David Robbins - Boston Run

“Can we take Bobby for a walk?” the father asked Milton.

“Not today, I’m afraid,” the physician replied.

“When?” Trish inquired.

“Perhaps in two or three days. Remember, he’s been in a coma for three months. Your brother might look fit as the proverbial fiddle, but we don’t want to push him. We don’t want him to overstep his limits before we ascertain exactly what his limits are,” Doctor Milton said.

Trish glanced at Berwin. “Sorry, bro. Looks like you’re chained to your bed for a while.”

Berwin grinned and shrugged. “After three months, what’s a few more days?”

His mother took a white handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her moist eyes. “Would you like us to bring books, magazines, and newspapers on our next visit? You’ve always been an avid reader.”

“Yeah,” added his father. “I always thought you’d become a college professor, not involved in construction.”

“You know Bobby likes to work outdoors,” Trish said.

“What do you like to do?” Berwin asked her.

“Me? Oh, I like to date hunks. I like seafood, and I adore skiing.”

“You’re not married?”

Trish chuckled. “Not yet, thank goodness. I haven’t met the man yet worth giving up my freedom for.”

A thought occurred to Berwin and he did a double take. “I never thought to ask. Am I married?”

“No,” Trish responded. “You were once, but she left you.”

“What was her name?”

Trish glanced at Doctor Milton, who nodded. “Her name was Crystal.”

“Where is she now?”

“Who knows? Who the hell cares?” Trish replied. “She and you split up about four years ago. I never did care for her. Too snooty for my tastes.

Good riddance, I say.”

Berwin stared into her eyes. “Did we have any children?”

“Nope. You wanted to have kids but she didn’t.”

Berwin digested the information, aware of being the focus of attention for everyone in the room. “Describe Crystal for me.”

“She’s got blonde hair, like me,” Trish said. “Her eyes are green, I think.

She’s attractive, if you like her type.” She deliberately emphasized the last word distastefully.

The description matched the woman in his dream, Berwin realized. So he’d been dreaming about his former wife. It was strange, though, that he hadn’t experienced any lingering resentment or hostility toward her.

Wouldn’t such a reaction be normal if his wife had ditched him?

If?

Berwin grinned. There he went again, venting his unfounded suspicions. Why couldn’t he just accept what everyone told him at face value?

“What’s so funny?” Trish asked.

“Nothing,” Berwin said, shaking his head. “How long can you stay today? I want to hear all about myself.”

“We’ll stay until they shoo us out,” his mother said.

Doctor Milton stepped forward. “Uhhhh, I hate to nip this meeting in the bud, but you’ll only be able to remain for another minute or two,” he informed them.

“What?” Trish responded angrily. “Why can’t we hang around for a few hours, at least?”

“Because I don’t want to unduly stress your brother,” Doctor Milton said. “I warned you earlier that the reunion would have to be brief.”

“But I’m fine,” Berwin said. “They don’t have to go.”

“Yes, they do,” the physician insisted.

“What about tomorrow?” the mother inquired.

“Tomorrow afternoon you can visit for an hour.”

“That’s all?”

“Sorry,” Doctor Milton said. He nodded at the nurse.

Berwin’s father sighed and placed his right hand on Berwin’s shoulder.

“We’d stay if we could. You understand that?”

The giant nodded.

“This isn’t fair,” his mother remarked bitterly.

“Life isn’t fair, Mom,” Trish said.

Nurse Krittenbauer stood near the door. She motioned at the doorway and frowned. “I’m sorry, folks, but you’ll have to leave now. Doctor’s orders.”

“Wait for me out in the hallway,” Doctor Milton requested.

The father, mother, and daughter each hugged Berwin, promised him they would be back the next day, and departed.

“How do you feel?” Doctor Milton asked when they were gone.

“I don’t remember any of them,” Berwin answered sadly.

“Don’t expect a miracle,” Doctor Milton said. “We have our work cut out for us before your memory returns.”

Berwin slumped onto the bed.

“I do have some good news for you,” Milton mentioned.

“What?” Berwin responded, sounding totally disinterested.

“Your parents brought some of your own clothes for you to wear. The clothes will be kept at the nurse’s station overnight, and tomorrow morning you can put them on.”

“Thanks,” Berwin mumbled.

“Are you going to mope all night?”

“Maybe.”

“A positive attitude does wonders for the disposition and promotes healing,” Doctor Milton stated. “If you succumb to the doldrums, if you let the amnesia get the better of you, you’ll delay your recovery.”

“I’ll try to cheer up,” Berwin said.

“Hang in there,” Doctor Milton advised, and walked into the corridor.

He saw the others standing at the junction and he hurried to them, grinning triumphantly.

“Did he fall for our act?” Trish asked.

“Hook, line, and sinker,” Milton told them.

“Our superiors will be very pleased,” the mother commented.

“Let’s not become overconfident,” the father advised. “Don’t forget who we’re dealing with.”

“A few more days and we might have the information. Then we can end this charade,” Milton said.

“What will they do with him after they get the information?”

Krittenbauer inquired.

“What do you think?” Trish replied, and snickered.

Doctor Milton glanced back at the giant’s room. “I certainly wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”

He was crouched on a low, stout limb six feet above the narrow game trail, his leg and thigh muscles coiled to spring, a black machete held in each hand. His brown eyes locked on the ten-point buck approaching from the west and he froze.

The buck paused and sniffed the cool morning air uncertainly, displaying the innate caution that had enabled the animal to reach full maturity in a land overrun with predators. It studied the sprawling maple tree directly ahead, then gazed at the small pond 20 feet beyond the tree.

Thirst compelled it to move forward, its keen ears straining to detect the presence of flesh-eaters.

Poised and ready, the man in the tree waited patiently, seemingly sculpted from stone. His black hair had been cropped into a crew cut. His eyebrows, nose, and lips were all thin, lending a hard, almost cruel aspect to his countenance. A short-sleeved brown khaki shirt, brown pants, and brown leather boots, all crafted to fit by the Family Weavers, covered his six-foot-tall frame. In addition to the matched machetes, he had a pair of SIG/SAUER P226’s around his slim waist, one auto pistol in a flapped holster on each hip.

A robin winged by overhead, and the buck paused to idly observe the bird.

The man remained immobile.

With a bob of its antlers the buck came on, ambling ever nearer to the pond. Many times the white-tailed deer had quenched its thirst at that drinking hole, and not once had danger been present.

This day would be different.

The man in the tree noted every step the buck took. He felt no particular pleasure at what he was about to do. Despite their characteristic wariness, deer seldom bothered to look up into the trees for a lurking threat because they were rarely attacked from above. So the routine kill he was about to make did not pose any challenge to his finely honed skills. It was a simple matter of slaying game to put meat on tables at the Home.