Murdock: Facing Face

On the left and on the right loomed the rolling hills of Virginia, which for all practical purposes obscured any view of the highly secured, secret residence in which Stockwell housed the A-Team. Not even a ray of light leaked into the darkness to give a beacon of hope to weary travelers with nothing but their headlights to show the way. The property was remarkably secluded for being only a twenty minute drive from the nation's capital. The clock on the dash said 6:39, which numbers were perfect to arrange into an equation: 9-3=6, or 9%3+3=6, or 6x3%9=6%3. It also meant that ETA was about three minutes.

Two weeks ago at this time we were taking down the hit squad at the restaurant. Three minutes from now BA and Hannibal were rushing Face to D.C. General. Frankie and I took down the dirty cop, and ten minutes later we joined the guys in the waiting room while Face was in surgery. About five minutes later I had a panic attack in the washroom. Then I lost track of time as we waited for the news that Face had made it through surgery and blood transfusion, and we could visit him in the ICU. For the long day and a half that he was unconscious, I went through the scenario over and over again, trying to figure out what variable to change in the equation for a different result. Maybe if Hannibal and BA had been there; maybe if we had found out about the guy on Table 1; maybe if I hadn't asked Face to check the guy's ID; maybe if I hadn't invited Face and Frankie to the restaurant at all . . .

I swerved as I almost missed the turn. The rugged back road changed to a smooth paved driveway as I drove up to the security booth. The temperature had dropped; rolling down the window was like opening a freezer door. The guard was the dark-haired guy I gave a piece of pizza last week, and he let me past as soon as he saw who I was. It paid to be on good terms with security — another tip Face ought to put in that pamphlet on cons whenever he got around to writing it.

The van was gone when I pulled up in front of the house, but various clinks and clangs were coming from the garage, which meant BA was most likely working on it in there. I grabbed my duffel bag from the back seat and entered the house. I didn't usually stay here overnight, but after dinner Hannibal had asked me to spend the night on "Face watch" to give the other guys a break. When Face came home from the hospital, the guys converted the downstairs guest room into his room and started taking turns sleeping in there at night in case he needed anything. The first few days had been rough, especially since opiates tended not to agree with him, but now that he was stronger and more mobile, helping him consisted mainly of picking up things he dropped and making sure he took his medications on time.

In the living room, Hannibal and Amy were sitting on the couch, deep in conversation. Hannibal looked up when he saw me come in.

"How's it going, Murdock?" he called.

"Great," I said, forcing a smile. "I, uh, brought all the stuff for a sleepover — except I think I forgot the book of ghost stories."

He laughed. "Good. It's still early, so you don't have to go in there yet. Face might be sleeping, so if you'll check on him periodically until you turn in for the night, that would be perfect."

"I can do that."

"Also, would you mind taking him these?" Hannibal picked up Face's books from the coffee table. "He gets irritated if he doesn't have them within reach."

I nodded and took the books under one arm. The painkiller made Face inexplicably volatile at times — once I thought he was going to have a nervous breakdown after I picked up his Sudoku book to do a puzzle.

"Thanks for the help, Murdock."

"No problem, Colonel."

As I turned and headed down the back hall, I had a sudden thought: hopefully I wouldn't have nightmares tonight. These past two weeks I had bad dreams at least every other night, some of them old 'Nam memories, but most of them involving watching Face die in front of me until I woke up with my blood curdled like cottage cheese. Back at the V.A. I would've gone to see Dr. Richter for advice, but I couldn't do that now, and I didn't want to bother the rest of the team when they were probably dealing with their own problems, on top of tonight's encounter with Stockwell.

Once inside Face's room I left the door open a crack so I had just enough light to see my way around. Based on the sound of heavy breathing, Face was fast asleep. Quietly, I crept over to the side table and set the books down. As I turned away, the duffel bag in my other hand sideswiped the table, and before I knew what was happening the table and its contents fell over with a crash.

A loud gasp came from two feet away. I cringed. Great job, Murdock.

"It's all right, I just knocked the table over," I said.

"Murdock, is that you?" Face said thickly.

"Yeah, it's me. Give me a sec to get some light on the subject." I righted the table lamp, which I guess could now be called a floor lamp, and fumbled for the switch.

The light revealed that a water glass had spilled its contents among the wreckage. Two of the books had escaped with barely a scratch, but the Sudoku book was soaked through.

"Oh man." I held it up, chagrined. "I'm sorry, Face. Maybe it'll be fine once it dries out." I opened the book and started peeling the pages apart.

"What are you doing?!" In a matter of seconds, Face went from blinking groggily to gaping in horror. "Give it to me!" He lunged for the book, then fell back with a groan.

"Take it easy, here, here you go," I handed him the book. "Are you okay?"

Face didn't seem to hear the question. "Oh no!" he said, staring at the book, his face slowly twisting with devastation. "How could you?" he demanded, voice trembling. "You ruined it! You ruined everything!"

