CHAPTER ONE: Friday, January 11, 2013, 11:31 p.m.
John Reese lay unconscious in a dark New York alley. Garbage bins and debris were all around him. It was late at night, and the skies had let loose snow flurries and wind. It beat against him. His dark form blended into the background of the alley so he was not visible to passersby on the street up ahead. In his unconscious state, though, he began to feel the tiny flecks of ice as they landed on his exposed face and hands. His eyes then fluttered opened. Blood from a head wound had run down and dried over his right eye, making it more difficult for the lid to open.
He struggled against the nothingness in his mind.
As he lay there a few more minutes with the snow collecting on his face, he became cognizant that he needed to get up. He couldn't remember where he was as he struggled to sit up. He then realized he didn't know his name or why he was there. He was confused about the snow and the blood and the pain he felt all over his body.
The name Joan was all he could remember. I need to get to Joan, he thought.
His head throbbed, so he pulled his hand forward to reach up and touch where he could feel the pain originating. Several of his fingers shot pains throughout his hand as he jostled his fingers to feel the gash and dried blood on his head at the top of his hairline. Looking down at them, he noticed that his three of his fingers were misshapen and bruised. With his right hand, he reached up to touch the rest of his face to determine if there was further damage to his forehead or cheeks. The back of his head throbbed, so he pushed his hand backward. It was a lump the size of his palm. He then began pulling at his overcoat to see if there was blood anywhere else on his body. He discovered a hole and blood on his left side near his waist. It looked like a small bullet wound, but he couldn't remember getting shot.
"I need to get to Joan," he repeated. But he had no idea how to find her. He just knew that he needed to get back to her. Stumbling to his feet, his vision was blurred and spots of light fired in his eyesight. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other to get himself out of the dark alley. Holding onto the garbage bins and brick walls of the alley, he was finally able to emerge onto the street. His legs burned with pain.
The streetlamps blared into his eyes causing him to squint. He stood on the street looking around to try and determine where he was. The red light of a video camera attached to a streetlamp blinked. He thought nothing of it.
An intoxicated couple strolled toward him, each one hanging on the other for balance.
He stepped in front of their path. "Joan, do you know where I can find Joan?" he asked.
"Oh my God!" the female shrieked.
Her companion reached out and pushed John out of the way. "Drunken bum!" he slurred, "Get the hell out of our way!"
"I'm looking for Joan," John whispered. His close cropped hair was disheveled, and he had several days' worth of stubble growth on his face.
"Mister, we don't know no Joan," the female answered, her voice in a lower, calmer tone. "Are you okay?"
"Let's get out of here!" the girl's companion yelled. He jerked her by the arm before she could say anything else. As he pulled her away, she caught eyes with John and mouthed, "I'm sorry."
John stood silent and still. After they were several feet away, the boy turned around to see if the unkempt man was following them.
He wasn't.
John could see the lights twirling about in his head. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand much longer, so he stepped back and placed his back against the building and slid down. He could now feel the cold of the snow and wind as it beat against him. He closed his eyes, leaning the back of his head against the building. The video camera up on the lamppost continued to flash. Pulling his legs up to his chest, John felt cold. The snow was making his clothing wet, and he shivered.
The next thing he became aware of was a man down in his face. "Are you dead?" the man's gruff voice ricocheted off John.
It was still dark outside, so John wasn't aware how much time had passed. He then opened his eyes to look at whoever was talking to him. He could smell the man's rancid breath. "Who are you?" John asked.
"No one," the man answered.
John could see the rotten-toothed man looking at his overcoat. "You can't have it," John muttered through his chattering teeth.
"Whatever, man," the homeless man answered.
"Wait a minute," John interjected. "Do you know where I can find Joan?"
"Joan?" the man asked.
"Yes, Joan. She lives in a homeless encampment. I need to find her," John said.
"Who's asking?" the man asked.
Who do you think?" John answered.
"Man, I don't know you. If I don't know you, then Joan don't know you," the man said. He got up to leave, but John grabbed him by the arm.
"Please…I need to find Joan. We've gotten lost. She's the only one who can help me," John said.
"She ain't lost. You must mean you," the man said.
John nodded.
"What's it worth to you?" the man asked.
"What do you want?" John asked.
"Looks like you don't got nothing but that coat you're wearing," the man answered.
John looked down at his black wool overcoat. It was nice. Whoever he was, he had to have a decent job because this coat was certainly something that wouldn't be found at the Goodwill or Salvation Army. He looked at the rest of his clothing. Even though he was dirty, he wore a white dress shirt, black dress pants, and a matching suit jacket. He also had a watch and some decent leather boots.
He reached around to feel his back pocket for a wallet but felt nothing. Okay, so he had no idea who he was, but he was pretty certain that he wasn't homeless. He knew he just needed to find Joan. She could clear up all this for him. He took off his watch and held it up to the man. "Not my coat," he said.
