Palindrome (15 page)

“My memory is just fine,” she says curtly. We've pushed a wrong button.

“Seeing that folder would just be so helpful,” I say.

“What exactly are you investigating again?” she asks, cocking her head, face suddenly painted with a nasty hyena smile. “Why haven't I heard anything about this before today?”

She stares at us for an uncomfortably long beat, mouth clamped shut, telling me we're not going to get anything else out of her. Dead end. But evidently this isn't yet clear to my companion.

“If we're not going to be able to speak to Silas,” Courtney says, leaning so far forward in his chair it looks like he might topple headfirst into the carpet, “then we're going to have to have that file.”

“I'm sorry, I can't show that to you,” she snaps. “That wouldn't be appropriate.”

Her defenses are up. I think I feel the burgeoning beginnings of a headache somewhere in the middle of my brain.

“Neither is fucking your patients,” Courtney says, deadpan.

Oh, Jesus.
I grip the sides of the lazy-­boy. Can't breathe. I stare at Dr. Nancy, still trying to hold it together. Old-­man Courtney calm as a Caribbean breeze. Dr. Nancy's hands are shaking. She bites her lip. Nearly bites
through
her lip.

“
Get out,
” she whispers, face going cherry.

Courtney just smiles. “Sorry, is that a sore subject?”

I stare aghast at Courtney. This isn't part of the plan.

She's in a blinding, white-­hot rage. Can't even speak, until she manages a shrill stammer:

“
Dennis
!
Luke
!”

The orderlies burst into the office as soon as they can beep in with their cards, looking a little too excited for my liking. Dr. Nancy can only point a trembling finger at us. I'm thinking they don't give a shit about our badges; they're about to give us the SOP for unruly patients.

“What is it, Doc?” one of the ogres asks.

“Th . . . they . . .”

“They try some funny business with you, Doctor Nancy? Got a little fresh?”

“
Yes,
” she stammers, and it's actually rather convincing, on account of her being in a state of actual shock.

The other ogre grins. “Whaddya think, Doc, Dennis? Should we bring 'em back to Mr. Harrison, file a report? That's a lot of paperwork.”

“Obviously there's been some sort of misunderstanding, fellas . . .” I say, my stomach about to bottom out. “You don't want to do anything rash. You don't want any trouble with the Bureau, trust me.”

“Actually, Ben,” says Courtney to me, but for everyone to hear, “we can't report any of this to HQ. We're not even supposed to be here, remember?”

“Not even supposed to be here?” The second ogre says this as if savoring the taste of it in his mouth.

I swivel to gape at Courtney in disbelief.

What the fuck are you doing?

“Not even supposed to be here . . .” the first ogre echoes, like it's a mantra whose implications become more clear with every repetition. He glares hard at me, like he's wondering which part of me tastes the best. “ . . . And Mr. Harrison is a busy man, Luke. I think he'd be pleased if we dealt with this internally. Took a little initiative. That okay, Doc? Want us to deal with these fags ourselves?”

I'm about to point out that were we indeed homosexuals, it seems unlikely that we'd also be trying any “funny business” with Dr. Nancy, when one of them puts me in a headlock. Not sure if it's Dennis or Luke. Not sure if it really matters.

Before I have time to protest, I get a fist to the kidneys. Fire in my chest, can't breathe. Dennis/Luke is grunting something to the effect of, “I'm just getting started, you little homosexual,” as he continues pummeling my stomach. Through watering eyes, I see Courtney's not faring much better. So why does it look like that asshole is . . .
smiling
?

We're being dragged out of Dr. Nancy's office in bear hugs that are unnecessarily firm at this point, considering my limbs are sort of moving on their own, spasming like jellyfish tentacles. I try to say something, but it just comes out as an empty gurgle.

I hear the beeps of key cards on doors. We're being dragged down a metal flight of stairs like two sacks of dirty laundry. My forehead clips the corner of the railing, making a ringing sound that I can't tell is inside or outside my skull.

“Guess you two didn't behave yourselves, did you?” my escort guffaws.

“Please. You're making a mistake . . .” I mutter.

