"David ? Come on, David, wake up."
"Five more minutes, Ma," he thought he heard himself say, but the more he considered it, the more he realized his cheek wasn't resting on his pillow. He opened his eyes and found himself flat on a kitchen floor, head on a soft, warm terrycloth towel. Recent memory returned. The kitchen belonged to Tom Cronin and his wife, Shelly. Beside him, Tom was finishing his work, applying tape to the gauze covering his injured side. Pamela Landy, CIA, hovered close, concern etching her features. She smiled as he took in his condition.
"I passed out," he guessed. He looked down along his body and noticed that his wet pants and socks had been removed, that he was dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and thick socks. He sat up with Tom's help, and found enough strength to get himself back onto the kitchen chair.
"You weren't out long," Pam reassured him. "Just long enough for Tom to finish his work."
David's hand went to his side where his exploring fingers found a thick pad held in place with adhesive tape. The whole area throbbed with every heart beat, but it wasn't an unbearable pain.
"You've lost some blood," Tom's wife pointed out, pushing a tall glass of water in front of him. "We can't do it intravenously, so down the hatch."
Webb knew she was right, could feel that he was in need of fluid replacement. He obeyed, draining the glass. Shelly exchanged the empty glass for a steaming mug of coffee. "Decaf," she smiled. He wrapped his hands around the warm mug, grateful for the heat that radiated through his cold fingers. He sipped the hot liquid, not minding the burn on his tongue or the back of his throat.
Beside him, Shelly held out a white tee shirt, and a blue flannel shirt. "Now that Tom has finished with you, I think you might want to get these on. You look all in. And still cold. A warm shower would be best, but keeping the wound dry is more important at the moment."
At the sink, Tom had stripped off the latex gloves and was cleaning up the few bloody instruments he'd used. "I stitched up what I could, you'll need to remove the sutures in a week or so."
Webb mumbled his thanks as he gingerly pulled the tee shirt over his head, trying not to aggravate his injury. Shelly held the flannel shirt as he eased his arms into the sleeves. Pam had taken the chair across the table and was watching him closely. "You've got yourself a couple rather ominous bruises there, David." She did not mention the scars she saw on his torso, scars that spoke of other run-ins with projectiles.
He pulled the edges of the oversized shirt together, fastening several of the buttons, hiding his battered body. "Been in a few arguments lately," he replied.
"What's the other guy look like?" Shelly asked good-naturedly. Pam and Tom exchanged glances. When no one answered her question right away, she frowned. "Oh – Kay. I get the picture."
"I left the most recent one still breathing," Webb admitted quietly, focusing on the mug of coffee, not meeting anyone's eyes. Shelly raised her eyebrows in silent question to Tom, Now what? Tom closed the med kit with a firm click. He opened a drawer in the corner of the kitchen and reached inside, up and underneath the counter top. He withdrew a pistol, a 9mm Sig Sauer, automatically checking to make sure the weapon was empty. He opened a cupboard and pulled out two full clips, laying the weapon and ammunition on the counter.
"You think that's necessary, Tom?" Pam asked. Shelly stood by the table, eyes wide and fixed on her husband.
"You tell me," Tom pointedly directed his question at the injured man. Webb did not answer right away.
Pam broke the uneasy silence. "Vosen knows I faxed the documents, and if he's smart, he's already determined where. It certainly would look suspicious if something were to happen to me, or you, so soon after his dirty dealings were revealed. I can't see anyone in the Agency setting us up right away. They'll be too busy trying to find ways to cover their own asses."
As David Webb listened to Pam's arguments, he realized that working alone had its advantages. There were no other parties to consider, no other lives to worry about. He was sufficiently warmed, his injury was treated for the moment, he knew he should get out, get away from these people, move on. He was not willing to bet any of their lives against the safety of his own. As Jason Bourne, that had not mattered. It did, now.
"I can't guarantee that there will be no trouble," he began. "It will probably be best if I leave, if I keep moving."
"You shouldn't feel like you have to stay on the run," Pam protested. "Treadstone!" She spat the word out as a curse. "That chapter of your life is over. Those who manipulated the program for personal gain will be exposed. They used you, David. Considering some of what I've read, you're a victim here."
