The Hunter's Remorse
"It is the bungled crime that brings remorse."
~P.G. Wodehouse.
*Author's Note: Set shortly after Day Two.*
Mike Novick swallows the familiar uneasiness that seeps into his gut every time he enters a hospital.
He hates hospitals, hates everything about them—the smell, the sickly lighting, the doctors constantly being paged over the intercom, the buzz of televisions and the whirrs and beeps of machines, the way his shoes squeak on the waxed floors, the soul-sapping sense of hopelessness that seems to radiate from every square inch of the place.
It's supposed to be a place of healing and recovery, but Mike always sees it as merely a waiting room for the dying.
He shouldn't think like that. Not here, not now. Not when he's on his way to see her.
He stops outside Room 610, taking a deep breath as he looks at the plate beside the door—Kresge, L.
He shouldn't be here. After all, if he hadn't detained her, she wouldn't have tried to escape—she wouldn't have fought Jesper, and she wouldn't have pushed herself over the edge of the stair railing (at least that's what Jesper had told him). She wouldn't have plummeted several stories and she wouldn't be here, in critical condition.
And yet, he should be here. It would simply look too suspicious if he wasn't. And...and he needs to make some attempt at amends. He never meant for it to end like this. He never meant for anyone to get hurt, least of all Lynne.
He liked her—likes her, he corrects himself from using the past tense. They had met during a briefing one morning, several years ago. They sat next to one another—he was the only one who heard some snarky aside she'd muttered about another Cabinet member, and he'd instantly liked her, because the person whom she was verbally skewering happened to be someone Mike didn't care for, either. He'd given a low chuckle and returned with a similar remark of his own, just loud enough for her to hear, and she'd turned to fully look at him, the corners of her eyes smiling. They immediately became friends. Or at least as close to friends as people in their positions could be. She had backed his plays, as he had backed hers—they both wanted the same thing, most of the time, and both were smart enough to recognize a solid ally when they saw one.
Yes, they were allies. Not friends. And the first rule of diplomacy is that your ally is your ally until she isn't.
He'd offered Lynne a chance to be his ally again—to remain his faithful co-captain on the uncertain seas of politics and policy. He had wanted her to stay on his side, had wanted her as an ally. She was the one who had chosen to break their agreement.
And look how she had paid for it.
He steps into the room, which seems so dark and impossibly still, as if he's stepping into a painting—there are huge vases, sprays of flowers spilling over the window ledge, fighting for space with colorful, cheery cards. Someone has brought a quilt, some kind of home-spun thing that rests across her feet. It reminds him of his grandmother's house, with the hand-stitched blankets and blooming vases.
It also reminds him of a funeral parlor. The woman at the center of this tableau is lying in bed, motionless, lifeless, devoid of any mark of Lynne. She was never a particularly loud or animated person, but she'd always had this energy that seemed to hum from her veins, this quiet charisma that she'd often used as a weapon in winning people over to her side (a weapon that had first made him see what a valuable ally she could be). Now it was like simply looking at a painting of someone—the likeness was still there, but the spark was missing.
Quietly, timidly, with the hesitancy of a condemned man approaching the chopping block, he shuffles closer to the bed, slipping from the shadows into the stream of sunlight that falls across her.
The still beauty of the ornate scene is marred by the machines surrounding the bed, the tubes and filters and monitors, all humming and beeping and pumping in slow, measured paces.
And of course, there's her face.
Before, she was beautiful, in a fierce way—in the way that mountains were beautiful, rugged and defiant, in the way that the Mona Lisa was beautiful, knowing and unknown, in the way that fire was beautiful, dangerous and forceful and searingly searching, in the way that lightning and waves crashing were beautiful, all power and glory, in the way that birds of prey in flight were beautiful, awe-inspiring and self-assured.
Sadly, no matter what its form, beauty never lasts.
Normally, Lynne Kresge's fierce beauty would be slowly melted by time, a small but steady progression of wrinkles, sun spots, and tired eyes. But the fall had not been kind—bruises had developed on the left side of her face, swelling and distorting it beyond recognition. Without her conscious personality to add light and shade to her features, she seems flat, devoid of anything, completely un-Lynne.
