, but asked if her son could be kept in protective custody until it was over.

“If we do that,” the man had replied, “and if Kobienko is watching you, which is entirely possible, he’ll know something has changed, that you might have become aware of him. As far as we know, though, he has no idea we’re here, or that he’s being sought. We can’t jeopardize any of that. Do you understand?”

“Of course I do. I’m not stupid. All right. But if my child is hurt or killed, I’ll do whatever it takes to destroy you. Just saying. As a mom. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kinsley, I do – I’m a father. I’m so sorry we have to do it this way, but be assured we will do everything we can to make sure both of you come out of this unscathed.”

She knew this promise was not a one-hundred-percent guarantee of anything, but it was the best she had, and she’d agreed to cooperate. And then she told him about her letter to Ondine, warning him that the FBI would probably be getting a call from her. He’d advised Atarah not to contact her friend again, but said he’d inform the agency that Ondine would be trying to reach them.

Now, watching her son’s thick-lashed eyelids flutter as he fell asleep, still latched onto her breast, she leaned down and gave him a light but fervent kiss on the forehead. “We will get through this, sweet Chasin. Somehow. You’ll finally meet your daddy, and we’ll get back to the kind of life you should have been enjoying from the start!” She’d spoken quietly in English, not caring for the moment about languages, batting tears from her eyes with the back of one hand.

She got up and returned the child to his crib, covering him with the blue and yellow blanket a co-worker had given her a few weeks earlier. He sighed in his sleep, and she wanted to weep. How precious – how fragile he was! Damn that doctor! Damn him for eternity to the lowest, hottest, most excruciatingly painful depth of hell!

If the person standing in that doorway was, in fact, the great Doctor Kobienko, it simply meant that this drama was going to come to its conclusion sooner than she’d thought.

Good.

*16*

 

 

After further discussion and a lot of thought, Jett and Jax had agreed to hold off on getting the next flight to Russia. Instead, they purchased tickets to Washington, DC. There, they entered FBI Headquarters, explained their reason for being there, and – probably because of who Jett was – were given permission to speak with the man in charge of the investigation into Atarah’s abduction.

At first, the man told them that while he appreciated their zealous desire to help, there was no way the FBI could allow private citizens to participate in a foreign operation like this. Even in a domestic one, there would be a lot of push-back from the higher-ups, but then Jax reminded the man of his brother’s skills as an Olympic athlete, not to mention the fact that both he and his brother could probably out-shoot their best marksmen.

“That’s all very impressive, Mr. Kinsley.” The agent, who had introduced himself as Mr. Gilliard, leaned forward. “Believe me, I’m well-aware of your athletic prowess, having followed the Olympics with great interest. However, throwing a discus or a javelin, or any of the other track and field accomplishments you have, doesn’t amount to being a capable field operative. Besides, we have all kinds of International laws that say you can’t be part of this. Especially in a place like Russia, where our relationship with them, even when working together to take down a known criminal, is, ah, delicate. They could easily think we’re using you as a way to accuse them of some kind of wrong-doing in the international community should something go wrong and one of you get injured or killed. So, no. And I doubt you could shoot better than even our worst marksman.”

Jax and Jett exchanged an amused glance. “Wanna gives us a try?” asked Jax.

“I’m very busy, as you must realize. This interview was a favor because you,” and he nodded at Jett, “are the victim’s husband, and, quite frankly, because I appreciate you representing the United States so well in the last Olympics. But that’s all.”

Jett took a deep breath. He hadn’t tried to speak yet, but if there was ever a necessary time to try, this was it. He cleared his throat, getting Gilliard’s attention. “I need to go,” he whispered, the sound coming across as painful.

“Do you have laryngitis, Mr. Kinsley?”

