Jack Tells His Story

Chapter Four

by G. Lawrence

This chapter is a continuation of a previously published story. It is a crime novel that ultimately turns into a romance along with strange plots and fantastic exploits. There is occasional nudity and sex. It is not political. No contemporary issues are mentioned. It's an adventure story. All characters are over 18 years old.

Background: War veteran John Henry Lawrence was accused of shooting President Edward Blair in a Maryland park. He has no memory of the event, but rather than see the country devolve into endless conspiracy theories, he took responsibility. Important note; this story takes place in an alternate timeline from our own.

Recap; Having stumbled upon a plot to detonate an atomic bomb in Boston, Jack frustrated the terrorist plan by chopping the device open with an ax, exposing himself to deadly levels of radiation.

* * * * * *

Mr. Harold Rasmussen

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Washington, D.C.

Dear Mr. Rasmussen,

Yes, I have seen the manuscript Mrs. Blair is circulating among Jack's friends. You must understand, concealing Jack's military background was deemed necessary at the time, and Thanksgiving Eve proved how valuable the deception could be. And it wasn't the only instance. Jack never seemed to understand how valuable his contributions were, perhaps because his childhood provided so little affirmation. Once again, my apologies for keeping your agency in the dark. With Best Regards, General Collin Fowler

Chapter Four

SAYING GOODBYE

To my surprise, I woke up. It was a private hospital room, civilian by appearances. An oxygen mask was strapped to my face. My left shoulder was immobilized by bandages. I had no clothes, only ointments and a thin sheet.

"Doctor, he's stirring," a petite nurse with big brown eyes said.

Three doctors in long white coats immediately surrounded me, shining a light in my eyes, checking scanners, and generally being a nuisance. I used my free hand to take off the oxygen mask.

"That's enough," I protested.

All but one backed away, a gray-bearded Chinese grandfather. He pulled up a stool, studying me like a science experiment.

"How do you feel?" he finally asked with a San Francisco accent.

"How should I feel?"

"Terrible," he replied.

"Good. We're on the same page," I sighed.

He smiled and waved toward the door. Alex and Rasmussen walked in, both wearing conservative brown business suits. Alex had her arm in a sling. Rasmussen looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"You're going to be okay," Alex said, hunching over the bed.

"Sorry, Missy. That's not likely," I replied. "Harry, that you?"

"I'm here, Jack," Rasmussen said, subdued.

"Is it Jack now? Not that goddamned traitorous son of a bitch?"

"I may have gotten a little upset when you ditched the tracking chip," he admitted.

"Dragon?" I inquired.

"Down the hall. The operation went well," Alex reported.

I was relieved to hear that. In the warehouse, during the shooting, I'd not been able to give him much thought.

"What day is it?" I inquired.

"Thursday morning," the physician answered.

"Thanksgiving?" I asked.

"It almost wasn't," Rasmussen grimly concluded.

I could tell he felt bad. He'd probably said some very unkind things about me in the heat of the moment. After all, he had allowed me to pretend to escape from the Federal Detention Center at Cumberland, and then I had double-crossed him by actually escaping. It was necessary to my plan. Harold likely didn't see it that way. I wasn't going to hold a grudge.

"You guys should be home with your families. Especially today," I urged.

"The nation had a good scare, that's for sure," Alex said. "President Markham was on TV declaring a national emergency when word came that the danger was over. You've never seen a more relieved man in your life."

"Khanani and five of his lieutenants are dead," Rasmussen reported. "We caught Mahtam, but he's in bad shape. He picked up a lot a radiation when you chopped open that bomb."

"What happened to Agent #5?" I asked, referring to the alias I had insisted on.

"Killed fighting the terrorists," Rasmussen confirmed. "And John Lawrence is in a New York prison hospital with a serious case of liver disease."

"He always was a derelict," I said, relieved my name had been left out of the shenanigans. I turned to the physician, motioning for attention.

"I'm Dr. Winkler Cheng," he introduced.

"Dr. Cheng, how much time do I have? Three days? Four?" I asked.

"Mr. Lawrence, there's no way to be sure about these things," he replied, being vague. As doctors are prone to do. But I had seen the radiation meter hit seven and knew what it meant.

"How about tomorrow?" I pressed.

"You should be fairly coherent for a day or two. After that, it's hard to tell," Dr. Cheng diagnosed.

I had to take a breath off the oxygen mask. The nurse started to help. I waved her back.

"I need the room," I said.

"You're very ill," the nurse responded.

"Just for a moment," I requested.

Rasmussen took the clue, herding the staff out and closing the door.

"There isn't much time," I said. "I gathered valuable intel but won't have energy for long debriefings. Figure out a schedule."

"You're perky for someone who got shot," Alex said.

"I feel good, Missy. Better than I've felt in a long time," I answered.

"The President is going to your funeral," she said.

"The funeral of Unidentified Agent #5," Rasmussen clarified. "Alex and I will be there, too. Alex and Alberto are national heroes."

"As they should be," I said, squeezing her hand.

"I wish they knew what you did," Alex urged.

"That can't ever happen, and you know why. But don't worry. I have my reward."

And I did. I felt like a huge burden had been lifted from me. If I was to meet my Maker soon, at least now He would have an excuse to be merciful.

Rasmussen came up to the side of the bed, staring down with plaintive eyes. The man looked exhausted. Twelve hours earlier, he had been about to lose a city.

"Jack, I'm sorry for ever doubting you. Truly sorry," he said, reaching to shake my hand. I couldn't offer much of a grip. I was weak as a kitten.

"No apologies necessary, sir. We're all just trying to do our best. Now if you don't mind, maybe you should have dinner with your family. I'm going to sleep for a while."

I slept longer than a while. It was dark when I stirred, the hospital quiet. My room had an outer waiting area. A man in a gray suit, probably FBI, was on guard near the door. He noticed me move and whispered into a communicator, possibly warning other agents. I hoped they didn't expect me to escape again. I found a remote control and turned on the television. It was set to a popular cable news network. The volume was low, so I just watched the images.