"Maybe," Webb shrugged. "But there are other angles to consider, things that I need to answer for." He let the comment go unfinished, but was sure the people there in the kitchen knew to what he referred. The ensuing silence was suddenly broken by the growling of his stomach. He kept his head down, embarrassed.
"When was the last time you ate?" Shelly asked gently, tucking her anxiety over the situation firmly into the back of her mind.
"It's been a while," Webb admitted sheepishly.
"You may believe you need to leave, but I will not send you out of this house on an empty stomach," she asserted. "That's the mother in me, taking charge." She glanced at Pam and Tom. "For the moment, things are quiet," she said to them. "Let's just see what happens."
Across the table, Pam smiled. "Thank you, Shel."
Shelly busied herself preparing a light meal for her guest. Tom persuaded Pam to stay the night, just in case. Together they retrieved an overnight bag from the trunk of her car. David Webb kept his focus on his coffee cup which he had drained only a moment before Shelly refilled it. "Grilled cheese and tomato soup okay with you?"
"That sounds fine," he replied, trying to keep his senses tuned to the surroundings, alert for the out-of-place. The coffee and care had warmed his body, and a bone deep weariness was making its presence known. Shelly set a plate and bowl in front of him, just as Tom and Pam returned to the house. "Pam? Tom? Anything to eat?"
"Just coffee, please, Shel," Pam replied as she again sat down at the table across from David Webb.
"Nothing, thanks, hon," Tom said as he held Pam's overnight case. "I'll drop this in Chase's room," he informed his boss. "He's not due back from school for another couple weeks. Shel, I got a little blood on this shirt, I'm gonna change."
Shelly nodded as she filled the bowl on the table with hot soup and placed a sandwich in front of Webb. He took a bite, then a second, making short work of the sandwich. The soup had been seasoned with spices other than salt and he finished the bowl, marveling at how tasty this food was. It occurred to him that was his first meal as a free man, no longer the Treadstone robot. It warmed his body from the core out and filled more than the void in his stomach. Shelly didn't even ask about a second sandwich and another bowl of soup, she just placed it in front of him and he found his way through that helping, too.
Webb could feel Pam's scrutiny, knew he was being watched, knew she had her eyes on him as she drank her coffee. He was also aware that in his line of business, one could never be sure where the next meal would be coming from, or when, and had learned to take advantage of food when the opportunity arose. He cleaned his plate a third time, finally shaking his head as Shelly asked if he wanted another sandwich. He was full. Yet, when she placed a small plate of home-made chocolate chip cookies on the table, along with a glass of cold milk, he knew he'd make room.
He bit into one and before he was even aware, he was commenting, "Good cookies, just like Ma used to m…" He stopped short. He looked at Pam in mid-chew as realization dawned.
"David?" Pam spoke quietly. "What is it?"
"'Ma.' I haven't thought about my mother in – years," Webb whispered, incredulous. He stared at the cookie, his mind racing. Nixa. The farm. The fields. The neighbors. High school. Football. Friends. Family. Dirt roads. Old cars. Webb blinked rapidly as memories flooded his mind. It was sensory overload. He squeezed his eyes shut against the speed with which these pieces of his life assaulted his senses. His heart rate doubled, his breathing became faster and deeper, his chest hurt, his hands began to shake.
Suddenly something was squeezing his arm. He heard his name spoken, it seemed to come from a long distance away.
"David? David!" The voice belonged to Pam Landy.
He opened his eyes and took in the kitchen that belonged to the Cronins, Landy seated across the table from him, Shelly Cronin next to him, hand pressing hard on the flesh of his forearm. Pulling him back. Anchoring him.
"Deep breaths, David," Shelly urged. "Come on. Concentrate. Slow it down." Her quiet encouragement did the trick. He focused on his body, on the pressure on his arm, on the hardness of the chair in which he sat.
"You are remembering things," Pam stated as he brought his thoughts back under control.
Webb nodded. "I remember my life as David Webb."