“No. When I heard that my wife’s plane crashed, I checked myself into a mental institution so I wouldn’t kill myself. My parents and brother didn’t need that. But I – I lost my mind for a long time. Every time I started to think of ‘Tarah, I would push it away by either hurting myself or screaming. I had nightmares all the time about her that were…” He swallowed, both to ease the scratchiness and to push down the remembered horrors this discussion was bringing back. “They were bad. I woke myself up by screaming. I pulverized both hands by hitting a metal steam pipe, broke the toes and instep of one foot, and badly dislocated my shoulders and collar-bone because I figured the pain would keep me from thinking about her. That really hurt, and so of course, I did a lot of screaming about that, too.” He gave twisted smile, shrugged. “This went on for about six months or so. And then I began to get past it. But as you can hear, my voice is destroyed. Anyway, I came home, still thinking I no longer had my beautiful Atarah, trying to deal with that, only to be called by one of your agents and told she wasn’t dead after all. Then I learned I also had a son. Would you stay home and wait for someone else to rescue them, Mr. Gilliard?” He swallowed hard, this throat on fire, wincing. That was more talking than he’d done in over a year.

The man took a deep breath, his mouth a thin line. He shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. That – that’s – I’m sorry you had to go through that, son. And I can’t believe one of our operatives was so stupid…what was he thinking, calling you like that?”

Jett shrugged, unable to talk at all now.

“Well, I doubt I can get permission for you to participate, but, hey. You want to come with me to the gun range? I’ll give you guys a chance to show me your shooting skills, at least.” He got up and headed for the door.

“May as well,” Jax murmured, standing. “Who knows?”

Nodding, Jett joined him and they went out.

An hour later, Frank Gilliard stared in utter disbelief at the targets. After they had shot dead-center into the hanging paper ones at the end of the regular range, he’d allowed the brothers to try their hand at the training grounds made up of “streets” with house and foliage mock-ups, where dummies would spring out of nowhere, from behind trees, doorways, in windows, on rooftops, and the trainee had to shoot not only the actual “bad guys” while holding back from hitting the “good” ones, but they had to try and make every pull of the trigger a kill-shot.

Jax went first, then Jett. They scored a perfect one-hundred percent each.

“Holy shit!” Gilliard turned and regarded the brothers with unashamed awe. “How – where did you two learn to do that?”

“We were both athletic, and our parents enrolled us in all kinds of things as kids. But we’re also really good at math. So Jett chose to continue improving his athletic skills, while I pursued engineering. We both continued with the other stuff, though – before all this bullshit happened, he was working at the local University as an athletics instructor and an associate math professor. I have my own business as a structural engineer, but I go on weekend-warrior jaunts to keep up my shooting, climbing and hiking. I also play a bunch of sports in the summer. Good aim is as much a function of understanding mathematic algorithms as athleticism.”

Gilliard shook his head. “Wow. I never would have suspected that.” He looked around at the targets again, uttering a short laugh. “I should be offering you guys a job.”

“Just let us go to Russia and help rescue Atarah.”

Jax had spoken, but only a fool would have missed that he was acting as his brother’s voice, too.

“Is that all?” With a barked laugh, Gilliard turned, waving for them to follow him, and left the area. He hadn’t said he’d let them be part of the case, but it was clear his view of them had undergone a radical change.

They soon found out how radical.

 

*******

 

“This is crazy.” Kobienko looked at his watch, then up at the apartment window. She’d been home for an hour, having gotten there the same time she always did, and as usual, there was no sign of any visitors. How much longer could he wait?

The question now, is, how badly do I want my revenge? Could I not modify it a little? Simply tie her up and make her watch as I skin her brat alive, then make her drink its blood or something? Then I will be free to take her. And I won’t be nice about it, either. Oh, no, I’ll make sure it hurts and keep at her for as many hours as I can stand. Yes, that might be the only answer. I can’t wait for her friends or family to show up – if they knew where she was, surely someone would have arrived by now!

He straightened, smoothed the front of his coat, and peered out of the doorway. The street seemed deserted. That wasn’t good. It would make his presence more obvious to anyone who might be looking out a window. Damn. He’d have to wait a little longer. A number of people who worked late would be by in a while, at which time he could leave the doorway and join them on the sidewalk. Then he’d make his way across the street as if he belonged there, and go into her building. If anyone questioned his presence, he’d simply kill them.

One hand in his pocket, he felt for the prepared syringe. Its contents produced either paralysis or death, depending on how much of it was injected. Should anyone see him on his way up to her apartment, he’d empty the entire thing into the person’s veins and have done with it.

An hour later, he saw his chance. Determined, excited, he walked out of the doorway.

 

*******

 

Atarah was tired and the baby was crying. Some days were like that, though, and she was up to dealing with it. A full week had passed since she’d noticed the gleam in the dark doorway across the street, and after that evening, she hadn’t seen it again. No matter. She was being more cautious than normal now.

