Diminished Capacity

Chapter 10

by G. Lawrence

Recap; Having been called to testify before Congress, Jack received more publicity than he ever wanted. Now he is being returned to Northfield Prison. All characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * *

Dr. Sandra Livingston

FBI Profiles Section

Quantico, Virginia

Dear Dr. Livingston,

I have read your paper on the diagnosis of John Henry Lawrence with great interest. Though I only knew Mr. Lawrence briefly, I believe his advocates continue to dismiss the underlying mental instability that defined his actions. This is not to say he wasn't courageous. Far from it. But it's clear that his motivation stemmed more from unmet childhood needs than a desire for adult affirmation. Best Regards, Dr. Philip James, Walter Reed Medical Center

* * * * * *

Chapter Ten

A BODY IN SEARCH OF A COFFIN

There was tension at Northfield when I returned, but fortunately it seemed to have little to do with me. The white gangs, particularly the Shooters, were feuding with the Hispanics. Which seemed unwise, being outnumbered. That evening, I told Bear, Tim, Walt, and Johannas about my adventures, leaving out the final night in bed with Linda, then dropped the subject, never to be mentioned again.

I spent extra time in the chapel on the Sunday after my return. Though I didn't care to admit it, being on the outside again had been exhilarating. And troubling. A few years before, when Aaron Ritterman had thanked me for keeping the CIA out of the Blair murder investigation, I hadn't given it much thought. After all, I was guilty of the crime. Wasn't I?

Spending years involved in intelligence operations can give a person strange ideas. Conspiracy theories are common, though I had never subscribed to them. Had I been premature in my initial assessment? If I had, did it matter? If I didn't shoot Blair, who did? One thing for sure, it was a dangerous question to ask.

I still believed there was a debt to pay, for one way or another, I had been complicit. But the thought of spending the next thirty years behind bars was depressing. If I lived that long. I struggled to put the dark thoughts aside. Bear asked a few times if I was all right without getting much of a response.

Classes had gone well without me, enough that I let others take over to spend more time playing my guitar. I considered asking Warden Means about starting up my online charity work again but decided against it. I'd been out of the loop for nearly a year. I did consider writing about my life. Everyone else was.

Despite my reduced activities, many were not happy about my return. Especially the Shooters.

"Hey, hero, saw you on TV," a crude inmate called Sludge said, crowding me in the corridor. He was one of Marl Henson's boys, short, thick, and not too bright. "Did you bang those sluts hanging all over you?"

"Not all of them," I said, trying to go around.

He blocked me. It appeared my fierce reputation had faded during my absence. And my last fight with Rivas was now several months in the past.

"I want to hear about it. Especially that little brown-haired piece. The one that saved Boston. What nasty things did you do to her?" Sludge pressed.

"Nothing special," I said, moving the other way.

Sludge put a hand on my shoulder, shoving me into the wall.

"I don't think you like me, but that's okay. I don't like you," he said, close enough for me to smell his foul breath. Several of his teeth were black. His left eye twitched each time before he spoke.

Bear walked up, his fists clenched. But we were in an area monitored by the cameras. With Bear being eligible for review soon, this was no time for him to get in trouble.

"Stay back, Fred. This isn't any of your business," I ordered.

Two more of Marl's minions arrived, Fibber and Glean. Was Marl unhappy with me? As the most prominent white prisoner, had I been stealing his thunder?

Bear paused. Watching. He was big enough to drag Sludge off me without any trouble, but if all three turned on him, it could get rough. And I was trying not to fight, remembering Juliet's warning. The headaches were finally fading and I didn't want them coming back.

"Let's discuss this another time," I said, holding my palms up.

"We'd rather discuss old business now," Sludge said, pushing me back.

"Maybe I can help?" Joaquin Rivas said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere.

He pulled Sludge off me, shoved the other two back, and waited to see if the Shooters wanted a fight. He towered over them like an angry giant.

"This ain't none of your business, Mex," Fibber protested.

"You should leave white men to deal with our own," Glean added.

"And what if I don't feel like it?" Rivas asked, getting in Sludge's face.

The Shooters wisely departed.

"Thanks, Joaquin," I said, adjusting my khaki coveralls.

"What's wrong, Clutch?" Bear asked. "A few months ago, you'd have mopped the floor with that garbage."

"It's that doctor, isn't it? The one I saw you with after our fight," Rivas said. "What did she say?"

"It's nothing," I replied.

"It's not nothing. Tell me," Rivas insisted.

"Dr. Nichols advised me to stop fighting for a while," I admitted.

"How long?" Bear asked.

"Forever," I said.

"I should have stopped the match sooner," Rivas remarked, shoulders slumping.

"No, this isn't your fault," I said, taking him down the corridor by the elbow. "I was fighting on the streets when I was a kid. I got beat up regularly in Chicago. I took some lumps on the docks in New York. I got blown up in Afghanistan. This has been a long time coming."

"You swear this is true?" Rivas asked.

"I swear by the Holy Mother Church," I said, crossing myself. "Now I understand Chef found a six-pack of Corona. Would you like to join us?"

Though it had not been my intention, Rivas and Bear spread word quietly among our allies about my condition. Northfield was no place to show weakness, but Chef finally understood my frequent requests for bags of ice and started letting me help in the kitchen. I would find more friends if I could make a decent omelet.

Three weeks after my return to Northfield, sirens rang throughout the institution. The cells were locked down. Activity was heard outside the walls, including helicopters. We all assumed an escape attempt, but who? And was it successful? After a few hours, Officer Baker came to my cell.

"Yes, Jess?" I asked.

"Warden needs to see you. It's serious," he said, ordering my cell opened but none of the others. I waved at Bear and Johannes, not knowing what was going on.

I followed Jess to the Administration Building, being led to the operations center. The room, which featured a map of the prison, was crowded with guards, state police, and a SWAT commander. Warden Means was on the phone with the governor.

