Chapter 16: or something brute force; as he waited for wounded; she was aware
Bronx, same day, late December, 2016
As Root returned to Rosa's apartment, hidden in the back seat of their car with two of Rosa's sons up front, she'd said little to them. And they hadn't asked any questions of her, either. Better that they knew as little as possible about this situation with Root and Sameen.
Rosa was there waiting for them in the kitchen. With solemn eyes, she'd watched them enter and file past her – until she was sure everyone had arrived intact; then she'd nodded to her sons. Most of the family had already retreated to their own apartments in the building, but a few of the men remained, watching soccer together in the front room. And two of the younger women were busy washing dishes and stirring pots on the stove for the evening meal. Rosa invited her to sit for a bit, and Root knew they would all be listening for any scraps of conversation from the kitchen.
The two women faced one another over the small table in the kitchen, Rosa pouring out strong coffee for herself and a cup of tea for Root. She listened as Root described how she'd left the stolen van in a dark spot, overgrown with weeds and bushes below an overpass. It gave Root a chill to recall some of the details.
When she'd finished trashing the van, Root left it behind, doors wide open, and music blaring, without a look back. She'd walked out to the main road along a dark, muddy path littered with broken bottles and junk. She didn't tell Rosa about that part, or that she'd come across two old black men in a clearing, warming themselves by a fire in a rusty old drum. They'd looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes, hoisting a brown bag to their lips in the cold. Others had had the same idea through the years – hanging around that lonely place to drink.
She'd made her way past them and through vines and bare-branched trees on the other side of the clearing, to the road. It was a short hike then, in the fading light, to where she found Rosa's sons waiting a few blocks away. Root jumped in behind them in the car and stayed low while they drove a winding path back to the apartment. No one followed. Root was sure of it.
When she finished her story, she stopped and looked at Rosa. In Spanish, she thanked her again for helping the two of them, and then Root excused herself to check on Sameen. As she walked the hall back to the small bedroom she could feel eyes on her as Rosa's family watched. Root made a mental note to tell Sameen her name here would be Abbey. The less Rosa and her family knew about their real identities the better.
Root stopped in front of the door, and pushed it open, softly. Sameen was sitting up on the side of the bed, grimacing, when Root looked in. She'd dressed in the clothing Rosa's daughter had left for her after they'd peeled the bloody ones off her and washed her down.
Sameen looked awful, Root thought – she was pale and hunched over, holding her left arm close to her body. Root noticed the swathe was gone – she must have pulled it off to get dressed, but she'd need Root's help getting it back on. She shot a hopeful smile to Sameen. In her softest voice:
"You're awake. Just got back from dumping the van; got here as fast as I could." Root crossed the floor and sat down next to her on the bed, reaching around her shoulders with her arm.
"How're you doing, sweetie?" There was a long silence, then Sameen looked directly in her eyes.
"We need to get out of here, Root."
Root shook her head, no. "I think we should stay the night, Sameen. You look awful. You shouldn't be traveling like this." Sameen looked down, and Root heard her sigh. She reached for the swathe and helped Sameen slide it over the top of her left arm, over her body, and underneath her right arm. When she tightened it around her, Sameen grimaced again, reaching for her left shoulder.
"I wish I could get you something for pain, Sameen. Then you could sleep tonight."
Sameen didn't answer. Maybe she was just tired, Root thought, but maybe there was something else. She knew Sameen, and when she wasn't talking, that usually meant trouble. It meant she was getting ready to do something – something unexpected or something brute force.
Apartment 222, Manhattan, same day, late December, 2016
There was a parking garage around the corner, and he'd left the car there. It was a short, cold walk in fitful wind and driving snow to get to the building with the safe-house. Second floor, dim hallway, thick carpet erasing the sound of his footsteps; he lifted the brass plaque at the door and leaned over to present his eye to the scanner — their latest addition instead of a key in the lock. Instantly, he heard the latch click and reached for the door. It was pitch black inside the apartment.
Reese stepped in and closed it quickly behind him, then stood in the darkness for his usual ritual.
His pulse thumped a bit harder, and his breath strained to come a bit faster as he stood there sensing the surroundings. Each place he'd ever frequented, each Afghani cave, each Colorado woods, each room or apartment he'd ever called home – each had its own signature in his memory. Carried in the air, he knew the smells, the tiny inputs of light and darkness, temperature, humidity, even the feel of the air currents themselves as they layered out on his skin – a stored memory of the place, undisturbed.