After feeding Chasin, she’d tried getting him to go to sleep, but he’d been fussy. She had picked him up and was still pacing with him, crooning into his ear, trying to get him to settle down. As happened every evening, the street became temporarily more active as some of her neighbors who worked the later shifts began coming home. Out of boredom, she watched them as she walked back and forth in front of the small casement window. Even with the streetlamps on, it was difficult to see anyone’s face from there, but she had begun to recognize most of these people by the way they walked.

One man, fairly young, had an obvious limp that logic told her was the result of one leg being shorter than the other. He lived several doors down on the same side of the street as her apartment building. Another man, who never wore a hat even in the coldest weather, walked with an unconscious swagger. She didn’t think he was arrogant, but that it was simply the way he walked. His apartment was further down and across the street. Then there was the man who..where was he – ah, there!...wore an apron that was so long, it could be seen peeking out from under his coat. His walk was slow and painful-looking, like maybe he had a bad back. She noted each one as she bounced Chasin lightly in her arms, singing a quiet lullaby into his tiny pink ear. All of them familiar.

Except that one. Someone had emerged from a doorway – the doorway, and his walk wasn’t like anyone else’s who lived around there. Still, it was every bit as familiar. She’d seen it every day for months while recovering in the clinic. He had pulled his hat low over his eyes, his collar up, and clearly he was trying to blend in with the others on the street. She had no doubt that at some point he would make his way to her building and somehow manage to get into her apartment.

Oh, God! Chasin, what do I do? How can I keep you safe from that monster? She didn’t think about her own peril, but spent what little time she figured she had trying to think of a place in the apartment to hide the child where he’d be comfortable enough not to start crying. No matter what the doctor did to her, she could never let him get to her son. And she knew instinctively that he would not be kind to the child. She rushed about, thinking. Closet…no. Kitchen pantry closet…no. Cabinet…no, no. The bedroom – absolutely not! The…ah.

Hoping her solution wasn’t based on an erroneous assumption, she took a deep breath, held Chasin a little tighter, and left the room.

Had she glanced out the window again, she would have noticed someone else in the street, someone she also would have recognized immediately, and who was closing in on her building not far from the doctor’s shuffling form. But instead of going to the front door like he was, this person paused, then dashed around the corner, heading instead for the back of the apartment house.

As with most buildings of any size, there was more than one way in. Kobienko had only chosen the obvious one.

 

*******

 

Trying to look like a member of the neighborhood wasn’t easy when everyone around you was nodding to an acknowledging each other. Kobienko decided to walk slowly, draw as little attention to himself as possible. A few individuals gave him inquisitive glances, one even greeting him with wishes for a pleasant evening. Not wanting to encourage further curiosity, he’d responded in kind, and then headed for the front door of the girl’s apartment building. No buzzer had been installed that required permission of the tenants to enter, so he went inside and headed up the stairs. Based on the position of the window as seen from the street, he easily guessed which door was hers and knocked.

That she would open it wasn’t that surprising, but that she looked like she was expecting him when she did, certainly was. “Issa?”

“Atarah. You know that’s my real name.” She stepped back so he could enter.

He looked around at the sparsely-furnished interior, seeing what he’d expected. “Tell me, then, Atarah. Why did you run away from clinic?”

“Dr. Chevon scared me.” She shut the door but didn’t lock it. “I may have misinterpreted what she was implying, but I don’t think so. Why was her behavior all right? Why didn’t you have a problem with it?”

He faced her, folding his arms, his thick coat making the gesture look uncomfortable. “Why do you think that? Maybe I had big problem with it. Had you not left, I may have had chances to explain that.”

“I didn’t wish to take the chance. Sorry.”

He knew she wasn’t, but he guessed she thought she’d try and convince him otherwise so that he might not harm her. “No, my dear, you are not sorry at all. If you were, you would have tried to be contacting me before now.”

“My memory came back.”

“I know. What of it?”

She frowned. “You were purposely keeping me from remembering by giving me some kind of medication. Why would you do that?”

