8
8
THE FULL REPORT
G ood news followed good news in regards to the future health and wellbeing of my wife. I awoke, in the same hospital bed she did after her ordeal, recollecting her face, sick with panic and worry, hovering over mine. Immediately I felt like some life-saving breath had been pumped into my chest, and I could breathe again. So she hadn’t left me to die without a second thought.
I glanced at the clock, ticking down the time in quarter-second increments. Like our business was so important, it needed NASA like precision to measure. It lent a sense of urgency to the whole institution, which was the point, I guess.
And boy did I feel it now. The urgency. And I could feel her slipping through my fingers with each quarter second tick. The point I’d mentally marked in my head as the turning point for her, if she was to turn back home, was now. I’d given them a week to wrap up their unfinished business and fill in their holes. I saw three scenarios:
She woke up and immediately tried to convince lover-boy to cut her loose.
If she was trying, it wasn’t hard enough. I was realistic enough to know if she came back, it would have very little to do with me and a lot to do with our brother. Thank God we still had Mikey. Somehow, she saw me as the devil again. I probably deserved it. Our honeymoon night was an epic fail. I rubbed at my chest and concentrated on the other two scenarios.
She woke up and commenced to fucking lover-boy like she didn’t even have a husband who was desperately trying to make amends for something he didn’t mean to do.
She woke up and was undecided as to whether or not she would stay. Lover-boy would convince her they were meant to be together, and she would stay for as long as her guilty conscious would permit her to stay away from baby bro.
And baby bro was already beside himself. Already had to be quarantined, although I insisted that he be given TV privileges and Shadow visits. The stiff-lipped staff still believed Mikey was a danger to himself and others.
They could’ve been talking about me. I was half a tick away from busting a vein. And there wasn’t much I could do from my sterile hospital room but suffer through the wait, while I let everyone else do the heavy lifting. I wasn’t supposed to lift a finger. I could do nothing to help. I could do nothing to speed up my recovery. I wasn’t supposed to worry, or mentally tax myself, or even move around much. They were worrying about my brain when it was my heart they should be concerned about.
I rubbed at my chest while I laid up here in this bed—our recovery bed—and waited for useless reports to come in, and doctors to confer about me, and for my goddamned cell to ring, while the clock ticked off the minutes. It was a quarter past the hour.
He was late. I blew out some air and winced. My cheek felt like a glued together egg shell. I didn’t so much as want air conditioning to waft over it. A plastics guy from the city made a visit to re-stitch my cheek and reset my nose. Said the requisite: no activity, no sun, no shaving for best possible outcome.
Fuck ‘em . I was throwing back the covers with my good arm, when Slater darkened my door with his grim face. Our eyes met. I swallowed and sank back down. He palmed the wall pad, and the door slid open.
“Hey, bro. You fixin’ to bust outta this joint or what?” Slater strolled in wearing shorts a shade lighter than his brown legs and a crisp shirt the same color as his teeth—civilian clothes.
I slapped him a sloppy five with my left hand, my right arm laid up in a sling from a severed tendon. Motherfucker Davenport. I was going to kill him, if it was the last thing I did.
“Nah, man,” I dismissed. “Just thinking about taking a piss while I wait for your late ass to show up.”
Our eyes met again. Something was up.
I let out a sigh. “Lay it on me. Whatja get? After a week of no news, I need some good news.” I already knew it was bad.
Slater chewed a while on his toothpick—a shared vice we picked up together from our Ops training days—then took in a breath. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
“I just said I needed some good news, motherfucker.”
He lifted half a cheek. “Someone hacked into your PV hospital file, the morning after you were brought in.” He paused for effect. “The IP address is untraceable.”
I breathed in deep. My man just lifted a boulder off my chest. So, she’d checked on me.
He had more. “And the paramedics arrived to find you had already been administered to. Found you propped up, covered up, ice-pack on your sorry face, and tourniquet expertly tied on your arm—with the time penned across your forehead.” He gave a respectful pause while I tried to will my face into obedience.
My wife had obviously convinced lover-boy to do that too. I wouldn’t have done that for him. He was still a nice guy as far as enemies were concerned. I’d have to let him live now, but I’d still make him wish he were dead.
“That’s it?” I pressed, needing more.