Rasmussen had been right about the attention the incident in the warehouse was receiving. The press was calling it Thanksgiving Eve, and people everywhere were showing thanks for escaping the terrorist plot. And surprisingly, most of the reports seemed accurate. Photos of Alex, Alberto, Khanani, and President Markham appeared often. The mysterious Unidentified Agent #5 was shown as a hooded man wearing sunglasses, just like D.B. Cooper. No one was drawing a connection between Khanani and the Rakmanian Embassy, which must have been a relief to Shak Raskani.

Before long, Alex entered the room carrying a food tray. She set it down next to me, pulled up a chair, and put her arm back in the sling. I hoped she wasn't in too much pain. I wasn't. The doctors had me on a morphine drip.

"Why does Secret Service Agent Alexandra McGuire keep showing up? I thought the FBI was taking credit for this one."

"Special Agent McGuire, liaison to the FBI task force," she explained.

"Aren't you supposed to be home?"

"I'm here with my friend on Thanksgiving," she replied. "Now eat."

It was turkey mush, badly in need of pepper, with mashed potatoes, gravy, and a cherry cobbler. More liquid than substance. I sure hoped it wasn't my last meal.

"No wine?" I asked.

"Tomorrow," she promised.

"How's the arm?"

"Through and through. Just like your shoulder," she said.

"You'll bounce back quickly."

Alex wanted to say, "So will you" but couldn't. She didn't want to lie.

"I guess gunshot wounds are old business for you," she remarked.

"It's all luck of the draw. I've seen bad wounds that healed fast, and minor wounds that turned fatal."

"How many times have you been shot?"

"It's not something I brag about."

"I think four times. It's hard to tell because some of your shrapnel wounds can be deceiving."

"How would you know any of that?" I said, almost smiling.

"I saw you naked when they were prepping you for surgery," she replied. "The doctors kept dictating their notes into a recorder."

"That's not fair."

"Lots of things aren't fair," she said.

Alex finished the feeding, put the tray in the outer room, and locked the door on her way back in. Then she stood before me with a strange look on her face and began to unbutton her shirt. There was no bra underneath. Her jacket fell away. She dropped her skirt.

"Sweetheart, what are you doing?" I asked.

"Jack, you're a man. As man as they get," she answered. "And I know what you need."

"Alex, if you think--"

"No, I know you can't do that. I know we can't do that. But you can see a woman offering herself to you, wholly and completely, and sometimes that's all it takes. So let your imagination take over. Don't think of me as your friend. I'm just a woman now."

There was no stirring in my loins as she stripped herself nude. That part of me was gone forever. But I felt a pulse in my chest. She really was a vision. An inspiration for hopes and dreams. In that moment, I was no longer a feeble hospital patient with seventy-two hours left to live.

Alex allowed me a long look at her wonderful body before crawling into the bed on my good side, snuggling close. As she suspected, just seeing her had recalled a feeling that had been lost. Her warm breath felt good against my face. If I had died at that moment, life would have been perfect.

"I'll try not to be too sad," she whispered.

"Thank you, Missy. I appreciate that."

__________

The next morning, my room was filled with agents of various services, fully equipped with laptops and recording devices. I made Rasmussen swear each of them to a national security oath. They weren't told that I had disabled the bomb in Boston, but they did know I escaped custody for several days. I didn't want my name appearing in the newspapers as part of their reports.

Not all of the agents were admirers like Alex. What I may or may not have done to assist the brave Unidentified Agent #5 was still the work of a cowardly assassin. A high school dropout. A disgruntled military file clerk. A loner resentful of authority. Even Rasmussen had to wonder how such a foul-up had managed to outwit Khanani, for he was in the dark concerning my military record. Alex wanted to explain, especially when she realized I could hear the grumbling in the outer room, but I asked her to let it pass.

One person would not let it pass, but first I briefed Homeland on the Rakmanian Embassy. They planned to monitor Rakmanian agents but do nothing to disturb relations between our countries. The potential of additional intelligence gathering was more important than throwing a temper tantrum.

"Very interesting, Mr. Lawrence, but not all of it adds up," my interrogator said.

Lynda McPherson, an unpleasant middle-aged bureaucrat with a bad red wig, was Homeland's Chief of Domestic Operations. Her assistant, whose name I never got, was a quiet mouse of a man who spent his time giving me the evil eye. Neither was inclined to show much respect.

"I'm doing my best to explain. What doesn't add up?" I asked.

"I'm trying to get this straight," McPherson clarified. "You say Shak Raskani, their chargé d'affaires, offered to get you out of the country. And you declined?"

"Leaving the country was not the objective, ma'am," I responded.

"So, you passed on a chance for freedom?" McPherson asked.

"I wasn't being offered freedom," I protested. "I was going to be a trophy."

"There has to be something else going on. Something you're not telling us," the assistant said in a squeaky voice. "How did you know Unidentified Agent #5? Were you his informant? His bookie? Did you supply him with drugs? Whores?"

I had no idea where that came from. It occurred to me that conspiracy books would now appear revealing the life and times of Agent #5, a wholly fictional character. I was tempted to add to the legend. Make up some absurd tidbit that would have these jerks running in circles for years.

"While I was still working for St. Mary's infirmary in Philadelphia, I treated his wife for leprosy," I confidentially revealed. "Please don't put that in your report."

"Leprosy?" the meek mouse blurted.

"Yes. The last I heard, she was at Kalaupapa, on Molokai, but that was years ago," I explained. "She may have passed away."

They seemed intrigued, taking furious notes.

"Why are you cooperating now? Are you hoping for a pardon?" McPherson challenged.

"You're welcome to think so," I answered.

After Homeland departed, the CIA came to get their report. Their case officer was Leesamore McDaniels, a fake name if I ever heard one. And I'd heard a lot of them. McDaniels was cagier than the clumsy Homeland officers, his questions centering on Raskani's embassy contacts. And he mentioned Yasamin, the woman I had met on the ballroom staircase. Was she an asset? Had she recognized me? I guessed McDaniels knew more than I did.