He unfolded his arms and began to unbutton his coat. “I wanted to establish the bond between us before that happened. I have cared about you for a long time, my dear. Imagine, if you would, my horror at learning you are killed in plane crash! I was devastated! So imagine, then, my utter…delight when I see you that day at your mother’s house, and you were asking me if I could help you! It was like gifting from the gods! So I decided to help you with memory problem, but keep under my control this, until such time I thought is right to let you remember who you were.” As he’d been speaking, he had finished opening his coat and then removed it, dropping it on the floor.

“What are you doing, Dr. Kobienko?”

“Please, my love. Call me Yvgenyi.”

“Your ‘love’?”

“Yes. You are all I think about, all I want. But you cannot be mine until you have no other obligations. So. Where is your child?”

She gulped and began backing away.

“Tell me, Atarah, and I might think to be gentle with you.” He wouldn’t – at all – but if it made her trust him a bit, why not say he would?

“What are you going to do with my son?”

“Nothing. I – want to make sure he doesn’t cry.”

“Why would he cry?”

“Because he will hear us. I know you have been with no-one before now, so sounds of passion will be new to his young ears.”

“You mean rape.”

He shrugged and began undoing his shirt. “If you wish. Yes. Rape. I’ve waited long time to take you, Atarah. Long, long time. I’ve wanted to feel you under me for several years now, and can wait no longer. So where is the child?”

“Go to hell, Dr. Kobienko. I don’t care if you hurt me. I expect you to because you’re a freaking pervert and a sick son-of-a bi - ”

The end of the word was lost when he struck her across the face with a fist, sending her to the floor. “I’ll find him myself, then!” He called her a filthy word – they’d been speaking English, and he’d used the worst four-letter descriptive he could think of – and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her to her feet.

She was much taller than he and when she fought back, nearly broke free. But he was ready for this, and now hit her several times – twice in the stomach, making her double over, and then on the jaw, and this time succeeded in knocking her out completely.

“Good.” He dragged her into the bedroom, tossed her onto the mattress, and began looking around for two things – something to tie her up with, and the baby. He managed the former, having come across a box of yarn that she was using to crochet a blanket, but the latter was nowhere. “You must have hidden him in a closet then, yes? No matter. I deal later with him. But first, you.” He unwound a length of the yarn, folding it into a triple strand, and tied her wrists together. With some more yarn, he attached her bound wrists to the radiator behind the bed. Before doing any more, he began removing her clothes. This got him so excited, he didn’t consider the sounds he was hearing that should have been an immediate source of alarm.

In the other room, the front door had opened and someone came inside, the footsteps on the wooden floor slow, but getting closer. And then the sound of a gun being cocked.

That did register and he stood, whirling around. “You!”

“Yes, me. Did you think no one was watching you? That your movements had gone unnoticed? No, dear doctor, they have not. Especially not by me – I’ve been following and watching, biding my time.”

“What do you want?” He was breathing hard, the part of his mind that was still on what he wanted to do to the unconscious girl scrambling for his attention despite what his logic circuits were saying.

“You made me a promise, yet here you are, clearly leaving me out of your loop. I won’t tolerate that. No one lies to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you! I would have contacted you after I’d enjoyed her myself, exactly as we had agreed!” A lie he knew he wouldn't have believed himself.

“I doubt that. Besides, it looks like you’ve damaged her already. How much more damage were you going to do, my friend?”

“Quite a lot, to be honest. She betrayed me and needs to be punished. She’ll recover from what I do, but it may take a while. Unless, of course, you don’t mind having her in that condition?” He tried for a charming smile.

It didn’t work. The gun was pointing directly at his chest. “Liar. You don’t deserve her, and you betrayed me and my punishments don’t allow for recovery time.”

Terrified, Kobienko began to say something in his defense, but never got the chance to get the first word out. The first bullet went through his heart, the second between his eyes, and he fell, dead before hitting the floor.

“Stupid little man,” Dr. Chevon muttered, stepping over him. She went to the mattress and untied the young woman who was beginning to come around.

“What - ”

“Be quiet, Atarah. Kobienko is dead. I have saved your life.” She bundled the yarn into a thick knot and tossed it onto the man’s body. “But don’t think that was for free. I will require something in return.”

“What – ow. My stomach…”

“Yes, he hit you hard, it seems. Well, no matter. My price for this is you. I will leave now, but one day I’ll find you again. And considering who you are, that shouldn’t be difficult at all. When I decide I want you, I’ll be sure to get you when you have no way to fight or call for help. I won’t kill you, but when I’m done with you, I expect you’ll need a lot of time alone.” She smiled, and it was the same grotesque facial expression that had sent Atarah running from the clinic.

