"How did you get him here?"
"Marvel of engineering."
"No, seriously, what did you promise him? I've been trying to get him in for almost a month."
Curtis was reluctant to answer. Simmons saw it immediately, was able to guess.
"You dragged him in."
"Like a swordfish, yes."
"My God, Curtis, I hope this doesn't come back to do some ass-biting." Simmons was concerned that there was still someone out there who cared whether Sands still had free will. Maybe he was just flattering himself. The guy was a waste. He'd crashed and burned two months ago, shortly after the loss of his sight. Never mentally sound to begin with, his bulldog grip on self-sufficiency just made everything worse for himself. But Simmons wasn't in the babysitting business and this wasn't the local police force; this wasn't even the FBI. He could only do so much hand-holding. Either Sands would snap out of it or he'd be cut loose.
Son of a bitch, he didn't want to have to pick him up later if he DID have to let Sands go.
"It'll be fine. Jesus, you've got a splinter in your thumb about him, don't you? There's been worse, Simmons."
"I know it." He didn't need reminding. He'd seen agents come home in much more interesting physical situations. He'd rather have a casualty any day than these shredded remnants of men. Funerals were nice. Orderly. Wrap up the ends with some tape and form letters and sit back to smoke a cigar in memory of the dearly departed. Tout fini.
But those others… that was a headache and a half. He hated dealing with it. And why was it the difficult ones always lived to come back ten times worse?
Because the good die young, Bobby, he told himself, and don't you ever think otherwise. That's why you've got a long while left to suffer.
"This whole thing leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth, that's all," Simmons said slowly. "I don't like the way this is going."
Curtis turned to stare at him full-on. "Am I hearing you questioning your own abilities? Is that the twinge of doubt I hear? Are you falling apart on me, Bob?"
Simmons glared. "Don't start with me, kid." He turned away down the hall and Curtis followed a few steps behind, their well-made and well-bought suits shimmering subtly in the impersonal lighting, smiling to himself. He personally had no worries.
Simmons fully expected to find Sands kicking up hell when he opened the door, but he was pleasantly surprised to see him sitting behind the oak desk, playing with a Rubik's cube.
"Hello, Sands," he said as he entered.
Sands twisted the cube a few more times, then held it up expectantly. "Is it solved?"
Simmons glanced at the many-colored squares like confetti in the man's pale hands. "It's pretty close." It wasn't even.
"You're lying." But there was no accusation in Sands' voice. He set the cube down and leaned back in the chair. It creaked softly. "I solved it once already," he said offhand, "and I was going to do it again."
"I'm no good at those things." Who does he think he's fooling?
"I wanted to apologize," Sands said, turning his face from Simmons, his sunglasses sparking briefly from the late sunlight, "for the way I've been acting lately when we… talked. I've been a little upset."
"That's understandable. You've been through a lot."
"Sure. And you just want to look out for me."
"You're one of us, Sands. I wouldn't leave you behind. You know how we treat our agents when they come into some bad luck." He saw Sands' jaw move slightly and wished he had rephrased that. "This isn't just a job. Hell, you know that. I don't need to tell you what it is. But I think I need to remind you that we have a lot of instruments at our disposal. You're not burned out yet, Sands. You can do a lot yet."
"A lot for you?" his voice was quiet, distant. Simmons was unable to tell what he was really asking.
"A lot for the Agency," he continued smoothly. Shit, this was like walking in a minefield. He watched Sands' hand creep back for the Rubik's cube, as if he was doing it subconsciously. His fingers played lightly over the surface. So far so good, he hoped. "Remember Christian? He came back with half a face and one good arm. He's raising hell in Bangkok with the Night Dawn Brotherhood right now. And when Slade lost his legs he decided to stick around and help in the forensics and crime development labs. He's piecing evidence together that the lab kids haven't been able to fathom—he's got field experience. You could—"
"Join the Wheelchair Cavalry, am I right?"
"Not hardly. You're still able-bodied. You've got a solid brain in there. There's nothing stopping you."
Sands turned back to him and took off his sunglasses, setting them on top of the Rubik's cube he had been rolling over and over on the desktop.
