Carbines and Capacitors 12/14
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Chapter 12
Segue
Cheyenne woke in an unfamiliar bed in a twilit room he didn’t recognize. At first he wasn’t sure what he’d dreamed or where he was, but then he saw both his gun belt and his shoulder holster on the nightstand beside him and realized that he was still fully dressed in the new suit from Mr. Finch. That woke him up enough to conclude that he must still be in Reese’s hideout in Morningside Heights. Then Sam walked in, which was confirmation enough.
“Mornin’,” he said groggily.
“Evening,” she corrected and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’ve been out cold all day. You haven’t been sleeping well lately, have you?”
He sighed and sat up. “Reckon I haven’t, not since I told Collier ’bout the Little Bighorn.”
“Nightmares?”
He nodded.
“Ever talk to anyone about it?”
“Once. Army tried to railroad Marc Reno for not gettin’ to Custer in time. I hate the man, but I couldn’t stand by and let ’em do that to ’im when I was the only white man who saw the whole battle.” He shook his head. “Col. Bell tried to twist everything I said, but Gen. Sheridan believed me. Not sure anyone else would, though.”
“About what happened or about the nightmares?”
“Well… both, I reckon, but mostly about what happened. Dull Knife was the one who ordered me bound to my horse to watch the fight, and he remembered me later, but I couldn’t exactly call him as a witness.”
She nodded. “No wonder you’ve got PTSD.”
He frowned. “I’ve got what?”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder. It wasn’t called that until the 1970s. I think in the Civil War, it was called soldier’s heart.”
His frown deepened. “I’ve never had heart trouble.”
“That’s just one of the ways it can manifest. Basically, when you’ve been through something seriously traumatic-and being forced to watch Custer’s last stand definitely qualifies-your brain doesn’t always bounce back from that, and one of the most common symptoms in veterans is nightmares. It can happen to anyone, especially people who’ve seen combat. Reese is pretty much a textbook case. I think Finch has it, too, at least about Root.”
“And you?”
She shrugged. “Never cared enough.”
He was reasonably sure that wasn’t true, but if she did have this… PTST or whatever it was, the Axis II whatchamacallit probably made it look different. He could easily believe that she didn’t have nightmares about combat.
“Anyway.” She slapped his knee to emphasize the change of subject. “Carter’s just about done swearing out warrants, and Reese is almost back with his car. Finch is throwing a party at the new safe house to celebrate. And he wants you there specifically.”
He ducked his head and smiled a little. “Don’t feel like I did much.”
“What, besides coming up with the escape route and acting the hell out of that scene on the boat?” When his embarrassed smile grew a little, she leaned forward. “Dude, you got the biggest cockroach of them all. Quinn was the boss, but Simmons was the brains, and he’d already managed to escape two federal dragnets. The Feds will have the last handful of foot soldiers within the hour, but if you hadn’t shot Simmons, odds are he’d still be out there gunning for you and Carter and Reese. And there’s a very good chance he’d have managed to kill at least one of you.”
“Did Root tell you that?” he asked, remembering the plea she’d passed on from the Machine.
She shook her head. “She didn’t have to. I heard enough from Fusco.”
He nodded; he’d forgotten that Fusco had been undercover with HR before the first round-up.
“Root won’t be there tonight, by the way,” she continued. “Finch still doesn’t want her leaving the library, but she says the Machine wants her there anyway, at least until Samaritan’s dealt with. I think Finch is giving her a cupcake with her tea or something so she doesn’t totally miss out.”
“She was a lot more help than I thought she’d be.”
“Yeah, me, too. I mean, I know how she works when she’s off the leash, but she was remarkably not-weird last night.”
“Except for that joke she kept tryin’ to make….”
“Oh, the Francisco Franco thing?”
“Yeah. What was that all about?”
“I’ll explain while we eat.” She slapped his knee again. “Fresh coffee’s almost ready, and Reese is bringing us both steak and eggs.”
He smiled and threw back his covers. “Sounds great.”
At least it’s a small gathering, John thought as he looked around the living room of the new safe house. He knew how to schmooze, but he’d never really been a party person. Apparently, neither were Fusco and Bodie, who were off in a corner discussing baseball. If the Homicide Task Force had been throwing this party, odds were that the three of them would have spent the whole evening griping about the food and not talking to anyone but each other. (Well, Bodie might not be picky about the food-John still remembered the raw calf liver comment. That was an Apache thing, it seemed.)
But fortunately for all concerned, they were not at the Eighth Precinct. Finch was the host, and not only were the food and drinks guaranteed to be good, so was the company. Laskey had brought his fiancée Anya, with Finch’s blessing, but they were the only people here John didn’t know well enough to be comfortable with. John thought he knew the real reason Finch had let Anya come, but he didn’t want to spoil the surprise. Otherwise, it was just the team. Zoe had said she had a previous engagement, and it was a school night, so Lee Fusco and Taylor Carter were staying home.
His thoughts were interrupted by Shaw crowing, “And here she is, the woman of the hour!” and opening the door to let Carter enter like a rock star. And oh, did she look like a rock star! Gone was the street-duty uniform; gone were the evidence-hunting civvies; gone was the grief-worn anger that had haunted her for the last six months. She had her rank restored and was back in one of the suits she used to wear for that role, and her smile at everyone’s cheering applause was so bright, John would swear she was actually glowing.
The knot in his chest that had formed when he’d found out she was going after HR alone finally began to loosen. She was here and Simmons was dead. The world couldn’t afford to lose her, and it wouldn’t be losing her tonight. And neither would he.
Carter made a little speech thanking everyone for their help and managed to thoroughly embarrass Bodie in the process, though in an Aw, shucks, ma’am sort of way and not a Shaw has no filters way. She even got Fusco to blush a little in the same way. Then came a round of toasts, mainly to friendship and teamwork and their many benefits; if anyone but John noticed that Bodie drank them with coffee instead of champagne, they didn’t mention that or the fact that Fusco was drinking his with club soda.
At the end of the toasts, Laskey said, “Guess I have to find a new FTO now.”
Carter laughed and shook her head. “You’re turnin’ into a better cop than you think you are, Laskey. You’ll be all right.”
“But on that subject, Officer,” said Finch, “I have a gift for you and Anya.”
Laskey blinked and set down his empty glass. “For us?”
Finch drew two manila envelopes out of his inside jacket pocket. “Your role in this whole affair may… lead to tensions within the NYPD and within the Russian community, or at least that part of it still sympathetic to the Bratva. As Det. Carter says, you have a good future ahead of you-but perhaps not as Mr. and Mrs. Mike Laskey or even as Mr. and Mrs. Mikhail Lesnichy.” He handed one envelope to each future spouse. “Inside you’ll find a new identity, even better constructed than the federal Witness Protection Program, and enough money to establish yourselves in another state. Where you go and what you do there is entirely up to you, but I do recommend that you leave town at once, destroy your phones… and don’t look back.”
John had seen this speech coming, but given the urgency, he wondered whether Finch had gotten their numbers that afternoon. It would make sense-as the only Russian member of HR not in federal custody, Laskey could easily be seen as a traitor-but if it were so, Finch hadn’t said anything to John, and John wasn’t sure what that meant.
Laskey swallowed hard and looked at Anya, who put a hand on his arm and said, “Honestly, I think my parents would be glad to be rid of me. But they’d probably be happier this way than if we got shot up by Yogorov’s guys.”
Laskey sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. I did tell Mom not to worry too much if I disappeared for a while-after that thing with Terney, I… kinda said my goodbyes just in case. Got a lot of friends and family I’ll miss, but… but yeah, it’s better this way.” He looked down at the envelope in his hand and back at Finch. “Thank you, sir. We’ll leave now.”
Fusco proposed one last toast to their health and happiness, and after a round of handshakes, the couple did leave.
“I hope they have sense enough not to go home to pack,” Finch murmured as John walked over to him.