"Hostage crisis," Means said. "It's the Shooters. They have six guards and nineteen inmates on the loading dock behind the kitchens. Each has a knife, and they have two guns."

"They're threatening to kill one guard an hour unless their demands are met," the SWAT commander said.

"What do they want?" I asked.

"They are demanding a helicopter. One apparently knows how to fly it," Means answered.

"That would be Fibber, if he isn't lying," I said.

"This is Captain Wiley Farthington of the Pennsylvania State Police. He's taken charge," Means introduced.

Farthington stepped forward and considered shaking hands before thinking better of it. He was a tall, pale, yellow-haired fellow with the look of a skinny bird.

"We offered to negotiate, but they've refused," Farthington explained. "Henson says he will only negotiate with you."

"With me?" I asked.

"Any clue why?" Farthington inquired.

"Not really. How many Shooters are there?"

"We're guessing eight, the worst of the batch," Warden Means said. "They have Don Tomlinson. Oscar Guevara, too."

That kind of sealed the deal. I owed Don my loyalty, and I owed Chef my life.

"Do you have a helicopter big enough for eight?" I inquired.

"We can get an AW109, but it will take an hour. And the governor doesn't want them flying around the country," Farthington said.

"I think we can get the boys out of there, but it will be tricky," I offered.

"Are these Shooters friends of yours?" Farthington asked.

"If you mean they'd like to cut my throat, yes, we're best buds," I answered.

"Don't do it, Sarge. It's a trap," Jess said.

He was probably right. I turned to the SWAT commander, Barrett Williams, a 6'2 tactical specialist. He was wearing Kevlar and ready to act.

"Captain Williams, what sort of equipment do you have? Anything good for observation?" I asked.

"Some decent toys. What do you need?" Williams said.

"Let me show you the map," I replied.

The loading bay had wide windows with heavy bars looking out into the employee parking lot, now filled with state police cars. The bay doors were locked down, blocked by heavy dumpsters.

"The maintenance corridor runs into the kitchens past these refrigeration units," I said, pointing at the schematics. "It's the one they'll watch most closely. This smaller access is the pantry. It's locked on both ends to prevent theft. The loading dock doors lead into the parking lot. The side room is the accounting office which opens into the exercise yard."

"And this room here?" Williams asked.

"It's a storage room Chef Guevara uses to teach cooking classes. I was there this morning learning to knead pizza dough."

"Four entries and exits, but they'll hear us coming," Farthington said.

"I have an idea, but don't want to step on anyone's toes," I announced.

"What's the plan, Sarge?" Captain Williams said. He'd been reading Bobby's book.

"Get me a small camera. Mount it in a baseball cap, or the collar of a prison suit," I recommended. "We also need a decoy, something they can find on me to throw them off. I'll tell them the helicopter is coming in exchange for the guards. They won't agree to release all the guards, but they will release some if I include a case of beer." I pointed at the map, indicating the hallways.

"They'll be expecting you to come down the main corridor," I continued. "It has the widest access. If the helicopter lands in the exercise yard, they'll need to go through the accounting office. The Shooters will be alert there, too."

"Your plan?" Farthington asked.

"After they've released some of the guards, I'll go in as part of the exchange. Just as the helicopter is landing, you make a demonstration. I'll hustle the remaining guards into the pantry and have them open the other door for you from the inside. Your SWAT team can come back the same way. In the meantime, I'll barricade the storage room until Chef and his kids are safe."

"This distance that needs to be covered, the guards escaping, and us coming back through the pantry, it will take at least sixty to ninety seconds," Williams said. "Can you hold them off that long?"

"If it looks like you're coming from another direction or blowing the loading dock doors, they should have their hands full," I speculated.

"It's dangerous, Jack," Warden Means warned.

"Not that dangerous," I disagreed. "I'll have the bug on me, so you can see and hear everything. And observation from the parking lot is good, too. Put a couple of snipers on the wall. But try not to hit me."

"It's a good plan, but that doesn't mean something might not go wrong," Farthington said.

"If the Shooters do manage to escape in the helicopter, they might insist I go with them," I said. "Can anyone loan me bus fare to come back?"

They thought I was joking.

Before I went downstairs to the accounting office, I pulled Warden Means aside.

"You need to make me a promise," I quietly insisted. "The only reason Fred Lincoln is here is as my bodyguard. Harold Rasmussen of the FBI in Washington arranged it. If something happens, you get Bear out of here tonight. No delays. Get him back to Windhaven where he belongs."

"I'll see to it," Means said, shaking my hand.

Everyone finished working out the details and moved into position. We had ten minutes left before the first guard was to be shot when I knocked on the accounting office door. It was securely locked on the other side.

"That you, hero?" Henson called out.

"Yes, Marl, it's me. The Warden authorized me to negotiate," I replied.

"And what are we going to get?" he asked.

"I might get you a helicopter, if I can hitch a ride."

"You?"

"I enjoyed being on the outside. Figure it's worth a shot. But the Warden needs something first."

"And what does your good buddy need?"

"He needs his guards back," I said.

"Not going to happen," Henson denied.

"I have a case of beer."

"Let's talk," he agreed.

We agreed to swap four guards for the helicopter. Two guards would be used as hostages to make sure the helicopter took off safely. Only after the release did I agree to enter the lion's den.

"Here, you better take this," I said, tearing a bugging device from under my belt and handing it to Sludge. "They wouldn't let me come in without it."

The Shooters paid no attention to my Diego Garcia baseball cap, with the camera staring out through seagull's eye.

"The helicopter is on the way. Can Fibber really fly it?" I asked.

"Why? Can you?" Fibber responded.

"Sure. I learned to fly with a medevac unit in Afghanistan," I lied, for all I knew was how to turn on the batteries.

"How are you at flying without a parachute?" Sludge said.

"Probably no better than you," I answered.