If he thinks he's still got shock effect, he's very wrong, Simmons told himself, but the truth was that those dark, velvety sockets still made his stomach quiver.
"The door is locked," Sands said quietly.
"What door?"
Sands pointed directly at him. It was like Death's accusing, skeletal finger: YOU. NOW. Simmons quashed the thought and turned around to see the office door.
"What are you talking about? The office door?"
"They locked you in," Sands continued in that low, suppressed voice. "That's what they do with psychologists who go talk to serial killers in asylums, you get the inference, Simmons?"
"Oh, Jesus, Sands, don't take it personally, that door's got an automatic latch—"
"Are there bars on my windows?" His voice was sharp, suddenly loud.
Simmons was at once very calm. His mental training came to the front. This was a Situation.
"No."
"Aren't there? I'd be surprised."
"You're not a prisoner, Sands."
"Could have fooled me." He was getting agitated, his hands restless, folding and unfolding his sunglasses many times over.
"Do you want to check it out?" He carefully avoided using the word 'see'. "Come over here." He rose and went to the window. Sands stood up quickly. The chair wobbled but didn't fall. Simmons quietly let out a breath—he'd been sure it would. At once Sands was beside him, his hands groping for the latch. Simmons guided him to it. God, the man's hands were hot. Was he running a fever or something?
Sands shoved up the window and at once his arms were outside, reaching, searching thoroughly in his unrelieved darkness like the tendrils of a night plant. They touched only the air of five stories up. Simmons watched his face; tense, drawn. Then relaxed. Sands stepped back.
"We trust you, Sands," Simmons said to him.
"We'll see about that." He went back for the desk, more slowly now. The window was left open, and warm air, heated from the street that was slowly cooling toward evening, blew across their shoulders.
"Can I get you something to eat?"
"Not right now." He was obviously working on another subject to get agitated about. What now?
"How have things been working out at home?"
"What?"
"How have you been getting food?"
"I manage."
"Well, obviously. You're resourceful, and good at surviving. I'm just wondering—we all are—whether there's something we can do to make it a little easier."
A long pause. Simmons waited expectantly. Maybe this was it. Then:
"What color is an iguana?"
He seemed serious. Incredible.
"It's green."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. They're all green."
"All right." He seemed satisfied.
"Sands, frankly I worry about you in that apartment, alone, considering you never come in anymore—"
"And wasabi? That's green too?"
"Yes, it is."
"Good."
"Do you want to take a walk? It's nice out. You could use some sun. You're getting pale."
"And geraniums?"
"Geraniums?"
"Yes, the ones that smell like ass."
Simmons repressed a smile. Sands would hear it in his voice. "I guess they're usually red. Or pink."
"With pointy leaves?"
"I can't really remember."
"I've been thinking Alaska would be nice."
Ah, there it was, then. Simple proximity.
"There's not often a lot of action in Alaska, Sands."
"Maybe I can make some."
It took him a while to figure out Sands was probably joking. Maybe. God, he hoped.
"Would you like me to look into that for you? A change of pace can be good for the soul." He expected another cutting remark, but Sands replied only,
"Sometimes it can."
"That was easy," Curtis commented as Simmons returned to the half-lit room where they took their coffee, ritualized like a nave in a church.
"For you," Simmons replied. He reached for a Styrofoam cup.
"That's what I meant."
Simmons chose to ignore that. The cup squeaked against his teeth when he drank. It seemed too small in his big-fingered grip.
"Did he suspect anything?" Curtis was relaxing, leaning against the countertop. He'd been as tense as Simmons the entire time, by God. Several times he thought they'd have to bail him out.
"Shit. Of course he did. But he's fine now."
"Better not leave him to his own devices for too long. And whose idea was that, leaving a Rubik's cube in there?"
Simmons smiled slightly. In the low fluorescent light it was slightly reptilian. "That was me."
"That's cold, boss."
"Hey, I was just curious. And what did he do? Picked it right up."
Neither of them had to continue the thought aloud, because they were both thinking it: He picks up a toy as readily as he once picked up a gun. He's innocent as a child.
"TOO easy," Curtis said quietly.
Simmons crunched his empty cup in his fist and left the room, letting the door ease closed on its heavy hinges.