Author's Chapter Notes:
The Clown Suit reference is to the original Halloween of 1978.
OOO
She didn't recall her mother as often as she did her father these days, though for a time in her life she supposed it could have been said that they were close. Her paternal grandfather had also been an enlisted man, and her father had grown up across the country and the world, moving with each new post assignment. He had not wanted to do that to his wife and young daughter, and so they stayed on base while he moved accordingly. He always came to visit as often as he could, but it was never often enough for little Harleen, who was a Daddy's Girl if ever there had been one.
When he was home, he carried her everywhere across the base, and his subordinates and superiors alike came to expect her to be attached to him like a tiny, blonde third arm. They called her Private Quinn and pinched her cheeks, and she grew up planning war games and cleaning her father's favorite rifle the way most girl's grew up playing house and dressing up to be just like Mommy. She wanted to be just like Daddy and made her bed with a military crease and looked forward to nothing else as much as she did the first tap of her father's boots in the hallway.
Harley reflected that some of the alienation between she and her mother existed because the older woman found her a mystery: this pretty little girl who stomped her feet and pouted until she had her hair up in pigtails and her favorite red dress on and then ran screaming into the streets with a plastic machine gun to play Soldier with the neighborhood boys. It wasn't as though she didn't like the girls her age, but they wanted to play with Barbies, which weren't nearly as interesting as Harley's GI Joe's. They didn't even come with guns!
The rest of it? Looking back, she thought it might have been simple jealousy. Her mother hated the Army. It stole her husband away for months at a time, and now it had even taken her daughter from her, made her into something she couldn't understand, couldn't relate to, so her mother began to search desperately for some common ground between them. She found it one day when Harley asked to learn to cartwheel. She picked up that first trick in a few days, and Harley discovered she had a talent for tumbling.
Her mother was ecstatic. She herself had at one time been a champion gymnast, had once had a chance to go to the Olympics, but, being an old-fashioned girl at heart, had decided to marry instead. When she discovered that she had passed this talent onto her daughter she quickly found a trainer, and so began Harley's years in competitive gymnastics, and yes, perhaps her mother had been living vicariously through her in that time, but she valued it nonetheless.
Her coach believed in training his students in every aspect of the sport, and she learned to do it all, the horse, the vault, floor routines, the parallel and the uneven bars. It was hard, unvarying training, but Harley was a born soldier and she thrived under the constant discipline, the never ending critiques. Her Coach was never satisfied with anything, told her that she could always do better, and the next time, she always did.
She was best at floor routines, somersaulting and hand-springing through the air as though she could defy gravity itself, but her favorite, oh her favorite were the uneven bars. There was something terrifying about it that she loved, spinning faster and faster until that final moment when her hands released the bar, and she was flying out into nothingness, falling and flipping for what could have been forever. She never failed to lose herself in that moment, however, and nearly always botched the landing, sending her Coach into conniptions. The result was she never really got to train on the bars, and consequently lost that category in every competition, but she developed an almost irrational love for it, like a suicide victim leaping from the top of a building, arms spread wide and welcoming the ground rushing up toward her.
It gave her father an excuse to come home more often (he had to watch her at her meets, Harley made that perfectly clear) which neither she nor her mother minded in the least. Her father didn't seem to mind it much either, because one day her mother began to get fat, and soon she had a baby brother named Gregory. He became her very own blonde baby doll, and she carted him around everywhere the way her father had done when she was little. Her mother and father doted on the little boy endlessly, but Harley wasn't jealous; she spoiled him just as much, and always shared her toys with him, passing on her soldiers and her tanks, her jets and jeeps when she herself outgrew them.
For a long time, they were all very happy. Oh, certainly, there were bumps in the road. At about the age of ten, she was down to 48 pounds (should have weighed at least 77, the nurses gasped), training herself to exhaustion, and her hands had begun to crack and bleed because she washed them fifty-two times a day ('my palms sweat,' she advised her doctor, 'I have to keep them dry, keep them clean, or I slip on the mats! There's nothing crazy about that!'). Her pediatrician suggested that she be allowed to speak to a psychologist, and she was soon diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
It was made manageable by the combination of two drugs: Xanax, for her anxiety, seldom used in children, her psychiatrist confessed, but hers was an extreme case. In reality, the medication wasn't even recommended for use in children, but he had been right, hers certainly was an extreme case… Prozac she was given for her compulsion, combined with what they called behavioral-cognitive therapy, which in reality was something more like pissing Harley off twenty-four hours as a day as everyone, even Gregory, got in the way of her daily rituals. The disorder disappeared into the background of her mind, only manifesting itself in neatness that bordered on fanaticism and a constant fastidiousness in her appearance, never a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her clothing.
