Every Thought Captive
Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.
Chapter 70 Things To Consider
Murdock sniffed in his sleep, a quick harsh intake of breath through his nose that instantly woke him.
In the dream he woke from, a shadowy figure pressed the end of a drill to his temple and rumbled in B. A.'s voice, "This won't hurt a bit, fool." The figure smelled of cigar smoke and Face's favorite aftershave cologne, Obsession for Men. He heard the trigger click and the drill begin to whir. He wanted to yell for help but his plea wouldn't come out. His mouth was securely taped shut. He took a sharp breath of air through his nose just as the drill cut flesh. Then he woke.
He knew the dream was just a dream, a very bad one, but he shivered all the same.
C'mon, H. M. Don' be silly. Hann'bal 'n' Face'd never do somethin' like that t' me.
He was pretty sure B. A. wouldn't either. As he fought to clear the fuzziness from his brain, he squinted up at the ceiling and struggled to remember where he was and why he was here.
Ever' time I fall 'sleep anymore, I don' know what t' 'spect when I wake back up.
Light steady breaths from somewhere to his left alerted him that he was not alone. He was glad for that.
Remembering the wound across his throat, he carefully turned his head until he could locate the sleeping person.
Cazador occupied the overstuffed burgundy velvet armchair. It was drawn so near to the bedside, the patient could tap the businessman on the knee if he wanted to wake him up. But he didn't want to. At least, not until he sorted out his confused thoughts.
Cazador's head had fallen forward on his chest and Murdock could see he was in a state of deep sleep.
He noted the heavy lines in the businessman's face and dark circles under his eyes.
Looks like he ain' had a decent night's sleep for a while. But where's Hann'bal?
Suddenly worried and not knowing why, he turned his head away from Cazador and toward his right. Upon seeing the red glow from the nightlight, he sighed in relief.
There it is! Good ol' Woody keepin' watch over me while I'm sleepin'.
But Hannibal would still have had either Face or B. A. there when he woke. Or he himself would be lightly dozing in a chair by the bed. He wouldn't ever leave Murdock to wake up without one of the team there to reassure him of where he was. Not unless something or someone prevented him from doing so.
He had to find out. If anything happened to any one of them because of him and his history with Colonel Jackson . . .
Swallowing back his sense of dread, he pushed back the bed covers with his legs and left hand. Once free from the confining sheet and blanket, he noticed something.
Someone had reinserted the IV needle in his right arm. For a moment, he stared at it in confusion. He wasn't sure why they did that unless . . .
. . . unless they're pumpin' me full o' th' same stuff they're givin' Jackson so I don' go wanderin' 'gain.
The thought made him a little angry. Didn't they trust him when he said he didn't want to engage Jackson in a mind control battle? He grabbed the tubing with his left hand, ready to rip it and the tape that secured it off his arm. Gritting his teeth and preparing himself for the pain, he startled when a hand touched his shoulder.
"Captain Murdock." The voice to his left sounded tired. "I can't let you do that."
Murdock sighed in frustration and sank back on the bed. Even if he had succeeded in ridding himself of the IV, he wasn't sure he would be able to get on his feet. And now Cazador was awake, too. He let his gaze settle on the owner of the ranch.
"Colonel Smith thought you might try to take that out. Just leave it alone, son. If I have to, I'll get your friend Sergeant Baracus in here from out in the hallway to keep you from doing it." Cazador leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together.
Murdock's eyes traced the tubing from his arm to its terminus. He scowled at the bag which hung from a wire hanger on the bed post and turned back to Cazador. "Why'd they stick this needle back in me? Did Hann'bal order it?"
For a moment Cazador didn't answer. He stood and busied himself with replacing the bed covers over the pilot.
Finally, Murdock blurted, "Well? Did 'e or didn' he?"
"No. Your Colonel didn't order it but he agreed it was a good idea. Doctor Willis ordered it. It's to administer antibiotics and a mild painkiller for your throat wound. We have no intention on knocking you out all the way. Your friend Jackson . . . "
"He ain' my friend!" Murdock hissed, his eyes blazing with intense hatred for the military man. He bunched up a fistful of the comforter in his left hand.
Cazador held up both hands shoulder height, palms out, and smiled faintly. "I'm aware of that. It sounds like he's been a thorn in your side for a very long time."
"Too long." Murdock drew in a calming breath and released it slowly.
Way too long.
"Colonel Jackson is being monitored every minute to make sure he doesn't wake again and cause you any more pain or distress. He is the one who's getting the sedatives to keep him unconscious. Not you." Murdock couldn't be certain but Cazador's eyes seem to have a satisfied gleam with that announcement.
He watched as the businessman walked back around the bed and sat down in the overstuffed chair. "So where's Hann'bal? Why ain' he here?"
The pilot caught a fleeting image in his mind of snipers pointing their weapons at his friends from a rooftop. His mouth went dry as he remembered.
He searched Cazador's face for any suggestion that his friends were being mistreated and saw none. That was a relief. He wondered if the brief memory was a false one. It was difficult to know which thoughts and images Jackson had planted and which were true.
Maybe when I get back t' th' VA, Doc Richter'll be able t' help me sort it all out.
The arms smuggler pursed his lips. "I asked him if I could sit with you until you woke. I have some questions. I wanted to be alone to ask them and he agreed, although reluctantly."
Reluctantly?
Murdock narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "What kind o' questions?"
Cazador hesitated and looked away for a second. "I know all about your fugitive friends and how much the military wants to get their hands on them. But you aren't wanted like they are. The military isn't after you."
It wasn't a question and yet it seemed like one. The pilot waited, hoping he would not have to explain. He gazed steadily at the arms smuggler and tried to keep his expression emotionless.
