he wouldn’t draw attention.
The cars passed and he stood there in the silent black, a flash in one hand, the pistol in the other. The only sound was that of the crickets. He sprayed the trees again with light. Nothing.
But he hadn’t imagined the car being lowered on him.
He inspected the jack. It was still in place, but the tire iron was gone. He had used it to crank up the car and thought he had left it on the ground by the jack. But it wasn’t there. Maybe he’d brought it with him when he slid under the car. He dropped to one knee and shone the flash under the car. No tire iron.
As he pulled himself up, he heard that whispery voice again.
By reflex, he shot in that direction. The explosion filled the night air, and in the flash of the gun, he saw a hooded figure like the Grim Reaper.
“Wh-who are you?”
In a flicker of light, a blackened figure stood with the raised tire iron in hand. Before Mitch could scream, it crashed down on his head.
59
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Disembodied voices through the fog.
He could not answer. He cracked open his eyes against the bright ceiling lights. He rolled his head, taking in stacks of electronic equipment, computer monitors, the desks, shelves of books. Faces of the lab scientists and technicians. But across his mind flashed images of a black metal tire iron smashing the head of some faceless guy in the shadows.
In disconnected image bursts, he saw the curved bend of steel whack the man on the crown, then again on the back of the neck, then the man crumpling to the ground like a broken marionette.
Someone said something to him, and he stooped over the man’s body and smashed him again on the shoulder and his rib cage until he no longer moved.
He didn’t answer but kicked the man so that he rolled over, one knee raised to his chest, the other leg broken at a weird angle on the ground.
He shook his head and stomped on the guy’s chest … again and again until he felt the rib bones crack into his lungs and blood spurted from his mouth and nose.
He touched his left side where the bullet had entered. It was still tender in the area of his liver. But remarkably, there was no blood.
He did not respond, but the gunshot rang in his head.
Somebody handed him a bottle of water. The pretty woman with the short auburn hair. He drank from the bottle and looked around the room stupidly at all the equipment and the four people glaring at him.
Another woman asked him his name. He couldn’t remember. He was too intent on getting away.
Once again he heard the older woman say, “Do you remember your name?”
And he heard himself whisper, “I don’t know.”
“Your name is Zachary Kashian. Remember?”
For maybe a full minute in real time, he stared at nothing. His head was clearing of the attack. He drank more water, hoping to flush away recall.
Then the moment came back to him.
The brightly lit room—the people, computers, beeping monitors, IV drips, oxygen tanks, cabinets, defibrillators, medical cabinets, shelves. He looked at them, the fading images leaving him spent and trembling.
“You were in suspension, remember?” Sarah said. Sarah Wyman.
He nodded.
They had put him under again. They had flatlined him and sent him someplace awful that left his mind full of venom and his side aching.
“Want to go home.” His voice was a jagged whisper.
“Of course, but we’d like to ask you a few questions first.” The older woman. Dr. Luria.
“Only because the experience may still be fresh in your mind.”
Sarah brought him a bolster, and he lay back on it. He felt too spent to protest.
Dr. Luria pulled a chair beside the gurney while Dr. Cates turned on the video camera.
“Zack, do you remember anything from being under? Anything at all? Where you were? What you were doing? Who was with you?”
“No.”
“Do you remember where you were? Any sense of place?”
“No.”
“Or what you may have been doing?”
He shook his head. He could see from the expression on Dr. Luria’s face that she was not happy with his responses.
“Take your time and think. I know you’re still a bit foggy. But relax and search your memory.”
He closed his eyes as if he were rummaging through his memory banks. That was the last thing he wanted— to be back on that night road. All he wanted was for this to be over so he could leave and never come back. They were screwing up his brain.
Sarah could see him struggling and suggested that he go to the restroom to change and freshen up. She helped him off the gurney, and he headed for the toilet with his clothes.
When he returned he felt better, his mind less raw. He decided to play dumb so they’d let him go. But Luria and Morris Stern were waiting for him, like twin vultures on a tree branch. Sarah handed him a mug of coffee.
Luria sat at her desk and Stern next to her by the computer monitor. The others were standing on the sidelines. Zack took a seat to face them.
“Feel better?” Luria asked.
He just grunted.
She nodded, then kicked into interrogation mode. “Zack, let me go back and start again. Do you recall any sense of the locale?”
“No.” Something flitted across her face, as if she knew he was lying.
“Were you outside? On a beach? In a room? Woodlands? Just some sense of the setting?”
He shook his head and felt a twinge on his left side.
“Okay. Any sense of the presence of other people?”
“No.” He could hear the hollowness of his own response.
“Don’t rush your answers. Think, try to relax and recall the experience.”
He looked at Sarah, whose eyes were large and glaring at him. The same with the others. The room seemed to be holding its breath. He nodded at the computers. “What does it show?”