“That and her fingerprints were on the nine iron that smashed the Escalade window out. Obviously, to retrieve the first-aid kit because both hers and Davenport’s fingerprints were on the kit.” He paused to snicker. “All she had to do was reach into the nightstand drawer twenty feet away for the keys. Shows she was most likely panicked.”
I nodded, feeling some more relief. “That it?”
“That’s it for the good news.”
I sighed. “Hit me with it.”
“We got zero leads so far.” I growled, and Slater advanced forward to lean on the bed. “Sorry, man. It’s like they disappeared into thin air.”
He gave me a second to curse and compose myself before sliding my tray across the bed and laying a folder there. It was conspicuously stamped with the gold “Top Secret” seal at the top. I began flipping through the pages and pictures.
“As you can see, the pharmacy surveillance in Puerto Vallarta shows your buddy Davenport procuring syringes and enough propofol to take down a rhino. A whole lotta American dinero was exchanged.”
“Fucking Mexico,” I cut in. “Did no one think to raise a red and green flag at this?”
“The exchange was confessed, with a little help from our friends in the PVPD, and the pharmacist has since been fired,” Slater resumed, making me feel not one smidge better. He continued with his report. “The obvious conclusion is that he intended to put you and everybody else out, and still have enough left over to put her out for her chip removal. He also bought 10 mg of Ketamine—most likely what he hit her with at the house.”
“Wish that fucker would’ve gone with plan A” is all I had to say about that.
Slater snorted. “Gotta give him some credit—he’s got some balls on him.”
“Not for long,” I muttered and moved on, flipping the page to read the report from the crime scene. I’d lost a lot of blood. I let out a whistle. “Man, so much blood was pumped into me at that PV hospital, I now consider myself half Mexican.”
Slater laughed outright at that one. I stopped reading long enough to lift the good side of my face, then went right back at it. My half grin slid away immediately. The report included some AB positive that wasn’t mine. And wasn’t Davenport’s. I cleared my throat, a surge of emotion running from my chest up to my face. I avoided my best bud’s face as he read.
“A negligible amount of her blood was found on the sheets, as well as a few smears on the comforter,” Slater reported in a very modulated voice. Then paused.
“She was a fucking virgin!” I blasted out.
Slater held up his basketball palms. “Hey, no judgment, bro. Just thought you should be aware that Weston and Davies are aware. They were the first ones to see this report.”
I hit him with my eyes. “Delete it from the report. Our sex life is nobody’s business.”
“It’s already done. This is for your eyes only. A different report is being e-filed,” he assured me.
I nodded my head. Couldn’t speak I was so grateful. I’d never wanted to cry “Mulligan” so badly in my life. “Can we move on?” I fiddled with the bandage on my arm.
He nodded and flipped the page. “We had our tech guys immediately upload the face recognition technology to all borders into and out of the U.S. As far as we can tell, they never crossed the border . . . at least legally.”
“So, they could be anywhere?”
“Fucking Timbuktu or Bumfuck Egypt,” Slater agreed.
“Dammit! I can’t believe Davenport got this done all on his own. Who interrogated his parents?” I hated to admit he was better than I thought.
“Davies and Weston were both present. Both parents were very cooperative. Both denied involvement and knowledge. And both came up clean using both techniques—lie detector and truth juice. Well, not entirely clean. Dr. Davenport did admit to carrying on with both nurse practitioners at the same time.” Slater stopped to chortle. “Do you think he was referring to a threesome?”
I didn’t even crack a smile.
Slater harrrumphed a little before continuing. “And I think it’s important to note an unknown substance came up in the Mrs. Dr. Davenport’s blood. She claimed it was some herb with an unpronounceable name that supposedly has some regenerative benefits for nerves. Could be legit; could be bullshit. Either way, Davies and Weston both bought it. Especially when the Mr. Dr. Davenport reminded them that Connelly has powers of persuasion, like her brother.”
I snorted at this bit. “That’s such BS and they know it . . . and it’s Nealson now, not Connelly,” I corrected him.
Slater gave me a look that indicated he wasn’t so sure on both accounts.
“That’s it?” I threw up my good arm.
“That’s it. Oh, there is one more thing I picked up from the crime scene.” Slater reached into the front pocket of his khakis and pulled out my wife’s three-carat sparkler. He tossed it at me, and I managed to catch it to my chest left-handed.
“Davenport left this behind . . . everything else of hers, except for a couple of miscellaneous articles of clothing he probably missed in his hurry, was taken.”
