Trauma

CHAPTER 40

At precisely seven o’clock that evening, David arrived at the VA ready to get to work. As far as he knew, Carrie was already on the road, headed back to Maine. She had called with the exciting news about Sam Rockwell and suggested they reschedule tonight’s activities, but David saw no need. He could get the job done as long as Carrie did her part to help.

At the front desk David almost forgot to use the alias “Michael Stephen,” but remembered at the last possible second, before the conversation with the receptionist turned decidedly awkward. Carrie had assured him nobody would ask for ID, and she was right. Even so, for backup, David had printed a bogus one using a template procured off the Internet, and had it laminated for authenticity. It proved an unnecessary precaution, but David seldom left anything to chance.

“Here you go, dear,” the kind-faced receptionist said as she handed David his temporary badge.

One obstacle cleared, thought David.

He headed to the third floor, following a rudimentary map drawn from Carrie’s brief description of the hospital layout. Walking these institutionalized halls, David felt suffocated at the thought of having to work in such an antiseptic environment. Journalistic stringers were free spirits, and David relished the uncertainty of his chosen profession. He was all about new possibilities, and shied away from anything that could anchor him — a permanent job, a mortgage, a car, material possessions, and yes, even love. He often wondered if the issues between him and Emma were a product of mismatched pheromones or his wandering spirit. Guarded as he was, something told David one kiss from Carrie Bryant might be enough to tame his wanderlust permanently.

Carrie’s office was third to the last down a long hallway lined with ordinary wooden doors without any markings on them. She had left the door unlocked, as she said she would, and David went inside.

His first impression was that Carrie essentially worked in a closet. His prison cell in Syria had been only slightly bigger. She had enough room for a chair and a metal desk, which Carrie wisely kept uncluttered. A small, square window offered a narrow view of a gritty construction effort under way. All in all, David found it a depressing place. He much preferred the dangers of the field.

Carrie had left a pair of scrubs on the door hook, and they fit David fine. He turned the lock on the doorknob before he closed the door, and checked the hallway to make sure nobody was coming. Carrie had rightly said most everyone would be gone by now, and the halls were museum-quiet.

From the pocket of his pants David retrieved a leather case that contained a tension wrench and set of picks. He tested his picking chops on Carrie’s door. It was open in less than a minute. Having worked in dangerous locales over the years, David had acquired a unique set of unsavory skills. In addition to picking locks, forging documents, and planting bugs, David was competent with a gun and could also hot-wire some cars.

Returning to the main hallway, David passed a few people on his way to Goodwin’s office, but nobody gave him a second glance. The modest disguise more than sufficed.

Following Carrie’s directions, David took a right turn at the first hallway branch, and stopped at a door with a mounted placard that read: DR. SANDRA L. GOODWIN, CHIEF OF NEUROSURGERY, M.D.

David put his ear to the door and gave a listen. Not a sound. He gave the knob a gentle turn. Locked. Good. David had the door open in less time than it had taken him to manipulate the pins on Carrie’s lock. He entered quickly, closed and locked the door behind him, and flicked on the light.

The office within was larger than Carrie’s by a good amount, with nicer furniture, and a bigger window, too, but the intuitional stamp was just the same. David fished the Sonit-21 mini voice recorder from his pocket. The device had cost five hundred dollars, a fortune for David at the time, but the investment had paid back ten-fold in the information covertly obtained. The voice-activated rectangular device was a bit larger than a Bic lighter, weighed just eight grams, and could record for 120 hours on a single charge.

David searched the office for the best place to hide the recorder. The Sonit’s black case blended well with the dirt of one of Goodwin’s ailing plants. After he turned on the voice activation mode, David covered the recorder with a thin layer of soil to better conceal it, and took a seat in Goodwin’s chair.

“Testing one, two, three,” David said in a normal speaking voice. “Testing. Testing.”

He retrieved the device, cleared away the dirt, and pressed the playback button. His voice echoed loud and clear. David returned the recorder to the pot and flicked enough dirt to make it disappear.