“Something you forgot to tell me, Finch?” John asked softly.
“No. Their numbers came in after I had already prepared the new identities and agreed to let Anya attend the party. We both know Mikhail Lesnichy could never have the fresh start he needs if he were to remain here in New York, with or without a threat to his life. Knowledge of the threat only increased the urgency of sending Mike and Anya on their way.”
John nodded his understanding.
“Hey, Shaw,” Fusco said. “Our historical friend here says he actually met Abner Doubleday.”*
“Who?” Shaw asked, confused, at the same moment a delighted Finch exclaimed, “Really?!”
Bodie grinned. “Yeah, I’ve served under Col. Doubleday a couple times.”
Finch hobbled over to join the baseball talk, and Shaw, plainly more baffled by Finch’s interest than by the unanswered question of who Doubleday was, followed. Bodie shot a wink at Carter, who chuckled and shook her head.
John caught her eye and mouthed Coffee?
Please, she mouthed back.
He motioned toward the kitchen with his head, and she followed him.
“Think I like that look better than what you wore to the nightclub,” he confessed with a wink and got out two mugs.
She chuckled again, a deeper, richer sound than the flirty giggle she’d used while pretending to seduce Bodie the night before, although it crinkled her nose and made her look ten years younger. “What, this old thing?”
“Victory. It suits you.” He poured the coffee and added cream to hers.
She laughed. “More like I’ve been up for thirty-six hours and I’m punchy as hell.”
He smiled and handed her coffee to her, and they clinked mugs and drank.
Then she looked him over. “You get any sleep?”
He nodded. “Few hours. So did Shaw. Bodie slept all day.”
“So why didn’t you?” And there was the interrogator’s look and the genuine compassion in her quiet voice, both backed now by two years’ friendship.
He sighed and looked down at his coffee. He’d had plenty of practice in resisting interrogations-resisting her interrogations-but right now, he wasn’t sure he wanted to give her a fight. By the same token, though, he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it.
“John?” she pressed.
“I had a nightmare about you.”
He wasn’t sure he’d actually said the words aloud until she set her mug on the counter and moved closer to him. “What sort of nightmare?”
Well, there was no getting out of it now. “Simmons was still alive. We were just leaving the Third Precinct. He came outta nowhere and shot you-shot us both, actually. You bled out in my arms.”
She gasped. “Oh, John.”
“It was worse than losing Jessica.” His voice was shaking, but he couldn’t stop at this point. “I’d promised to come get her, but Mark wouldn’t grant my request for leave. I didn’t get back to the States until two months after she died.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
He finally looked up and into her eyes. “But this time, I was there, I was two steps behind you, and I still couldn’t save you.”
“It was a nightmare,” she insisted. “Simmons is dead-I saw him in the morgue. I’m still alive. We’re both okay.”
“Joss….”
“No. Nuh-uh. You do not get to feel guilty about something that never happened and never will. I am right here, John.”
He set his mug beside hers and brushed her hair back from her face with one trembling hand, as if she were as fragile as one of Mom’s old porcelain dolls.
And then she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m right here,” she repeated in a whisper. “And we’ve got time. Whatever comes next, we can figure it out together.”
He let his eyes close as he returned the hug. “Together,” he whispered back, as much a promise as anything he’d ever told her.
Cheyenne was grateful to get home when the party broke up that evening and even more grateful that Mr. Finch gave everyone the rest of the week off. The few numbers that came in, mostly late shockwaves from the HR bust, were ones that could be handled with an anonymous tip to the honest lawmen in town. Cheyenne hadn’t realized how badly his sleep had become disrupted until his body responded to the sudden lack of stress by demanding that he make up for lost time. He might even have come down with a touch of flu, but he wasn’t about to call Sam to find out for sure.
Once everyone had recovered, however, Mr. Finch summoned his team to the library early Monday morning. “We don’t have a new number,” he confessed once they were all assembled, “but I thought perhaps we could act before the danger is imminent for once.”
“You talkin’ about Claypool?” Sam asked.
“Indeed, Miss Shaw.” Mr. Finch taped up a picture of a man about his own age, though considerably heavier-set and with salt-and-pepper hair and beard. “I’ve managed to locate Mr. Claypool, although I’m reasonably certain that Vigilance has not, considering that the Machine has yet to give us his number. He’s not listed in the hospital’s admission records, but I was able to locate his medical records in their database, and he’s been diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Terminal.” Something in the grim way Mr. Finch said that made Cheyenne even more convinced that Mr. Finch knew Claypool somehow. “And especially knowing what we do, I would like very much for him not to have to spend Thanksgiving in the hospital.”
Reese nodded. “Well, Shaw’s cover is obvious.”
“Yes, I’ve already taken the liberty of establishing Miss Shaw as Dr. Anne Moore, a recent transfer from New York General whose specialty is clinical oncology and palliative care.” Mr. Finch handed Sam a hospital employee badge. “You, Mr. Reese, will go in as John Campbell, evaluating the security system for a potential overhaul-that may not give you direct access to Claypool’s room, but it should allow you to go almost anywhere else Claypool could go. And you, Mr. Bodie….”
“Hope you don’t expect me to play at bein’ a doctor, sir,” Cheyenne said. “I don’t know as I could even give someone a shot.”
Mr. Finch smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s not a technical position, but it is one where your strength will be an asset.” He handed Cheyenne a hospital employee badge that read Jim Moore - Orderly.
Cheyenne nodded. During his career as a civilian scout for the cavalry, he’d had to help out in post hospitals a few times after a bad ambush or during an epidemic, so he knew more or less what being an orderly entailed. Then he noticed the surname. “Are Sam and I supposed to be brother an’ sister?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Finch. “I thought it the easiest way to account for your both starting at the same time and sharing a vehicle.”
Sam’s lips pursed as she looked Cheyenne over. “TBI,” she proclaimed. “Career military, but medically retired after you caught an IED in Helmand Province.”
“Afghanistan,” Reese explained before Cheyenne could ask. “Shaw can brief you on the way over if you’re likely to run into any veterans on Claypool’s floor.”
“I’ll check,” said Mr. Finch and limped back to his desk. “Thank you, Miss Shaw.”
“Why do I have to be medically retired?” Cheyenne asked.
“It explains why you’re working as an orderly and why you can’t drive,” Sam answered.
“Oh.” Cheyenne considered that, and it did make sense. “Well, if it helps any, I’ve served most often with the 7th Cavalry.”
“In that case, change it to Baghdad,” said Reese. “The 7th Cav didn’t deploy to Afghanistan until this time last year, so you’d still be at the VA getting treatment for a TBI severe enough to cause medical retirement.”
Mr. Finch nodded as he typed. “There don’t appear to be any recent veterans currently admitted to that hospital, but these sorts of details do make for a stronger cover story.”
“And I can tell you all about Baghdad, just in case,” Sam told Cheyenne.
Cheyenne nodded. “Thanks, I’d like to hear.”
“Your shift starts at 8,” said Mr. Finch. “Mr. Reese, your appointment is at 8:30. Oh, and….” He got up and fetched a bag from the bookshelves, then brought it to Cheyenne.
Cheyenne accepted it with a confused frown. “What’s this?”
“Your uniform. Normally the hospital would provide one for you, but under the circumstances, especially since you don’t have the right shoes….”
Even more baffled, Cheyenne opened the bag and pulled out a summer-weight short-sleeved V-necked shirt of a particularly awful shade of seafoam green. There was a also a pair of pants in the same fabric.
Sam cackled at the look on his face. “You are going to hate wearing scrubs.”
“I don’t see how I can wear ’em in this weather,” Cheyenne admitted. “It’s still above freezin’, but with the mist an’ all….”
“Oh, you are allowed to wear long underwear underneath,” said Mr. Finch. “There’s a set in there, and a jacket to wear outside.”