After the CIA, the FBI got their turn. Rasmussen was in charge. There was also a veteran agent named Ronald Michaelson, who looked cut from the classic FBI mold. Trim, grim, middle-aged, with thinning auburn hair. I guessed him to be a Virginian. Alex was sitting on a stool making me eat onion soup.

"We want to know about your trip from Cumberland to Boston with Jek Mahtam," Michalson requested, very professionally. "You say the restaurant owner in Atlantic City appeared to know Mahtam?"

"It was just an impression, sir," I replied. "I may have been getting a little paranoid."

"What was said?" he asked.

"Nothing of consequence."

"How could you tell?" Michaelson pressed.

"I speak Arabic and Dari quite well. My Persian isn't bad," I responded without thinking. The FBI agents looked surprised. That was not in my official records. The fake records invented for me by the National Intelligence Agency.

"Jack, why in the hell would an army file clerk learn Arabic?" Rasmussen asked.

Suddenly there was noise from the hall, possibly a brief scuffle, and two U.S. Army Rangers in khaki uniforms occupied the outer room. Both were armed with automatic rifles. Entering behind them was Colonel Collin Fowler.

"Lawrence! What the goddamn hell? What's this about you being dead?" Fowler declared, bursting into the room like a thunderstorm.

Fowler was still the ideal soldier: tall, lean, and full of aggressive energy. He had grown a thin mustache since our last meeting. His coal black hair was longer than before, just starting to curl around his big ears. His simple field uniform only displayed his rank and service in Second Afghan.

Rasmussen looked into the outer room, saw his FBI detail had been banished into the hall, and turned to express his outrage. Fowler was not one for accepting outrage.

"You're a goddamned idiot, Rasmussen. Don't think I won't call you out," Fowler said, taking a bold stance.

"Excuse me?" Rasmussen said, equally defiant.

"Heard what you said about Lawrence during the mission. Sent out a dragnet. Almost screwed everything up, didn't you?" Fowler cursed. "That's a hell of a way to treat a war hero."

"A what? A war hero?" Michaelson butted in, standing next to Alex.

"What are you talking about?" Rasmussen asked.

"Are you really such a fucking idiot? Couldn't you see through the cover story?" Fowler said. "Never mind, I don't care what you FUBARs think."

Fowler hovered over my bed with a dark frown, then straightened Alex up to look her over.

"I know you. McGuire. You knew the score, didn't you?" Fowler questioned.

"Yes, sir," she hesitantly replied, looking sheepishly toward Rasmussen.

"You are one brave little girl," Fowler said. "From what I understand, you saved the country's bacon after the FBI fucked up. Probably saved a million lives. I sure would like to have you at the NIA."

"Sir, you are being unfair to Mr. Rasmussen," I objected. "He gave me wide latitude on this mission."

"Like hell he did," Fowler sneered. "And don't get smart with me, Sergeant. Good you gave the ax to that warhead, but you got yourself radiated in the process. Our government has a big investment in you. You don't get to die without permission."

"I'm a civilian," I protested.

"You're what I bloody hell say you are," Fowler demanded. "Now what are these pansies doing here?"

"Listen here, Fowler, or whatever your name is, where do you get off ordering my agents off their post?" Rasmussen said. "I can get a dozen more here with a snap of my fingers."

"And I can have a hundred Army Rangers drop out of the sky with a snap of mine," Fowler countered, getting in Rasmussen's face.

"Sir, I'm a veteran, too. Lieutenant, 3rd Infantry," Michaelson said, trying to intervene. "Can you please tell us what this is all about?"

"Mr. Michaelson, Jack was never a file clerk," Alex said meekly from my bedside. "He was a medic. He served in the war."

"Served? Hell's fire, little girl, you've got no clue," Fowler said.

I was getting a bit annoyed. If I wanted my war record bantered about, I'd have already done it. Why was Fowler blowing my cover?

"Please enlighten us," Michaelson said, holding Rasmussen off. I had the impression the two agents had been good friends for a long time.

Fowler reached into his pocket, taking out a pint of Noah's Mill.

"Care for a snort, son?" Fowler asked, showing me the label. The bourbon was 114 proof. He knew that B Squad and I had shared a bottle on Larange Ridge when it looked like we'd be swamped the next morning, though we had walked away from that one. A good luck charm.

"Of course, sir," I replied.

"No!" Alex said. "He can't drink that. He's on medication."

Fowler grinned, filled several paper cups, and passed them around. Alex reluctantly let me have a sip.

"Okay, let me set you sad sacks straight," Fowler finally said, plopping down on a tall stool. "Back in '20, when Second Afghan turned bad, John Henry Lawrence dropped out of high school to join the Army as a private. He'd worked in St. Mary's infirmary, knew First Aid, and was a straight A biology major. He volunteered to be a medic. And gentlemen, we were in sore need of medics.

"At the time, our situation was desperate. Our lines were being overrun. Troops were falling back. Units had been cut off. Lawrence was rushed through basic training and sent into the field, barely eighteen years old. How'd you score on the rifle range, son?"

"Not so well," I replied.

"And with a sidearm?"

"I never used one," I confessed.

"So, the Army, in our infinite wisdom, dropped this kid into chaos," Fowler continued. "He moved from battlefield to battlefield. And when units were rotated out, he joined another, because we needed him. He was promoted to corporal in the 144th Infantry, then sergeant, and when the 104th Rangers needed medics for operations I'm not allowed to discuss, he transferred over. By the time we signed the truce, Lawrence had served in-country for forty-eight consecutive months. Minus two stays in Germany recovering from wounds. He came home with five Purple Hearts, the Bronze Star with silver oak leaf cluster, a Silver Star, and was talked of for something even higher."

Fowler jumped up, stared at his audience, and gave me another sip of the Noah's Mill. Alex took the bottle away from him. I tried to take it away from her, but she was too fast.

