Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

Jack was shocked and offended at the question, at the intimacy this man invaded.

“Give me the box.”

Jack looked at the four cops, their guns trained on them.

Jack stepped away from the ledge. He didn’t lower his gun as he spun left toward the north bulkhead. Cristos moved in sync with him, turning as he turned, stepping as he stepped. Jack looked toward the cops. He couldn’t allow the case to fall into their hands, either. The FBI was after it, Cristos was after it, and who knew how many others were under its spell trying to get hold of it.

“Will you release her?” Jack asked. “Let her go unharmed?”

Cristos stared at the box. “I give you my word, I’ll let her go.”

Jack looked into his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he saw a moment of honesty or the shadow of a lie. But he realized that with the cops closing in, his choices were limited.

Jack laid the box down next to the open bulkhead door, his eyes filled with defeat. Cristos kept his gun trained on Jack as he reached down, collecting his prize.

Jack watched as Cristos disappeared down the stairs, clutching the case under his arm. Two of the cops raced after him, but Jack knew they would never catch him and live.

The two remaining cops approached Jack, their guns aimed high.

“Drop your weapon!” the lead cop screamed.

“Now!” the young rookie shouted.

Jack released the pistol and watched it clatter to the roof deck.

And the two cops were on him, grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling his arms behind his back, and throwing him violently to the ground. Jack’s knees hit first, but with his hands behind his back and nothing to brace his continuing fall, his head hit the surface with a violent snap.

His vision filled with blackness as the sounds of the city disappeared and he was enveloped in an unconscious nightmare.

Jack looked around, lost, confused. He lay in a strange bed. A man stood over him, tall and broad. A scar wiggled its way down the left side of his neck; he had the countenance of someone who had seen battle on more than one occasion. But despite the rough exterior, there was a sadness in his eyes.

“Jack?” the man whispered.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

The man placed his finger to his lips. “Not too loud. Listen very carefully to me. I’ve got only a moment.” The man paused. “Hold on to your mind, or you won’t be able to save Mia.”

Jack awoke with a start and stared around the room. The white walls were cushioned, and there wasn’t a single corner or sharp angle in the ten-by-twenty space.

A tube ran into his left arm, the IV drip infusing him with a tired warmth. His chest and arms were wired up, although the monitors were nowhere in sight. A curtain was drawn across what he imagined was a large window to the outside world.

A large leather strap wrapped his chest, not enough to constrict his breath but enough to constrict his escape. Smaller, equally constraining bands wrapped his wrists.

The mental ward of the Tombs occupied the entire fifth floor of the west wing, isolated and unknown to most. Used for the insane, the mentally disturbed, sometimes the perfect place to tuck a VIP, isolating him from scrutiny while matters were sorted out, it was also the facility for evaluations by court-appointed psychiatrists. It was a place far worse than any cell, as not only were you locked up and tethered to your bed, but your release depended on both the judicial system and the far more subjective medical community, where the inexact science of psychiatry could condemn you for life.

As Jack lay there, he fought off panic. He had gotten so close to finding Mia, yet now, having been captured, he couldn’t be farther away. There were no clocks; his watch was gone, leaving him with no concept of time.

The thought drew his eyes to his left forearm, where he was surprised to see it encased in a thick white bandage, entirely obscuring his tattoo.

“Mr. Keeler.” A blond nurse, big-boned and smiling, greeted Jack. She sat quietly in the corner, where she was practically invisible. She rose from her chair and walked over, her warm smile never leaving her face. “I’m so glad to see you awake. I’m Susan Meeks.”

Jack nodded as she leaned over to shine a light in his eyes, checking his pupils. “How long have I been out?”

“Not long, an hour maybe. It’s just past eleven o’clock.” Meeks took Jack’s pulse, fluffed his pillow, and tucked his blankets in without any regard to his restraints. “We took the liberty of bandaging the injury to your left arm-”

“Injury?” Jack asked with confusion as he looked at the heavy bandage on his arm.

“-and redressed your shoulder wound.”

Before Jack had a chance to respond, the door opened and man in a dark suit entered. He stood ramrod-straight, what little hair he had on his head military bristle length. He avoided eye contact with Jack as he read through a single manila folder in his hand. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, although there was no exhaustion apparent in his body language. He glanced at Nurse Meeks, who immediately left. He closed the door behind her, silently walked to the bed, and finally snapped shut the folder.

“Mr. Keeler?” The man’s voice was deep and without sympathy. “What did you take from the evidence room?”

Jack was amazed at the question, at the right-to-the-point approach. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Gene Tierney, deputy director, New York field office of the FBI,” Tierney answered in a staccato cadence.

“I have permitted access and confidential files down there pursuant to ongoing investigations, which are privileged.”

“I don’t believe the eight dead people down there care about your privileged information.”

“They were shot by others.”

“Who?”

Jack glared at the man, at his brisk and brusque interrogation style. Jack did not like being on the other end of an interrogation, particularly when he believed in what he did.

“What was in the box that you stole?” Tierney pressed.

“Stole? I didn’t steal anything.”

“Witnesses would care to differ.”

“I’m trying to save my wife.”

Tierney’s rapid-fire questions abruptly stopped as he pondered Jack’s statement. It was a moment before he slowly asked, “What do you mean, save her?”

“A man by the name of Nowaji Cristos kidnapped her. He is going to kill her.”

Tierney stared at Jack, his face a mass of confusion at Jack’s statement.

To Jack’s surprise, the door opened, and standing there was his doctor, Ryan McCourt, a thick medical file under his arm. With him was an elderly female in a white gown with a stethoscope.

Ryan glared at the agent. “Excuse me, no one is authorized to speak with this man until he’s been examined.”

Tierney stared back, but the battle of wills never manifested. The agent walked out the open door, letting it close behind him.

“Jack,” Ryan said softly as he turned, having trouble meeting his friend’s eyes, suddenly lost for words.

“Hi, Jack,” the woman said as she brushed a few gray strands of hair from her care-worn face. “My name is Dr. Emily Sebert.”

She took a seat on the bed, then paused, allowing Jack to get comfortable with her presence before laying a gentle hand on his feet. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Jack slowly nodded, although his emotions were anything but.

“I thought you were dead,” Ryan said. “I saw what was left of your car.”

Jack nodded.

“A lot of crazy accusations are being thrown around.”

“Honestly,” Jack said, “I couldn’t give a shit.”

Ryan nodded, understanding Jack’s attitude. He waited a moment, allowing a comfort to grow. “Look, you’re under my care for the moment, doctor-patient confidentiality. You want to fill me in on what happened?”