Keeper of the Truth
Disclaimer: I do not own The A-Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A-Team.
Chapter 25
During the next few hours, Murdock sat on the bed with his knees drawn up, his gaze focused on one dark rose flower printed on the bedspread. He held a towel-wrapped plastic bag of ice to his swollen lower jaw. Hannibal had accompanied B. A. on his trip to drop off the truck and retrieve the van. On the way back, they stopped to get a pizza, a six-pack of beer, a gallon of milk and a small bag of ice.
After B. A. prepared and handed him the ice pack with a surprisingly contrite mumbled apology, the others immediately sat down at the table to devour the pizza and talk about the mission. He sensed each of the three men glance over at him every so often. Though none of them said anything, he knew they were all judging his mental frame of mind and worrying over his silence.
They were discussing how best to deliver the file folder to Schreiker. None of them seemed willing to trust their client after learning he had abandoned his son and wife at the compound.
As far as Murdock was concerned, they could burn the file. Aaron had every right to be angry. Schreiker had deserted his son without caring about his safe return. A man who did something like that deserved to have everything taken away from him.
But maybe the kid was lucky. The pilot wished his own alcoholic father had dropped out of his life after Murdock's mother died and his grandparents took over as parents. Harley McKeever, his abusive father, somehow managed to retain parental visiting rights.
But a visit from Pa meant I was gonna get beat up. Never so much so's anyone could see. Not 'til I grew up 'nough t' fight back.
He didn't want to think about his Pa. Those reminders allowed his Pa's voice to grow stronger in his mind. Reverend Barger with his kind and gentle voice and reasonable teachings seemed like he would have made a great father.
Murdock concentrated on some of the words Barger had said on the tapes, knowing that those words brought peace to his confused and disturbed thoughts.
Serenity and peace is our ultimate goal, Heaven our final home. Are you prepared to join us in our journey?
The voices argued with Reverend Barger's voice, jeering at his teaching, mocking Murdock for every failure he had experienced during his life.
Ya weren' fast 'nough t' dodge that missile over in Nam, boy. Were ya? 'N' how many men did ya kill when that chopper went down b'cause o' your mistake?
"Two," Murdock whispered under his breath. He heard one of the guys push back his chair from the table where they ate.
'N' wasn' that th' same crash that got all o' ya caught 'n' put in that POW camp?
"Yes," Murdock whispered again, his breath beginning to grow shallow and jagged. He struggled to think of the Keeper's compound but all he could see in his mind was the camp with its stinking latrine pit, bamboo huts and dreaded interrogation building.
Before he realized it, Face came to stand beside him, a paper towel with a slice of pizza on it in his hand. With his other hand, he touched the pilot's shoulder, careful not to seem intimidating. "Hey buddy. Are you sure you don't want to eat anything? After those hours in that isolation hut, I'd think you'd be really hungry."
Leave me 'lone!
Hoping he hadn't said that out loud, Murdock shook his head vigorously. The movement made him nauseous and dizzy, an after effect of receiving one of B. A.'s punches.
"No. 'M okay," he mumbled, relieved when Face paused for a moment and then headed back to the table.
"Suit yourself. We can save you a slice." Face's voice sounded uncertain and worried. Murdock refused to look up to see the con man's expression as he shook his head again.
He heard the guys quietly talking about something and knew instinctively he was the topic of discussion.
He had to do something, anything, to drown out the voices, to avoid his friends' scrutinizing glances.
Abandoning the ice pack on the bed, he got to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom, not looking in his friends' direction.
"You okay, fool?" B. A. rumbled. The chair scraped back across the floor.
He barely heard the question above the triumphant jeers of his internal voices. "Gonna take a shower," Murdock managed to rasp and then quickly closed and locked the door behind him.
Leaning over the sink, gripping the edges tightly with both hands and closing his eyes, he tried to control his breathing.
Th' shower . . . I said I was gonna take a shower . . . if they don' hear th' water runnin' . . .
He managed to turn on one of the bathtub taps, not seeing clearly which one he turned on, then returned to the sink to splash water over his face, hoping to get control over his mind.
A vaguely familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. Nước sẽ không làm sạch máu từ bàn tay của bạn. (Water will not clean the blood from your hand.)