I noticed each of them were holding steel kitchen knives with eight-inch blades. Marl and Sludge had.380 Colt pistols, not prison issue. Off to my right, I saw Chef and his kids through the shaded glass window of the classroom. A piece of shrink wrap had been twisted around the door handles, keeping them from opening. Sitting on the floor between the main corridor and the door to the pantry were officers Donald Tomlinson and Tom Bartoni, hands and feet tied. Don looked up, encouraged to see me. Bartoni and I didn't get along, as he blamed me for Johnson and Phillips getting fired.

"Hi Don, we should all be out of here soon," I said, kneeling close enough to see how his feet were tied. The ankles were wrapped with several loops of yellow cord, but only one knot. Unlike Don, Bartoni was a heavy man. Older. It would take him longer to get up.

"Are they really getting a helicopter?" Bartoni asked.

"That's the plan. Just sit tight. Oh, you have to do that anyway," I replied.

"Smart ass," Bartoni grunted, looking for a place to spit.

I strolled around the receiving bay searching for a box cutter and found one. The Shooters were not drinking the beer with gusto, as I hoped. Each only had one, except Glean, who was on his third. Marl Henson wasn't drinking at all.

"What's the plan once you have the bird?" I asked Henson. "They're going to follow you."

"We've got it covered," Henson said, declining to elaborate.

Sludge was watching the two guards. Fibber had his eyes on the main corridor. Glean and Chipper manned the parking lot windows. Sad Sack stood at the accounting office door, listening for footsteps. Klepto and Low Dog gazed at the yard where the helicopter would land. All was as I expected.

"Going to use the guards as human shields to get in the air?" I inquired.

"They won't shoot us down with their own onboard," Henson said.

"An AW109 only flies eight," I pointed out.

"They won't be with us long enough to matter," Glean said, looking for another beer. Henson took the can away from him.

"You're calm for someone not leaving this room alive," Fibber said when I glanced over his shoulder. The main corridor was still quiet.

"You won't make it to the yard without me," I said. "And maybe the state cops will get you first. There's about a hundred of them."

If Fibber was impressed, he didn't say so.

The helicopter arrived a few minutes later, a sleek AgustaWestland circling the prison before landing in the exercise yard two hundred feet from the accounting office door. The pilot climbed out and ran into the Administration Building, leaving the motor off but the noisy blades still rotating. The Shooters crowded against the windows to see their ride to freedom. This was the moment.

Quickly kneeling between Tomlinson and Bartoni, I sliced the cord off their ankles but had no time for their hands.

"Hurry through the pantry. SWAT is waiting in the kitchen," I whispered.

I helped Tomlinson up first, he being my priority, and then Bartoni. The pantry door latch was easily flipped open.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Sad Sack shouted.

"Thanks for everything, Don," I said, holding the door open. The room beyond smelled sweet, like pastry.

"Jack, come with us," Don urged.

"No time," I said, pushing them through and slamming the door closed.

I turned just as Sludge and Sad Sack came at me with knives ready. The loss of their hostages wasn't going over well.

Suddenly, a shot burst one of the windows. Glean toppled over, a bullet in his forehead. A second sniper shot dropped Chipper. Klepto took a hit, falling backward with a hole in his shoulder. Henson and Fibber ducked before they were next. Pounding on the bay doors caught their attention.

With Sad Sack pressing me with his knife, I backed up against the storage room doors, swinging a roll of shrink wrap. It was a more effective defense than the box cutter. Sludge pointed the Colt at me, but more sniper rounds tore through the windows, distracting him. I was counting the seconds until Williams and his SWAT boys would crash through the pantry door.

Amid the chaos, I saw Henson standing in the center of the receiving area, still holding his pistol. He aimed in my direction, but Sad Sack and Sludge were in the line of fire. I punched Sludge, but not hard enough to knock him down. He whipped me across the side of the head with the.380, bouncing me back against the glass, but found his next attempt blocked.

The pantry room door was hit by something hard on the other side. Henson had relatched it, forcing the SWAT team to batter it down. I noticed Low Dog take off down the main corridor, running for his life.

"Goddamn you, hero," Henson shouted, suddenly shooting at me three times in rapid succession. All the shots were high, shattering the glass behind me. I hoped Chef and his students were safe on the floor where they belonged.

I had expected Sludge and Sad Sack to be running for cover by now, but they were pissed, trying to shove me into the broken glass. I grabbed Sludge's wrist, forcing him to drop the gun. He slashed with the knife, almost stabbing me in the eye, but I deflected the thrust. As fearsome as my attackers were, I wasn't overly concerned. I'd been in worse fights on the docks.

The pantry door finally burst open. Henson backed up, firing the rest of his clip as the SWAT team stormed in. Return fire cut him down. Then Fibber fell.

Sad Sack grabbed my arm, trying to use me as a human shield. Sludge briefly turned toward the intruders. I thought he intended to surrender, for he was raising his hands. Then he suddenly turned back, plunging his knife at my chest. Sad Sack had my arm pinned. My lung exploded. My breath disappeared. My knees buckled as I collapsed on one side. The floor felt grimy.

There was more shooting, more yelling, but I was largely insensible to it. I remember lying in broken glass, blood smeared everywhere. To my astonishment, it was my blood. I still didn't know what happened.

The room grew quiet. Boots were kicking weapons away from the hands that had dropped them. I sensed smoke in the air.

"Kid, what the hell did you do?" Chef asked, turning me over.

"Don't touch it. Let it alone," a voice commanded.

A SWAT officer knelt next to me, checking the pulse on my neck.

"It's bad," someone said, possibly Commander Williams, but I couldn't tell.

* * * * * *

I woke up in a hospital bed. Trauma care. Tubes were plugged into my arms while monitors watched over me. I wanted to inspect the injury but couldn't move. I felt weak as a puppy.

"He's awake, Doctor," a nurse whispered.

A doctor in a blue gown wearing a surgical mask loomed over me, shining a light into my eyes. It felt familiar. I'd recently had the sensation of staring into a different light. Something far more profound.