This provokes a deep belly laugh I can hear reverberating against my spine.

“If this is wrong, then why does it feel so right?” says Courtney's Ogre.

Mine whispers deep in my ear. “
You
made the mistake fucking with Dr. Nancy. And you fuck with Dr. Nancy, you fuck with me.”

They've got a hell of an employee loyalty program here.

“You're in big trouble,” I groan halfheartedly.

“Funny,” Dennis says. “That's not how it looks from here.”

“I wanna talk to Harrison,” I grumble, vaguely aware of being carried back past the row of cells. Enthusiastic cheers muffled by thick doors—­I must look as bad as I feel.

Beside me I see Courtney hardly struggling. Just staring straight ahead, letting himself be manhandled. No bruises on his face. Smart. No marks.

“I wanna talk to your sup . . . superior,” I bluster. Cold air shocks my face once we're out the front doors of Sachar. Then we're being jammed into the back of a golf cart. Our hands are cuffed behind our backs. Dennis and Luke drive up front.

“You don't worry about Harrison,” Dennis or Luke says with glee. “We'll let him know that you two got what you needed and politely ducked out.”

I command my head to turn slightly, enough to make eye contact with Courtney; convey
what the fuck were you thinking, you fucking piece of shit
. I manage to swivel my stiff neck just enough to witness Courtney swoon and nearly fall out of the cart, saved only by his cuffs.

Guess these goons' job demands a certain dose of healthy sadism. Still, I'm shocked they'd do this to ostensible FBI agents.

Only because Courtney said that to Dr. Nancy! And then that shit about
not supposed to be here!

“Court—­” I start to mumble.

The golf cart flies over the frozen athletic field; my handcuffed wrists are screaming with every bump. Dennis and Luke wave to some colleagues across the field supervising a group of inmates, who start clapping when they see us in the back of the cart. I suppose this passes for a pretty interesting day around here.

There's a screech of rubber on asphalt as we return to the driveway by the main entrance. My vision is getting blurry, and I think I might puke. Somewhere, distantly, I perceive Dennis and Luke having a talk with Walrus from the security booth.

Here come the dry heaves.

“Courtney,” I finally manage to whisper. “I'm gonna fucking kill you. Why would you say all that shit?

“Mmm-­hmm,” he replies dreamily.

Front gate creaks open. The cart lurches forward and takes this morning's breakfast with it, deposits it squarely on the back of the driver's neck. The cart screams to a halt. I think to myself, as I watch Dennis turn to face me, the realization of what just landed on his neck slowly creeping over his face, that this is unquestionably gonna be the high point of my day.

“
You fucking . . .”

Rough paws unlock my cuffs. I'm jerked to my feet, and then the world is spinning and black pavement rushes up to meet my face. I taste blood in my mouth and think maybe I just spit out a tooth. Another fist into my ribs.

I've been on the receiving end of so many beat downs, I consider myself something of a connoisseur. And I have to say, I begrudgingly admire these guys' technique.

“We see you fuckers around here again, we strip you ass-­naked in the middle of a Sachar cell block and release the animals. You'll be
wishing
for another bashing.”

Another kick in the gut for good luck, and they return to their golf cart. I close my eyes and can hear the whirr of its electric engine receding into the distance, along with their whoops of delight.

Lying still, the pain becomes a little more distant. Like, the thing that is hurting no longer seems to be
me.
My body has wisely decided that for the moment, my flesh and whatever constitutes the essence of Frank Lamb are two separate entities.

God. What if Sadie could see me now? The shame would be worse than any sort of pain. This is her daddy's life. His job. Nobody should get the shit kicked out of them after middle school. That's like one of the principles upon which civilization is built. You won't get your ass kicked as a grown adult unless you're asking for it. Today, we were asking for it. Well. Courtney asked for it.

“Fff . . . Frank . . .”

I turn over to face him, and the pain rushes back. This is all his fault. All his goddamn fault. I crawl over to him as quickly as my throbbing limbs will allow me. He's stomach up on the freezing asphalt, staring wide-­eyed at the sky, like he's never seen a fucking cloud before.

“You . . . this is all your fault.”