But if things weren't right, even before the hair would stiffen at the back of his neck, he would move away, crouch, slide his weapon to his hand. Like any predator faced with prey, his senses would narrow to the sharpest few. It was all about silence then, and cunning, surprise and capture, with the least struggle and clash. In his world, a silent quick kill was the best.
He found himself exhaling. The air here checked out. Some fruit smells, and something faint like old coffee grounds. Deep darkness from the heavy drapes. Layer on layer of dry, cool air. No one had been here for weeks.
He lifted the light switch on the wall and the lamp lit up dimly next to the couch. Something about the way the light was dim like that – a flash of memory came to him, of that night with Shaw and him:
Manhattan, November, 2014
Reese was sitting back on the couch, resting against a stack of pillows, with his body stretched out, and the right knee up on a layer of folded blankets. He'd showered first when the two of them got there – doctor's orders – and then he'd pulled out clothes from the supply they all kept there in the safe-house. Sweatpants were the only thing he could fit over the swollen knee right now, and Shaw had even cut across the fabric with scissors, leaving the right pant leg short, above his knee.
It was throbbing hard, sharp and deep inside the knee, like a toothache he couldn't escape, and she had given him something from her drug stash for pain. He could feel it kicking in as he was resting there, while Shaw was taking her turn, cleaning up.
Just like him, she would stand there, with the water falling like hot rain on blood caked in her hair, loosening the bits of glass that would fall and sparkle in the drain. Water stained red with her own blood would flow in little rivers down her skin, across her feet, across the tile in a final swirl, to disappear at the silver drain. And after the water had done all it could do, she would step out, gingerly, on feet battered by the wood baton, to stand naked at the mirror.
With her doctor's eye she would survey all the damage, as if it were not hers. And her disorder, that thing that made her so good at what she did – decisive, unemotional, remorseless – her disorder would be her friend tonight. No tears for her wounds, no pity for her handling, so little pain for all this suffering flesh. But, the body kept the score. And there would come a reckoning. For sure.
She would dress in sweats, too. In sweats neither would have to see the baton marks everywhere, or the bruises from wrenching around inside the SUV, rolling down the bank. They could look almost normal to themselves, in sweats. The next few days were going to be rough, for both of them. Reese had been there and done that before, and so had Shaw. But that wouldn't make it any easier for them this time.
Leaning back against the pillows, Reese reached over for the drink he'd poured for himself – against doctor's orders. Don't mix pain meds and alcohol. Good advice. But he wasn't taking it...
He walked through the apartment then, checking each room, until he was satisfied. On the way back from the hallway with all the bedrooms and the shower, he stopped in the kitchen. On the counter, a bowl of dying fruit, almost unrecognizable now, left there weeks ago. He'd have to talk with his crew. Police the place better before you leave.
He lifted the bowl to throw the rotting fruit away, and a small cloud of fruit flies lifted in the air. He walked the bowl to the trash, and slid the mess down inside, with most of the fruit flies, too. Then he walked the bowl back to the sink. Some hot water and a squeeze of dish soap made quick work of the slime. While he wiped the water from the bowl, he stepped to the refrigerator next, bracing for what might lie inside. He popped the door, and bright white light glared out. Nearly empty but for a pitcher of water.
Reese puttered in the kitchen, wiping down counters, stacking dishes, rinsing and starting a fresh pot of coffee. He was getting the start of a headache now, and the cure was the black elixir dripping down inside the glass carafe. Hot food would have to wait. There was little here to make. As soon as he'd had some coffee, he'd head out for food to stock the apartment.
Once people started arriving, there might not be time to do it then, and he wanted to be prepared for incoming wounded. Harold's cryptic text, 32s, had sent him here to this apartment, 222, where they went when someone on the team needed medical. He wondered which one of them it would be, and how bad. This place had seen its share of wounded.
Reese quickened his pace. They could be here at any time, and he wasn't ready. He gulped down a coffee, and then headed back out, slipping the trash from the kitchen into the metal chute in the hallway. He left lights on so they'd know he'd been there, and ran down the stairs to the front. The snow had stopped; just a quick dusting, but the wind was still sharp and bitter. He headed into it, pulling his collar high around his neck and face. In the next block was a deli where he could get provisions, at least enough to get them started.
He kept watch as he walked, for the telltale signs that someone had taken notice, or was following. Even in the deli, when he turned into the crowded store, he kept watch – that ever-present pressure to stay aware, to know the layout: exits, dead ends, places to duck in, where to stand that could stop a bullet. He caught sight of himself in the glass case as he ordered meats and cheese. Pale, with the dark stubble of beard against the pasty skin. Dark circles under his eyes. He looked like some old guy, used up. That's what days without sleep, without food, and just one cup of coffee did to you. He wasn't getting any younger. And the cold always made things worse. It made all the past catch up with him – all the hurts and the hits. He felt like that old guy looking back at him in the glass.