"I don't know why Lawrence shot that son of a bitch Blair. I'm not even sure he did," Fowler said. "But I know we brought back a kid with enough post-traumatic stress to kill an elephant, and we didn't take care of him. So, what are we going to do about it? Let him lay here and die?"

"The doctors are doing the best they can," Alex said.

"Well, I don't goddamn accept that. And you shouldn't either," Fowler replied.

He grabbed Rasmussen by the arm, and without asking, dragged him from the room. Michaelson wasn't sure what to do, gradually taking a seat.

"That's quite a story," Michaelson said.

"Sir, it would be quite a story if I was the only one," I responded. "But I wasn't. The Army was making a fighting retreat. Or trying to hold bad ground in a series of rearguard actions. Every soldier gave their all. Hundreds of them died. Hundreds came back missing arms or legs. Thousands came back with the same nightmares I have. I'm not anyone special."

"Why did you tell the country you were a disgruntled file clerk?" he needed to know.

"I have never actually said that," I clarified. "I let the cover story say that and haven't denied it."

"But why the cover story?" Michaelson pressed.

"After I was wounded at Sirputa, the Army pulled me from active duty. I spent a year in military intelligence before requesting a return to the field," I hesitantly explained. "With the controversy over President Blair's Remobilization order, how would it look if he had been shot by a low-level Army spy? Some might have called it a coup de 'tat."

"Was it?" Michaelson asked with a frown.

"No, sir, it wasn't," I answered. Though now that it had been said, I had to wonder. After all, I really didn't know.

"Give me a shot of that bourbon," Michaelson said, taking the Noah's Mill from Alex.

__________

Day two was my best day. Alex and I watched news reports together. The praise for Unidentified Agent #5 was heartening, but I tried not to let it go to my head. Politicians always find it easy to praise dead heroes.

In the afternoon, the nurses changed the bandages on my shoulder. One of them spoke of physical therapy, which made Alex feel sad. I encouraged her to go shopping for a few hours before she drove me crazy.

Alberto spent an hour visiting in a wheelchair, looking pale but otherwise hardy. He'd been shot through the side below his ribs, but the bullet missed vital organs.

"That happened to me once. You'll be back on duty in a few weeks," I encouraged.

"They are offering me a promotion, and my choice of assignments," Alberto said. "I am getting calls from relatives I didn't know I had."

"You're a lucky young man," I concluded.

"Are you going to speak of it? You know, before you go?"

"The President?" I asked.

Alberto nodded.

"No," I replied, shaking my head.

"When we were hanging out in Cumberland, you talked about history. A lot," Alberto said, hinting at how bored he'd been. "I didn't get it. Now I am history. So is Alex. I realize you are, too. Are you going to leave a mystery like that unanswered?"

Alberto had a point, and it caused me to think. Perhaps I could answer a few questions, if they were buried in the National Archives. It would be history I addressed, not curiosity seekers.

"I'll consider leaving some notes. But Dragon, there isn't much to say. If you read it someday, you'll be disappointed."

"We've known each other for a few months, though it feels longer. I'd be interested in anything you have to say," he replied.

I slept all of Friday night and well into Saturday morning, which was good because the nausea was getting bad when I was awake. And I wasn't sure how clear my thoughts were. It was like things were drifting around me. By Saturday evening, I was ready to have someone put me out of my misery. I remembered wounded buddies on hopeless battlefields asking me for the same grace, and always denied them. Now that I understood, I felt bad for not being more accommodating.

The Sunday morning sun had hardly risen through my bedroom window when I noticed a frightening change. When I brushed my hair back, a clump came free in my hand. Skin was flaking off. There were red spots on my arm. No sense of smell. I hated to think what my face looked like.

This was not the way I wanted to go. Why couldn't I have been killed on any number of Afghan battlefields? Or disappeared into a typhoon with NFR? Why couldn't Khanani have been a better shot?

A nurse came in, hung a bottle of blue fluid on the IV stand, and stuck a new needle in my arm.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Don't know. Doctor Cheng prescribed it," she answered.

I felt a sudden rush. Whatever the stuff was, it had a kick.

__________

"You leave for Washington in the morning," I mentioned to Alex late Sunday afternoon.

"I should skip the ceremony," she said, sitting on my bed.

"You're the star. The President will be there. Senators. Congress. You could run for office someday," I urged, only half-kidding. Alex could write her own ticket now, and I was happy for her. She was the hero of every schoolgirl in America, having stormed the warehouse and shot it out with the Tashad terrorists with the fate of Boston hanging in the balance.

"It's a funeral for a myth. They're going to build statues to you and not even know your name," Alex sighed.

"Missy, even I don't know my real name," I said. "Jimmie wasn't a name; it was a label the orphanage gave me. Father Sebastian came up with John Lawrence, after I'd used a hundred others. When people say bad things about me--and they have a right to--don't let it bother you."

"But you could have a legacy to be proud of," she complained.

"You are the legacy I'm proud of," I said, squeezing her hand.

"Oh, Jack," Alex said, starting to cry.

She jumped up and left the room for a moment. It's never gratifying to see a woman cry, but I had some solace in it. Had I died those many years ago in New York City, when I was shivering to death in a snowbound cardboard box, no one would have shed tears for me then.

When Rasmussen returned, I got rid of Alex. This had to be private. He sat down next to my bed with a yellow legal pad, for I wanted him to take notes. Alex had loaned me five dollars, which was important.

"You have a law degree?" I asked.

"Yes, though I've never practiced," Rasmussen confirmed.

"I want to hire you," I said, digging for the five-dollar bill and handing it to him. "I'd offer more, but the FBI confiscated my wallet."

"This is enough. What do you need?"

"After I'm gone, my body and assets need to be disposed of," I said. "And I want to leave a confidential statement with the National Archives. It should be under a fifty-year seal. I don't want anyone to see it until Mrs. Blair is gone and her children are very old."