She became a typical teenager, perhaps a bit moodier than most, but she couldn't have described herself as unhappy. On one particular day, Harley's mother was cranky as well, however, and they got into a terrible fight that sent Harley stomping off to the rec center and refusing to return home until the place closed at 9 PM.
When she got home, the house was dark and quiet, and, having forgiven her mother by then, she went to go find her, to apologize for having yelled at her. She found her mother and baby brother asleep in bed, still wearing clothes underneath the blanket they'd stretched over top of them. Her mother had been so tired lately; she'd probably laid them both down for a nap and had slept right through dinner. She let her mother continue sleeping, but reached to pick up Gregory and fix him something to eat. She was surprised he hadn't woken up already, tummy growling.
The tiny body was stiff and cold and she screamed as she dropped him back onto the bed, scrambling over to shake her mother awake, but she found the same dead, rigid flesh, blue lips and eyelids. She couldn't stop screaming, whimpering, crying, couldn't articulate anything over the phone line to the police, but they said they were sending an ambulance and she sat by the bed with the phone buzzing in her ear and held his tiny body close until things went black around her.
She woke up again on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over her face. A gas leak from the kitchen stove, and there was nothing they could do, her mother and little brother had been dead for hours, gone to sleep to never wake up again, and she cried for what seemed like weeks after that. They called her father back from Kuwait, and the doctor's added Survivor's Guilt to her list of syndromes and disorders and another anti-depressant to her list of daily medication.
She never attended another gymnastics meet, couldn't even bear the color blue anymore, the color of the mat's she'd spent years of her life training upon. Her father was never the same again, but he was resolutely there for her from then on, and he never stopped telling her how proud he was the day she entered Basic Training, feeling as though her entire life had led her to this moment.
He'd attended her graduation, she still had the picture of them together hung in her hallway, and she'd seen more smiles from him that day than she had in years, but somehow… she wasn't really shocked the very next day, when she got the phone call. It was Lieutenant Miller, her father's CO, sounding like a bad actor out of a melodrama, so solemn and filled with regret that Harley had to fight the urge to laugh at him. He wanted to meet her somewhere, but Harley couldn't stand to see his face and, risking insubordination, told him to just spit it out. She already knew what he was going to say.
He'd settled all of his affairs, dressed in his best uniform, and then splattered his brains all over the office wall with the same .45 caliber revolver that had been the first gun Harley had ever fired.
Sometimes when she dreams she goes back to that night, the impossible last ditch warmth of a stubborn October evening, the sun still clinging to the horizon and painting everything orange like the jack-o-lantern's she's using as targets. Her father's skin is orange where his bare arms are on top of hers, as are the white patches of her clown suit, even the mask on her head, in between her ever present pigtails, her hair itself, her face: everything orange. His hands steady her own until she adjusts to the recoil, could hold her aim straight with her own strength. Teach me, Daddy, she had said, it's all I need to complete my costume. Michael Myers is supposed to have a butcher knife, he replies sensibly, you have to stab people to death, not shoot them. I can stab them after I shoot them, she shrugged in return, as though that settled it, and it had.
Her father lets go of her hands, sets his own on her shoulders and one, two, three, four, the pumpkins split and tumble off the fence in pieces, and those strong hands she misses so much squeeze her shoulders, but they're just bones now, the wind pulling his flesh away like dust, and she fires rounds into severed heads with red, ragged holes for mouths as the sun explodes, and she wakes up cold, sweaty and shaking, hoarse from screaming.
She didn't recall her mother as often as she did her father these days, but she couldn't stand to miss the both of them so much… better if only one occupied her time, then she could almost imagine that the other was still alive, perhaps they just hadn't talked in a while. She could imagine that all she had to do was pick up the phone and there would be her mother's voice again, and maybe Gregory would snatch it away from her and scream into it 'HEY SISSY!' the way he used to when he was small… and still alive.
Sometimes she thought the ghost of the man he could have been haunted her more than the child.
OOO
When she woke up on Monday morning, the sun was already shining fiercely and she was shocked to find it was 7:30. She scrambled out of bed and into the shower, got dressed, did her makeup and hair on the bus. Despite all her best efforts, it wasn't a minute before 8:30 when she finally stepped off the bus in front of the hospital, and 8:35 by the time she walked through her office door and had the distinct urge to turn around and leave again.
The Captain was already waiting for her, and the look on his face stopped her in her tracks: he was absolutely seething. She had never seen him that angry… then again, she had the idle thought she'd never seen anyone that angry before. Running away wasn't really an option, so she quietly shut the door behind her and looked back to him to begin to apologize. The words never quite got a chance to escape her mouth, however, because suddenly she was very bodily slammed into the wall. The pointed toes of her high heels scrabbled helplessly against the floor; all of her weight was hanging from her throat, or more specifically the hands wrapped around it. She was thankful there was nothing more behind her than a mop closet; otherwise she was sure someone would have heard that thump her head had made against the wall, the one that was still sending showers of sparks before her eyes.