He needed food, something hot. That would set things straight. While the kid behind the counter bagged his groceries, Reese downed a cup of hot soup from his order. The kid nodded to him.
"Chu look hungry," he said, with an accent. Something Spanish, Reese thought, Central or South American.
"Es bueno," Reese said, holding the blue and white paper cup in the air. The kid smiled back at Reese, who placed some twenties on the counter, and waited for change. He grabbed the bags, and the change, and turned for the door.
The plastic rustled in the wind, and he felt the cold at his back. It was good to get inside again, and this time he rode the elevator up to the second floor. In the kitchen, he emptied the bags and reset the place, so he was ready. He fixed a sandwich for himself, and poured more soup from the cartons he'd carried back, and then he settled on the couch in the living room. Caraway and rye, ham and swiss cheese with a smear of mustard, sharp with the taste of horseradish. And the soup had a rich tomato broth, just what he needed to recharge his batteries. He lingered over every bite, savoring, pacing himself in the face of acute hunger. He had learned this through all his years of training, to pace himself.
Later, when he was warm again, and his hunger and thirst were slated, he rose and brought his dishes to the sink, washed and dried them, then stacked them in the cabinet. The counter was clean and sparse, and in the bowl, fresh fruit from the deli. In the urn, hot coffee. In the refrigerator, fresh deli, milk, eggs, and bread. With this, he could get them started.
He lowered all the lights and went to the living room again, to the cabinet at the side, where the liquor was stored. In a heavy-bottomed glass, he splashed his favorite whiskey, and raised the glass to his nose. He breathed in the aroma from the glass. This glass would keep him company tonight. As he waited for wounded.
Upstate New York, same day
She had napped for a little while after Reese had gone, but not too long. She wanted to sleep tonight on the plane to Italy. When she woke from her nap there were things to do to close down the house, a familiar routine after years of six- and nine-month missions. She could make her house ready in less than three hours. The main thing was to keep the pipes from freezing in the dead of winter. She had an electric baseboard that ran in the rooms with any pipes, but if the electric went down, the pipes could freeze and burst, flooding her house until someone noticed water gushing from her front door. It was worth the time to drain the pipes.
She swept the ash from the fireplace, and put the bucket in the garden for Spring. And while she was outdoors, she walked down to her school, checking that the doors were fastened from the wind and snow.
She'd showered and dressed early in the day in comfortable clothes for her flight, with extra layers folded in her carry-on. It seems that her flights were often cold at night, and she needed more than the thin blanket they gave out to passengers. At this time of year, lines would be long, and flights loaded with passengers for the holidays. Not her favorite way to fly, but this offer had come up suddenly, from her team in France.
She was going to set up a crisis center for refugees. These were arriving out of West Africa, Sudan, Nigeria, and Syria. She'd seen the footage of overcrowded boats, and the bodies on the beach, all the horror of those who'd never made it. She'd be helping to open more sites, with beds and food, and medical care for those who had. They brought stories of war, torture, famine, disease, and death all around them. You could see it in their eyes. Especially the children. That hollow look, empty, when even crying took too much effort.
Jules had seen it all before. And now, she was wading in again. For six months, maybe more. Six months of long grueling days, short nights, often interrupted. And when she was done, she would return back here to her house by the lake. To recover for the next time.
It was nearly time to go. She threw a heavy shawl around her shoulders, and stepped into tall rubber boots, walking through the french doors to the back. She went to the right this time, over grass and then into woods, crunching through downed leaves, and holding onto tree trunks where the footing was steep. At the bottom, the air was still and cold, and the surface of the lake was as smooth as glass. Purple and pink sky reflected in the lake as day gave way to night.
Jules had always found that this time of day was powerful for her; at dusk, time suspended for a bit, and night air came in to take the place of day. It was a time, she had found, when those whose souls had crossed over, could return and make their presence known to those left here.
In the shadows just forming, or in the dim light in her hallway, on the porch chairs or on the back deck; sometimes she could sense them there, especially in summer. Drinking in the beauty of green grass all around them, or soft summer breezes, sudden showers, thunder, lightning. She could see them from the corner of her eye - rocking, looking out to the trees, standing on the beach with the waves lapping near.
So many souls circled – she was aware and at peace with them.