"You're going to tell the truth about the President?" Rasmussen asked in surprise.

"Can I call you Harold? Or Harry? Razzy? What is it?"

"Harold is fine," he granted.

"Harold, there is no big truth, but I'll leave an account. It's the best I can do."

"How can I help?" he asked.

"I want to give you power of attorney. Sad as it is, you're the only grown-up I can trust."

Rasmussen nodded and went into the outer room, writing out a legal authorization that I could sign. He returned with Alex and Dr. Cheng to act as witnesses. He explained to them what we were doing, then read the document to me. Which was good. My vision was blurry. When he was done, he set the legal pad on my chest and handed me a pen.

"This signature is going to be rough," I warned, holding the pen in my right hand, for my left side was wrapped from the gunshot wound.

"Getting shaky?" Dr. Cheng asked.

"No. I'm left-handed. This signature will look like a five-year-old's."

"You're left-handed?" Rasmussen said.

"Wow, Harry, good detective work," I sarcastically replied.

Something about my admission put a burr under Rasmussen, but I didn't know what had set him off. I asked Alex to give us a few moments so I could speak with my doctor and attorney in private.

"Don't think I'll make it much longer," I said. "If you could find a priest, I'd appreciate that. Dr. Cheng, if you could, please give me something for a deep sleep. When I slip into a coma, it will be time to cease treatment."

"Assisted suicide is illegal in Massachusetts," Cheng objected.

"I'm not asking for that. I'm just asking for you to let me go," I replied.

"We've got it covered, Jack. Don't worry," Rasmussen assured me. And he clearly had something in mind.

"I know you're leaving for Washington in the morning. Maybe this is a good time to say goodbye," I suggested, offering my hand.

Rasmussen motioned for Dr. Cheng to leave, then pulled his chair close enough to whisper.

"Jack, I know you're scared. Anyone would be. You don't need to put on an act."

I didn't realize he'd seen my hands shaking, and he was right about being scared. But the moment I gave into fear, I'd lose it. That was even more frightening.

"When I was confronting Khanani or hacking the bomb open, there was no time to think about it," I admitted. "Now all I can do is think about it. I don't want Alex to see me breaking down."

"I understand. But even if you do show a human weakness, she's not going to think less of you. I won't either,"

I nodded and put my head back. I'd nearly run my course.

Late Sunday was another quiet night. Dr. Cheng had agreed to let me sleep, deeply and perhaps forever, though he insisted there was nothing fatal in the dosage. Rasmussen and the FBI were gone now, except for a guard outside my door. I felt a quiet satisfaction. Alex lay next to me, promising to be there to the end. I admired her composure. A priest was on call to administer Last Rites.

"Look at the bright side. I've saved Judge Jenkins a lot of trouble," I said.

"Were you still going to push for the death penalty?" Alex asked.

"I'd have gotten it. I can be downright obnoxious if I need to be."

"You were never going to get a death sentence. There are too many unanswered questions. And to answer them, you'd have to swear under oath why you shot Blair. We both know that was never going to happen."

I suspected she was right but didn't care to accept it. I'd had a romantic notion of how to pay for my crime that time and events had dissipated. I put my head back, suddenly feeling dizzy. Everything was gradually fading.

"Can you really be sure you shot the President?" Alex asked. "There is a rumor that--"

"That I was somehow drugged? Turned into a Manchurian Candidate? Made the pawn of a rogue intelligence operation? Missy, I'm not oblivious to the theories, but they are too outrageous. The real world doesn't work that way. At least, I don't think it does."

"Those theories aren't going away. People are writing books."

There was a shiver throughout my body. Not pain, exactly, but something bad. My breath started to leave me.

"I love you, little sister," I whispered as the room went dark.

"Jack? Jack?" I heard her calling.

"Yes, what is it?" I said.

"Big brother, when we were in the warehouse, why did you make yourself a target for Khanani? Why didn't you just shoot him?"

"If I missed, I might have hit you or Dragon."

"Missed? You hit Blair at twice that distance, through a crowd, while he was on the move surrounded by Secret Service Agents," Alex pressed.

I shot Blair through a crowd? I thought. A moving target? Hell, during the war, I couldn't hit a rock wall at sixty feet.

My eyelids grew heavy as I drifted off to sleep. It was over at last.

__________

I woke up in a glass tube. Everything around me was blue. There was a subtle hum. The bandages on my left shoulder were gone. I felt around, finding no broken parts. Or clothes. I was lying naked on a molded platform. My muscles were stringy, my belly flat. I didn't feel hungry, exactly, but I did feel empty.

What the hell was going on? I had died. I knew it. Felt it. Now I was in a goddamn eggshell. Had my nude body been put on display? A science experiment? Like an alien from Area 51? Had they not realized I was dead? I tapped on the glass, wondering how to get out. It was hard to move.

After a time, the lid of the tube opened. Doctors and nurses wearing facemasks hovered over, then started spraying me with foam. I coughed and flailed around. Then two brawny orderlies lifted me up. I was light as a feather, probably no more than a hundred and twenty pounds.

"Welcome back to Earth, Mr. Lawrence," one of the doctors said.

I really hoped he was kidding.

They carried me to a washtub, three nurses scrubbing me with soap and hot water before depositing me in a narrow bed. Initially, I was not covered. At all. They seemed intent on photographing me as if I was a lost iceman entrapped for a thousand years in a glacier, which I'd read about in National Geographic. They would turn me this way and that, like an artifact, making remarks about skin texture and bone structure. Coincidentally, a snow-covered mountain was visible through the wide window. My efforts to provide modesty were unsuccessful, my arms too weak to maintain position.

"Sergeant Lawrence?" a doctor finally asked. I hadn't been called that in four years by anyone except Fowler.

"Maybe," I answered.

"We know you have lots of questions. Be patient," the doctor said, covering me with a thin sheet.

A nurse hooked me up to a tree of IVs and they left the room. I fell asleep.