"What happened?" I whispered.

"Stabbed through the lung, son. Nicked your heart," the doctor calmly explained. "You got lucky. If someone had tried to remove the blade before bringing you in, you'd have bled out in minutes."

"Where is here?" I asked.

"Shadyside."

"Shady who?"

"University of Pittsburg Medical Center," the doctor clarified. "Now, you need to stay still. We had to cut open your chest to massage your heart. You've lost a lot of blood. Even slight movement might start the bleeding again."

"Prognosis?" I questioned.

"We're doing everything we can," the doctor promised, a less than enthusiastic response.

"Priest?" I inquired.

"Last night, around midnight," the nurse informed. "When you ... when you weren't doing so well."

That explained the bright light. I tried taking a deep breath but couldn't. A skinny-necked male nurse put an oxygen mask over my face until the air started flowing again. He was kind enough to remove it when I tapped my fingers. Evidence of a February sun was coming through the window. I guessed it to be midmorning.

"There are people here to see you. This might be a good time," the doctor said.

Meaning it might be the last time. I didn't mind. I was too fatigued to worry, and I'd had Last Rites. It would be okay. The doctor went to the door.

"All right, just a few minutes. Family only," he summoned.

"That's us," I heard Bobby Blair say.

Jenny Blair, Bobby, and Alex slowly came in. They looked exhausted. The women had been crying. I think Bobby had been crying. It felt strange. Half of my life, no one had ever given a damn about me, let alone cried. I didn't doubt their sincerity, it was just hard to absorb.

"You had us scared," Alex said, brushing damp hair back from my forehead.

Alex wore a sharp black business suit, typical of the Secret Service, but now rumpled by staying up all night. Jenny was wearing a long white dress with an attractive yellow knit sweater, possibly made by Native Americans on the reservation in Utah. Her long red hair hung close to her face. Bobby had a brown suit with the jacket off, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. The navy-blue tie was loose around his neck.

"We got here as fast as we could," Jenny said, drawing up a chair.

Bobby stood behind her, staring at me like I was a ghost. His shaggy hair was uncombed and he needed a shave.

"You kids look terrible," I whispered. "Why so glum?"

"When we landed at the airport, the news reports said you had died," Bobby explained. "They had pictures of you being taken off the helicopter covered in a bloody sheet."

"My God, your mother. Someone needs to--" I began to say.

"It's okay, it's okay," Alex said, taking my hand. "I called Pat first thing. Harold's been calling her, too."

"Harry must be unhappy with me," I guessed.

"Harold thinks you're the bravest, most insane person he's ever known," Alex answered, trying to smile.

"The state police have been showing footage from the prison," Bobby said. "What were you thinking, walking into that?"

"Debts needed to be paid," I said.

"You've paid your share," Jenny insisted.

I was getting tired. There was no pain. Too many drugs in my system. But there was a sensation of disquiet. Of something lost.

"Tell your mother I love her," I said before fading out.

They wheeled me in for additional surgery that afternoon. Apparently, the situation was tense but had little effect on me. I slept through most of it, and all I remembered was nurses telling me to do this and that, or not do this and that. I'd been wounded before, it wasn't a new experience.

In the days that followed, the doctors kept me closely watched. They let me sit up, drink juice, begin to eat soft foods, and gradually decided I wasn't going to embarrass them by dying. It was Jenny Blair who added a spark to an otherwise dreary existence.

"Shouldn't you be back at work?" I asked, for she had been at my bedside every day, acting as my personal secretary and gatekeeper. She read newspapers to me, reviewed my medical records, and put me on the phone with approved well-wishers. I had a nice chat with her mother.

"Professor Lofoya has assigned me to your care," she confessed, though it did not appear to be an obligation on her part. "He says there wouldn't be a Monument Valley College if not for you."

"That's an exaggeration," I protested.

"I think it's the truth. Professor Lofoya doesn't lie. About anything," she insisted.

Now twenty-one years old, Jenny was no longer the moody teenager I'd met in Warden Mims' office six years before. Thanks to her work interning with the Professor, she had become a capable young woman, confident, well-spoken, and efficient. She ran my hospital room like the bridge of a battleship.

"How's Bobby?" I asked.

"Doing book tours again," she said. "Every time interest in The Sarge and The White Mountain War begins to wane, you put them back on the front pages. We've finally paid off the mortgage on Blair House."

"That's a relief," I said.

She sat back in the swivel chair she used for business in my room, looking at me as if contemplating what to say. Of the three Blairs, Jenny was the one I'd had the least contact with. When she was still a young girl, a close relationship would have been inappropriate.

"I know what you've done for my family," she finally said.

"And what I did to your family," I was forced to point out.

"That's getting old."

"What do you mean?"

"Look me in the eye and tell me you shot my father," she suddenly demanded, leaning forward with her blue eyes focused like a hawk.

I instinctively closed my eyes and turned away.

"That's what I thought. You told my mother. Why haven't you ever told me or Bobby?" she asked.

"Told you what?"

"That you don't remember the shooting. That you don't even remember being in the park that day."

"What has your mother said?"

"So, you did tell her?"

"You already knew that."

"Mom has never said a word. I heard it from Alex," Jenny explained. "I bluffed you."

"Remind me not to play poker with you," I conceded.

"Tell me the rest," she insisted.

"What am I supposed to say? Some lame excuse? Excuses don't bring back the people we love."

"Maybe not, but understanding loss is important. It's important to me."

"I wish there was something to tell you," I replied. "Even after all these years, I have nothing but strange dreams. None of it makes any sense."

"And to pay for those strange dreams, you decided to go to prison?"

"You've talked to Dr. Livingston, too?"

"Sandra and I are good friends," Jenny said.

"All of you women are good friends. Is it some kind of club?"

"You're not the only man we talk about, but yes. It's some kind of club."

"Well, then you know Sandra thinks I should be locked up in a mental institution. What kind of life would that be?"