The words hit me so hard in the gut I felt like I was suffocating. He had stated out loud what I had known all along — it was all my fault. Everything I did to help my best friend only made things worse, until he almost died because of me. I was responsible.

"I-I'm sorry," I stammered. "It was an accident." Coming here had been a mistake. I should leave. I'd tell the Colonel that . . . well, I didn't know what to tell him. I'd think of something. I just couldn't stick around any longer and risk causing more damage.

Face suddenly sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It's okay," he said. "You're right, once it dries out it should be fine."

I was speechless, unsure how to interpret this abrupt change of response.

"I didn't mean to overreact," he said as if noticing my confusion. "It's just these meds, you know — I've kind of lost control of my, uh, equilibrium."

"Maybe . . . maybe you should try to go back to sleep. I'll clean this up."

I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, mopped up the water on the floor, refilled the water glass in the sink, and replaced the items on the table. When all had been set in order, I picked up my duffel bag.

"If you don't need anything else, I'll ask Hannibal to come check on you in a little while."

Face stopped meticulously pulling apart the pages of the Sudoku book. "Wait, where are you going?"

"I think it's time for me to head home."

"But I thought you were going to stay the night." The slight whine in his voice and disappointment in his eyes reminded me of Billy when he thought I had forgotten to feed him.

What could I say now? "I just . . . I don't think it's such a good idea, anymore."

"Why not?"

"Well, I knocked over the table and ruined your book —"

"I'm not mad at you," he interrupted. "The book'll dry. Actually, I'm getting sick of Sudoku. Can't we talk for a bit? I never see you anymore."

This resistance was not what I had anticipated. "But I come over almost every day after work."

Face shrugged. "Yeah, and you barely give me the time of day. Not even a daily news bulletin. Usually I have to beg you to shut up, but now . . . come to think of it, I can't remember the last time we had a real conversation. It's been pretty boring."

"I guess I haven't had much to talk about." I started edging towards the door.

"Murdock, you never run out of things to talk about!" He frowned and scratched vigorously at his arm. "You're not avoiding me, are you?"

"No, 'course not." I came to a halt.

"Then what's the problem?"

Face waited expectantly for my answer. He had backed me into a corner, and now I didn't know what to tell him. Generally, the old adage of "honesty is the best policy" holds true, especially when dealing with someone who not only cons for a living but also is your best friend. I would try to explain, and hope he would understand.

"Okay, I have been avoiding you," I admitted. "It's just that whenever I look at you, I feel . . . guilt, all over again."

His eyebrows shot up. "Guilt? About what?"

With the toe of my shoe, I traced the circumference of a spot in the grain of the wood floor. "Well, if I hadn't asked you to the restaurant in the first place, and if I hadn't had you take down the hit squad, then you wouldn't have gotten shot. You wouldn't have died."

Face laughed nervously and scratched his other arm. "But Murdock, I didn't die."

"But you could have. You were this close the whole time, and if you had, I couldn't . . . I couldn't live with myself."

"What are you talking about? It wasn't your fault I got shot."

"Yes, yes it was!" I blurted. All the frustration and fear and regret rushed out like poking a hole in an inflatable raft. "You just don't understand. Everything I do for you turns out all wrong! I destroyed your only chance to meet your father, and then I put you in a situation where you got shot and almost died. Every time I'm around you, bad things happen. I can't even touch your stuff without ruining it!" I swallowed hard, hearing again the raw hurt in his voice only a few minutes ago. "I'm a terrible friend, and I think it would be best for you if I didn't hang around any longer. I'll just . . . leave."

My duffel was in my hand, and I was ready to go, but for some reason I couldn't walk away. I needed to know what Face thought, what he would say. In the silence that followed, I studied the irregular shapes and textures in the floor, waiting for I knew not what.

At last Face spoke. "Murdock, you remember when we had that fight after you told me about AJ, and I said you were always the one I thought I could count on?"

He waited for me to nod before continuing. "Well, I meant what I said. Ever since we met in 'Nam, you've been a real friend to me. You've always tried to do the right thing, even when it was hard. You didn't tell me about AJ because you thought it was best for me at the time. Of course I'm disappointed I didn't get to talk to my father more, but I know you did what you believed was right, and if circumstances had been different, I would have been thanking you for it."

I nodded again, recognizing the arguments I had used to justify my actions to Face on that fateful Thanksgiving day. Funny how I was the one who needed convincing now.

"And think about what would've happened if we hadn't taken down the hit squad," he continued. "The Attorney General would be dead! But because of you, he's still walking around, and a bunch of thugs are in jail for a well-deserved twenty years. So I get shot in the line of duty? That's a risk we have to take in a job like ours. Remember what we learned in 'Nam? You can't second guess yourself, and you can't blame yourself for what the enemy does. Murdock, you didn't pull the trigger and shoot me; they did. And when I was lying on the floor in the back, completely helpless, bleeding to death, I knew that if anyone was going to save us, it was you. And you came through. You figured out how to contact Hannibal and BA, and we made it out of there without anyone else getting hurt."

