“No. No.” The crisp bed sheet jerked uncontrollably. The dream came back. In and out of a vague blackness floated a face- her face. The same face captured on television. The suicide attack on the President. Bedouina Missoumi. It was her. He was certain of it. The image skimmed across his drug-fogged mind, smiling, snarling, laughing, brooding, beckoning. Soon more figures began to appear, misty, facing away from him. But each time they turned the face was always the same, Bedouina. Samir’s long dead girlfriend wafted closer and closer. He reached out with an invisible hand. She melted away. He sat up, trying to reach the evaporating form, then fell back into the soft pillow. More Muzak.
Again he awoke with a start. Another dreamy face.
“Who are you?” he called aloud. “Go away. Don’t look at me. Go away.” He didn’t want to know. He wanted the screen of his mind to go blank, but it glowed even brighter as the fragments of images coalesced. His mind reached out. He could feel every contour of her face as if it were etched into his DNA. Matt tried to close his mind. To shut off the thoughts.
“Oh, God.” He let out a low moan. It was the red-haired beauty he comforted so many years ago during a thunderstorm in the skies. The goddess he had fallen in love with-Maha.
“Calm down now, take a few deep breaths.” A soothing male voice came from directly overhead. “You must have been having a nightmare or a vivid hallucination. They’re common with concussions and injuries of your type.” Flashes of light moved back and forth across his eyes. The doctor held his lids apart and peered at his pupils.
“He’s regaining consciousness. The swelling of the lining of the brain seems to be going down as a result of the drugs. It looks like your patient is making a speedy and complete recovery. But he still needs rest.” The doctor turned slowly to face two men standing just behind him. Then all three men peered at the figure lying on the hospital bed. White bandages encircled head and face. Only the eyes were visible, with small holes for the nostrils.
“When will he be recovered enough for us to talk to him, doc?”
Matt flinched but his eyes remained closed.
“Speak quietly. His ears are very sensitive at this stage.”
“When? We can’t wait much longer.” A hushed voice with a heavy accent.
“Not now. He still needs his daily exercise and then his rest. And it will be at least one more week before we can take the bandages off.”
“But it’s been five weeks already. We need to talk with him, time is running out.” The other man moved into the bright light hanging over the steel-framed bed. His bald head glistened with sweat. They were in a small, elaborately equipped recovery room, sealed off from the rest of the clinic by large doors and armed guards.
“Maybe by the end of the week, perhaps sooner. I’ve told you a hundred times, medicine and politics don’t work on the same timetable-I’ll let you know as soon as he’s fully recovered.” And with that the surgeon ushered the two men out of the hospital room. Slowly he returned, staring at the vital signs flashing on the machines in the otherwise darkened room. Matt could sense his presence, watching, waiting.
“Where am I?” Matt aimed his words at three out of focus faces staring down at him.
“You’re in a private clinic, Dr. Richards. And, I might add, you’re recovering very nicely. Today I can take the bandages off.”
Matt slowly felt his face. Shaky hands moved cautiously back and forth, then up and down. His entire head was bandaged. “Must have been a hell of an accident.” He vaguely recalled screaming tires and Kelly slamming on the brakes. Everything else was lost behind a dense mental fog.
“Can’t you get rid of that damned Muzak? It’s driving me crazy, and God knows what it does to the rest of the patients.” The two visitors turned to each other.
“So, do I look like a codfish? And you still haven’t answered my first question. Where am I?”
“Dr. Weissman is leaving now, but we’ll be able to answer all your questions.” A heavy-set olive-skinned man faced the doctor. “We’ll call you when we need you, doctor. Stay close at hand.”
“Very well.” He left without looking back. The door secured itself automatically with a faint hydraulic hiss.
“You’re in a private hospital in the Blue Ridge mountains,” the stranger said, pulling a chair next to the bed. “It’s reserved for only the most special patients.” The motor whirred as he lowered the height of the bed so they could talk face to face. The other man, younger and taller, grabbed another chair. He slammed it down next to his partner. The heavy metal legs struck the bed frame. Matt winced at the noise.
“What’s happening….” Matt stuttered as his mushy mind slowly came to grips with the conversation.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. You haven’t seen the headlines, have you?” The younger man unlatched his briefcase. “Here, let me read it to you. It’s the Washington Post, dated February 23, the morning after.”
“After?” he muttered.
“After the accident.”
Matt tried to sit up. His body barely moved. He grunted. After a few attempts, he finally propped himself up against the thick foam hospital pillow. Closing his eyes, he listened carefully as the stranger spoke slowly and distinctly.
“Daughter of Senator Mason Stevens Killed in Drunk Driving Accident.” Matt groaned through the layers of gauze. “That’s the headlines, front page no less. Now I’ll read you the story.” He held the paper in Matt’s direct field of vision.
Ms. Kelly Stevens, 22, only child of U.S. Senator and Mrs. Mason T. Stevens of Virginia, died in a tragic single-car accident on the George Washington Parkway at approximately 11:15 P.M. last night. According to the D.C. Metro police, who arrived a short time after the accident, Ms. Stevens’ yellow Porsche Boxter apparently went out of control and swerved across the highway, crashed through a guard rail and struck a large tree. Police estimate the small sports car was traveling at excessive speed. Ms. Stevens died instantly.
Kelly Stevens, a senior at Sweet Briar College in Lynchburg, Virginia, was attending a reception for newly appointed personal physician to President Pierce, Dr. Noubar Melikian. She was accompanied by a friend, Dr. Matthew Richards, assistant professor of biology and anatomy at Sweet Briar. Dr. Richards, who was driving at the time, was also pronounced dead at the scene…
“What the hell?” Matt jerked into an upright position and tried to grab the newspaper. The other man shoved him back, restraining his arms. “God damn it. What’s going on here? And let me go, you big ape.” Matt’s head exploded with pain. He collapsed back onto the pillow.
“Relax, doc, we haven’t finished.” He cracked a tight smile. His dark skinned face seemed to glow.
Matthew Richards, 54, son of famous heart surgeon Dr. Wilson Richard, and disbarred from practicing medicine several years ago in an alcohol-related incident had a blood alcohol content of 0.25 % at the time of the accident, nearly three times the legal driving limit.
Matt grabbed the paper, the print wavering before his weak eyes as his mind absorbed the words. Shit. The pages fluttered to the floor. Somewhere in the dark distance an intercom crackled.
“Not only are you a drunk and a murderer, Dr. Richards, but you’re also legally dead. Your past is pretty messed up, and I’d say your future doesn’t look too bright either.” The older man stood up. Matt noticed coarse black hair growing out of his ears.
Matt gathered his strength, fighting back the pain. “Okay. You got my attention. Now what do you want from me? This is some sort of setup. I should have known something was up when that black car kept trying to ram us from behind.”
“Yes, that was unfortunate. We lost two good men that evening, but they did their job, forcing you to speed up for our little reception party ahead.”
“What do you want from me?” Thinking and moving were taking a toll. He felt nauseous. In a futile gesture of defiance Matt gave them the finger under his bedcovers.
The younger man got up and put his ear against the door, gave the okay signal, then sat down again. Hairy Ears spoke again. “We need your help.”
“Go to hell.”
“We want you to help us track down a terrorist cell – “
“A terrorist cell!”