Cheyenne dug in the bag and found those things as well as a pair of clodhoppers that wouldn’t even cover his ankles. He had a sinking feeling that Sam was right.
“Better go change,” said Reese, checking his watch. “You won’t have time once you get there. But take your street clothes with you-we may need your hat to block cameras.”
Grumbling internally, Cheyenne went to the privy to change clothes. The longjohns weren’t so bad, but the shoes felt heavy and awkward, and the uniform didn’t look like the sort of thing one ought to be wearing in public, although he did belatedly remember people wearing something like this at the hospital he’d been taken to on his first day here. Worst of all, if the jacket wasn’t allowed while he was working inside, he had no way to conceal his shoulder holster; he had to settle for clipping his boot holster to the waistband of his longjohns. Then he clipped on his name badge, tucked his telephone into his breast pocket, packed up his other clothes, studied his reflection in the mirror, and sighed heavily as he pulled on the new jacket. It wasn’t as bad as finding out about the Machine, or even as bad as having to drive that one time… but mankind, he did not want to do this.
“Let’s go, Princess!” Sam called from outside and pounded on the door. “What’s the matter, you fall in?”
Growling, Cheyenne picked up the bag and yanked the door open. “Didn’t they teach you manners in the Marines?”
“Nope, just how to kill people.” She poked his side. “And if you’re gonna be grumpy around the patients, you’d better come up with a better reason than the fact that you hate what you’re wearing.”
“Who says I’ll be grumpy around the patients?” he asked, slinging the bag over his shoulder and following her back down the hall.
“Look, I never made a convincing doctor even when I was one. So one of us needs to have a decent bedside manner.”
“I won’t go pokin’ sore-headed bears, if that’s what you mean.”
Reese laughed as they came around the corner. Then the three of them said their goodbyes to Mr. Finch, gave Bear a few farewell scratches, and headed down to their cars. Once they were all connected by telephone and Sam had found a white coat somewhere in her car, Reese went one way to pick up doughnuts for the security staff while Sam and Cheyenne went straight to the hospital, but as she’d promised, Sam told Cheyenne as many details as she could remember about her time in Iraq, and Reese added some reminiscences of his own. Cheyenne still wasn’t sure he could locate Iraq on a map-it had still been part of the Ottoman Empire in his day-but at least he’d heard of Baghdad before. And when they got to the hospital, Sam showed him the infamous clip of “Baghdad Bob” desperately declaring that American troops were nowhere near the city as American tanks rolled past behind him, so he could understand that joke if anyone made it.
Inside, Sam and Cheyenne were directed up to the cancer ward, where they were assigned lockers in rooms off the staff lounge. Cheyenne had just enough time to stow his bag and down a cup of coffee before he was put to work delivering breakfast to the patients, and by then he was able to keep up appearances and chat pleasantly with the patients and their families, even though he still wasn’t comfortable walking around in glorified pajamas and the shoes, while they didn’t pinch or hurt, still felt all wrong on his feet and squeaked if he wasn’t careful. For her part, Sam started her initial rounds and kept up appearances reasonably well herself, at least from what little Cheyenne could see and hear.
He was only about a quarter of the way through with his deliveries when she said into her phone, “Reese, Claypool has a three-man security detail. At a guess, I’d say they’re Secret Service-definitely government.”
“On his door or in the room?” Reese asked.
“Just on his door, looks like. I’ll find out for sure when I go in for rounds in a minute.”
“If they’re just on his door, we should be able to take him out through the ceiling. I’ll make sure the crawlspace can take his weight.”
Cheyenne tuned them out in favor of continuing his deliveries. He had less to talk to each patient about than Sam did, though, and some of the patients were barely awake and not in a talkative mood, so he soon passed her and ended up getting to Claypool’s room ahead of her. The fact that the rooms on either side of Claypool’s were empty and that there were only storage closets and a break room across the hall shortened Cheyenne’s route.
“Mornin’,” he said with a nod as he walked up to the guards and lifted the cover from Claypool’s plate for their inspection. “Did you need to taste-test, or is this enough?”
One of the guards, a young dark-haired fellow whose nametag read Easton, glanced at the plate and then up at Cheyenne with the air of not being used to being shorter than anyone. “I haven’t seen you on this floor before,” he said in the same tone as certain commanders used to demand that Cheyenne call them sir.
“Don’t reckon you have,” Cheyenne returned, not about to give this pup the satisfaction of his taking offense, and covered the plate again. “Just transferred over from New York General. Today’s my first day.”
Easton frowned. “Why would an orderly transfer between hospitals?”
“My kid sister.” Cheyenne nodded down the hall toward where Sam was just coming out of a patient room. “I went into the Army to pay for her schoolin’, but I got my bell rung pretty good by an IED while I was in Baghdad. So now she looks after me. We’re a package deal-where she goes, I go.”
“What outfit were you with?”
“First Squadron, Seventh Cavalry.” Cheyenne only just remembered Reese’s warning to say squadron instead of battalion.
Easton’s eyes narrowed, but he let Cheyenne pass.
“Mornin’, Mr. Claypool,” Cheyenne said as he entered the room, noticing as he did so that the guards stayed outside and that there was only one bed in the room.
Claypool, who’d been staring out the window, roused and looked over at Cheyenne. “Oh, good morning.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Haven’t I seen you in Hell Is for Heroes?”
Cheyenne smiled and set the tray on Claypool’s over-bed table; he’d gotten this question before and knew how to answer. “You’re thinkin’ of None but the Brave, but that was a little before my time.”
“N-no, it-it was set in the European Theater, I remember that much. What was that movie….”
“The Dirty Dozen?”
“Yes!”
“That was before my time, too.”**
Claypool smiled like Cheyenne had passed a test. “So you’re new here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your sister? She’s….”
“A doctor. You’ll be meetin’ her pretty quick.”
“I see, yes. And you’ll be here all day?”
“You get off at 6,” Mr. Finch stated.
“Well, yes, sir, at least until 6,” Cheyenne answered Claypool. “Is there somethin’ you needed?”
Claypool shot a wary look at the door and beckoned Cheyenne closer. When Cheyenne sat down on the edge of the bed, Claypool whispered, “There’s a woman who comes to see me. She says she’s my wife.”
Cheyenne frowned a little. “You’re sayin’ she’s not?” he asked at the same volume.
Claypool shook his head. “I remember my wife-and believe me, as badly corrupted as my file system is, that’s saying something.” He gestured toward his forehead with a rueful chuckle. “Some things I can’t remember no matter how hard I try. But I remember Diane… including the fact that she died two years ago. I buried her on June 12, 2011.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Finch.
Cheyenne raised his chin in understanding. “So who’s this other woman?”
Claypool shook his head again. “I dunno. Dunno. I’d never seen her before I came to this hospital two or… three months ago.”
“What does she want?”
“That I do know, or think I know, but…” Claypool winked. “You don’t have the clearance for that, friend.”
“The name’s Jim,” Cheyenne lied.
Claypool chuckled again. “Don’t bother. I won’t remember it.”
“So you want me to keep this phony away from you, is that it?”
“Yes, or ask your sister to order no visitors.”
Cheyenne nodded once and considered. “I can’t make any promises. I’ve got my work to tend to, so I can’t stay, and I don’t know what kind of pull my sister has. But I’ll see Anne gets the message, at least.”
Claypool nodded. “Thank you.” Then his eyes glazed over slightly and drifted away from Cheyenne’s face.
“Mr. Claypool?”
Claypool focused on Cheyenne again, but his eyes remained somewhat vacant. “Have you hard-coded the essential values yet?” he asked at a more conversational volume.
“Uh, yes, sir,” Cheyenne replied, deciding it was safer to play along than not. “Brought your breakfast, too.”
“Breakfast!” That brought Claypool back to himself with another head-shaking chuckle. “Of all the things for me to forget, I wouldn’t have thought mealtimes would be one of them.”