You did this to her. He bows his head, takes the blow of guilt from his own subconscious. He's tried to justify this many times over the past several hours—she was the one who wouldn't follow the plan, the one who fought back, the one who ran. Jesper was the one who let her escape, who chased her, who tossed her over the railing. And yet, Mike Novick knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that deeply and truly, this is his fault.
Don't look away from your handiwork now, the voice in his head taunts. Take it all in. Don't miss a single thing—take in every ounce of just what you've done. You've killed her. You've killed Lynne.
She isn't dead yet—at least not physically. But the doctors had informed him that she'd slipped into a coma while en route to the hospital, and had not regained consciousness since.
They were not hopeful in their predictions and prognosis.
Perhaps it's for the best. Mike can't stop himself from thinking such an awful thought, and deep down he knows that he isn't thinking about the best outcome for Lynne, but rather the best outcome for himself—if she never wakes, she'll never point that finger at him again, will never reveal his damning, treasonous secret.
He suddenly realizes that she should have died. He needs her to die.
He shakes his head, incredulous at his own lack of empathy. How could he be so cold? How could he wish further ill on this woman, this woman who never deserved such a fate?
"Because I'm a bastard," he murmurs quietly to himself. Then he turns his attention to the silent, unmoving woman lying before him. "I'm a bastard, Lynne, but I guess we both know that by now. For what it's worth, I am sorry that it came to this."
He doesn't specify what this is—her medical condition, his tightrope walk of waiting until she either wakes or dies, their obviously-shattered alliance, his lack of regret, her lack of hopeful outcome—and perhaps it's for the best that he doesn't. When a man has this many secrets, it's best not to get too deep into analysis and contemplation. Besides, now is not the time for reflection and hindsight and coulda-would-shoulda. There's still too much up in the air, still too much undecided.
This issue won't be fully resolved until Lynne's physical state pushes her into one sphere or the other—the world of the living or the grave. Right now, she's straddling the line, making herself a wildcard factor that can't be fully prepared for. What if she dies? Will there be another investigation? What if she wakes? Will she remember? What if she doesn't remember anything at all? What if she doesn't at first, but then slowly recalls all of it?
Too many questions, and not a single answer. Mike hates uncertainty like this.
A flutter of movement catches his eye. The tip of Lynne's finger is slightly pulsing—probably one of the involuntary muscle tics that the doctors warned she would experience, which they also very clearly stated was not to be taken as a sign of some kind of inner consciousness.
Still, Mike takes her hand into both of his. Maybe she can hear him, just maybe.
"It's alright to let go," he says, in his most soothing tone. "David's safe, we're all safe. No need to hang on like this. Just let go, Lynne. Stop fighting. You've got nothing to prove."
Even as he says it, he hates himself for these false assurances. He isn't trying to save her from suffering. He's trying to save himself from being implicated.
He thinks she knows this, if she's still in there, somewhere. Lynne always was a smart cookie, too smart to be taken in by a few lines of bullshit.
He can't help but give a bitter smile at this macabre scene and his own part in it—death and the maiden, in living color. Her finger continues to twitch, beating against the cage of his hands like a moth against a windowpane. He releases it, watches her unrecognizable face for some sign of recognition, receives none and finds a disgusting measure of satisfaction in that blankness.
You should have listened. He thinks this, but doesn't say it aloud—it doesn't matter, she couldn't hear him, even if he did.
So instead, he quietly pats her shoulder, a final good work, kid before turning away. She's served her country and her President well, even if she'd tried to thwart Mike's plans. That is easily forgiven; she's paid the price for that already.
Any self-condemnation is compartmentalized, tucked away again before he re-enters the world of the living.
He did what he thought was right. So did she. He did what he had to do. So did she. Time and chance fell on his side. That wasn't his fault. And he doesn't regret a single thing, either.
It's too late for that. Remorse can't change what has happened, it can only hinder what needed to be done.
Lynne would understand that. She always was a practical person.
Was.
"And no, it wasn't shame I now felt, or guilt, but something rarer in my life and stronger than both: remorse. A feeling which is more complicated, curdled, and primeval. Whose chief characteristic is that nothing can be done about it: too much time has passed, too much damage has been done, for amends to be made."
~Julian Barnes.