It was early evening. A few stars were out, but the glow of sunset still reflected off the mountain. A machine was monitoring my vital signs. If the readings were the same as I'd seen in military hospitals, I was doing reasonably well.

"About time. We almost lost you there," Colonel Fowler said, marching into my room. He reeked of cigar smoke.

"Where am I, sir?" I asked.

"Colorado Springs. Glenn Masters Research Facility. We've had you here for four months. Rebuilt you better than ever."

"Like the six-million-dollar man?"

"More like twelve million, but worth it. The next lab rat they experiment on will only cost half as much, and the price will go down from there."

"Glad I could help out."

"Don't get cheeky with me, boy. These sickos were having so much fun poking your naked body with their gadgets they could have kept you in that goddamn cylinder forever. I ordered those buttholes to wake you up."

"Am I really going to be okay?"

"That's what they say. Going to take time to put the meat back on your bones, but your bloodwork is good. Better than we hoped for. Not sure yet if your kids will be mutants."

"How did this happen? I don't remember anyone talking about experimental programs," I said, still a bit foggy.

"Didn't ask you. You might have said no," Fowler answered. "I ordered the lab active, then Rasmussen used his power of attorney to get you here."

"Very clever," I said.

"Smarter than you," Fowler grinned. "You're great at book learning, kid. And a wonder at getting your ass where it don't belong. But you ain't sneaky."

They started me out on soups. Feeding tubes had maintained my nutritional needs, but it would take a while before I could eat normally. After the sixth day, they had me sitting up. On day ten, I rode in a wheelchair to the chapel and prayed for half an hour. Most of the time, I just slept.

The large medical facility was in the Rocky Mountains, walking distance from the Air Force Academy. Radiation poisoning is a constant danger to those handling volatile materials, hence the laboratory where they were searching for cures. As a potential convict with nothing to lose, I was the perfect lab rat.

"Am I still John Lawrence?" I asked Fowler one day, for the name tag on my chart was blank.

"Afraid the NIA has changed your identity? We can do that for you."

"No, but thanks," I said.

"As far as the world is concerned, John Lawrence is in a medically induced coma while doctors treat his failing liver," Fowler said. "It's not clear what hospital he's in for security purposes. We can have him die, if you want to."

"So, John Lawrence can still reappear someday?"

"Anytime you feel healthy enough. But why would you want to?"

"Because I still have a debt to pay."

"Don't be so sure," Fowler said.

__________

I finally got on my feet and started working out in a private gym. My body ached all the time, but I wouldn't stop until each exercise was complete. My trainer pushed me at first, then suggested I let up. Easy for him to say. Philip had a wife and kids. He had a life. All I had was a goal.

"Jack, anyone ever say you're a scary guy?" Philip asked one day.

"Scary?" I inquired.

"When you decide to do something, and get that frown on your face, I don't think even God can stop you," he explained.

"Phil, don't worry about it," I answered. "God has stopped me plenty of times."

Seven weeks after my return from the dead, visitors arrived. The nurses found me gray sweats to replace my flimsy green pajamas, and I put on tennis shoes instead of running around in socks. The beard was gone, my hair trimmed, and my complexion clear again. I was up to a hundred and fifty pounds, though still below my preferred weight of a hundred and seventy-five.

Alex, Alberto, and Rasmussen came up to the gate guarding my section of the lab. The doctors assigned to my case knew I was John Lawrence, though warned to be discreet. None were told I had anything to do with Thanksgiving Eve.

"Hi, kids. Good to see you again. You, too, Harry," I said, throwing the gate open.

"Harold," Rasmussen grumbled.

"Jack, you look great," Alex said, rushing into my arms.

I hugged her with all the sweetness of life. She felt so good.

"You look better than I do," I praised.

Alex wore a stylish gray business suit with a knee length skirt and gold trim that hugged her in all the right places. It almost made me forget she was my little sister. Alberto looked fine, too. Straight and tall, square-jawed with a normal haircut. A clear gaze in his brown eyes. Even Mr. Rasmussen appeared prosperous, a little rounder in the middle, his business suit not so rumpled.

"It's a miracle," Alberto said, shaking my hand. I gave him the best grip I had, but it needed work.

"Seems Fowler was right about this weird stuff," Rasmussen said, also shaking my hand. He was glad to see me, though a little reserved.

"Yes, and all it took was abusing the power of attorney I gave you," I teasingly responded.

"Goddamn it, Jack," Rasmussen said, almost spitting.

I'd pushed a button and felt good about it.

"We have a present for you," Alberto said, handing me my Jack Wood guitar.

"Two presents," Alex added, giving me Father Sebastian's watch. It was still broken, but I was glad to see it. It never worked that well anyway.

"No Jack Daniels?" I asked.

Alberto looked around to see who was watching, then pulled back his coat. The pint bottle was in his inside pocket.

"My room is this way," I said, waving my hand.

We went down the corridor, turning into the long-term patient wing. All six rooms were empty except mine, which was fairly sparse. I had a shaggy blue throw rug, a television that I rarely watched, and a handful of books. Not enough to make anyone jealous.

"Pull up some seats," I said, making sure everyone had a folding chair.

Rasmussen and Alberto sat down, but Alex stood in the middle of the room, staring at me, then started crying. I pulled her close.

"Jack, I can't believe it," she said between sobs. I was getting teary-eyed, too.

"Stop it, Missy. I'm embarrassing myself," I pleaded, wiping her eyes.

I sat down on my bed, the guitar in my lap. Alex sat next to me, holding my hand.

"Confessions, lady and gentlemen. I'm still in a bit of a daze," I said, trying to excuse my detached behavior.

"Can't blame you for that," Rasmussen said.

"We all feel guilty," Alberto added.

"How's that?" I asked.

"These last few months, they've been wild," Alberto explained. "Banquets. Parades. Awards. Lunches at the White House. And here you've been, all alone, struggling just to hang on."

"Hell, Dragon, I was sleeping in a glass tube. They only woke me up a couple of weeks ago. I haven't even read a newspaper yet. How did the Eagles do?"