Cheyenne smiled, got up, and rolled the table over Claypool’s bed. “You may not want to remember this meal after you’ve eaten it.”
“Oh, tell me about it. Hospital food, am I right? It’s even worse than hospital coffee.”
“Well, anything’s passable when you’re hungry enough.”
“Given some of the things I ate as a starving student at MIT, I’m inclined to agree. Mystery meat in the cafeteria?” Claypool shuddered theatrically.
MIT… Mr. Finch had gone to MIT, from what Reese had said. But Cheyenne didn’t have time to ask more questions or even to take his leave. He could already hear Easton grilling Sam at the door.
“What’s your specialty?” Easton was asking as Cheyenne walked up behind him silently.
“Clinical oncology and palliative care,” Sam shot back. “And if you don’t get out of my way, my big brother is going to make you wish you had.” And she looked up at Cheyenne pointedly at the same moment he deliberately let his shoes squeak.
Easton almost jumped out of his skin and spun to glare at Cheyenne, forgetting that his eye line was about level with Cheyenne’s chin.
Cheyenne ignored him. “Honey, Mr. Claypool’s just started his breakfast. He may not want to talk to you right now.”
“I do, I do!” Claypool piped up from the bed.
Sam raised an eyebrow at Cheyenne, who shrugged his own eyebrows and stood back to usher her in. Then she shot the same look at Easton, who got out of the way with far less grace. As she passed, Cheyenne put a protective hand on her shoulder.
Claypool looked from Sam to Cheyenne and back several times, plainly not sure whether or not he should laugh. He settled for asking, “You’re really brother and sister?”
“Our father remarried,” Sam answered. “I take after my mom; Jim takes after his.”
“Anne, this is Arthur Claypool,” Cheyenne said. “I’m not supposed to stay for this part, right?”
Sam looked up at him and smiled with a visible effort. “I can take it from here, thanks.”
“All right. If you need me, though, just holler. I’ll be back in a few minutes, Mr. Claypool,” Cheyenne added.
Claypool’s mouth was full, but he nodded and waved his fork in acknowledgment. So Cheyenne left, closing the door behind him, and smiled at the guards as he passed.
While Claypool told Sam he thought his remaining time was closer to one or two months than to four and Cheyenne delivered the next tray to the room two doors along, Reese asked, “Any progress on the mystery woman, Finch?”
“Not so far,” Mr. Finch replied. “Arthur and Diane Claypool married more than twenty years ago, but the only image I’ve been able to find of Diane is of a recent Maryland driver’s license, issued within the last year. I’ve also been unable to find confirmation of his assertion that Diane died two years ago, but the fact that he remembers the date of her funeral would suggest that it’s true. If so, the fact that this other woman has been able to replace Diane’s digital footprint so completely is troubling.”
“Maybe she’s like that guy we tracked to Owen Island this spring-Declan or whatever his real name was.”
“Oh, I hope not, Mr. Reese. One identity-stealing serial killer is quite enough for one lifetime, let alone one year. Of course, one major difference is that Declan tended to avoid anyone who knew his victims.”
“That just shows she doesn’t know how bad the memory loss actually is. And if he’s fooled her about that….”
“Then there’s a very good chance she hasn’t gotten what she wants from him, whether it’s Samaritan or some other secret he learned while working for the NSA.”
“So we need to get him out of here before she comes in today.”
“Got our extraction route yet?” Sam asked.
“Eh, I’m still on the first floor,” Reese admitted. “I’ve got an idea, but I need to make sure it’ll work.”
“The guards are only in the hall,” Cheyenne murmured, pushing his cart down to the end of the hallway.
“And visiting hours are only between 2 and 5 in the afternoons,” Mr. Finch added. “That gives us some breathing room.”
Sam hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe, but not much. I can order no visitors on the grounds of Claypool needing to rest, but I’d need a new PET scan to justify that.”
“Can that wait ’til I’ve got the dishes collected?” Cheyenne asked.
“Yeah, it’ll probably be a couple of hours before there’s an opening for the PET machine.”
“I don’t think we need to go that route,” said Reese. “I just found the weight limit specs. We can get him out through the crawlspace. The hard part’s gonna be getting him onto the elevator-there’s a hatch in the top of the car, but the crawlspace doesn’t connect to the shaft.”
Cheyenne turned his cart around and headed back the way he’d come. “What about the laundry cart?”
“Oh, perfect,” said Sam. “We can even take him out the back entrance so we don’t attract attention in the parking lot. Okay, Reese, how long will it take you to get up here?”
“I… don’t really do tight spaces,” Reese admitted quietly.
“Ugh, fine, I’ll do it, then. Cheyenne, we’ll take him through the bathroom ceiling.”
“All right,” said Cheyenne. “Give me an hour.”
“If he doesn’t remember you,” Mr. Finch chimed in, “tell him Harold Wren sent you.”
“Yes, sir.” That instruction answered a lot of questions and raised more, but at least Cheyenne understood it.
Then Reese started asking Mr. Finch about details of the security system, and Cheyenne finally remembered he could mute his earpiece. That made it much easier to focus on getting the dishes collected, helping a few patients to the privy and back, and fending off a few invitations to dinner (or worse) from the nurses.
“You’ve got plans?” Easton echoed skeptically after overhearing one of Cheyenne’s refusals near Claypool’s room.
“Well, I have!” Cheyenne replied and then decided to lie like a rug. “Anne wants me to watch the game with her tonight-she likes the Panthers; I like the Patriots. We’ve got a week’s laundry ridin’ on it.”
“And dinner at Delmonico’s,” Sam added as she passed on her way to the break room.
“Dinner at-I can’t afford that!” Cheyenne called after her. He’d only heard of Delmonico’s and had no idea what their prices were, but it was safe to assume that they weren’t easy to pay on an orderly’s salary.
“Then you’d better hope the Pats win!” Sam shot over her shoulder and disappeared into the break room before Cheyenne could protest further.
Claypool evidently heard that, because he was still laughing when Cheyenne came in to collect his tray.
“If I tell Uncle Beau about that, he’ll tan her hide,” Cheyenne mock-grumbled as he walked up to Claypool’s bed. Not that there was much chance of his telling Bret Maverick’s father anything, if he ever even met the man, but he was sure the source of Bret’s my ol’ pappy always says sayings would be less than amused by the terms of a bet being changed that way.
Claypool laughed some more and wiped tears off his cheeks. “You two are a breath of fresh air.”
Cheyenne couldn’t help smiling at that. “Well, I know folks need their rest in a hospital, but they need to laugh, too. Like the Good Book says, ‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’”†
Claypool’s chuckles turned rueful. “It’s just too bad laughter can’t cure brain cancer.”
Cheyenne rolled the table out of the way and made sure the guards weren’t watching, then sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his voice. “We’re gonna get you out of here, Mr. Claypool.”
Claypool blinked, confused. “What, like… to a hospice care facility? I thought that was for when you only had a month left.”‡
“We can’t wait that long. We’re gonna move you today, ’fore that woman comes back.”
“No, I… I need to see your SCI credentials….”
Cheyenne glanced at the door and lowered his voice further. “We work for Harold Wren.”
Claypool’s face lit up, but then his expression turned wary. “Describe him.”
“’Bout your height, but thinner. Spiky brown hair, blue eyes, glasses. Cleft in his chin, dimples when he smiles big enough. He’s a baseball fan, likes the A’s, the Cubs, and the Red Sox.”
“Where’s he from?”
“That I don’t know-he’s never said. He’s a very private person.”
Claypool seemed pleased with that answer but held up a finger. “If you really know Harold… who was his best friend in college?”
“Nathan Ingram,” Cheyenne answered and thanked God that Reese had already told him that.
“And where does Nathan live now?”
“He doesn’t. He was killed in the ferry bombin’ three years ago.”
“Describe him.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “I never met him. I only went to work for Mr. Wren this summer.”
Claypool sighed and relaxed. “Sorry for giving you the third degree.”