"Jack," she squeaked, but her voice was very tiny and strained; she could barely force the air out of her lungs to make the sound.
"Where have you been, Doctor? You people insist upon constraining my time to a schedule and yet you won't follow it? Tsk, tsk, Harley, I'm beginning to think you don't value our time together."
His hands were clenching around her throat spasmodically, and she was alarmed to see large patches of black growing in her vision, her feet tingling. She tried to keep herself from clawing at his wrists, holding onto them instead, and she heard, almost like it was happening one room over, one of her high heels fall from her dangling, twitching feet, clattering on the tile.
"Jack," she tried again, but it hurt so much just to make the sound, and her lungs were burning. "Shades are open… people on the grounds…"
The reminder had the desired effect, and she slid to a boneless heap on the floor as he let her go, gasping in lungful after lungful of air that was bliss after agony, throat still aching terribly. Her eyes flickered up to catch sight of him without turning her head. He was regarding her curiously, and she could imagine why. It probably wouldn't have been the response of any of his other doctors, their first thought being for his welfare.
She rubbed her hand carefully over her throat, the skin feeling hot and chafed from the unyielding pressure of his grip. There were still things clenching and trembling low in her belly, and she tried to soothe herself with the knowledge that feelings of arousal were often an unfortunate side effect of asphyxiation, that was all. Most male hanging victims died with an erection, in fact; it was just a reaction, nothing more.
"You have to learn to control yourself, Captain," she rasped. "You can't let your temper… get the best of you. Standen's waiting for an excuse to put you away. You mustn't give it to him so easily."
She looked up slowly, meeting the eyes that from this angle looked nearly black. She was relieved to find none of the previous, blind rage, only a cold sort of amusement she could only imagine was directed toward her valiant attempt at sounding calm while her heart thundered in the cage of her breast. It wasn't fooling him, but it made Harley feel marginally better to at least pretend she hadn't just been three seconds from pissing herself in terror. She was, after all, a master at the game of denial.
"Well," he said, voice deceptively cheery and loaded with innuendo. "I'll be sure to pull the shades the next time I have you up against the wall."
With that, he reached down and helped her to her feet, though in his estimation that meant taking a handful of her hair and dragging her back upright. She made a strangled sound but managed to keep quiet until she got her feet beneath her again, prompting her scalp to finally stop screaming. He didn't let go of her hair, however, took a tighter grip next to the scalp and dragged her over to the window, snapping the shade shut and turning on her desk lamp in one impossibly fluid motion for how far apart the two objects were. She was back against the wall again, and he jerked her head back so her throat was exposed, skin pulled taut and straining. She was already off balance, one foot bare and the other still heeled, and she stumbled, crazily thankful his grip was keeping her from falling to one side or the other.
"Jack," she whispered again, afraid he'd lost control of himself once more, but the hand that came to her throat next, rubbing and wiping, was surprisingly gentle.
"My, my, what have we been hiding, Dr. Quinzel?" He was close enough that she could feel his breath when he spoke, fluttering along the skin of her throat, and he was using his greater weight and size to keep her back pinned tight to the wall.
She didn't need to wonder what he had managed to uncover, his palm was chalky with the foundation and powder he'd pulled away. She kept her neck relaxed, letting him turn her head from side to side: these sorts of things hurt less if you simply didn't fight them.
"Someone's been putting marks all over that pretty little skin of yours, Harley, are you trying to make me jealous? Of course not, you wouldn't have covered it up, if you were… You just swept it under the rug… Concealing it from Daddy then… what a very naughty girl you're proving to be. Do you want to know what happens to naughty girls?"
She ignored the question, pointedly, just as she was desperately ignoring the feeling of his hips pressing into her stomach.
"My personal life is none of your concern, Captain… now… please… let me go."
He let her go, though with a final tightening of his hand as though to make it clear he wasn't doing it simply because she'd requested it, and took a single step back.
"Since you asked so sweetly." He said, and gave a high-pitched laugh that sent a rush of cold down her spine like ice water. "Now, you've already wasted three-quarters of my session, just how are you going to make this up to me? I get so cranky without my daily… stimulation, Doctor… psychological, if you will, and you're ever so good at giving it to me."
She refused to rise to his baiting and give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm, certainly not when he still maintained such a close physical proximity, and continued to ignore the heat in her face.
"I've already agreed to see if you might go outside, Captain, I'll request time today on my lunch hour, and…we can continue our appointment on the grounds, if that is alright with you."
"Oh, that sounds just wonderful, Harley. It'll do the trick nicely, I should think."