"They didn't make the playoffs," Alberto responded.

"Sounds like I'm doing better than they are," I concluded, trying to smile.

"You don't know the half of it," Alberto remarked.

Taking turns, they filled me in on the history of America for the previous six months, sounding excited. The President said this, famous people said that. The events of Thanksgiving Eve had reached iconic status. It was all well and good but had little to do with me. My day was trying to do pull-ups. Eat foods I hated. Avoiding dizzy spells. I said nothing to discourage their enthusiasm.

The afternoon went fast, and by my doctor's orders, they weren't allowed to remain long. Each promised to stay in touch, though Colorado Springs was a good distance from Washington, and I had no cell phone or internet connections. Alex lingered behind after Alberto and Rasmussen went to find a cab.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Compared to what?"

"Compared to being dead."

"Missy, I just don't know," I admitted.

I went to sit on the bed but missed, my butt landing on the floor. Alex rushed to help, but I wasn't hurt. She plopped down next to me, grabbed the Jack Daniels, and poured two skimpy shots into paper cups. I gulped mine. She sipped.

"I'm sorry," Alex said, stroking my shaggy hair.

"What are you sorry for?" I asked.

"We come in here, all bubbly and excited about our lives. All the attention we've been getting. We just weren't thinking."

"No, no. I'm glad you kids are doing so well. I'm happy for you."

"You're just not happy for yourself."

"It's been hard, but I don't want to whine about it."

"I know, it's a guy thing. It's time for me to go, but I don't want you to worry. Everything is going to be okay."

"You said that once before," I remembered.

"And I was right, so don't doubt me now," Alex said, giving me a sharp stare under bent brows. "I'm much more than your friend. I'll never let you down. Not ever."

She kissed me on the forehead and ran off. I had to admit, her speech gave me heart. I went back to the gym and managed seventeen pull-ups.

Fowler visited me on a regular basis, drinking my whisky. He asked lots of questions about my progress.

"Are you expecting me to re-up? Start jumping out of airplanes again?" I asked.

"Kid, if you can kill six terrorists while chopping up an atomic bomb with a fire ax, you can jump out of a goddamn airplane," Fowler insisted.

"Now you're just being ridiculous. I didn't kill any of the terrorists. And I only used the ax because I couldn't decipher the damn control panel. Besides, how would I serve the Army from a prison cell?"

"I'm keeping you on reserve status," he said.

"And you'll just borrow me whenever terrorists are threatening to destroy Boston?"

"Hell, kid, it doesn't have to be Boston. You can save any goddamn city you want."

"I wish you'd stop drinking my booze. It's not like I can run down to the liquor store for more."

"Got it covered, kid. Are you sure you're feeling better?" he asked.

"The doctor says another week or two. It may be a while before I can beat the crap out of Omar again, but I can kick Mahtam's ass."

I worked hard that night, lifting weights and using the corridors as a track. Several of the female nurses admired my form, but they were married. My conditioning wasn't quite as good as I pretended, but I was getting there. After 8 o'clock, when the floor grew quiet, there was a knock on my door.

It was a young woman about Alex's age, with cute freckles and a shapely figure. Her long auburn hair was tied in a ponytail that reached down the back of her slender neck. She wore a white Air Force uniform, the insignia indicating a medical corps lieutenant.

"Rumor has it you're running low," she said. She produced a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and two shot glasses.

"This is quite the delivery service," I said.

"My name is Lt. Juliet Nichols. I've been training first responders over at the Academy. May I come in?

"By all means," I agreed, leaving the door open for protocol's sake.

"I understand you have several years of experience as a First Aid professional," Juliet said.

"That's true, but I don't think the special assignment I'm on now will allow me to lecture your class."

"Can you discuss what it's like to be a combat medic?" she asked.

"Where did you hear that?"

"Colonel Fowler."

"Depending on what you want to know, that could take some time," I warned.

"I'm not in a hurry," she replied.

Juliet filled the shot glasses, handed one to me, and raised her own.

"To soldiers who save other soldiers," she toasted.

We discussed battlefield medicine for an hour, and I enjoyed the company of someone who understood the challenges. Juliet hadn't seen combat herself, so she was very curious about my experience working under stressful circumstances. During The Fallback, things had gotten pretty bad, forcing a lot of improvisation. She took a tablet from her bag to note some of my suggestions.

"You really know your stuff, Jack," Juliet complimented.

"My identity isn't a secret?" I asked, stating the obvious.

"Not likely, given all the magazine covers you've been on. But you're much better looking in person. The photos always make you look like a thug."

"You're not afraid?"

"I wouldn't be here if I was," she replied, pouring two more shots.

"We shouldn't get drunk," I said.

"Are you drunk?"

"Not yet."

"Then quit worrying," she said, flipping her silky hair over her shoulder. "I've heard a rumor. Maybe you can confirm it for me."

"If I can," I answered, curious about her mysterious manner.

"This is a secret, so don't be concerned about it going any further. I've heard you were the first to detect Frac Khanani's plot and that you personally recruited Unidentified Agent #5 to stop him. And you did it all from a prison cell on a hacked computer."

"That's an incredible story," I said, not wanting to say more.

"But you knew Unidentified Agent #5?"

"I know of him."

"So the story is true," she decided.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

She poured another round of shots as we sat cross-legged on the throw rug. I asked her about service in the Air Force and what it was like working in the hospital. I mentioned working in the infirmary at St. Mary's when I was a teenager, causing us to swap stories. We laughed while exchanging tales of crazy patients, arrogant doctors, and delivering babies ahead of their time.

Suddenly, Juliet pushed me on my back to give me a determined kiss.

"I wasn't sure if I was going to like you," she whispered.

"This might not be for the best," I warned, not just concerned with the circumstances, but unsure how well I could perform. Since my miraculous awakening, I had not made any effort to relieve old tensions.

"Let's not overthink it," she said.

She closed the door, turned the lock, and started taking off her clothes. I decided not to overthink it.