“Don’t be. You don’t know me, and you’ve got good reason to be suspicious. We don’t know who that woman is or who she’s workin’ for, or even whether she’s workin’ alone. I could be anybody.”
“Yes, but they’d really have to dig to have you mention that name as part of a deep cover. I haven’t seen Harold since before I got married-in fact, I think the last time I saw him may have been Nathan and Olivia’s wedding.”
“Well, we’ll get you to ’im in time for lunch.”
Claypool smiled. “When do we leave?”
“I still gotta get these dishes back to the kitchen, but I’ll be back in about half an hour.”
“All right. I hope I still remember what we’re doing by then.”
Cheyenne smiled and stood. “I’ll remind you.” And he collected the tray and left.
Next
* Often credited with inventing baseball.
** After Cheyenne ended, Clint Walker co-starred in both None but the Brave (1965) and The Dirty Dozen (1967), both released before the birth year given for Cheyenne’s cover identities. (L. Q. Jones, who played Cheyenne’s sidekick Smitty in three of the first four episodes of that series, was in Hell Is for Heroes.)
† Proverbs 17:22a
‡ It’s actually six months or less-not that Cheyenne would know!
Chapter 12
Segue
Cheyenne woke in an unfamiliar bed in a twilit room he didn’t recognize. At first he wasn’t sure what he’d dreamed or where he was, but then he saw both his gun belt and his shoulder holster on the nightstand beside him and realized that he was still fully dressed in the new suit from Mr. Finch. That woke him up enough to conclude that he must still be in Reese’s hideout in Morningside Heights. Then Sam walked in, which was confirmation enough.
“Mornin’,” he said groggily.
“Evening,” she corrected and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’ve been out cold all day. You haven’t been sleeping well lately, have you?”
He sighed and sat up. “Reckon I haven’t, not since I told Collier ’bout the Little Bighorn.”
“Nightmares?”
He nodded.
“Ever talk to anyone about it?”
“Once. Army tried to railroad Marc Reno for not gettin’ to Custer in time. I hate the man, but I couldn’t stand by and let ’em do that to ’im when I was the only white man who saw the whole battle.” He shook his head. “Col. Bell tried to twist everything I said, but Gen. Sheridan believed me. Not sure anyone else would, though.”
“About what happened or about the nightmares?”
“Well… both, I reckon, but mostly about what happened. Dull Knife was the one who ordered me bound to my horse to watch the fight, and he remembered me later, but I couldn’t exactly call him as a witness.”
She nodded. “No wonder you’ve got PTSD.”
He frowned. “I’ve got what?”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder. It wasn’t called that until the 1970s. I think in the Civil War, it was called soldier’s heart.”
His frown deepened. “I’ve never had heart trouble.”
“That’s just one of the ways it can manifest. Basically, when you’ve been through something seriously traumatic-and being forced to watch Custer’s last stand definitely qualifies-your brain doesn’t always bounce back from that, and one of the most common symptoms in veterans is nightmares. It can happen to anyone, especially people who’ve seen combat. Reese is pretty much a textbook case. I think Finch has it, too, at least about Root.”
“And you?”
She shrugged. “Never cared enough.”
He was reasonably sure that wasn’t true, but if she did have this… PTST or whatever it was, the Axis II whatchamacallit probably made it look different. He could easily believe that she didn’t have nightmares about combat.
“Anyway.” She slapped his knee to emphasize the change of subject. “Carter’s just about done swearing out warrants, and Reese is almost back with his car. Finch is throwing a party at the new safe house to celebrate. And he wants you there specifically.”
He ducked his head and smiled a little. “Don’t feel like I did much.”
“What, besides coming up with the escape route and acting the hell out of that scene on the boat?” When his embarrassed smile grew a little, she leaned forward. “Dude, you got the biggest cockroach of them all. Quinn was the boss, but Simmons was the brains, and he’d already managed to escape two federal dragnets. The Feds will have the last handful of foot soldiers within the hour, but if you hadn’t shot Simmons, odds are he’d still be out there gunning for you and Carter and Reese. And there’s a very good chance he’d have managed to kill at least one of you.”
“Did Root tell you that?” he asked, remembering the plea she’d passed on from the Machine.
She shook her head. “She didn’t have to. I heard enough from Fusco.”
He nodded; he’d forgotten that Fusco had been undercover with HR before the first round-up.
“Root won’t be there tonight, by the way,” she continued. “Finch still doesn’t want her leaving the library, but she says the Machine wants her there anyway, at least until Samaritan’s dealt with. I think Finch is giving her a cupcake with her tea or something so she doesn’t totally miss out.”
“She was a lot more help than I thought she’d be.”
“Yeah, me, too. I mean, I know how she works when she’s off the leash, but she was remarkably not-weird last night.”
“Except for that joke she kept tryin’ to make….”
“Oh, the Francisco Franco thing?”
“Yeah. What was that all about?”
“I’ll explain while we eat.” She slapped his knee again. “Fresh coffee’s almost ready, and Reese is bringing us both steak and eggs.”
He smiled and threw back his covers. “Sounds great.”
At least it’s a small gathering, John thought as he looked around the living room of the new safe house. He knew how to schmooze, but he’d never really been a party person. Apparently, neither were Fusco and Bodie, who were off in a corner discussing baseball. If the Homicide Task Force had been throwing this party, odds were that the three of them would have spent the whole evening griping about the food and not talking to anyone but each other. (Well, Bodie might not be picky about the food-John still remembered the raw calf liver comment. That was an Apache thing, it seemed.)
But fortunately for all concerned, they were not at the Eighth Precinct. Finch was the host, and not only were the food and drinks guaranteed to be good, so was the company. Laskey had brought his fiancée Anya, with Finch’s blessing, but they were the only people here John didn’t know well enough to be comfortable with. John thought he knew the real reason Finch had let Anya come, but he didn’t want to spoil the surprise. Otherwise, it was just the team. Zoe had said she had a previous engagement, and it was a school night, so Lee Fusco and Taylor Carter were staying home.
His thoughts were interrupted by Shaw crowing, “And here she is, the woman of the hour!” and opening the door to let Carter enter like a rock star. And oh, did she look like a rock star! Gone was the street-duty uniform; gone were the evidence-hunting civvies; gone was the grief-worn anger that had haunted her for the last six months. She had her rank restored and was back in one of the suits she used to wear for that role, and her smile at everyone’s cheering applause was so bright, John would swear she was actually glowing.
The knot in his chest that had formed when he’d found out she was going after HR alone finally began to loosen. She was here and Simmons was dead. The world couldn’t afford to lose her, and it wouldn’t be losing her tonight. And neither would he.
Carter made a little speech thanking everyone for their help and managed to thoroughly embarrass Bodie in the process, though in an Aw, shucks, ma’am sort of way and not a Shaw has no filters way. She even got Fusco to blush a little in the same way. Then came a round of toasts, mainly to friendship and teamwork and their many benefits; if anyone but John noticed that Bodie drank them with coffee instead of champagne, they didn’t mention that or the fact that Fusco was drinking his with club soda.
At the end of the toasts, Laskey said, “Guess I have to find a new FTO now.”
Carter laughed and shook her head. “You’re turnin’ into a better cop than you think you are, Laskey. You’ll be all right.”
“But on that subject, Officer,” said Finch, “I have a gift for you and Anya.”
Laskey blinked and set down his empty glass. “For us?”
Finch drew two manila envelopes out of his inside jacket pocket. “Your role in this whole affair may… lead to tensions within the NYPD and within the Russian community, or at least that part of it still sympathetic to the Bratva. As Det. Carter says, you have a good future ahead of you-but perhaps not as Mr. and Mrs. Mike Laskey or even as Mr. and Mrs. Mikhail Lesnichy.” He handed one envelope to each future spouse. “Inside you’ll find a new identity, even better constructed than the federal Witness Protection Program, and enough money to establish yourselves in another state. Where you go and what you do there is entirely up to you, but I do recommend that you leave town at once, destroy your phones… and don’t look back.”