Startled, Murdock looked up with wide eyes into the mirror . . . and directly into the reflection of the NVA officer he had killed on their forced march from one POW camp to another. Ferret's throat gaped open, blood spurting in time with the guard's heartbeat. The man raised a bamboo switch in one hand and swung it viciously at the pilot's back.
He flinched, closing his eyes, waiting for the sting of the blow, and cautiously opened his eyes when it didn't come. Ferret grimaced at him, still brandishing the switch.
Then the image disappeared and Murdock stared at his own reflection. Blood streaked his face and dripped from his lower jaw to the sink. Clots of blood were in his hair. His shirt was soaked dull red, the thick substance glistening under the fluorescent light.
No, no, no . . .
He felt something crawling just under the surface of his skin and another voice cackled, "You'll never be rid o' us now, boy." It was his Pa.
The voices had become living things, parasites invading his body through his bloodstream.
Pushing up his sleeves and clawing at the skin of his forearms, he scratched to get at the blood vessels in a futile attempt to find relief. Tiny drops of his own blood dripped onto the white porcelain. He stifled the scream of pain and horror that wanted to erupt from him, knowing that the guys would find a way through the locked door to check on him.
He didn't want them to find him covered in blood. They would have questions he couldn't answer. Remembering the shower he said he was going to take, he tore at the robe he still wore from the compound to get it off.
All that water'll wash off th' blood . . . wash me clean . . . if only they woulda left me with Brother Luke 'n' th' other Keepers . . . there woulda been no more mem'ries . . .
Stepping into the tub and under the showerhead, he felt the first icy water pellets hit the top of his head, course down the contours of his face and on down his torso to the drain. He shoved the shower curtain across the rod to hide the mirror above the sink from his view.
The words to a song came to his mind. He didn't remember where he heard it before but it seemed right for the situation.
Knowing the song might bring the guys into the bathroom, he muttered the words instead. He focused on the words and the cleansing cold spray as it silenced the voices. Over and over again he murmured the words, finding a kind of numbing peace as he did.
If the rain comes, they run and hide their heads.
They might as well be dead.
Slowly he raised his hands to the spray, rubbing them roughly together, seeing blood no matter how hard he scrubbed them. A sob escaped his mouth as he began to shiver slightly with the cold.
I can't stop now, I gotta get clean, I gotta get clean . . .
Dunking his head under the water, he squeezed his eyes shut as one sob after another convulsed his body.
Nước sẽ không làm sạch máu từ bàn tay của bạn. (Water will not clean the blood from your hand.) He didn't know if he was hearing the voice in his mind or if it came from outside the curtain. It didn't matter. Ferret and the other demons from his past were always with him.
He let the icy water pelt his face with its force and continued to rub his hands together.
Don' matter how long it takes . . . I gotta get clean . . . I gotta be clean . . .
When the leaves rustled beside him and the vegetation parted, he didn't know how long he had been under the waterfall in the jungle washing away Ferret's blood from his body.
He heard someone speak to him. It sounded like Hannibal but he couldn't focus on what he was being told. If he stopped saying the words to the song, the bad voices would return and maybe he would lose his mind completely.
Suddenly, the water stopped hitting his body. He raised his face and felt no spray. The scream he had held in so well when the water was still pelting him forced its way to his mouth. It started softly. He couldn't control its volume.
I'm not clean yet . . .
"Of course ya ain'," his Pa jeered. "Ya killed a man. Ya won' ever get that blood off ya."
He howled with all the anguish he felt deep inside his heart and raised his hands to his face, ready to claw at his skin, to frighten his Pa into retreating back into the locked recesses of his mind.
Before he could do that, someone or something grabbed him and held his arms tightly to his sides. At the same time he felt a hand clamp over his mouth.
He struggled but the person holding him was determined to prevent him from moving and screaming.
For what seemed like a very long time, he fought against the arms that dragged him from the waterfall and forced him to the ground. Other hands stripped him of his wet clothing and wrestled him into dry clothes. He stared wildly into the faces of the enemy and felt something sharp poke his arm.
Within seconds he felt terribly sleepy. His muscles no longer responded to his brain's commands. The enemy soldiers lifted him to his feet and half-carried him across the ground to the interrogation hut.