“I won’t thank you, then.”

“No, I didn’t think you would, child.” She leaned down and kissed Atarah on the forehead. “Don’t bother cringing like that. I’m not impressed. Farewell until another time.” Shoving the gun into one of her coat pockets, she went back out, but didn’t go downstairs. If anyone had heard the shot, there would be police heading that way.

At the end of the hall was a window, outside of which was a convenient fire escape. Perfect. Mission accomplished, doctor out of the picture, a new promise made.

And Dr. Chevon always kept her promises.

*17*

 

 

Someone had in fact heard the shot, but because he and the others were on the rooftop across the street, it would take some time to get downstairs, outside, across the street, and up to the apartment.

“I can’t believe you didn’t have her better protected that this,” Jax said, eyes as angry as his voice.

“From what we could tell, the doctor had no gun!” The operative jogging down the stairs behind him sounded genuinely shocked.

“Well, somebody did! Maybe that person we saw running to the back of the building who you claimed was irrelevant! Jett, are you okay?”

Ahead of him, Jett shook his head but didn’t stop or turn around. When he got to the bottom step, he sprinted out the door, and after a brief glance for traffic, dashed across to the apartment building where he was told Atarah was. Once inside, he took the stairs two at a time, and headed for the far end that would bring him to the front of the building.

By this time, neighbors on the same floor were peeking out through doors opened only the width of an eye. None of them, apparently, wanted to get caught in any crossfire if there were more shots.

The apartment door directly ahead hung open; one hand on the butt of the gun in the shoulder-holster he’d been given, Jett pushed the door open the rest of the way and went inside. A living room that was smaller than his walk-in closet at home; a door through which he could see what looked like the side of a refrigerator in one direction, a short hallway in the other; he went down the hall to another door that was ajar and shoved it open with one foot.

A girl had her back to him, a very tall girl with shoulder-length, auburn hair. She stiffened and turned. And stared, one hand going to her heart, her breath catching in a silent gasp.

Jett stared back, barely seeing the body stretched out in a frame of blood on the floor. Atarah. Every terrible moment he’d experienced throughout the past year had begun to wash off and become a meaningless puddle of deconstructed images. His life-source, once believed gone, was rushing to him. Quickly, he removed the gun and rested it with care on a small dresser by the door. When Atarah slid her arms around him he folded her into his embrace, breathing her natural, familiar scent, his heartbeat finding its twin.

They said nothing. It was, for now, over. After some time, she moved back from him enough to look up into his eyes and he noticed the bruise on the side of her jaw. He touched it with one finger, eyebrows drawn together in anger.

“It’s okay, Jett. I’ll tell you about it later. But there’s someone you have to meet. Come with me.” She ran her palm down his arm and grasped his hand, then tugged him toward the door.

By this time, the rest of the team had arrived: four CIA field agents and Jax. The agents pushed gently past the couple and entered the bedroom.

Jax, however, stayed where he was and greeted his sister-in-law with a warm smile. “Looks like we didn’t have to do anything after all – it’s good to see you, ‘Tarah.”

“You, too, Jax. I was about to go get…well, come with us.” She turned a brilliant smile on her husband and pulled him out the door, Jax going after them.

She brought them up to the third floor where she knocked on a door halfway along the hall. A woman poked her head out, looked up and down, and then waved the three of them inside.

She said something in Russian, which Atarah interpreted for Jett and Jax. “She asked if it’s it safe now.” To the woman, she spoke the same tongue, adding in English to the Kinsleys, “This is Lud. I told her she was safe at that you are my husband.” She waved a hand at Jett, her eyes telling lots more. “And this is his brother.”

The woman was nodding, smiling at them both. When she asked her next question, Jett was able to interpret the look that went with it, the look that everyone got when asking if he and his brother were twins.

Atarah was shaking her head “no,” confirming his conclusion, adding a few words which she interpreted for him. “I explained you weren’t twins but close in age, then asked her where my son was.”

Lud smiled at the brothers and went into another room.