John had seen this speech coming, but given the urgency, he wondered whether Finch had gotten their numbers that afternoon. It would make sense-as the only Russian member of HR not in federal custody, Laskey could easily be seen as a traitor-but if it were so, Finch hadn’t said anything to John, and John wasn’t sure what that meant.
Laskey swallowed hard and looked at Anya, who put a hand on his arm and said, “Honestly, I think my parents would be glad to be rid of me. But they’d probably be happier this way than if we got shot up by Yogorov’s guys.”
Laskey sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. I did tell Mom not to worry too much if I disappeared for a while-after that thing with Terney, I… kinda said my goodbyes just in case. Got a lot of friends and family I’ll miss, but… but yeah, it’s better this way.” He looked down at the envelope in his hand and back at Finch. “Thank you, sir. We’ll leave now.”
Fusco proposed one last toast to their health and happiness, and after a round of handshakes, the couple did leave.
“I hope they have sense enough not to go home to pack,” Finch murmured as John walked over to him.
“Something you forgot to tell me, Finch?” John asked softly.
“No. Their numbers came in after I had already prepared the new identities and agreed to let Anya attend the party. We both know Mikhail Lesnichy could never have the fresh start he needs if he were to remain here in New York, with or without a threat to his life. Knowledge of the threat only increased the urgency of sending Mike and Anya on their way.”
John nodded his understanding.
“Hey, Shaw,” Fusco said. “Our historical friend here says he actually met Abner Doubleday.”*
“Who?” Shaw asked, confused, at the same moment a delighted Finch exclaimed, “Really?!”
Bodie grinned. “Yeah, I’ve served under Col. Doubleday a couple times.”
Finch hobbled over to join the baseball talk, and Shaw, plainly more baffled by Finch’s interest than by the unanswered question of who Doubleday was, followed. Bodie shot a wink at Carter, who chuckled and shook her head.
John caught her eye and mouthed Coffee?
Please, she mouthed back.
He motioned toward the kitchen with his head, and she followed him.
“Think I like that look better than what you wore to the nightclub,” he confessed with a wink and got out two mugs.
She chuckled again, a deeper, richer sound than the flirty giggle she’d used while pretending to seduce Bodie the night before, although it crinkled her nose and made her look ten years younger. “What, this old thing?”
“Victory. It suits you.” He poured the coffee and added cream to hers.
She laughed. “More like I’ve been up for thirty-six hours and I’m punchy as hell.”
He smiled and handed her coffee to her, and they clinked mugs and drank.
Then she looked him over. “You get any sleep?”
He nodded. “Few hours. So did Shaw. Bodie slept all day.”
“So why didn’t you?” And there was the interrogator’s look and the genuine compassion in her quiet voice, both backed now by two years’ friendship.
He sighed and looked down at his coffee. He’d had plenty of practice in resisting interrogations-resisting her interrogations-but right now, he wasn’t sure he wanted to give her a fight. By the same token, though, he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it.
“John?” she pressed.
“I had a nightmare about you.”
He wasn’t sure he’d actually said the words aloud until she set her mug on the counter and moved closer to him. “What sort of nightmare?”
Well, there was no getting out of it now. “Simmons was still alive. We were just leaving the Third Precinct. He came outta nowhere and shot you-shot us both, actually. You bled out in my arms.”
She gasped. “Oh, John.”
“It was worse than losing Jessica.” His voice was shaking, but he couldn’t stop at this point. “I’d promised to come get her, but Mark wouldn’t grant my request for leave. I didn’t get back to the States until two months after she died.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
He finally looked up and into her eyes. “But this time, I was there, I was two steps behind you, and I still couldn’t save you.”
“It was a nightmare,” she insisted. “Simmons is dead-I saw him in the morgue. I’m still alive. We’re both okay.”
“Joss….”
“No. Nuh-uh. You do not get to feel guilty about something that never happened and never will. I am right here, John.”
He set his mug beside hers and brushed her hair back from her face with one trembling hand, as if she were as fragile as one of Mom’s old porcelain dolls.
And then she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m right here,” she repeated in a whisper. “And we’ve got time. Whatever comes next, we can figure it out together.”
He let his eyes close as he returned the hug. “Together,” he whispered back, as much a promise as anything he’d ever told her.
Cheyenne was grateful to get home when the party broke up that evening and even more grateful that Mr. Finch gave everyone the rest of the week off. The few numbers that came in, mostly late shockwaves from the HR bust, were ones that could be handled with an anonymous tip to the honest lawmen in town. Cheyenne hadn’t realized how badly his sleep had become disrupted until his body responded to the sudden lack of stress by demanding that he make up for lost time. He might even have come down with a touch of flu, but he wasn’t about to call Sam to find out for sure.
Once everyone had recovered, however, Mr. Finch summoned his team to the library early Monday morning. “We don’t have a new number,” he confessed once they were all assembled, “but I thought perhaps we could act before the danger is imminent for once.”
“You talkin’ about Claypool?” Sam asked.
“Indeed, Miss Shaw.” Mr. Finch taped up a picture of a man about his own age, though considerably heavier-set and with salt-and-pepper hair and beard. “I’ve managed to locate Mr. Claypool, although I’m reasonably certain that Vigilance has not, considering that the Machine has yet to give us his number. He’s not listed in the hospital’s admission records, but I was able to locate his medical records in their database, and he’s been diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Terminal.” Something in the grim way Mr. Finch said that made Cheyenne even more convinced that Mr. Finch knew Claypool somehow. “And especially knowing what we do, I would like very much for him not to have to spend Thanksgiving in the hospital.”
Reese nodded. “Well, Shaw’s cover is obvious.”
“Yes, I’ve already taken the liberty of establishing Miss Shaw as Dr. Anne Moore, a recent transfer from New York General whose specialty is clinical oncology and palliative care.” Mr. Finch handed Sam a hospital employee badge. “You, Mr. Reese, will go in as John Campbell, evaluating the security system for a potential overhaul-that may not give you direct access to Claypool’s room, but it should allow you to go almost anywhere else Claypool could go. And you, Mr. Bodie….”
“Hope you don’t expect me to play at bein’ a doctor, sir,” Cheyenne said. “I don’t know as I could even give someone a shot.”
Mr. Finch smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s not a technical position, but it is one where your strength will be an asset.” He handed Cheyenne a hospital employee badge that read Jim Moore - Orderly.
Cheyenne nodded. During his career as a civilian scout for the cavalry, he’d had to help out in post hospitals a few times after a bad ambush or during an epidemic, so he knew more or less what being an orderly entailed. Then he noticed the surname. “Are Sam and I supposed to be brother an’ sister?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Finch. “I thought it the easiest way to account for your both starting at the same time and sharing a vehicle.”
Sam’s lips pursed as she looked Cheyenne over. “TBI,” she proclaimed. “Career military, but medically retired after you caught an IED in Helmand Province.”
“Afghanistan,” Reese explained before Cheyenne could ask. “Shaw can brief you on the way over if you’re likely to run into any veterans on Claypool’s floor.”
“I’ll check,” said Mr. Finch and limped back to his desk. “Thank you, Miss Shaw.”
“Why do I have to be medically retired?” Cheyenne asked.
“It explains why you’re working as an orderly and why you can’t drive,” Sam answered.
“Oh.” Cheyenne considered that, and it did make sense. “Well, if it helps any, I’ve served most often with the 7th Cavalry.”
“In that case, change it to Baghdad,” said Reese. “The 7th Cav didn’t deploy to Afghanistan until this time last year, so you’d still be at the VA getting treatment for a TBI severe enough to cause medical retirement.”
Mr. Finch nodded as he typed. “There don’t appear to be any recent veterans currently admitted to that hospital, but these sorts of details do make for a stronger cover story.”
