Trauma

CHAPTER 37

Carrie used the VA locker room to change into her running clothes. Her sneakers, size nine Newton’s the color of watermelon with electric blue piping, felt stiff from nonuse. Soon enough, she imagined, her legs would be aching from nonuse as well. She had no particular destination in mind, just a desire to get out there and slap some pavement. Her body ached from a bad night’s sleep on a crummy mattress, plus all those hours of driving, and a good run would hopefully loosen her up.

She and David had returned from Maine late morning, and Carrie had gone straight to the VA to visit with Gerald Wright for his pre-op consultation.

Wright, a sixty-five-year-old grandfather of eleven and a fighter pilot during the Vietnam War, had been on the surgical schedule for months. His advanced-stage Parkinson’s disease couldn’t have cared less about two missing vets and Carrie’s growing concern about DBS therapy. She had contemplated backing out of the surgery altogether, but worried that might make Goodwin overly suspicious, more careful of what she was willing to say behind closed doors.

On the drive south, Carrie had given David the green light to get whatever equipment was necessary to conduct the surveillance. She trusted his instincts about Goodwin, among other things, including his belief that the Wright operation would go without a hitch.

“It’s not Parkinson’s that’s the problem,” David had said. “There are too many DBS procedures involving patients with that condition. Something would have surfaced by now. It’s got to be related to PTSD.”

It was strange to be back at the VA. Everything felt so normal. Dr. Finley had joined Carrie for the pre-op consultation and he seemed to be in a jovial mood. Immediately following her meeting with Wright, Carrie gave Dr. Finley a briefing on her search, and expressed regret at not having made more progress.

“I appreciate your efforts,” Dr. Finley said. “But as I told you back in my office, not everybody who has had the procedure returns for follow-up appointments. We are dealing with very fragmented individuals here.”

When Carrie mentioned seeing Ramón Hernandez in a photograph with Abington, he did not seem at all fazed by the discovery.

“It could be that’s how Steve got involved. I can check with Ramón, or Cal Trent, but there is a referral component to the DARPA program, so it’s not entirely surprising to find a connection between them.”

Something that was probably nothing.

All this did was get Carrie’s thoughts churning even faster. Maybe what she had observed in Abington and Fasciani was an aberration, and her theory about palinacousis was entirely groundless. After all, Fasciani never actually articulated what she assumed was the condition. It was his behavior that had made her suspect it. Perhaps she was projecting symptoms on these two men to fit a puzzle she’d created.

Her doubts were not enough to call off David’s plan to bug Goodwin’s office. She was willing to accept Ramón’s connection to Abington as potentially coincidental, but there were too many other unusual happenings for Carrie to discount. In any event, a good run might pound some clarity into an increasingly murky situation.

After some light stretching in the parking lot, Carrie tightened the laces of her shoes and set off at what she thought was a ten-minute-mile pace. The cityscape provided the perfect backdrop. She had enough to look at to keep her interested, but not so many cars and pedestrians to make it dangerous or distracting.

She turned right on Brynmar Street, thinking it might be nice to run through Healey Park. Evidently, she was not the only one with this idea. It was not the starting line in Hopkinton on Marathon Monday by any stretch, but plenty of joggers, bikers, and walkers were catching the final rays of sunshine on what had turned into a pleasantly cool afternoon.

Carrie’s mind was beginning to let go and she remembered why she had fallen in love with running. Twenty minutes into her jog, her lungs felt great. Concern about her out-of-shape legs became an unfounded worry. The pitch was mostly level, but a few hills challenged her breathing and form.

Out of the corner of her eye Carrie caught a flash of movement. In the next few seconds a couple, fit and trim and dressed in fancy athletic gear, zipped past her on the right. Carrie quickened her pace to keep up until her lungs begged her to retreat. She slipped back to her natural gait, slowed her speed considerably, and laughed at her competiveness.

Always trying to be the best. Always pushing the limits.

It reminded Carrie of her conversation with David in the motel room, about the symmetry of their circumstances. She had almost succumbed to impulse and climbed into bed with him. It probably would not have been something she’d have regretted. Part of her wondered if that had been on David’s mind as well.