No one spoke during the few seconds she was gone, Jett pulling his wife close, staring hard at the door through which the woman had disappeard. A moment later Lud returned, and in her arms was a sleeping bundle, his cherubic features flushed with the rosiness of good health, his dark hair slightly curly. He made a tiny sigh as the woman handed him to Atarah.

“Jett, this is Chasin, our son.”

With all her talk about being alive, Nightmare Atarah had never said anything about a child…the real Atarah was holding the baby out to him, and he gathered the small miracle to his chest, holding him with a version of love he’d never imagined existed, and grateful beyond measure for the doctors at Bluebird Foundation who had kept him alive. A tear landed on a fold of the baby’s blanket, but it took a few seconds for Jett to recognize it as his, to realize he was crying.

“Oh, my dearest Jett,” Atarah whispered. “I have missed you so much! And there’s so much to tell you, to explain. I – are you all right? You haven’t said a word this whole time.”

Taking a shaky breath, Jett looked over at Jax, raising an eyebrow. She didn’t know, of course. But how to tell her? With great reluctance, he handed his son back to Atarah, then signed to Jax that he could fill her in on some of it, that the rest would have to wait until later.

Jax paused, his look telling Jett that he was trying to interpreting the gestures. Then his expression cleared and he said, “He can’t speak, ‘Tarah. His vocal chords were badly damaged, and yeah, he can make sounds, kind of like a rough whisper, but it hurts him a lot to do that.”

“Wh- why? What happened? Was he in an accident?”

“No, you were. He had to find a way to deal with that, with believing you were dead. We’ll tell you the rest later, though. Right now, I think we need to get out of here. The FBI gave us a special kind of dispensation or something by allowing us to be in on your rescue, but I get the impression they don’t want it generally known that we’re here.”

“He’s right, ma’am,” said a man who had come to the open door.

“Oh. I see.” Atarah nodded, turned to the woman who had agreed to watch Chasin and gave her a fierce hug that almost woke up the baby, whispering something into Lud’s ear as she did that made the woman’s eyes fill with tears.

She patted Atarah’s back and nodded as they separated.

Jett went her, gave her a hug and a kiss on the top of her greying head. “Thank you, Lud.”

The others had gone out; Jett put an arm around Atarah and followed the group, gazing more frequently at Chasin than where he was goin. When they’d gotten back to the second floor, the doctor’s body, now encased in a black body-bag, was being loaded onto a stretcher in preparation to being brought downstairs.

“I have a question for you, ma’am.” The agent who had gone upstairs to find them gave Atarah an almost apologetic look. “Uh, who shot the doctor? Was it you?”

Looking horrified, Atarah said, “My God, no! No, it was another doctor, uh, Chevon. She was an associate of Kobienko’s. I think I should finish explaining about her when we’re back at whatever place it is you’re going to take us for – what did you call it that first time we spoke?”

“Debriefing.”

“That.”

“Very well.”

When they stepped out onto the street, they were greeted by a small fleet of shiny black SUVs. As they began to get in, Jax stopped.

“Don’t you want to take anything from the apartment?”

“No. I had nothing of value except Chasin. Right now, I just want to get this all behind us and go back home.”

Jett nodded beside her – he couldn’t have agreed more.

 

******

 

“Damn reporters.”

Bryson gave his wife a startled look. Hadn’t she said exactly the same thing a little over two years ago when they were at the same airport waiting for Jett and Atarah to return from their honeymoon? Well, he couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. “At least they won’t be bothering Jax and his wife, since they’re here hoping to see Chasin.”

“Fools.”

“They are, but this is what they do.” Bry took a deep breath and looked around the terminal, thinking about what had brought them there this time. After returning from Russia, Jax had gotten back in touch with Ondine, and within no time at all, everyone knew that Atarah’s lovely best friend was crazy in love with Jett’s older brother. The reporters had gone into a tizzy over it, but none of their reactions over this news had come even close to the frenzy over the announcement that Atarah Kinsley was both alive and a mother.

Scandal papers had run weeks of headlines speculating about the “real” father of Chasin, some of their writers going so far as to print all kinds of fictional accounts of a “love nest” in the Russian countryside, going into insane and imaginary details about how Atarah had fallen in love with her abductor in a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome. This might have continued a lot longer, but Jax had paid a visit to the offices of the paper that had been the worst offender. No one who wasn’t present at that meeting knew what had been said, but the stories had suddenly stopped.