“And I can tell you all about Baghdad, just in case,” Sam told Cheyenne.
Cheyenne nodded. “Thanks, I’d like to hear.”
“Your shift starts at 8,” said Mr. Finch. “Mr. Reese, your appointment is at 8:30. Oh, and….” He got up and fetched a bag from the bookshelves, then brought it to Cheyenne.
Cheyenne accepted it with a confused frown. “What’s this?”
“Your uniform. Normally the hospital would provide one for you, but under the circumstances, especially since you don’t have the right shoes….”
Even more baffled, Cheyenne opened the bag and pulled out a summer-weight short-sleeved V-necked shirt of a particularly awful shade of seafoam green. There was a also a pair of pants in the same fabric.
Sam cackled at the look on his face. “You are going to hate wearing scrubs.”
“I don’t see how I can wear ’em in this weather,” Cheyenne admitted. “It’s still above freezin’, but with the mist an’ all….”
“Oh, you are allowed to wear long underwear underneath,” said Mr. Finch. “There’s a set in there, and a jacket to wear outside.”
Cheyenne dug in the bag and found those things as well as a pair of clodhoppers that wouldn’t even cover his ankles. He had a sinking feeling that Sam was right.
“Better go change,” said Reese, checking his watch. “You won’t have time once you get there. But take your street clothes with you-we may need your hat to block cameras.”
Grumbling internally, Cheyenne went to the privy to change clothes. The longjohns weren’t so bad, but the shoes felt heavy and awkward, and the uniform didn’t look like the sort of thing one ought to be wearing in public, although he did belatedly remember people wearing something like this at the hospital he’d been taken to on his first day here. Worst of all, if the jacket wasn’t allowed while he was working inside, he had no way to conceal his shoulder holster; he had to settle for clipping his boot holster to the waistband of his longjohns. Then he clipped on his name badge, tucked his telephone into his breast pocket, packed up his other clothes, studied his reflection in the mirror, and sighed heavily as he pulled on the new jacket. It wasn’t as bad as finding out about the Machine, or even as bad as having to drive that one time… but mankind, he did not want to do this.
“Let’s go, Princess!” Sam called from outside and pounded on the door. “What’s the matter, you fall in?”
Growling, Cheyenne picked up the bag and yanked the door open. “Didn’t they teach you manners in the Marines?”
“Nope, just how to kill people.” She poked his side. “And if you’re gonna be grumpy around the patients, you’d better come up with a better reason than the fact that you hate what you’re wearing.”
“Who says I’ll be grumpy around the patients?” he asked, slinging the bag over his shoulder and following her back down the hall.
“Look, I never made a convincing doctor even when I was one. So one of us needs to have a decent bedside manner.”
“I won’t go pokin’ sore-headed bears, if that’s what you mean.”
Reese laughed as they came around the corner. Then the three of them said their goodbyes to Mr. Finch, gave Bear a few farewell scratches, and headed down to their cars. Once they were all connected by telephone and Sam had found a white coat somewhere in her car, Reese went one way to pick up doughnuts for the security staff while Sam and Cheyenne went straight to the hospital, but as she’d promised, Sam told Cheyenne as many details as she could remember about her time in Iraq, and Reese added some reminiscences of his own. Cheyenne still wasn’t sure he could locate Iraq on a map-it had still been part of the Ottoman Empire in his day-but at least he’d heard of Baghdad before. And when they got to the hospital, Sam showed him the infamous clip of “Baghdad Bob” desperately declaring that American troops were nowhere near the city as American tanks rolled past behind him, so he could understand that joke if anyone made it.
Inside, Sam and Cheyenne were directed up to the cancer ward, where they were assigned lockers in rooms off the staff lounge. Cheyenne had just enough time to stow his bag and down a cup of coffee before he was put to work delivering breakfast to the patients, and by then he was able to keep up appearances and chat pleasantly with the patients and their families, even though he still wasn’t comfortable walking around in glorified pajamas and the shoes, while they didn’t pinch or hurt, still felt all wrong on his feet and squeaked if he wasn’t careful. For her part, Sam started her initial rounds and kept up appearances reasonably well herself, at least from what little Cheyenne could see and hear.
He was only about a quarter of the way through with his deliveries when she said into her phone, “Reese, Claypool has a three-man security detail. At a guess, I’d say they’re Secret Service-definitely government.”
“On his door or in the room?” Reese asked.
“Just on his door, looks like. I’ll find out for sure when I go in for rounds in a minute.”
“If they’re just on his door, we should be able to take him out through the ceiling. I’ll make sure the crawlspace can take his weight.”
Cheyenne tuned them out in favor of continuing his deliveries. He had less to talk to each patient about than Sam did, though, and some of the patients were barely awake and not in a talkative mood, so he soon passed her and ended up getting to Claypool’s room ahead of her. The fact that the rooms on either side of Claypool’s were empty and that there were only storage closets and a break room across the hall shortened Cheyenne’s route.
“Mornin’,” he said with a nod as he walked up to the guards and lifted the cover from Claypool’s plate for their inspection. “Did you need to taste-test, or is this enough?”
One of the guards, a young dark-haired fellow whose nametag read Easton, glanced at the plate and then up at Cheyenne with the air of not being used to being shorter than anyone. “I haven’t seen you on this floor before,” he said in the same tone as certain commanders used to demand that Cheyenne call them sir.
“Don’t reckon you have,” Cheyenne returned, not about to give this pup the satisfaction of his taking offense, and covered the plate again. “Just transferred over from New York General. Today’s my first day.”
Easton frowned. “Why would an orderly transfer between hospitals?”
“My kid sister.” Cheyenne nodded down the hall toward where Sam was just coming out of a patient room. “I went into the Army to pay for her schoolin’, but I got my bell rung pretty good by an IED while I was in Baghdad. So now she looks after me. We’re a package deal-where she goes, I go.”
“What outfit were you with?”
“First Squadron, Seventh Cavalry.” Cheyenne only just remembered Reese’s warning to say squadron instead of battalion.
Easton’s eyes narrowed, but he let Cheyenne pass.
“Mornin’, Mr. Claypool,” Cheyenne said as he entered the room, noticing as he did so that the guards stayed outside and that there was only one bed in the room.
Claypool, who’d been staring out the window, roused and looked over at Cheyenne. “Oh, good morning.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Haven’t I seen you in Hell Is for Heroes?”
Cheyenne smiled and set the tray on Claypool’s over-bed table; he’d gotten this question before and knew how to answer. “You’re thinkin’ of None but the Brave, but that was a little before my time.”
“N-no, it-it was set in the European Theater, I remember that much. What was that movie….”
“The Dirty Dozen?”
“Yes!”
“That was before my time, too.”**
Claypool smiled like Cheyenne had passed a test. “So you’re new here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your sister? She’s….”
“A doctor. You’ll be meetin’ her pretty quick.”
“I see, yes. And you’ll be here all day?”
“You get off at 6,” Mr. Finch stated.
“Well, yes, sir, at least until 6,” Cheyenne answered Claypool. “Is there somethin’ you needed?”
Claypool shot a wary look at the door and beckoned Cheyenne closer. When Cheyenne sat down on the edge of the bed, Claypool whispered, “There’s a woman who comes to see me. She says she’s my wife.”
Cheyenne frowned a little. “You’re sayin’ she’s not?” he asked at the same volume.
Claypool shook his head. “I remember my wife-and believe me, as badly corrupted as my file system is, that’s saying something.” He gestured toward his forehead with a rueful chuckle. “Some things I can’t remember no matter how hard I try. But I remember Diane… including the fact that she died two years ago. I buried her on June 12, 2011.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Finch.
Cheyenne raised his chin in understanding. “So who’s this other woman?”
Claypool shook his head again. “I dunno. Dunno. I’d never seen her before I came to this hospital two or… three months ago.”
“What does she want?”