"You're not crazy. You had an episode. Mother and I have been visiting veterans' hospitals. We've met with PTSD patients. It's hard for them. At least you managed to get better."

"Not according to Mr. Rasmussen," I said.

Once the various tubes were removed and breathing was easier, they started getting my body back on a regular schedule. The catheter was no longer needed, and with help from an orderly, I could reach the bathroom, dispensing with the bedpan. I made sure Jenny left the room during these episodes, embarrassed enough already. I was given a choice of female or male nurse for a sponge bath, picking a woman. After Northfield, I really didn't want a man touching my body parts.

One afternoon, I woke to find Jenny gently scrubbing my chest and belly with a warm damp cloth. My lower region was still covered by a sheet.

"Relax, it's not like you can seduce me," she whispered, sitting on the bed. She was wearing a powder blue sweat suit, not a nursing uniform.

I did think about it, for the briefest moment, before dismissing the thought. I could hardly imagine what the press would say if I slept with the slain president's daughter. Let alone what Mrs. Blair would think. But Jenny was really sexy, in a girl-next-door sort of way. I'd need to watch myself.

"I don't think this is your job," I mildly protested.

"Your regular nurse is off today, and besides, I'm curious. You have a lot of scars, but they're small. Except this swirl over your collar bone. For a big tough guy, you have soft skin."

"I spend a lot of time at the spa," I replied. She laughed, her vivid eyes lighting up.

"Mr. Rasmussen says your jokes aren't funny, but I think you're funny," she decided. "You have an ironic sense of humor, saying serious things without sounding serious. Dr. Lafoya does that."

"Shouldn't you be back at school? You've been here since I was admitted."

She ran the cloth around my ribs, under my back, and came up to my neck. She kept glancing at my nether regions, as if contemplating her options.

"I've been tortured before," I whispered with a grin. It was just a game. I wasn't in condition to respond.

"Okay, no torture today," she agreed, putting the cloth away.

"Thank you," I said.

"Thank me for what?" she asked.

"Just thank you," I answered.

After another two weeks, I was ready for rehab. The wounds avoided infection, and the incisions were healing. By early April, I was healthy enough to finish my recovery at Northfield. Jenny was finally returning to Monument Valley.

"Give Professor Lofoya my best wishes," I told her. "Good luck with your classes."

"You get better. Don't forget your medication," Jenny said, hugging me as tightly as my circumstance would tolerate.

She looked sad to be saying goodbye. I would miss her, too. Other than Alex, I couldn't remember a woman I'd been more comfortable with, even if she was a youngster.

"I'm moving to New York City after I graduate," she mentioned. "It's closer to mother. Lots of jobs there."

"Jobs?" I asked.

"Lobbying. It's the diplomatic capital of the world."

"Let me know if you need help with an apartment."

"What do you know about New York?" she asked. I declined to mention the bars, poker parlors, seedy docks, and brothels.

"I have a few contacts there," I vaguely replied.

* * * * * *

Though it was not public knowledge, April 8th proved to be my 33rd birthday. Before Rasmussen had found my birth certificate, I had used April 1st. As a joke. Now I figured to use my real one.

Alex sent me midnight blue pajamas, a black bathrobe, and thick wool socks. She enclosed a note saying she'd get me a bulletproof vest for Christmas. Dragon sent a bottle of Bulliet Bourbon, which the nurses were holding for safekeeping. The Blairs sent flowers and a chocolate cake. Rasmussen texted saying he'd have something for me later.

That morning, I was taken downstairs in a wheelchair to eat breakfast in the cafeteria, where I was greeted by staff and students who wanted autographs. I was accompanied by two U.S. Marshals and a hospital security guard. I supposed there wasn't much chance of me escaping.

Rafael Martín stopped by to give me an autographed copy of An American Hero, atop the best-seller list, just as his publisher predicted. Rafael thanked me for getting stabbed just in time to promote his book tour. I borrowed a hundred dollars from him with no intention of paying it back.

My big surprise was that afternoon. I returned from a physical exam, which I managed to pass, and found a packed duffle bag in my room. Along with my Jack Wood guitar. Harold Rasmussen was there, too.

"Mr. Lawrence, good to see you. Pale skin and all," he said, shaking my hand.

He was not alone. I was introduced to FBI Agent Larissa Black, a dark, slinky woman of Cuban heritage. I guessed her to be my age, with vivid brown eyes and long coal black hair. Next to her was FBI Agent Charlie Clayton, by all appearances happily married, for he was neatly dressed, getting round in the waist, and growing bald. He seemed to be in his mid-forties.

"Jack, these agents are from the Washington office. They will be assisting your transfer," Rasmussen explained.

"If you buy me a ticket, I can take a bus," I offered.

"You're not going back to Northfield," he informed.

"What do you mean?"

"We have a safe house for you in Alexandria."

"Am I in danger?" I inquired.

"There have been two attempts on your life that we know of. Maybe more," Agent Clayton said, having made a study.

"Just prison fights. Not assassination attempts," I denied.

"We're not taking any chances," Rasmussen replied.

I looked at Rasmussen, Clayton, and Black, all grim and determined. It took a moment to dawn on me. I was being kidnapped by the FBI!

* * * * * *

"Time to go, Mr. Lawrence," Agent Clayton said after the hospital signed my release papers the next morning.

Once again, I was on a private government jet. The FBI secretly flew me to Richmond, avoiding the Washington press, then drove the hundred miles to Alexandria, a town of 150,000 on the Potomac River. Just fifteen miles south of Washington, D.C., the old colonial village catered to Federal employees and tourists visiting George Washington's house at Mt. Vernon.

I soon learned that District FBI Director Ronald Michaelson and his lovely wife, Katie Ann, lived in the neighborhood. Michaelson had been in the Colorado hospital room the day Colonel Fowler revealed my military record to Rasmussen, and I knew they were old friends. I wondered if he had been appointed my new jailer.