I nodded at him, pensive for a moment. I held it in my fingers to inspect it. “Stupid of him,” I remarked. “He could’ve sold this or bartered with it.”
Slater nodded. “Or smart—one more way we could’ve traced their whereabouts.” He looked at me funny for a few seconds while I couldn’t think of anything to say. He cleared his throat and gathered the folder back up. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, seeing as how you’re technically my superior now. But.” Our eyes met. “You are my brother so . . .”
I sighed. “Just say it, man.”
He fiddled with the tray, swinging it out of the way before facing me. “This was obviously a crime of passion.”
I stared through him. I wasn’t sure which crime of passion he was referring to.
“I just think . . .” He paused to swipe a hand over his mouth. “I mean is there a possibility that—”
“For Christ’s sake, just spit it out!”
He stared at me another long moment, debating. He drew in a breath and went for it. “Is it possible they were in it together?”
I shot him an emphatic, “No!” A heavy beat of silence. “What makes you say that? Is there evidence that points to that?”
He shook his head. “No, it all points to Davenport drugging her and coercing her out the door . . . unless they faked the whole thing.”
“And how would they have done this?” I countered hotly. “She’s been under constant supervision at The Academy. Her phone and PAC came back clean. Mikey’s too.”
“I don’t know. Maybe through his mother or father.”
“You just said they passed both tests. And she’s never even spoken to his father. And the Mrs. Dr. Davenport’s phone records, PAC, and whereabouts for the past couple of years have all been scrutinized by experts. Twice.” I flashed him the peace sign and withheld the urge to fold down my first finger.
He nodded but still looked unsure.
“So, you’re saying the master plan to nab her from our honeymoon in Puerto Vallarta was hatched two years ago in that trailer in New Mexico?” I packed so much derision in there he threw up his hands in defeat.
“Nah, man. I guess you’re right.”
“This is all Davenport,” I asserted. “He saw the bait Weston put out there and he took it.”
“How’d he know where the honeymoon location was?” Slater countered.
“I dunno, man. He followed us. Dude was elite trained. And obviously obsessed.”
Slater nodded at me, with the first authentic agreement on his part.
“I was on fucking vacay mode,” I resumed. “Zoned out. I didn’t even hear him come in.”
“Obsessed. Zoned out,” Slater repeated. “That doesn’t sound like you. Do you think . . . I mean is it possible . . . she put some voo-doo shit on you guys?”
“Aw, man.” I rolled my eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “Not this shit again.”
Slater scratched at his brow. “Because I’ve known you and Davenport a long time. And I have never seen two trained-ass, up-to-their-eyeballs-in-pussy cadets behave so irrationally.”
My eyes turned hard. “What the fuck you trying to say, Slater? She put a hex on him? And that’s why he came back like a crazy bat outta hell to beat the shit out of me? That’s a pretty strong hex to go the distance of two years.”
“Alright, man.” Slater chuckled and back away. “When you put it that way.”
“And she’s in love with me now.” I finger-banged my chest. “So if she had that ability, then she’d use it on Davenport to cut her loose. So for the last time—she doesn’t have powers of persuasion.”
Slater worked on his face to look like he believed me.
“Let’s not forget,” I began again. “ I’m the one who persuaded her to marry me. Not the other way around. And for the precise reasons I told you.” I felt my blood pressure start to go up. That vein I mentioned earlier on the verge of a bust. “And just how the hell have I been acting irrationally?”
Slater gave me a look that didn’t need an expert to decode.
“Huh?” I dared him to say it, and he held up his palms again. “I think I’ve been the opposite of irrational throughout this whole goddamned ordeal!” I asserted. “Been sittin’ up here cool as a cucumber, while you all have your thumbs up your butts letting Davenport steal our intellectual property, and my fucking wife!”
“No, you’re right, man. My bad.”
I shook my head. “Hex,” I spat out. “Honestly, dude, you sound like some chick who just had her tarot cards read.”
Slater forced a laugh at that one, looking for an out. “Yeah, man. Maybe. I have been givin’ it to this civilian who’s always running to a psychic to check out our horoscopes.” He snorted. “Fucking civilian chicks.”
“Fucking chicks,” I corrected.
“Yeah. Fucking chicks,” he agreed. “Who needs them?” He did me the courtesy of avoiding eye contact when he slapped me five.
I rubbed at my chest. Who indeed?