I'm nearly on top of him. Raise my right arm as high as I can and try to punch him, but succeed basically in letting my loose fist just slap his thigh.

“I hate you,” I say, spitting up blood.

“Frank . . . Stop.” Courtney can't even raise his hands to defend himself.

“Fuck. You.” I keep half hitting him with limp hands.

“We're . . . we're in the middle of the road. We gotta get off the road,” Courtney groans.

Fuck. I hate him most when he's right.

He flops onto his stomach, releasing a guttural expression of pain. And then he's soldier-­crawling to the side of the road. To the parking lot where the Honda is. He looks back over his shoulder for me.

“C'mon, Frank,” he says. “C'mon.”

“Once we're off the road—­” I cough. “I'm gonna . . . gonna kill you.”

He's into the dirt shoulder long before I am. Better technique: He figured out how to roll like a snail or something. I'm not quite agile enough for that at the moment. It must take me five minutes to collapse alongside him.

“It's too cold out here,” I say. “We gotta get into the car.”

“Uh-­huh.”

“And then I'm gonna kill you. Why the fuck would you say that to that doctor? Why would you tell the orderlies we weren't supposed to be there!”

“To get close to them.”

Courtney slowly, gingerly, reaches into his torn suit pocket and pulls out a white card dangling by a snapped blue ribbon. I squint.

“Is that an ID card?”

“Yeah. Dennis's. Or Luke's. Whatever.”

My brain is having a hard time processing anything right now save the copious amounts of pain emanating from my stomach.

“Why?”

“Because we gotta see Silas,” Courtney says. “We're going back inside.”

I start to laugh but end up just wheezing. “No . . .” I mutter.

“Yep,” Courtney grunts, then he's up on his knees, hauling me up off the frozen earth.

“They're gonna figure out we weren't even FBI agents. You don't think Dr. Nancy is gonna tell Harrison what happened?”

“We're breaking in.”

We're both on our wobbly knees now. I stare blankly at him.

“What?”

“And we have to do it soon. That buffoon will report his missing card this afternoon, but it will take at least a few days to issue new cards to the staff and change all the magnetic locks.”

I
'M CLIMBING DOWN
the steep stairs into a cellar, gripping a cold metal pipe overhead for balance.
Hello?
Anybody down here?
I wish I had a flashlight. I reach the bottom, and my eyes adjust to the dim light crawling through the windows. A metal table, a wooden chair. It's freezing down here.

And no Savannah this time. Instead her sister, Greta, is sitting in the chair, her form brilliantly alluded to by a dazzling white dress.

Did you find it?

Not yet.

Her green eyes fix on me. She rises from the chair. She's shaped like an hourglass. Her warm, minty breath is on my face, her lips graze my cheek.

I don't care. I can'
t wait.

Her hand goes under my shirt, initially shocking me with cold—­

Courtney smacks my face, and I open my eyes.

“I was worried you'd lost too much blood, but looks like you've got some to spare.” He frowns.

I sit up and my body shrieks a protest.

“Where are we?” I groan.

“Motel, about four miles from the center.”

“I need coffee,” I say.

“You should have water first.”

“I. Need.
Coffee,
” I growl.

“Suit yourself.” Courtney shrugs.

I try to roll out of bed, and everything from my neck to my knees lights up in pain. Courtney rushes to my side to help me.

“How are you in such good shape?” I ask.

“I'm hurting too,” he says. “But I was concentrating on relaxing my body as they hit me. Makes a huge difference. You were probably rigid as a board. No shame in that, that's the body's natural reaction.”

I'm standing on my wobbly feet. Barely.

“Now you tell me. How long have I been out?”

“About . . .” Courtney checks his watch. “Thirty hours.”

“Jesus . . .”

“Yep. What hurts?”

I laugh a little, and my stomach burns.

“Hurts to breathe,” I say and wave a hand around my belly. “And all around here.”

“Bruised ribs and abdominal muscles, probably,” he says. “It'll just hurt to breathe and walk for a week or three. But go pee and make sure there's no blood. Blood means they got you in the kidneys and we'll have to get you to a hospital right away.”