The agents took me to a five-bedroom Victorian mansion on Royal Street once owned by a congressman, not far from Jones Point Park. It had a high stone wall for privacy, and an alley for discreet access. I supposed it had been built sometime in the 1890s, and then remodeled in the 1970s. It was quaint, in a very old man sort of way.

"What do you think?" Michaelson asked, pushing my wheelchair up a sturdy ramp to the back porch.

Michaelson was still the button-down veteran I remembered from many years before. Cookie-cut from the FBI mold, tall, trim, long-faced, with thinning brown hair growing gray on the sides. After leaving the Army, the former 3rd Infantry lieutenant had come up through the FBI's ranks with Rasmussen, forming a tight bond.

"I've never lived in a house before," I said.

Katie Ann Michaelson had been sprucing the place up. She was at least ten years younger than her husband, putting her around forty. I thought her rather thin, with long brunette hair and dark brown eyes. She looked at me with curiosity. I understood she had worked for the FBI as an executive secretary before taking a private sector job as an immigration attorney. It made me wonder if she did undercover work.

Larissa Black and Charlie Clayton had suitcases stacked near the kitchen door. Were they moving in? The parlor off the living room had been converted into an office for their use. I noticed several downstairs bedrooms. My upstairs room overlooked the front yard, much of it a winter garden. There was a small elevator, installed as an afterthought. The adjoining rooms contained exercise equipment for the use of the previous owner, now deceased.

"Are Black and Clayton watching over me twenty-four hours a day?" I asked.

"Of course not. Other agents will be taking turns," Michaelson replied.

"Sir, this is a lot of fuss. I'll be back at Northfield in another week," I protested.

"Perhaps, but today you are in the custody of the FBI. We will decide where you stay and what you do. Is that understood?" he admonished.

"Sir, what are you not telling me?" I asked.

"All in good time. For now, your job is to get well. That's an order," he insisted.

I tried to take the order to heart but found it difficult. A Dominican cook named Anita came in to make breakfast and lunch, often gruel for the sick guy. She was cheerful, but busy, for the dead congressman's house was not her only client.

For the first few days, a physical therapist named Dennis Leeson got me out of bed, required that I bend and stretch, and made me walk on the dead congressman's treadmill. Leeson was a burly young fellow, an avid weightlifter, and encouraging, but I wasn't finding the motivation. Spiritually, I felt a growing detachment, as if I should never have left the loading dock alive. It wasn't a death wish; I was simply losing interest. My sleep medication had run out, and I didn't bother ordering more.

The FBI agents using my house as a satellite office were respectful, though I rarely spoke with them more than necessary. And I wasn't on my best behavior, often being abrupt. Which is another way of saying rude. I would get up early, try to work out, and eat a decent meal. But after a while, I stopped getting up on days the therapist didn't come in, or I'd sit on the balcony staring at the Potomac River wrapped in a wool blanket. I played my guitar a few times, then left it in the corner. One evening I woke up as Black and Clayton were putting me in bed.

"What's wrong with you?" Larissa asked.

"I don't know what you mean," I answered.

"It's butt cold out there. If Anita hadn't found you asleep on the bench, you might have frozen."

"I didn't notice," I truthfully said, for I mostly just felt numb.

"We know this is hard. Maybe we didn't guess how much, but you've got to snap out of it," Charlie said.

"What would be the point?" I asked.

"The doctor says you can make a full recovery. If you try," Larissa insisted.

She didn't understand. It wasn't a physical recovery that was the problem, and I didn't want to admit the source of my distraction. Too many already thought I was crazy.

Alex McGuire and Juliet Nichols visited that Saturday. I took a hot shower, which I hadn't done in several days, and wore a clean gray sweat suit, having no better clothes available. I even shaved and brushed my hair. We sat downstairs in the kitchen while Anita made grilled cheese sandwiches with tomatoes.

"Counterfeiting?" I said to Alex.

She was looking great. Bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Her hair was growing longer. She wore a nice, not overly conservative dark blue suit. Juliet was wearing Air Force whites from the hospital at Langley.

"I was offered a protective details, but they're no fun," Alex said. "With so many foreign banks circulating fake currency, tracking down their suppliers is more exciting. I was at The Hague last week, and Madrid the week before. Maybe you can help with some of your Black Web magic?"

"I haven't accessed the web in years. My techniques are outdated," I answered.

"But not your security clearance," Alex said.

"I don't know that I still have a security clearance," I replied.

"Captain John Lawrence is listed as a secure resource in the asset division, and your security clearance is higher than mine," Alex clarified.

"I'm a sergeant, not a captain. And my lifestyle is more sedate these days," I said. "What about you, Juliet?"

"Almost finished my doctorate in battlefield medicine," Juliet said, also very pert. "Dating a great guy now. Not a vicious maximum-security felon, but pretty great."

Juliet still had cute freckles and a well-rounded figure. Her once-auburn hair was now strawberry blonde and cut too short for a ponytail.

"Pilot?" I asked.

"Physical therapist," Juliet said. "Someone you should probably spend more time with."

"I'm getting along. My breath is coming back," I defended, somewhat falsely. "I'm very glad you ladies are doing so well."

I reached across the kitchen table to take their hands. Both had been my friends at important times, and I would never forget that.

After the meal, I gave a tour of the dead congressman's garden, which I usually viewed from my upstairs balcony. The grounds were pleasantly tranquil, causing me to wonder why I was here rather than a more appropriate facility.

When Alex and Juliet left, I kissed each on the cheek and asked them to stay in touch. They departed without guessing at my dark preoccupations. I think. They did inspire me to start working out again, for no man likes feeling feeble around women they admire.

Six weeks after being stupid enough to get stabbed in the chest, I was making progress. Each day, I strengthened my arms and legs on the gym's parallel bars, did pull-ups, and walked for an hour in the garden. From noon to one, I played guitar on the balcony. I wasn't clever enough to write new songs, but was playing some of Old Da's favorites better than in the old days, mostly ballads and country rock. To my surprise, I was developing a growly tinge to my voice that was actually an improvement.