"What the hell do I need to tell time for?" the man laughed. "I ain't got no job."
John eased his watch back on his left wrist, making sure not to brush it up against his injured fingers. "Take me to Joan, and I'll make it worth your while," John bargained.
"Alright. Come on man. Follow me," the man agreed. He began pulling a child's Radio Flyer wagon down the sidewalk. It was missing a wheel, and the scraping sound of the axel on the pavement unnerved John.
John struggled to get up and catch up to the man who was already pretty far down the sidewalk. He had no reason to trust or distrust this man, but currently his options were limited. The sparks of light continued to flash in his eyes. Each step caused shots of pain on his side and head, and John continued to grimace against the pain. When the man was out of eye sight, John would strain to hear the axel's scraping howling in the night. Then the man stopped up ahead and waited for John to catch up to him.
After what had to have been a twenty minute walk, the homeless man pointed to a dilapidated building inside a chain-linked fence down the street from where they were standing. "She's probably down there," he said. He paused and caught his breath, "Then go up in that building on the second floor. Man, you better be on the up-and-up."
"Are you screwing with me?" John asked. From his tone of voice, it was apparent he was in pain.
"Naw man. She's in there," the homeless man answered. "What's your name, man…so I can tell her you're coming," he asked.
"I can't remember," John answered.
"What? Are you…how did that happen?" the man asked.
"I can't remember," John answered. "I just need to get back to Joan so she can help me."
The man held up his finger again toward the building. "She's in there, man," he said in a low tone of voice.
John started walking forward. The homeless man stayed behind with his wagon. John figured that the man had decided that introductions weren't necessary and that John was too far gone to be of any real danger to anyone.
The homeless man watched John make his way down the street. After John was halfway down the street, he remembered that John was supposed to pay him for his efforts. He yelled at John's back, "Hey man…you were going to make it worth my while!"
John heard him but didn't answer. He could hear the man then yell, "Whatever, man. You owe me."
John continued to focus his attention on each step, trying to minimize the pain throughout his body. He felt like fire and ice simultaneously with the snow beating against his face that was now burning with fever.
After he reached the building and crawled through the fence, he made his way up the steps to the second floor. Tents of various sizes and conditions were pitched all over the second floor. He could smell what remained of fires in large metal containers. Mustering up his strength, John yelled, "Joan!"
Several soiled faces roused and emerged from the front of their tents sporadically throughout the room. "Joan! Please! I need your help!" John yelled again. He moved to stand in the middle of the room. There was no one immediately coming forward claiming to be Joan. John could feel his body giving away. He slid down so he wouldn't fall. In one last effort, he yelled, "Joan, please."
Several minutes later, John heard, "Is that you, John?" He wasn't sure how to answer. Maybe that was his name. He turned toward the voice. Then he saw fingers unzip the front of a tattered tent. "John?"
It was Joan. He recognized her. "Joan…I really need your help," John whispered loudly.
"What happened to you?" Joan asked as she approached him still kneeling in the center of the cluster of tents. She could see the dried blood on his face and that he was shivering. She placed her woolen-mittened hands on the sides of his face.
"I don't know. I woke up…in an alley…and all I could remember…was you. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me! I don't even know my own name," John stammered.
Joan looked John over. She remembered that when he first came to her over a year and a half ago that he had been shot. He was in trouble and was hiding. Street code prohibited people from sticking their noses where they didn't belong, so she asked no questions. She had taken care of him. Then one day he was gone. She figured he had simply moved on. Then he had come back briefly, and he was doing well. He looked so much better. She was happy for him.
Now he was back again.
When he first came to her, she was reminded of her son. She hadn't, however, been able to save her son. That was many years ago, but the pain that came flooding back to her was just as raw as it had been the day her son took his last breath.
She had always believed in Karma, so when John first came to her, she happily helped him. As Karma would have it, when John had returned last year, he had made it possible for them to stay in this building. He also arranged for good food to be brought to them all. She didn't know how he did it, but her belief in Karma strengthened.
Now he was back again…and he needed her…again. Bloody again. Injured…in pain…and hurting…again. "Come on, John," she said, putting her arm around him and up under his arms to help him to his feet. "I'll help you make sense of this."
She led him into her tent and eased him down. Taking a cloth from a bag, she whispered calmly, "Let me see if I can get that blood off your face."
He closed his eyes. He was so tired.
"When was the last time you ate or drank…or even slept…for that matter?" Joan asked. She could see that his lips were dried and cracked. Dark, inset circles surrounded his eyes. His facial coloring was ashen but his cheeks burned with fever. In many ways, he looked worse now than he had the first time he appeared before her.
"I can't remember anything. Just you," John answered in a barely audible voice.
Joan took out a bottle of water and unscrewed the top. "Here," she said, holding it out to him.
He took a large gulp and got strangled.
"Not so fast," she said.