OOO
She had no idea where Lieutenant-Colonel Standen had disappeared to, no one had seen him in over a week, and the task of running the hospital had been passed on to Sergeant-Major Nicholson, not the highest ranking officer in the building, but certainly the most trustworthy and the most capable. It was a relief. She had known the Sergeant-Major for several years before they had shared Hines as a post together, and she thought he would be more likely to grant her request than the Colonel would ever be, so she reapplied the makeup to cover the bruises on her throat (some much newer than the others), and made her way to the administration offices between her 10 and 11 o'clock appointments.
The stiff brunette that had been behind the front desk during her first visit to Standen's office was conspicuously absent. She thought it very strange he would have taken his secretary with him, but she simply walked to the inner office door and knocked. She was beckoned inside by a familiar cheerful voice, and was offered a jaunty salute as she entered the room, his green eyes lighting up as he caught sight of her.
"Lieutenant Quinzel! A pleasure as always."
"It's just Doctor Quinzel now, Sergeant Major, if you please."
"Nonsense, Harleen, then it'll be just Jon, now what can I do for you?"
"Well, Just Jon," she said with an ironic quirk of her lips. "I've a favor to ask."
"Anything. Shoot. What's a favor between old friends?"
He was in his late 30s now, had to have been, but his face still shown with the same youthful exuberance that had been the first thing Harley had ever noticed about him. His closely cropped hair was still violently red, and his skin was more freckled than ever from his two recent tours of duty in the Middle East.
"I want to request a temporary pass for one of my patients; just outside the hospital, you understand, not off the grounds."
"Well, I don't see why you even need to ask for a pass then, if you won't be leaving the grounds."
"The pass is for Captain Napier. I've been instructed that he is not to leave the hospital under any circumstances… which is why I need to ask this favor of you."
"Ah," he said slowly, and it was obvious he recognized the name, or perhaps just remembered the stories that had been circulated along with it. "Yeah. He… uh… I've been given a …similar instruction by the Colonel."
She nodded, having been afraid of that. He licked his lips, leaning back in the chair and turning from side to side for a moment, before his forehead wrinkled and he seemed to come to a conclusion, bouncing his torso back out of the plush office chair, leaning forward again to press the button on the Colonel's intercom. She heard its mate on the secretary's desk buzz to life, before the signal transferred to the hospital's central switchboard and the speaker on his desk crackled to life.
"Yes, Sergeant-Major?"
"I need you to get on the radio and summon Captain Knauer up here. I need to talk to him about something… And Maizy?"
"Yes?"
"Tell him to bring the keys to the armory."
OOO
The blonde man was in his early 50's, but there was still a wiry sort of strength that emanated from him, and his slim form somehow made the normally bland brown Security uniform look especially flattering. He had his back turned to her to give her some privacy (he already looked very uncomfortable having to stand in the middle of the Women's locker room), and Harley occupied herself by stealing glances at him as she pulled and tugged at the straps of her vest to tighten it down properly. She didn't want it to be terribly visible underneath her clothing, after all.
He was ex-law enforcement, bred for protection, and those types were normally just a tad more high-strung than their military counterpoints, she had noted, and his posture, accordingly, was more rigid than a West Point recruit during hell week. She cleared her throat as she finished buttoning her blouse over the bullet-proof vest and he turned back to her, shoulder holster already in his hands.
Strange to think a place of healing had access to so many deadly weapons, but in today's age of terrorism she knew there would be few targets more tempting than a hospital filled with thousands of US soldiers. The Security staff was outfitted for just such an occurrence, and no one got in the building without passing through metal detectors these days.
She took the proffered weapon and pulled it from its cloth pocket, letting the magazine fall out of the Glock Model 17. 18 rounds: a full magazine, and, as she pulled back the slide, one already in the chamber.
"Keep it on safety, if you want, but don't unload it. I'm gonna have two of my boys on the roof with Barrett M1A1's watching you, but with the way the wind's blowing today I can't guarantee they're going to be able to keep you out of the line of fire, so if he decides to run, I suggest you be the one to put the bullet in him yourself. Don't shoot to wound, shoot to kill. He'll only give you one good chance at it, anyway. Since you insist on it being just you and him on the ground, Lieutenant, you miss, and no one's going to be able to get down there in time to save you from him, you understand?"
"Yes," she said simply, though she certainly hoped it wouldn't come to that. She slid the magazine back in with a snap and, after a moment's thought, pushed in the safety, and slipped the pistol back into the holster. She slid the straps of the harness over her shoulders, pulling her suit jacket on over that, watching in the mirror as the 9 millimeter disappeared within the heavy folds of material. She heard the click as he pressed the door open and she turned to where he was standing in the doorway, the seriousness in his expression positively deadly.
"And whatever you do, don't let him get his hands on your weapon, or we're all fucked."