Carrie was not sure what drew her attention to the jogger behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at the muscular man, who wore blue Nike training pants and a dark running jacket. A Red Sox baseball hat and sunglasses concealed most of his head and face. Carrie ran on, but she could hear the man behind her, his footfalls landing like soft taps against the pavement.

Curious if he was going to pass her, Carrie looked again. He had not gained a step. He also did not appear to be breathing very hard. This guy with tree trunks for legs must have another gear, but for whatever reason he’d opted not to use it. He evidently preferred to run behind Carrie, in that dead space where he was not a stalker, but not invisible either. There was plenty of room for all runners, and after a hundred yards with him on her tail it got irritating. She decided to put some pep in her step and lose this guy.

Her muscles responded, and soon she was running at what felt like a nine-minute-mile pace. Carrie’s heart rate jacked and her lungs felt squeezed, but it was a manageable pace, at least for a while.

After about a minute Carrie took a peek behind and saw the same man running the exact same distance away from her. He had not fallen back, not even a few feet, which meant he had increased his speed to match Carrie’s. It did not look like he was breathing any harder, either. Once again he maintained the exact distance that allowed him to be a presence, but not a threat.

Carrie switched sides of the road and picked up her pace a little bit more. She was probably running a sub-nine-minute mile now, well outside her comfort zone. Whatever her exact speed, Carrie’s form suffered as a result, and she no longer landed with the mid-foot strike that helped prevent injury. The bad form caused joint strain, and made her breathing even more labored. But she pushed on, refusing to look behind her, not wanting to give in to curiosity or fuel her growing unease.

Her resolve lasted all of ten strides. As she passed a tall oak tree, Carrie craned her neck to look over her left shoulder and immediately spotted the same man running behind her. He had crossed the road with her and picked up speed to keep pace.

His arms pumped effortlessly, and his legs looked as if they could go on moving that way forever. This run was nothing to him, she could tell. He acted completely nonchalant. To anybody else, it would look like two runners working out. Maybe he was using her as a pace car, or for motivation. Since other joggers were around, Carrie was not too panicked. But she had moved beyond just being annoyed.

It’s your mind playing tricks, Carrie assured herself. Nothing more.

She ran another fifty yards with the man in the dark hat and sunglasses behind her before she decided to turn around. She slowed and made a wide, arching turn, and a few moments later she passed Hat Man on her left. He kept his head forward and his running rhythm steady with no change in direction. She took one glance behind her and saw Hat Man was still running away from her, just a guy out doing his own thing.

Carrie laughed at her paranoia and kept her gaze forward as she ran. The urge to look back once more felt almost oppressive, but she refused to cave in to her paranoia again. The incident was innocuous, she decided. She continued at a pace still above her norm, but the urge to look back would not let go.

Just take one look — one quick check — one … little … glance …

Carrie turned her head and her body followed. As her gaze traveled back, a feeling of relief came over her. Nobody was there.

Once again, Carrie laughed at her perceived ridiculousness. Fear was easy to catch. This made her think of Adam, and how he lived with that sinking feeling almost every second of the day. Like Abington and Fasciani, Adam was caught in terror’s unrelenting grasp.

Ahead, she spied a turnoff to a cut-through that bisected the park. The path was narrow and paved with dirt, less demanding on the joints, and Carrie went that way. The sides of the path were lined with tall grasses and trees with budding leaves. Carrie absorbed the scenic beauty, appreciating every bush, cloud, and birdsong.

Behind her, a new sound entered her ears: the soft crunching of dirt. Somebody running. The tall grasses became a long green blur in Carrie’s peripheral vision.

It’s nothing, Carrie said to herself.

Five yards became ten, but Carrie still did not look back. Fifteen. Then twenty. The impulse to check was irresistible. She turned her body and gave a look. A sinking feeling swallowed her gut and Carrie’s pulse took off. He was there, running behind her, hat on his head, sunglasses in place, keeping the same distance as before. Carrie had no idea how he’d snuck up on her, but she believed he wanted her to notice him.

