Chapter Thirty-Three
THIRTY-THREE
It was weird how it came back. His past. His memory. All of it.
Greg had awoken in a hospital room, the sound of beeping machines all around him, overhead lights glaring, and just like that his recollection returned, without issue, as simply as if he had woken up from a long and confusing dream.
He remembered that he was an investigative journalist, often going undercover, currently working on a story for the New York Reference Daily about the far reaches of The Paper Boys. He knew that he was the son of a single mother in the military, a woman who had been a JAG military officer, before dying of Parkinson’s when he was in his late twenties. He remembered the sign she kept in her office, too. An embroidery, which her grandfather had given her upon graduating from law school, which read, Justice, justice, you shall pursue.
His mother was Jewish.
He knew that he been all over the world—attached to combat units in Afghanistan, going undercover to report on human trafficking at the Mexican border. It wasn’t that he loved danger, but he had an almost insatiable desire for justice, for truth, for giving voice to the invisible, and telling human stories.
And he remembered that he hated the feeling of being settled down. That anytime he spent too long in one place, he felt itchy. Annoyed. And aside from his daily appointments at the gym, he avoided long-term commitments like the plague.
As for his current life, that came back, too. He remembered that he lived in New York City in a small apartment in midtown Manhattan. He remembered that his brother, who unlike him had settled down, was now happily married and living in Long Island, along with his nieces.
The strangest part, though, was that the memories of his past now sat beside his memories of his time with Faye. He could recall his entire experience of life without the burden of a past. The way he became a new type of man through reading her books, playing Scrabble with her, going undercover with Nelly—but it was like two different movies playing simultaneously inside his head.
It felt impossible to sort through the confusion.
But mainly, he was worried about Faye. After she had hit him with her car and caused him to black out, she had dropped him off at the hospital and absconded. He never got the chance to tell her about Chief Eric Myers and the attack planned for her store. He tried to contact her, but she wasn’t answering. His only hope now was Nelly.
Thankfully, she had come through for him. Shortly after he woke up at the hospital, two agents from the FBI had appeared, wanting to speak with him. Now he was desperately trying to communicate everything he had learned to Agent Jones and Agent Diaz.
“So,” Agent Diaz said, staring down at his notebook, “you’re telling me that you saw a car the night of the attack on Faye Kaplan’s business address and that you gave that license plate number to Chief Eric Myers, but he never ran it.”
“Not only that,” Greg said, sitting up in his bed. “The car is in his house.”
“We saw the photo,” Agent Diaz confirmed.
“And?” Greg asked.
“The car is registered to him.”
“Of course it is,” Greg said, unsurprised. He was eager to put his pants back on and find Faye. “And both Faye and Miranda can corroborate,” he clarified.
He tried to rise to his feet, but a dizzy spell came over him. Agent Diaz and Agent Jones rushed to help him back into bed.
“Just relax,” Agent Jones said. “We’re still trying to get a handle on what’s happening here. Now, going back to this Paper Boys cell operating in Woodstock... You said there were three men working underneath Chief Eric Myers, as well.”
“Yes.” Greg was getting frustrated by his own malfunctioning body and how long this all was taking. “I’m happy to tell you everything else I know, in detail, but first, you need to send an agent to Magic Mud Pottery.”
The Feds still weren’t getting it. “And these three men,” Agent Jones continued, “did they give you any inclination of how they had been recruited?”
Ignoring their question, Greg searched for his phone, texting Nelly once again: Still trying to explain all this to the FBI. Please go to Magic Mud Pottery and get Faye. Do not let her stay there. Take her somewhere safe.
Nelly did not text back.
“Sir,” Agent Jones said, trying to grab his attention. “If you would just put down your phone and answer our questions—”
“No!” Greg snapped back at him. “You don’t understand. Faiga Kaplan, the woman who owns Magic Mud Pottery, is in terrible danger. The Paper Boys are planning something at her store tonight. Now, I’m happy to sit around and keep talking... I’m happy to tell you everything I know, and have learned, but only after you send your team over there and place Faye into protective custody.”
The two agents considered his request, before finally, Agent Diaz left the room. Greg relaxed back onto his hospital bed and, leaning his forehead into his hands, realized he had a massive headache. He had been so worried about Faye that he hadn’t even noticed.
“I liked your piece on predatory loans in low-income communities,” Agent Jones said.
Greg looked up. “What?”
“I read it,” the agent explained, “back in college. It’s one of the reasons I went into the FBI. It made me want to work conspiracies. I read your piece on trafficking in fast fashion, too. You do good work. Though I never thought I’d actually meet you. I imagine you have to stay pretty on the down-low in real life.”
“Something like that.”
“Well...” Agent Jones held out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
Greg shook the agent’s hand, but he didn’t feel like a hero. He had simply done what he always did as an award-winning undercover investigative journalist—he had broken the story. He had pursued justice. What he didn’t expect was to find Faye.
The juxtaposition of those two lives, the person he had been before and the person he had become in the wake of amnesia, banged up against each other like misfitting modular pottery. He didn’t know which version of himself would win out, only that he felt changed forever.
Agent Diaz returned. “So, some good news...”
“What?”
“Our guys just pulled over a car with three men matching the description of your guys,” he said.
“That’s great,” Greg said. “What about Chief Eric Myers?”
“We haven’t been able to track him down yet. But we have folks watching his house, and the police station...”
It was better than nothing, and yet the way Agent Diaz was looking at Agent Jones told Greg that something was still very wrong.
“What?” Greg said, glancing between them. “Tell me.”
Agent Diaz shifted nervously. “They found gasoline in the trunk.”
Greg stammered, “They were planning to burn down her store.”
“It appears that way,” Agent Diaz confirmed.
His whole stomach churned with disgust. He thought back to his night with The Paper Boys, the way they had joked about planning a barbecue—because they were planning to burn down Magic Mud Pottery. His entire body prickled with anger. All this violence and destruction, for what? A window. Because Faye was Jewish. No, the window was just an excuse. Blaming it on the Jews was just a justification, too. These people would always find a reason to live inside their hatred.
He suddenly didn’t care about the headache, or his inability to stand. He needed to get to Faye. He needed to reach her, keep her safe, protect her. But when he tried to launch himself off the bed, he fell again.
“Just keep her safe,” Greg said finally, desperately. “Please. Whatever you do...just make sure she’s protected.”