Ronald Michaelson and his wife came for a visit that Sunday afternoon. I hadn't seen Katie Ann since the first few days, and I hoped I'd not insulted her, as she was always nice to me. Katie Ann spent time cleaning the house while Michaelson and I met downstairs in the parlor, his crew having the day off.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"As well as can be expected," I said.

"Leeson says you're improving quickly now. Another two weeks might have you back to par. I've scheduled a physical for you at Walter Reed."

"If I pass, will you arrange my transfer back to Northfield?" I asked.

"Are you so anxious to return?" he questioned in surprise.

"I can't sit around here for the next thirty years doing nothing. And it must be expensive for the FBI. Your people have more important duties than babysitting."

"Do you know what my people are doing?"

"No, they haven't offered, and I haven't asked," I said.

"We're a unit of the Counter-Terrorism Division headquartered in the O'Neill Building on 1st Street. I understand you have some experience in counterterrorism?"

"It's been a few years," I answered.

"I was hoping you might help," Michaelson continued. "We're tracking funding operations. Mostly in-house research, though we do like to get out in the field when we can."

"Your people have more expertise than I do," I said, not really interested in becoming an FBI asset. What would be next? Colonel Fowler pounding on my door?

"My team is traveling to Gettysburg on Tuesday. Interested in going along? Get out from behind these walls for a few days?"

"In an orange suit and handcuffs?" I asked.

"We'll get you decent clothes. No handcuffs," he promised.

"I've always wanted to visit Gettysburg," I agreed.

* * * * * *

It shaped up as an interesting expedition. U.S. Marshals Jason Domeyer and Linda Ellsworth were recalled to drive a large brown van. Not a black one. By FBI standards, that made this journey a secret mission. Counter-Terrorism Agents Larissa Black, Charlie Clayton, and FBI tech specialist Ashok Modi rounded out the team. I wanted to ride shotgun, but they put me in the back seat.

We had a pleasant drive. Interstate 270 North was lined with green trees and wasn't crowded once we left downtown Washington behind us. The spring weather was moderate. Michaelson found me a light gray suit for official business, along with comfortable jeans for casual wear, a dark green sweater, and a floppy camouflage hat to protect from the occasional sun. A duffel bag for my pajamas and necessities was tucked in the rear of the van, for they expected to stay overnight.

Gettysburg proved just as charming as I hoped. The historic town was laid along 19th century streets and surrounded by Civil War battlefields. Statues and monuments loomed on hilltops. Sightseers loitered in the quaint shops, looking for food, artifacts, and souvenirs. The crowds were small, for we were there during the off-season, which made it easier for me. I kept the hat pulled down and wore dark sunglasses to avoid being recognized. Being clean shaven helped, for most public images of John Henry Lawerence were still the grubby photos after my arrest almost seven years before. My compatriots needed no such subterfuge but wore their dark sunglasses out of habit. We did not look like ordinary tourists.

Jason found us a pleasant hotel on Lefever Street not far from the National Cemetery. Linda went out for cheeseburgers, and the FBI agents plotted their strategy for making Gettysburg safe from terrorism. It didn't take long for me to realize the mission was less than pressing, for no threats had been received.

We started at the Eisenhower Farm, where the 34th President had spent his last years in retirement. The main gate was well protected, cameras watched the roads, and the National Park Service was alert. The main streets of Gettysburg had similar precautions, with strategically located cameras looking for troublemakers and parking violations. Local policing was casual but not sloppy. Numerous shops on Baltimore Street sold muskets, swords, bayonets, and a variety of deadly weapons, providing the population with a supply of arms in case of an emergency.

"We're looking good here, Jack. Is there anything you'd like to see?" Charlie asked.

"I'd like to see Cemetery Ridge," I requested.

We drove up the hill, past the museum, and parked along a narrow road dominated by marble monuments, some of them quite large. I tried to remain calm but had trouble hiding my excitement. I remembered reading an entire shelf of books about Pickett's Charge while secretly living in the attic of a New York City library one very cold winter. To finally stand next to the stone wall, near the clump of trees, and see the spot where General Amistad fell was a bit overwhelming.

"Excuse me, are you battlefield guides?" a young mother asked.

She had quite a passel of kids and family members with her, about fifteen in all, carrying cameras and cell phones to record their visit. It pleased me that they'd taken an interest in the country's history. A country I had proudly fought for.

"What would you like to know, ma'am?" I asked, touching my hat.

"Was it a big battle?" a little girl asked.

"How many Rebels were there?" her brother inquired.

"There are so many statues. What does it all mean?" the young mother wanted to know, sheltering her baby from a light wind.

They had come to the right place. I spent the next forty-five minutes walking the battlefield, describing how Longstreet's battalions had come up the long slopes defended by tired Union soldiers and indicating points of interest. I sang a few Civil War songs, quoted the veterans, and explained how the relatives of the fallen wanted that day remembered in the years that followed. And in a cautious way, described the awful slaughter delivered by the rifles and artillery.

"Why didn't they run away?" a boy asked. "Weren't they scared?"

"Of course they were, Billy. Just like soldiers are scared today," I replied. "But these young men, they came from the same towns. The same families. Some were brothers and cousins. They weren't just fighting for a cause, they were fighting for each other. They couldn't run away and leave their friends behind. Good soldiers don't do that. They never do that."

The visitors gradually moved on, for there was much to see, and I walked over the hill toward the cemetery where Lincoln had given his Gettysburg Address.

"You were speaking from experience," Linda said, staying close to me.

"I'm not that old," I protested.

"You know what I mean. Robert Blair just published an article on Lavanna Valley," Linda pressed. "You left the helicopter to go back down the hill for Corporal Fuentes under heavy fire."

"It was my job," I explained.

"Some people want to know why you didn't get a medal for that," Larissa said. Charlie, Linda and Jason were listening, too. I didn't realize military history had become such a fascinating subject.