Fear uncoiled as a surge of adrenaline hastened her strides. Carrie’s heart hammered in her throat. She looked ahead, but the dirt path was vacant, no other joggers or bikers in sight.

She broke into a sprint, panting. Her eyes started to tear, and her thoughts turned black with terror. Her burning lungs needed more air. She opened her mouth wider, but that did little to help.

Straining her ears, Carrie heard the persistent patter of footsteps. Panic set in. She looked left, then right; would the tall grasses give her an escape route, or would they just slow her down? She decided to keep to the path. Run as hard as she possibly could.

Her only chance was to get to the main road and find someone to help. Carrie staggered sideways, unable to keep a straight line. Her eyes stayed fixed to the ground as she navigated around roots and rocks. Despite the intense exertion on her legs and lungs, Carrie managed to find still another gear. Her arms were pumping wildly to keep up the pace.

Ahead, she saw an opening where the cut-through path intersected the main road. People would be there, and safety.

Carrie risked another check behind her. He was still there, running at a brisk pace, but as before, he did not appear to be gaining. Why? Was he toying with her? Did he get off on her fear?

She saw a smile on his face, and a flash of something in his hand — a knife, or perhaps even a gun. The tall grasses that she’d thought might aid her escape would be the perfect place to hide her rape or murder.

A fresh blast of terror filled her. She wanted to scream, but her battered lungs needed every bit of air and left nothing for her voice.

The path ended maybe a hundred yards ahead. He could still catch her. She sprinted in a blind panic. How could she have been so stupid, to take this cut-through?

The road was about seventy-five yards away.

Her focus wavered. In the next instant Carrie’s ankle twisted, sending her sprawling. She landed on the hard, packed ground and skidded several feet on her knees. Momentum carried her forward and she got back to her feet, almost without breaking stride. Her only recourse was to keep running, and she refused to waste a second to see if he was gaining. Of course he was — he had to be. The ankle burned, as did her knees where she skidded, and every other stride hurt like running barefoot across shards of glass.

Don’t look, don’t look! Just run!

But Carrie could not resist. Her back and head turned and the man was there, five feet away, sporting a broad grin on his face. A scream of sorts escaped from her lips, more like a low moan that grew increasingly louder. Sweat glossed her skin and her thoughts became gummed with terror. Her legs kicked furiously, arms swinging in wild arcs. The numbness in the legs turned intense, beyond unpleasant. Her lungs screamed for her to stop, but Carrie blocked out the pain and she urged herself on.

Faster! Faster!

She wondered if it was the man’s breath that made her neck so hot. She could almost feel his fingers gripping at her clothes.

Five more steps … five more.

As Carrie stumbled from the path, she collided with a female jogger who had no time to react. The impact was not too much, but Carrie’s weakened ankle sent her tumbling to the ground. The other jogger let out a gasp, and once she figured out what had just happened, turned back to Carrie.

“Are you all right?” she asked, without offering to help her to her feet.

Carrie was down on her stomach, unable to see the path, but she still managed to get out a warning.

“Behind you, behind you!” she yelled. “He’s behind you!”

The woman turned to look as Carrie scrambled to her feet. A moment later, the man in the baseball cap emerged from the cut-through with a worried look on his face. He came over to Carrie and she saw now a scar like a jagged lightning bolt on his cheek, and a shamrock tattoo that decorated the side of his neck.

“Nasty tumble you took there,” he said.

Carrie skirted back several feet.

“Get away from me,” she snapped.

The man looked only slightly aggrieved.

“Hey, I was just trying to help,” he said with a shrug and a what-can-I-do kind of smile. He turned on his heels, and started back down the same dirt path.

“Do you need me to call the cops?” the woman jogger asked.

“No,” Carrie said. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Sorry to run into you.”

The jogger waved and went on her way.

Favoring her good ankle, Carrie watched Hat Man run away from her. Soon enough he was a pinprick on the horizon, and then he was gone. All she saw were the tall grasses swaying in concert with the gentle breeze.