Chapter Thirty-Six
It’s the fireplace that fools him. When Randall Shane first awakens his eyes focus on the bouquet of flowers that have been placed in the hearth-bright yellow blossoms. Mums, perhaps? — and for a while, for entire thrilling moments of anticipation, he thinks he’s in a room at the Woodstock Inn, in Vermont. Jean must be in the shower, he can hear something like water drumming, and it comes back to him, what happened last night. It’s Jean’s twenty-fifth birthday, that’s why they’ve gone to the extravagance of a weekend in Woodstock, and after they finished making love, or paused, really, Jean had plumped the pillows and sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and announced that she was pregnant. A secret she’d been keeping for a whole twenty-four hours, waiting until this special moment to share it with him.
His mind begins to clear. One of the happiest moments of his life drains away and he’s left with the awful knowledge that this isn’t the Woodstock Inn and Jean isn’t showering in the bathroom because she’s dead and gone, as is the precious child whose existence was revealed to him that night. He falls for miles, plummeting through memories that haven’t the strength to buoy him up, or soften the landing, and the pain of recollection is so overwhelming that he whimpers like a child fighting off a nightmare.
“Mr. Shane? Are you awake?”
He blinks away the tears, focuses on the young woman in the white jacket.
“I’m Dr. Gallagher. You’re being treated at Mass General, in Boston.”
“I know who you are,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, you’ve been very kind.”
“Oh?” The doctor looks surprised, but not displeased. “Do you recall our last conversation?”
He grimaces, probing his memory. “You explained about the handcuffs. They were bruising my wrist and you’d asked the sheriff’s department to have them removed and wanted to know if I was okay with a GPS ankle monitor instead. I said I was.”
The young doctor pulls a chair close to the bed and takes a seat, putting them at eye level. “Well, now, this is real progress,” she says. “Do you know that’s the first time you’ve awakened without asking who I am and where you are?”
“Really?”
“Tell me what happened to your brain.”
“My brain? My brain is very tired.”
“Yes, but what happened to make you so tired, Mr. Shane? Can you recall?”
He thinks for a moment, and the answer comes without having to search for it. “I was interrogated by professionals. Beaten and then heavily drugged. No, that’s not quite right. I was drugged, beaten, then drugged again. The drugged parts are all in a fog. Hallucinatory. I do recall a bright, blinding light and being threatened with a drill bit. No doubt I told them whatever they wanted to know.”
“Remarkable,” says the doctor.
“What?”
“The capacity of the mind to heal itself. We’d been thinking it might be months, if ever, but it appears that you’re already well on your way to recovery.”
“I feel awful.”
“The beating alone would likely leave you feeling physically depressed. And however much your mental state may be improving, it will be some weeks before you’re healed. Which means you will stay in my custody for the time being.”
“In your custody and under arrest for murder,” he says. “I didn’t do it, by the way.”
“Glad to hear it,” she says. “I don’t know much about murderers, Mr. Shane, but you certainly don’t seem like the sort of man who would kill someone in cold blood.”
“Not in cold blood,” he says, but then thinks again of his wife and daughter. “Not on purpose.”
If he hadn’t fallen asleep in the car they’d still be alive, of that he’s convinced. Over the years he’s learned to live with the knowledge, but the truth of it hasn’t changed.
“Confinement is confinement,” the doctor says. “We’ll just have to make do until this sorts itself out. That’s what your attorney promises, that she’ll eventually persuade them to drop the charges. Despite the guards at the door and the device on your ankle, I hope you’ll find your stay here tolerable. This just so happens to be one of the nicest rooms in the hospital, reserved for foreign dignitaries. It helps to be friends with Naomi Nantz, obviously.”
Shane smiles, although it makes his jaw ache to do so. “I met her once, very briefly.”
“Then you must have made quite an impression. Her people pulled a lot of very powerful strings and made sure you have everything you need. TV, books, phone, access to your legal team. Now that your mind is back we can get on with your physical therapy. Shall we say tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is good. Why am I so sleepy? I never sleep.”
“Nature’s way of healing,” the doctor says.
She’s about to add something but is stopped by his gentle snore.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
When the black hood is pulled from his head, Milton finds himself blinded by a powerful light. His hands are bound behind him, held by what feels like plastic straps. Slowly his eyes adjust. He’s inside what could be a metal shed-he can’t actually see beyond the shadow edge, outside the bright circle of light-but he can hear the faint metallic creaking of metal siding as it flexes in the wind. He’s been seated, hard enough to jar his bones, on a short three-legged stool, the kind used for milking cows. He assumes the short stool is to emphasize his insignificance. If so, it’s working-he’s never felt so small and powerless in his life. He can just make out the figure of a man looming behind the light source.
Milton has seen this kind of thing often enough in movies, as suspects are interrogated, but the actual experience is quite different. The fact that he knows these are psychological tools intended to frighten him into submission does not lessen the effect. He’s terrified. Adrenaline has so flooded his system that he’s shaking and can’t stop.
“When you got up this morning, I’ll bet you didn’t expect this to happen,” says a man from behind the light.
Taylor Gatling, Jr., he recognizes the voice.
Finding that he can’t speak, Milton shakes his head, agreeing.
“You should have. This is what happens to spies, Mr. Bean. You have been detained under authority of the Patriot Act, and if you wish to survive the experience you must cooperate. Answer truthfully and you will be released from custody. Attempt to hide, prevaricate or deceive us in any way, and you will be detained for an indefinite period. Stubborn cases languish for years. Nod if you understand.”
Milton nods.
“Good. I’m turning you over to the professionals. Make them happy.”
The figure recedes into the shadows. Another voice begins:
“Milton Franklin Bean, you are in violation of U.S. Code titles one and ten, in contravention of security act H.R. 2975, as amended to the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act of 1978 and the Electronics Privacy Act of 1986. Habeas corpus no longer applies. As such you have no right of representation, no right of notification, no right to