His coughing fit continued for several minutes.
"You look like you're probably dehydrated. What's the last thing you remember?"
"I remember you patching up my stomach. But this hole is in my side, not my stomach. What the hell is going on, Joan?" John begged.
"We can figure this out. For now, take another sip," she said as she handed John the water bottle again.
He opened his eyes and then took it from her.
"Slowly," she warned. "I don't want you getting sick." She took the bottle back and poured a little on the cloth she was using to wipe the blood from his face. "Be still."
John lurched forward as the cold, wet cloth touched the gash in his head. His eyes continued to stay half-closed. He shivered from the cold.
"Somebody did a number on you this time," Joan said as she continued wiping his face. The blood was dry and hard to get off entirely without a good scrubbing. "Close your eyes all the way so I can get the blood off your eyelid."
"Joan, I can't sit much longer. I've got to sleep," John said as he started falling back.
She thrust her hands down so his head wouldn't hit the concrete surface too hard. Placing his head gently down, Joan continued washing his face until most the blood was off. In several places she couldn't tell if he were bruised or dirty, but from his reaction, it was definitely an injury. She looked beneath his jacket to determine the cause of the blood on his side. Pulling up his shirt, she located the small entrance and exist wound in his side. It didn't look serious. The wound seemed to have stopped bleeding and was dry, so she figured he had been shot several days ago. She cleaned up the blood on his side and looked him over on his stomach and back. Several bruises on his ribs and throughout his back confirmed to her that this man whom she only knew as John had been through quite a beatdown recently.
His wrists were bruised and bloody. She pulled up his sleeves to see if the injuries continued up his arms. They didn't. As she continued checking him over, she saw small puncture wounds on the back of his neck. He continued to keep a tight grip on the three left fingers with his right hand, so she suspected his fingers were injured as well. Nothing in her reality system would allow her to conceive what could possibly be the source of all these wounds.
"John, can you let go of your fingers?" she asked.
"They're hurting like hell," he mumbled.
"I wondered if you were asleep," Joan said as she looked down at him.
His eyes remained closed. "No, not really…on and off I guess," he muttered. He let lose his grip on his three left fingers.
"Looks like someone smashed them with a hammer or something," she said, revealing her disturbed facial expression. "They're probably broken. Can you move your fingers any?" She got closer to see if she could determine the cause of his injured fingers.
John breathed more heavily and appeared to be trying to open his eyes.
"It's okay," Joan said, "You just sleep. You're safe here. Don't worry."
John got a small crack in his eyes and looked at Joan. He continued to shiver. "Thank you, Joan," he said softly.
Joan touched his forehead to confirm what she thought: he had a fever. She took the soiled cloth and poured some more water over it to try and get some of the red-brown blood out of it. She then patted his forehead and cheeks.
He leaned into the cool cloth as she dabbed him with it. Even though he felt so cold, his face felt like it was burning.
"Joan, I feel terrible," he faintly said.
"I know," Joan answered. "Sleep for now. When you wake up in the morning, you'll feel as good as new. We'll figure this out. For now, just sleep." She wished she had some medicine to bring down his fever or at least some bandages, but she had nothing but saltine crackers, Vienna sausages, mixed fruit, and bottled water.
She studied this man as he lay in her tent. He had never been one to talk very much, but when he came to her the first time, she knew that he was overcome with emotional pain. In the beginning, he had had many dreams where he spoke aloud, screaming for Jessica, begging her to come back to him, crying over her apparent death. She knew that Jessica had been killed and that John wished he were dead as well. He didn't want to live without Jessica. As she nursed him back to health from his gunshot wound in his lower abdomen, he would beg her to stop and to let him die.
She wasn't going to let him die then, and she certainly wasn't going to let him die now. She would do whatever it took to save this man she only knew as John.
He lay curled up against the cold air beside her in her ramshackled tent. She knew she needed to zip back up the front to guard against the cold, but she didn't want her sudden movements to awaken him. He continued clutching the three battered fingers on his left hand.
"What in this world has happened to you?" she spoke aloud to herself.
He continued breathing fitfully.
She would periodically reach down and dab the cool cloth at John's cheeks and forehead. Each time he would lean into the coolness. Many years ago she had seen on television shows where mothers would wipe cool cloths on the faces of their feverish children as they lay in pristine beds in their immaculately decorated bedrooms. She thought that if it worked for them, then it might work for her.
After about an hour, she closed her eyes as she sat beside him, leaning against the wall of the building her tent was against. She could hear him mumble as he breathed heavily in his sleep. He no longer called for Jessica, though. That was a good sign, she thought. But who or what was he calling for this time she wondered. She couldn't yet tell.
John lay still and silent for a while, which caused her to awaken and check him. He was still in the same position. She took her mittens off and touched his forehead. He flinched at her touch.
"John, it's me…Joan," she whispered down to him.
He made no movement.