"You said something about a VA hospital and a room next to yours when we found you out there in the shed with Jackson. Yet you aren't missing an arm or leg. You seem physically fit." Cazador frowned. "You said you could drive him nuts. Except for that impromptu concert you gave from the cockpit when you were fighting the orders to crash, you seem completely sane." Again the statement sounded more like a question.
Murdock wanted to say something like "Looks sure can be deceivin', can' they?" He surprised himself by discovering he cared about what this arms smuggling businessman thought about him.
He decided to be honest and tell the truth. "When I came back t' th' States from Nam . . . " Murdock swept his left hand across his eyes, his voice faltering. His mind probed the fragmented memories in an attempt to put into words what led to his voluntary imprisonment in the psych ward.
There were so many things about that transitional time he forgot but he didn't forget the feeling of being truly alone. He didn't know where the guys were, only that they had escaped from Fort Bragg. Not knowing if they would even come looking for him, he slept outdoors with his military-issue duffel bag as a pillow.
Whenever he gazed into the faces of those around him, the other derelicts trying to survive, their features shifted and became one of the many NVA prison guards he had come to fear. Street toughs saw him as a vulnerable drunk and tried to roll him for what few possessions he had left to him.
'N' didn' I show 'em how wrong they were?
"I was homeless 'n' on th' L. A. streets. Don' 'member much 'bout all o' that b'cause I was drinkin' heavy 'n' smokin' weed t' forget. Past don' ever really leave ya 'lone. Ya know?" He glanced at Cazador and drew in a deep breath. "Ended up in Westwood in their VA psych ward. They tell me I was a wreck, almost a veg'table, from one night o' fightin' off a bunch o' boys no older 'n I was when they sent me t' Nam. There were too many of 'em 'n' they almost killed me. Someone . . . "
He scrabbled for the shadowy face he had tucked away in his deepest memories but couldn't figure out even now who his savior was. Swallowing hard, he finished the thought. "Someone foun' me, seen I was a vet 'n' made sure th' VA hospital took me in as a hardship case. I guess when I woke up from th' coma I fought 'em like they were Charlie all over 'gain. So they foun' me a room in th' psych ward."
Murdock shuddered as he thought about the loneliness and the struggle he had to live on the streets. No, the hospital was a paradise compared to that. Glancing at Cazador's sympathetic expression, he realized the businessman didn't have the usual reaction to which he had become accustomed.
"I guess I understand why you would feign being mentally ill to have a place to stay." The arms smuggler gave the pilot a faint smile.
Should I tell 'im th' truth . . . that sometimes it ain' an act?
Before he could say anything more about the subject, Cazador spoke again. "You saved my life up there in the sky. If you hadn't resisted Jackson's orders the way you did . . . " It was Cazador's turn to shudder with the thought of what might have happened.
When Murdock spoke, it was in a soft voice. "You're a grampa. What ya said 'bout your grandson . . . well . . . I was raised by my Grampa 'n' Gramma. I know they can be as good o' influences as anyone. You're tryin' t' be that good influence. Maybe ya got inta a bad deal with th' government but that doesn' change who ya are t' that boy. Maybe I was savin' someone who seems an awful lot like my own Grampa was with me."
Cazador stared at the floor, his hands knotting together, relaxing, then tightening again. After a pause, he murmured, "If your Colonel Smith gets his way, I'll be arrested as soon as Colonel Jackson is taken care of. His sense of justice won't permit him to do anything less."
Murdock nodded and grimaced. He wasn't sure if Hannibal would do that but it was likely. Cazador had done something illegal. But then so had Jackson and his superiors. Who knew how high up the scandal went?
"I'll try 'n' get 'im t' see reason. Your grandson needs a Grampa like you." The pilot reached out and patted the businessman on his knee. "Hann'bal's not someone who goes strict by th' books. He bends rules. Maybe he will in yer case, too."
The arms smuggler nodded grimly. "I have to tell you that I will not go to prison, Captain. If I'm arrested, I won't hesitate to turn the tables on your leader. I don't want it to come to that." Cazador met Murdock's anxious stare with a smile. "I don't. I admire your Colonel. He's a lot like me."
"Mister Cazador, I'll try t' figure out a way. Jus' please, don' do anythin' 'til I think a while on it. Okay?" The pilot turned his gaze toward the ceiling, his thoughts swirling in panicked confusion.
"But right now, the most important thing is for you to get well. Maybe later we can talk about what it would take for you to leave the VA hospital and come work for me as my personal pilot." When Murdock gave him a startled glance, Cazador chuckled. "You don't remember? Before we left the ground I talked to you about offering you a job. I saw the way you looked at my Lucky Lady. I heard the way you spoke about flying. I couldn't go wrong hiring you, could I?"
Murdock opened his mouth and then closed it again. It was another bombshell kind of announcement, one he would have to seriously consider. "I don't know what to say, Mister Cazador. With everythin' that's gone on, I did kind o' forget 'bout the offer. I gotta have some time t' think 'bout it."
The ranch owner got to his feet and stretched. Yawning, he said, "That was what I wanted to talk to you about. I'll leave you now to get some rest. There's plenty of time to figure out where we go from here. You have to heal before Stafford can do the surgery to remove the implant. Nothing can be done until that's taken care of." He paused at the bedroom door and smiled again. "I'll send your friend Sergeant Baracus in to sit with you now. I'll check on you after you've had some more rest."
In stunned silence, the pilot watched as the businessman opened the door and motioned to the black man outside. "He's awake." Turning to the patient one more time, he nodded. "Good night, Captain."
As the door closed, Murdock murmured, barely aware he was saying it, "G'night, Mister Cazador."