Jude Hardin - The Reacher Code - Timestream 1

Jessie used her wristwatch to adjust the rate on the intravenous infusion, and then she exited the room.

Wahlman had no interest in being sent down to one of the wards, or in being transferred to Frankfort. He was starting to remember some things. Like what year it was.

2101.

He knew that for sure. But he couldn’t remember anything about his life in the United States, or how he’d gotten to Germany, or how long he’d been there, or why he’d gone there in the first place. He had no recollection of getting on an airplane, or of owning a motorcycle. It was all a big blank right now, but he figured it would start coming back to him eventually.

And he didn’t want to be stuck in a hospital in Frankfurt when it did.

He figured there must have been a reason he’d been near the base when the event that caused the amnesia occurred. Which meant that he needed to be near the base when he snapped out of it. Not an hour and a half away.

He was about to pull the IV line out of his arm when a man walked into the room.

Lab coat, shirt and tie, dark hair, mustache.

“You woke up,” the man said.

“I did,” Wahlman said.

“I’m Doctor Fredericks. How are you feeling?”

“Like a million bucks.”

Doctor Fredericks laughed.

“Probably not that good yet,” he said. “But I’m certainly glad to see that you’re awake and alert. These kinds of brain injuries can go either way sometimes.”

“I’m fine,” Wahlman said. “Just having some memory issues.”

“The nurse told me that you were. Can you tell me your name?”

“Rock Wahlman. But I only know that because Jessie told me. I don’t really remember anything about myself. I don’t remember living in the United States, and I don’t remember coming to Germany. But I do know what year it is. That came to me a while ago. So that’s a good sign, right?”

“Yes,” Dr. Fredericks said. “That is a good sign. Can you just go ahead and state that for me, so I can add it to my notes.”

“It’s twenty-one oh one,” Wahlman said. “October, I think. I’m not sure of the exact day.”

A concerned expression washed over the doctor’s face.

“Well, you got the month right,” he said. “But you’re way off on the year.”

“I am?”

“It’s the twenty-seventh of October,” Dr. Fredericks said. “Nineteen eighty-three.”

2

Wahlman felt dizzy for a few seconds. Lightheaded. As if he might be slipping back into a coma.

It passed.

Dr. Fredericks poked and prodded and shined his little flashlight in Wahlman’s eyes. He listened to his heart and his lungs and his bowel sounds, and he looked at his ears and his throat. He said that everything was fine but that he wanted to keep Wahlman in the ICU for at least one more night, in case of a relapse. Then he would sign off on Wahlman’s chart and send him down to a regular bed, where the staff would work on getting him transferred to Frankfurt as soon as possible. If everything went well, Wahlman could expect to be discharged home in a week to ten days.

Wahlman had no intention of remaining hospitalized for a week. Or ten days. Or even for the rest of the night. Not going to happen.

But he decided to play along for now.

“I have no idea where home is,” he said.

“You will know by then,” Dr. Fredericks said. “And if you don’t, you won’t be discharged. But I think you will know.”

“Can you ask someone to bring me some water?”

“Of course. I’ll be back to check on you in the morning. Be sure to call your nurse if you start experiencing any dizziness or changes in vision.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Dr. Fredericks exited the room. Jessie came a few minutes later with a plastic pitcher and a plastic drinking cup and a flexible straw.

“Just some small sips at first,” she said. “If you tolerate the water okay, I’ll bring you some broth in a little while.”

“Where’s my motorcycle?” Wahlman asked.

“Security Forces has it.”

“Security Forces?”

“That’s what the Air Force calls their military police. There should be an ownership chit in the vault downstairs, along with your clothes and your other personal belongings.”

“I want to see all that stuff,” Wahlman said.

“Don’t worry. It’s all there.”

“I’m thinking it might help me to remember some things.”

Jessie nodded.

“That might actually be a good idea,” she said. “I’ll call down and get someone to bring everything up to the room for you. How’s your headache?”

“Still pretty bad.”

“I’ll bring some medicine for you.”

“Thanks.”

Jessie brought some acetaminophen tablets and some broth, which tasted like salty dishwater. She told Wahlman to give her a call if he needed anything. Otherwise, she would be back to check on him before the end of the shift.

There was a big round clock on the wall. Wahlman watched the seconds tick by. There was nothing else to do. No television, no radio, nothing to read. He guessed that ICU patients didn’t generally require a lot of entertainment.

Jessie came in and checked on him at 10:30. He told her that his headache was better. At 10:37 a guy wearing camouflaged fatigues and a semi-automatic pistol walked into the room carrying a garment bag and a zippered pouch. The pouch was beige. There was a stamp on it that said 86 thSecurity Forces Squadron. The guy inventoried everything inside of it and everything inside the garment bag, checked it all off on a slightly blurry photocopied list he’d brought with him, handed the list to Wahlman and asked him to sign it.

“Just tell your nurse to give me a call when you’re finished looking at everything,” the guy said. “I’ll take it back down to the vault for you.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Wahlman looked at the stuff in the garment bag first. There was a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket. Black leather boots and a pair of heavy cotton socks. The clothes appeared to be brand new. They didn’t look like they’d been in a motorcycle accident. Except for the socks. They looked like they might have been used in a baseball game, to brush the dirt off of home plate.

Wahlman wondered about the helmet Jessie had mentioned. He figured Security Forces had probably kept it with the bike. Wherever that was.

He unzipped the pouch and dumped the contents onto the bedside table. There was a wallet and a wristwatch and a keyring with one key on it, and some cash held together with a gold money clip. He strapped the wristwatch onto his left wrist. It was a diver’s watch. Water resistant up to 150 meters. Automatic. Which meant that it used the motion of the person wearing it to wind itself. Which meant that it had stopped. There was a tiny rectangular calendar display where the dot for the three would have been. It said Oct 25. Wahlman fiddled with the stem, moved the date forward two days and set the time to match the clock on the wall. There was some kind of button on the stainless steel housing next to the stem, but Wahlman didn’t know what it did so he left it alone.

He figured the key was for the motorcycle.

He thumbed through the cash. Deutsche Marks. Several hundreds, and a twenty, and a ten, and some ones. Which was meaningless to Wahlman. He had no idea how much the money was worth.

He opened the wallet. The ownership chit for the motorcycle was in the money slot, along with one for the helmet. The bike was a 1951 Triumph Trophy. No apparent damage. Full tank of gas. The chit for the helmet only said that it was full-face and black.

There was a foil envelope stuffed down into one of the credit card slots. It looked like one of those packets you get with a wet wipe in it when you go out for barbecue or fried chicken. It was white and the letters RTL had been stamped on it with red ink. Wahlman had no idea what the letters stood for. He massaged the packet between his thumb and forefinger, trying to assess the contents. It felt like pills. Two round tablets and a capsule. One of the tablets was bigger than the other.