He got halfway to the door when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. He moved behind the desk, feeling sweat bead up on his brow. The doorknob to Goodwin’s office turned from the outside.

David looked around for anyplace to hide. The ceiling tiles could be removed, but the chance of him climbing up there before the door came open was slim to none. Keys rattled. Color drained from his face. David had to act quickly, rationally. The only place he could think to hide was under the desk.

He moved the chair back a foot to squeeze his body into the small crawl space underneath the desk. The desk’s metal front would partly shield him from anybody walking in, but half a foot of space between the legs and the metal sides left him horribly exposed. All somebody had to do was look down, and they’d see David huddled in a little ball on the floor.

To get his body off the ground, David pressed his back against one side of the desk and put his feet up against the other side. Next, he engaged his core, arched his hips, and raised his body off the floor. The strain on his stomach muscles was instant and intense. It took all of a few seconds for the spasms to begin, his midsection shaking like an earthquake.

David swallowed a breath and concentrated on relaxing. He heard the key go into the lock and a slight noise as the doorknob engaged. David worried his bottom might be sagging a bit, and he lifted it up higher. The burn intensified. He heard two sets of footsteps enter, and then a man’s voice.

“I just need to grab a file for Sandra and then we’ll be out of here.”

A female voice said, “Maybe we should stay a while longer.”

David’s heart pounded in his ears. Every muscle in his core was fully engaged, and his joints ached from the oppressive strain. The crawl space under the desk was unpleasantly cramped, but David elevated his hips some more without making a sound. Closing his eyes, he breathed through his nose and began to count in his head.

One … two … three …

“Got it,” the man said.

“I got it, too, Evan,” the woman said.

David heard a groan of pleasure escape Evan’s lips. This had to be Evan Navarro, Goodwin’s minion Carrie had told him about.

“Residents are not supposed to fraternize with their boss,” Evan said in a breathy voice.

“Is squeezing and rubbing the same as fraternizing?” asked the woman.

David snapped his eyes closed and fought against the growing fatigue. Sweat poured out of his body and began to drip on the floor. Evan groaned again and David heard the sounds of sloppy kissing. David’s mind began to quit on him.

Just give it up … drop to the floor …

He felt his grip slipping, and the desperate urge to let go intensified. His violent body shakes persisted and threatened to dislodge him.

Sixteen … seventeen … eighteen …

“Maybe we should skip dinner tonight,” Evan said.

“I know what I want for dessert,” the woman cooed.

The kissing resumed while tears of pain streaked down David’s cheeks. Both legs burned equally, and it felt like sharp needles were being jammed into his stomach. He kept his eyes closed tight and kept counting.

Thirty-five … thirty-six … thirty-seven …

David feared he might black out. He had to let go. There was no way to hold on. His body was screaming as the agony turned exquisite.

The kissing sounds abruptly stopped.

“Let’s take this to a more comfortable location,” Evan suggested.

Please … please …

A consuming blackness came over him. David’s back was slipping. His legs were giving out on him. His whole body was drenched in sweat. The traction simply was not there. He slid down an inch.

“Maybe we should do it here?” the woman suggested.

A beat. David slid some more. His legs had turned to Jell-O.

“If you want to do it in an office, let’s use mine,” Evan said. “I’ll have visions of Sandra in my head, and that’s just not a turn-on.”

David dropped another inch. His back began to sag, and if somebody glanced at the floor they would have no trouble seeing him. His lower back and hips were clearly visible.

“Let’s just go to your place,” the woman said. “A bed would be far more comfortable than a desk.”

David heard a thunderclap sound when somebody slapped the top of the desk. The vibration nearly dislodged him, and his body dipped even more. He kept his gaze fixed upward. A biting on his tongue helped him regain focus.

Hold on.

His muscles went into full spasm. David was going to drop.

I can do this … just hold on a few more seconds …

“Couldn’t agree more,” Evan said.

In the back of his mind, through a fog of pain, David heard footsteps and the sound of a door opening. The office lights went out as David’s body let go. He crashed to the floor at the same instant the office door slammed shut.