The man was talking sense, as BA would put it. A germ of hope took hold, and I dared to look up. Face shot me a sad smile.

"You know better than anyone else," he said quietly, "that this last month or so has been hard for me. Seems like everything's been hitting close to home, and working for Stockwell hasn't made it easier. I've had to confront a lot of . . . personal demons. But you've always been there for me, and it means a lot more than I can say. So quit blaming yourself for my bad luck. You're the best friend a guy could ask for, and don't let anyone ever tell you differently, okay?"

At that moment, I didn't feel like I deserved the credit he gave me; but I knew I didn't deserve the judgment I'd pronounced on myself. I blinked away the blurriness in my eyes. "Okay. Thanks."

Face smiled. "Thank you, buddy."

Then the smile became preoccupied, and turned into an apologetic grin. "So, now that your therapy session is over, would you mind trading places on the couch?" He sighed and ran his hand back through his hair. "I mean, look at me, Murdock. I can't do much of anything for anybody right now, and it's killing me. There's no telling what's going to happen with Stockwell and this whole pardon fiasco, and if all hell breaks loose, I'm pretty useless in a fight. But there is one thing I've been able to do, and that's plan. Now, if I show you what I've been working on, can you keep it a secret? Not a word to anybody, not even Hannibal."

I dropped my bag on the floor and sat down on the fluffy brown comforter, careful not to shake the bed too much. "You 'ave intrigued me, monsieur. How can I say anysing but, oui oui, allez-y!"

Face laughed — not a courtesy laugh, but a real one. "All right, then. Take a look at this." Then he did the last thing I expected: he handed me the Sudoku book.

Confused, I opened the book to the first page. The only thing there was the nine square grid of a completed puzzle.

"You have to go a few pages in," Face instructed.

I turned the soggy pages and came upon a page with doodles covering the margins. Doodles and notes.

"Canada, Cuba, Venezuela, Britain, Switzerland, France," I read down a list that filled the space to the left of the grid.

"I was brainstorming places we could go once we escape."

"Hey, you can draw Snoopy pretty good," I said, seeing the familiar cartoon dog leaning up against a rough outline of France. Then it hit me. "Escape? You mean, escape Stockwell?"

"Of course. If we're not getting our pardons, we'll have to figure out a way out of the country, where Stockwell can't punish us."

I flipped through more similarly decorated pages containing, along with random drawings, names of airports, diagrams, checklists . . . "But you couldn't have come up with all this tonight."

"I've had plenty of time on my hands the last two weeks," he shrugged. "No one's peeking over my shoulder to make sure I'm actually doing Sudoku. Even Stockwell wouldn't think to look in here. If someone happened to get any farther than the first few pages, hopefully the doodles would throw them off track."

"So that's why you got so angry when you thought I ruined the book."

Face looked a little sheepish. "Yeah. At least I have an excuse for acting neurotic while I'm on this painkiller. Although the brain fog is frustrating, which is why I tried to go without today. By the way, thanks for that tip you gave me a while back about pretending to swallow a pill while keeping it under your tongue."

I grinned, remembering the advice I'd given Face one time when Hannibal and BA wanted him to swallow a homing device. Needless to say, Hannibal did not appreciate my helpfulness. "You did that today?"

"Yeah, and paid for it too. Unfortunately, it was terrible timing for me to realize I still need the painkiller. Now everyone thinks I'm not ready to go on the mission, but we absolutely have to go." He tapped the Sudoku book. "It's all in here. The only way we're gonna get a chance to escape Stockwell is if we're on a mission, away from home base. Here there's too much security, and all the Abel schmabels are close by. We have to keep taking missions until we find an opportunity to get away. It's the only chance we've got."

"Have you talked to Hannibal about the mission?" I asked. "Maybe you could persuade him —"

"Already tried." Face scratched his neck dejectedly. "Somehow he figured out I hadn't taken the painkiller today, so I told him I was still up for the mission. He didn't seem convinced. He's questioning why Stockwell wants so badly for us to do the mission, but I say none of that matters if we're leaving anyway."

"Why don't you just tell him about your ideas for our escape?"

"That wouldn't do any good. All the other times I've mentioned bidding Stockwell goodbye, he hasn't even given it two seconds worth of consideration."

"But that was back when we were counting on our pardons. Now that we may not get them, he might be ready to consider other options." I waved the book. "I think you've got a good start here, but we ain't going nowhere until the Colonel says so."

"Guess you're right. I'll think about it." He grimaced. "Can I ask you a very big favor?"

"Sure, Face."

"Would you mind scratching the top of my left foot? I can't bend to reach it, and it's driving me crazy!"