One of these days, I’m going to get him to tell me what he did. Bryson was still a tad miffed that the only one Jax told what had happened there was Jett, and he wasn’t sharing it with anyone, either.

Another development, the cause of which Bryson was waiting for the media to discover, was that stories about Jett and Atarah, which might have continued where they’d left off before her presumed death, had all but stopped because Jett was no longer speaking with them. He’d wave, smile, even pantomime a pleasant greeting from time to time, but there were no actual words. Perhaps the reporters figured he simply didn’t feel like shouting over the noise of all the questions being barked at him. Eventually, though, they had to recognize that the reason for his silence was not what any of them had concluded.

This had spawned new stories. New speculation. And the whole time, they did whatever they could to snap pictures of the sweet-faced little boy Atarah had brought home – Bryson’s beloved grandson. By the time Chasin was a year and a half, Bry knew no one could reasonably continue to wonder if the father was Jett. The little boy had gotten enough of his famous father’s characteristics and features that his genetics were unquestionable.

And then word had gotten out that Jett’s big brother wasn’t just dating Ondine, but was going to marry Atarah’s best friend. New frenzy. Not as big a reaction as all the breathless wonder over the decathlete, but it was nothing if not interesting. However, the media’s presence at the airport this time wasn’t because of any great desire to see the latest honeymoon couple, but to see his nephew, Jett’s little boy, who had become the newest darling of paparazzi the world over. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were still running after us five generations from now.

“It doesn’t matter, love,” Bryson said. “Jett is on his way to the Olympic Training Camp with Atarah and Chasin, while these blithering dummies are tripping over themselves trying to catch a glimpse of them here.”

“Serves them right.” She smirked at the nearest blithering dummy who was trying to snap a picture of her; Celia, Bry could see, was so not in the mood for this. They’d let it be known that Jax and Ondine would be arriving shortly, and all Bryson and his wife wanted to do was get them home. Jax had bought a house and would be moving back out of state, but for the next week, at least, Jax and their newest daughter-in-law would be their guests. They didn’t need the media there, too.

The loudspeakers blared out the information that Flight 235 was about to land at Gate 7. Only half the reporters rushed forward, the other half heading for Gate 6, having apparently remembered the sneaky ploy the Kinsleys had used the last time.

“Think they’ll figure out what we’re doing?” he asked, taking Celia’s arm.

“Probably, but like last time, too late to do anything about it.” She giggled as they went to the lounge upstairs where their older son and his wife were waiting for the helicopter to land on the roof of the terminal and take them all to the smaller, private airport several miles away where a car had been arranged for them.

“Should be here any moment.” Celia’s smile was one of delight as she looked on the couple. “I never thought to see Jax married, much less to someone as sweet and beautiful as you, Ondine.” She embraced the delicate young lady, adding, “I, for one, need a nap. I expect you two are pretty worn out, too.”

“We’re okay, Mom.” Jax stood and stretched. “You can doze off on the way home, if you have to – we don’t need to be entertained.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t.”

Overhead, the pulsing drone of a chopper alerted them to the arrival of their ride; the four Kinsleys headed for the stairwell leading to the roof. As soon as they were inside, Bryson shut and locked the door behind them in case some reporter with a few more brain cells than the others figured out the purpose of the helicopter. Grinning, he went to his seat and strapped himself in. “Success once again!” he crowed over the sound of the whirling blades.

From joy to tragedy, from tragedy to a long, dark time of sadness, from sadness to hope, and from hope to a sparkling series of joyful days, Bryson’s inner philosopher intoned. He closed his eyes, head back against he seat. Content, he couldn’t allow himself to believe that everything was going to be sitcom-happy-ending great forever, but was determined to hold tight to every moment ahead that was.

 

*******

 

As the Kinsleys had boarded the helicopter, several of the reporters had looked up from the parking lot where they’d gone as soon as they realized Jax and his bride were not on the plane. Among them, a woman stared up at the roof, the fur of her collar blowing against her low-cut bodice.

“What do you make of that?” a man beside her asked, pointing.

The woman didn’t answer, but smiled, and the man suddenly wanted to get far away from her. He couldn’t have said why, exactly, just that there was something grotesque about that smile…

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 03.03.2015

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