For the first time in months, I was sincerely glad not to be dead. Juliet had a great body, round everywhere that counted, with vivid eyes and a laughing smile. She was bold, sexy, and uninhibited. I felt myself growing hard, having thought that would never happen again, and she delighted in the progress, using her hands and mouth to maintain the improvement. I tried my best to reciprocate, though she must have realized my coordination was still below par. When I began to lose steam on top of her, she rolled us over, riding me cowgirl-style, taking what she needed. When I finally fulfilled my mission, it was like coming back to life.

"Thank you," I sighed, lying on my side next to her.

"I must thank you," she replied. "I've never known a man to work so hard to give me pleasure while thinking so little of his own needs."

"I don't even know what my needs are anymore," I confessed. "I could wake up tomorrow and find I'm really dead after all, and this is just a wonderful dream."

"You aren't dead, and I'm going to make sure you realize that at least one more time," she answered. She was true to her word.

Juliet was still with me the next morning. We snuggled, showered together, and then she had to go. Just before unlocking the door, she glanced back at me with a sexy smile.

"By the way, Jack, Alex and I were roommates at Berkeley. She says hello."

And then Lt. Juliet Nichols disappeared down the hall.

* * * * * *

My recovery at the Glenn Masters Research Facility had lasted twelve weeks, but now that I was healthy again, where was I going?

Rasmussen arrived with two FBI agents, both tall, straight-shouldered, square-jawed, and cut from the classic mold. They had a black SUV and a duffle bag for my meager belongings. I was provided with a light gray Brook's Brothers suit, a shirt that fit, a red tie, and real shoes. But before we left, Rasmussen took me downstairs to the doctors' lounge, sitting me on the couch and getting us both cups of coffee. His agents, Jacobs and Rodriguez, loitered at a discreet distance.

"You must be curious about your destination," Rasmussen cautiously said.

"I assume Baltimore. I have an overdue appointment in Judge Jenkins' courtroom."

"Actually, you don't," Rasmussen said.

"They've changed the venue?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what's going on?"

Rasmussen was nervous. He fidgeted, took a sip of coffee, and then paused to add milk and sugar. He offered the sugar to me, but I declined.

"The newspapers are reporting that John Henry Lawrence has survived his bout with liver disease," he mentioned. "You're headed to Windhaven."

"What is Windhaven? Some kind of military tribunal?"

"No. Windhaven is a prison in upstate New York."

It took a moment for his remark to sink in. I scooped half a teaspoon of sugar in my coffee. And I hate sugar in my coffee.

"Without a trial? Isn't that illegal?" I finally asked.

"Gifted with your power of attorney, I negotiated a plea bargain on your behalf. Judge Jenkins was hesitant at first, until I told him about Thanksgiving Eve."

I spit my coffee without meaning to, spraying Rasmussen's chocolate brown suit. Jacobs rushed to make sure I wasn't going to punch his boss.

"What kind of sentence?" I inquired.

"Fifteen years to life, with the sentence eligible for review after seven and a half years," Rasmussen explained. "And your term started the day you pleaded guilty. When you demanded immediate sentencing."

"That was a year ago," I said. "Harry, this is absurd. Fifteen years to life for killing a president? That's a slap on the wrist. No one will ever go for it."

"It's already done. Signed and sealed," he replied.

Rasmussen waved to his agents to give us some space.

"Jack, I admire your ethics, but you need to respect my ethics, too. And you need to think of Alex and Dragon. Those kids need to live with themselves. That doesn't include you becoming a martyr."

"It's not about being a martyr, sir," I disagreed.

"Yes, yes, I know. The country needs closure. Copycats must be discouraged. Historically, no assassin has ever avoided the death penalty. We've all heard your reasons. And they don't cut it. America has a president. Soon, we'll be electing a new one. The country has moved on. John Lawrence isn't that important anymore."

"How reassuring," I said.

"I didn't even want you serving seven years," Rasmussen suddenly said. "I know you feel guilty about killing Blair. Guilty enough that you get sick over it. But your mental health is also a big question. A trial might send you to a psychiatric hospital. Maybe for decades. Or death row. I don't know, so I recommended this sentence as an insurance policy."

"Sir, I don't follow."

"Alex says you don't even remember the shooting. She thinks the whole day is a blank. And I think she's right. The Boyd Confession. Your refusal to discuss motive. The way you rejected Father Sebastian's attempt to put you under oath. Let me ask you, which hand was the gun in when you fired the shot?"

I held up my hands, looking back and forth. My heart was beating like a drum, for I had been taken off-guard.

"My left hand. I'm left-handed," I foolishly said.

"That's odd. Witnesses say the gun fell from the assassin's right hand."

"I forgot," I said defensively.

"You forget a lot of things."

"Sir, this ... something ... you've got me confused."

"Jack, if this doesn't work for you, we can go back to Judge Jenkins. But Jenkins will insist you submit to a battery of psychological testing. Fowler can tell everyone what a wreck you were coming home from the war. We'll pull your NFR records. The real ones. Showing you saved hundreds of disaster victims at the risk of your own life. Dr. Livingston will present her profile. Alex can give her blackout theory. We'll expose the Boyd Confession as a fraud. Then I can say how bravely you volunteered to stop Khanani. I'll testify how you almost died chopping open an atomic bomb so Boston wouldn't be obliterated. Will that give you the sentence you want?"

Rasmussen had completely outmaneuvered me. When he saw I was forced to concede defeat, he relaxed for the first time that morning.

"So? What is Windhaven like? Alcatraz?" I asked.

"It's a minimum-security prison," Rasmussen answered.

"Minimum? As in, not very secure?"

"Why? Are you going to escape again?"

"Now you're just making fun of me," I complained.

"It's a good facility. Warden Mims is a fair man," Rasmussen insisted. "We've been friends since college."

"Does it have a golf course?" I asked.

* * * * * *

The journey will continue in chapter five, Colonel Fowler's Surprise.