Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

The moment was timeless-no, it was of a different time. It was before Fort Benning and the Sandbox, before the man-boy shackled to an outhouse and Abibas and a helicopter that capsized four feet above a dune. Before death notifications and a failure of will in the car outside Charles’s childhood home. Before nightmares and ghosts and a Westwood apartment with two photographs thumbtacked to the wall. Before safe-deposit boxes and interrogation rooms and oversize footprints in the back lawn. Before neurologists and little white pills and a body that slowly and unpredictably betrayed him.

But of course it wasn’t.

The muscle beneath his cheek rippled-a tiny bout of fasciculation-and Janie’s eyes tracked down to it. Her breathing changed, ever so slightly. The mood, taking a turn, paradise interrupted by a twinge of the flesh. The illness had brought him home again, but it also meant that he wouldn’t be able to stay.

His voice was husky. “I’m gonna die,” he told her.

Her fingertips were at his face, fording his lips. “I don’t care.”

“Do you have any idea how awful this is gonna get?”

“I don’t care.” Her mouth trembled, then firmed with anger. “Your eyes can dry up and you can stop talking and lie there choking on fluid in your lungs-I don’t care.” She clutched at him, her nails digging into the skin beneath his collarbone. “You can stop swallowing and have a ventilator rammed down your throat and … and barely be able to blink, but I still want you there. Dying. For me. I don’t care. I don’t care. ”

She lowered her damp forehead to his chest and kept it there for a time. He held her and looked at the stars outside and thought how they’d be there the morning after he died and the morning after that. He stroked her back, and she fell asleep on him, and half his body went numb from the weight of her, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t want to waste a single instant of it.

Finally she stirred and shifted off him, raising her sleep-heavy face. “I don’t mean it,” she said.

He ran his fingers gently down her back and up again. “I know.”

Nate slept hard and awakened new. Beside him the quilt was flipped back to empty sheets; Janie had slipped out, letting him sleep. With wonder he flexed his hands, rotated his feet, clenched his jaw. Hints of weakness, minor aches. Not perfect, but a world better.

Standing, he stretched, straining for the ceiling, fingers spread, pushing as far and high as his body allowed. It felt divine. The drug interaction had given him a preview of the future. Testing the strength in his hands again, he realized that he now had a brief window before the decline happened again and with finality.

He vowed not to waste it.

He paced outside, nose to his cell phone, searching out a signal. Mistaking this for play, Casper ran at his side, thwacking Nate’s legs with his tail. Nate wound up in the center of the footbridge, where two bars materialized and a third flickered moodily. The stream below was as clear as air, the rocks of the bed vibrant with mossy greens. He sent a text to Abara that simply read YOU THERE? and seconds later got an answer: CALL ME IN TWENTY. And a phone number.

He wandered back inside, where his father handed him a cup of coffee, the morning newspaper, and a plate full of fresh blueberry pancakes. The rustic Martha Stewart routine continued to surprise the hell out of Nate, but he had to concede that years of living alone had made his father proficient in the kitchen.

Nate took a sip of coffee, closed his eyes into the pleasure of it, then handed the mug back. “I can only drink decaf now.”

His father frowned at the curiousness of this but asked nothing. Janie was in the shower, the kids up in the loft. The hushed teenage voices were pleasant enough, though experience had shown that a petty argument was likely to erupt at any second.

Nate ate and swallowed his riluzole, glancing at the newspaper’s subtle headline: HOSPITAL MASSACRE. He scanned down, finding little in the way of helpful information. Unidentified shooter, two dead, multiple injuries, all survivors now stable. No mention of Nate or Janie; the agency was probably withholding information for the investigation. Beneath the fold, photos showed the nurse who had manned the front station and the security guard. The two black-and-white pictures held Nate’s attention.

What little regard Misha-and Pavlo-had shown for these lives. Obstacles to be obliterated in their pursuit. Scorched earth was right. With Nastya’s suicide it seemed that every restraint and objective had fallen away; Pavlo wanted nothing now except vengeance.

From habit Nate flipped to the obituaries and was surprised to see the same photograph of the nurse reproduced there. Luanne Dupries’s dedication to her profession and her leadership at the community level within the California Nurses Association were an inspiration to her many friends and colleagues. Nate’s fingernail underscored the last two sentences.

Luanne is survived by her immediate family: her parents, brother, son, daughter-in-law, and nieces and nephews. She is also survived by her fiance and his four children.

Before her senseless death, Luanne Dupries had made a mark. She had been well loved, and she’d be missed. Nate made her a silent apology, tapped her photograph respectfully, and headed for the bridge with his cell phone.

A host of messages dating back a few days-Sergeant Jen Brown making clear he’d better get his ass in to sign that paperwork, several reporters who had somehow gotten ahold of his number, a few friends inquiring about the news story on the bank robbery. He deleted them all and made the call.

Abara wasted no time. “The fuck happened?”

“It’s a conversation.”

“Ya think? A hospital raid like something outta Fallujah. Have you seen the news reports on this thing?”

“No, actually.”

“It’s a big deal. Comment from the mayor and police chief, the whole nine.”

“Can you connect it to Shevchenko?”

“Of course not. We pulled security footage. The shooter’s a guy who doesn’t even exist. ” Some muffled noise. “Hang on.… Okay. Sorry. It’s all confusion right now, but at least eyewitness reports have you pegged as a victim. I think the DA and lead investigators are beginning to understand, now, the stakes. Why you did what you had to do-including the airplane threat.”

Nate shot a breath at the cold sky. “So I’m off the hook.”

“Not quite, not yet, but things are tilting that direction. You still got a lot to answer for, but I’m working on it.”

“Is there an arrest warrant out on me?”

“No. You’re wanted for some serious fucking questioning, obviously, but that’s not even the main concern. We can’t have you guys running around out there with what Pavlo and his boys are willing to do. This thing’s quickly escalating. What if they catch you in a shopping mall?”

“We weren’t exactly planning a trip to Crate and Barrel-”

“You know what I mean. We need to keep you safe to keep the public safe. In-house it’s opened up the discussion again about protection. You and I need to figure out how to bring you in and negotiate all this so you guys are protected. Keep your damn phone on today. Let me be your guide through the shitstorm.”

The line disconnected. Nate stared at the phone. Then he went inside to update everyone on the semi-good news. Tidying up in the background, his father took it in quietly, murmuring the occasional mm-hmm, and Nate gleaned that Janie had brought him up to speed on the other fronts as well. When Nate laid out Abara’s plan, Janie and Cielle radiated a nervous hopefulness that scared him a little. It didn’t yet feel safe to believe that their lives could turn normal again. That they could find some shelter and protection from the chaos, find a way back inside the world they knew.