I stopped under a grove of green trees, the cement path marked with bronze plaques. The spot where Lincoln gave his famous speech was only a hundred feet away.

"No mystery there," I replied. "Company B, 144th Infantry, was charged with denying hostiles a foothold in Lavanna Valley. The helicopters landed us on a ridge. After a scout, I warned Major Snyder not to take the company down into the valley. When I was told to stay back with the medical team, I disobeyed orders and went forward with the advance. Turned out we were outnumbered 15 to 1. When the officers were all killed or wounded, I ordered the retreat. Slow and bloody, one step at a time, carrying our dead and wounded with us. Colonel Montana didn't know whether to give me a medal or a court-martial. A few weeks later, it didn't matter."

"How's that?" Jason asked.

"Lavanna Valley was my last operation with the 144th. Colonel Collin Fowler read the after-action report and had me transferred to the 104th Rangers. White Mountain operations were classified, so Colonel Montana was off the hook."

"Your speech to those kids was still inspiring. It won't surprise me if it ends up on YouTube," Linda said. "I took some shots, too. Mostly of the singing."

"Let's hope it doesn't get too much attention," I said.

We had a fine meal at a crowded Irish pub across the street from the historic train station. Charlie played the piano and I borrowed a guitar, strumming two Civil War favorites, Bonnie Blue Flag and Garryowen. When I started to walk off, patrons began shouting for more. I glanced at Charlie, who nodded, and I sang half a dozen more. The enthusiastic response was encouraging.

"Christ, Jack, are there any old war songs you don't know?" Linda asked when I finally returned to our table.

"No," I replied.

We finally walked back to the hotel just before ten. Linda slept in my room that night, but there was no intimacy, as she was officially on duty. We did have an enjoyable talk. She appreciated that I'd stopped making jokes about shooting me in the back.

By the next morning, we were ready to leave. There was a pancake house on the corner for bacon and eggs, grits, strong coffee, and orange juice. Better food than I'd been eating, except when Anita caught me avoiding meals. Agent Modi, who had been quiet the whole trip, finally broached a subject that had been bothering him.

"Jack, if I may call you Jack, why is it the U.S. Marshals let you roam around free? They don't even carry handcuffs. What's stopping you from escaping?"

"Escape to where, Ashok? May I call you Ashok?" I replied.

"You may," he agreed.

"I'm the most famous criminal in America. At least, I was the most famous. There's no escaping. As for the rest, I don't know. Charlie, why am I allowed to run around loose?"

"If the FBI says you're not a flight risk, it's not for me to question," Charlie said.

"Don't worry, Ashok. It will be resolved next week," I said, drinking more juice.

"Resolve what?" Modi asked.

"I've filed a writ of habeas corpus with the Federal Court in Richmond," I explained, putting honey on another biscuit. "Now that I'm healthy again, there's no reason to be in FBI custody. The court will transfer me back to Northfield."

"Michaelson isn't going to allow that," Larissa instantly objected.

"It's not his decision," I replied.

"Jack, you shouldn't. Northfield is dangerous. You almost died there," Linda said.

"Maximum security is dangerous for all the inmates. I don't rate any special treatment," I said, softening my approach.

"Someone thinks you do, or you wouldn't be sitting here with us," Charlie said, speaking for the FBI.

"We'll let the court decide. That's what courts are for," I concluded.

We got on the road late, almost noon, after making a final tour of the town. Modi wanted to make sure all the street cameras could be accessed by the FBI's web.

Minutes after leaving Gettysburg, we were in the countryside. Farms lined our route. I sat behind the driver's seat, gazing out the window, knowing it might be a long time before I'd have another chance for sightseeing. Then, about three miles short of Frederick, we all noticed a severe vibration in the vehicle, soon accompanied by a loud noise.

"What the hell is that?" Jason asked, trying to find the source.

Modi and I looked out the back window, initially not seeing anything. And then we saw too much.

"It is a jet! In trouble," Ashok warned. "It is trying to land on the highway."

Jason wasted no time, pulling off into a patch of gravel. Two other cars behind us did the same. I didn't notice any other traffic.

The Boeing 737 came down with lowered wheels, bouncing on the roadway, then shuddering when the forward landing gear hit the center strip. I recognized it as one of the narrow-body airliners used for domestic flights. It bounced again, twisting slightly from right to left, the tail higher than the nose. The massive engine under the right wing was shut down, still trailing smoke. The left engine was on fire.

"They're not going to make it," Linda said from the front seat, gripping the dashboard.

"Jason, catch up. We might be able to help," I urged, but he was already back on the highway, accelerating to top speed.

The roaring jet dipped down to the left as it passed a line of trees, the wing tip ripping through the branches. Another line of trees caught the wing even more. And then the landing gear on the left side struck the rough edge of the road, causing the entire jet to go into a flat spin. It twirled three times into a broad pasture, the landing gear tearing away except for a strut below the right wing that caused some drag. When the jet smashed into a low stone wall, the fuselage ripped in half.

Jason had us on site in under a minute, screeching to the shoulder. The pasture fell sharply away from us, leveled out, and then dropped again into a dry creek bed. The stone wall was crushed.

The two parts of the fuselage were resting upright in knee-deep grass, most in one piece extending from the mid-section to the tail. The right wing was still attached. The left wing, which had torn off, was on fire. The nose section was mangled, most seriously at the point of the split. Debris littered the area between the two sections where small fires were breaking out, but so far there had been no explosions.

"Linda, we'll need a triage area," I said. "Larissa, Modi, keep the road clear for emergency vehicles. Charlie, Jason, send volunteers down to help the passengers, but be ready to run if those fires get worse."

And with that I scrambled down the embankment, skipping over rocks and wading through the weeds. I guessed we had five minutes, ten at most, before the wreckage was engulfed in flames.

* * * * * *

Jack's first responder training leads to new situations in Part Six, National Flight 13.