“That I do know, or think I know, but…” Claypool winked. “You don’t have the clearance for that, friend.”
“The name’s Jim,” Cheyenne lied.
Claypool chuckled again. “Don’t bother. I won’t remember it.”
“So you want me to keep this phony away from you, is that it?”
“Yes, or ask your sister to order no visitors.”
Cheyenne nodded once and considered. “I can’t make any promises. I’ve got my work to tend to, so I can’t stay, and I don’t know what kind of pull my sister has. But I’ll see Anne gets the message, at least.”
Claypool nodded. “Thank you.” Then his eyes glazed over slightly and drifted away from Cheyenne’s face.
“Mr. Claypool?”
Claypool focused on Cheyenne again, but his eyes remained somewhat vacant. “Have you hard-coded the essential values yet?” he asked at a more conversational volume.
“Uh, yes, sir,” Cheyenne replied, deciding it was safer to play along than not. “Brought your breakfast, too.”
“Breakfast!” That brought Claypool back to himself with another head-shaking chuckle. “Of all the things for me to forget, I wouldn’t have thought mealtimes would be one of them.”
Cheyenne smiled, got up, and rolled the table over Claypool’s bed. “You may not want to remember this meal after you’ve eaten it.”
“Oh, tell me about it. Hospital food, am I right? It’s even worse than hospital coffee.”
“Well, anything’s passable when you’re hungry enough.”
“Given some of the things I ate as a starving student at MIT, I’m inclined to agree. Mystery meat in the cafeteria?” Claypool shuddered theatrically.
MIT… Mr. Finch had gone to MIT, from what Reese had said. But Cheyenne didn’t have time to ask more questions or even to take his leave. He could already hear Easton grilling Sam at the door.
“What’s your specialty?” Easton was asking as Cheyenne walked up behind him silently.
“Clinical oncology and palliative care,” Sam shot back. “And if you don’t get out of my way, my big brother is going to make you wish you had.” And she looked up at Cheyenne pointedly at the same moment he deliberately let his shoes squeak.
Easton almost jumped out of his skin and spun to glare at Cheyenne, forgetting that his eye line was about level with Cheyenne’s chin.
Cheyenne ignored him. “Honey, Mr. Claypool’s just started his breakfast. He may not want to talk to you right now.”
“I do, I do!” Claypool piped up from the bed.
Sam raised an eyebrow at Cheyenne, who shrugged his own eyebrows and stood back to usher her in. Then she shot the same look at Easton, who got out of the way with far less grace. As she passed, Cheyenne put a protective hand on her shoulder.
Claypool looked from Sam to Cheyenne and back several times, plainly not sure whether or not he should laugh. He settled for asking, “You’re really brother and sister?”
“Our father remarried,” Sam answered. “I take after my mom; Jim takes after his.”
“Anne, this is Arthur Claypool,” Cheyenne said. “I’m not supposed to stay for this part, right?”
Sam looked up at him and smiled with a visible effort. “I can take it from here, thanks.”
“All right. If you need me, though, just holler. I’ll be back in a few minutes, Mr. Claypool,” Cheyenne added.
Claypool’s mouth was full, but he nodded and waved his fork in acknowledgment. So Cheyenne left, closing the door behind him, and smiled at the guards as he passed.
While Claypool told Sam he thought his remaining time was closer to one or two months than to four and Cheyenne delivered the next tray to the room two doors along, Reese asked, “Any progress on the mystery woman, Finch?”
“Not so far,” Mr. Finch replied. “Arthur and Diane Claypool married more than twenty years ago, but the only image I’ve been able to find of Diane is of a recent Maryland driver’s license, issued within the last year. I’ve also been unable to find confirmation of his assertion that Diane died two years ago, but the fact that he remembers the date of her funeral would suggest that it’s true. If so, the fact that this other woman has been able to replace Diane’s digital footprint so completely is troubling.”
“Maybe she’s like that guy we tracked to Owen Island this spring-Declan or whatever his real name was.”
“Oh, I hope not, Mr. Reese. One identity-stealing serial killer is quite enough for one lifetime, let alone one year. Of course, one major difference is that Declan tended to avoid anyone who knew his victims.”
“That just shows she doesn’t know how bad the memory loss actually is. And if he’s fooled her about that….”
“Then there’s a very good chance she hasn’t gotten what she wants from him, whether it’s Samaritan or some other secret he learned while working for the NSA.”
“So we need to get him out of here before she comes in today.”
“Got our extraction route yet?” Sam asked.
“Eh, I’m still on the first floor,” Reese admitted. “I’ve got an idea, but I need to make sure it’ll work.”
“The guards are only in the hall,” Cheyenne murmured, pushing his cart down to the end of the hallway.
“And visiting hours are only between 2 and 5 in the afternoons,” Mr. Finch added. “That gives us some breathing room.”
Sam hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe, but not much. I can order no visitors on the grounds of Claypool needing to rest, but I’d need a new PET scan to justify that.”
“Can that wait ’til I’ve got the dishes collected?” Cheyenne asked.
“Yeah, it’ll probably be a couple of hours before there’s an opening for the PET machine.”
“I don’t think we need to go that route,” said Reese. “I just found the weight limit specs. We can get him out through the crawlspace. The hard part’s gonna be getting him onto the elevator-there’s a hatch in the top of the car, but the crawlspace doesn’t connect to the shaft.”
Cheyenne turned his cart around and headed back the way he’d come. “What about the laundry cart?”
“Oh, perfect,” said Sam. “We can even take him out the back entrance so we don’t attract attention in the parking lot. Okay, Reese, how long will it take you to get up here?”
“I… don’t really do tight spaces,” Reese admitted quietly.
“Ugh, fine, I’ll do it, then. Cheyenne, we’ll take him through the bathroom ceiling.”
“All right,” said Cheyenne. “Give me an hour.”
“If he doesn’t remember you,” Mr. Finch chimed in, “tell him Harold Wren sent you.”
“Yes, sir.” That instruction answered a lot of questions and raised more, but at least Cheyenne understood it.
Then Reese started asking Mr. Finch about details of the security system, and Cheyenne finally remembered he could mute his earpiece. That made it much easier to focus on getting the dishes collected, helping a few patients to the privy and back, and fending off a few invitations to dinner (or worse) from the nurses.
“You’ve got plans?” Easton echoed skeptically after overhearing one of Cheyenne’s refusals near Claypool’s room.
“Well, I have!” Cheyenne replied and then decided to lie like a rug. “Anne wants me to watch the game with her tonight-she likes the Panthers; I like the Patriots. We’ve got a week’s laundry ridin’ on it.”
“And dinner at Delmonico’s,” Sam added as she passed on her way to the break room.
“Dinner at-I can’t afford that!” Cheyenne called after her. He’d only heard of Delmonico’s and had no idea what their prices were, but it was safe to assume that they weren’t easy to pay on an orderly’s salary.
“Then you’d better hope the Pats win!” Sam shot over her shoulder and disappeared into the break room before Cheyenne could protest further.
Claypool evidently heard that, because he was still laughing when Cheyenne came in to collect his tray.
“If I tell Uncle Beau about that, he’ll tan her hide,” Cheyenne mock-grumbled as he walked up to Claypool’s bed. Not that there was much chance of his telling Bret Maverick’s father anything, if he ever even met the man, but he was sure the source of Bret’s my ol’ pappy always says sayings would be less than amused by the terms of a bet being changed that way.
Claypool laughed some more and wiped tears off his cheeks. “You two are a breath of fresh air.”
Cheyenne couldn’t help smiling at that. “Well, I know folks need their rest in a hospital, but they need to laugh, too. Like the Good Book says, ‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’”†
Claypool’s chuckles turned rueful. “It’s just too bad laughter can’t cure brain cancer.”
Cheyenne rolled the table out of the way and made sure the guards weren’t watching, then sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his voice. “We’re gonna get you out of here, Mr. Claypool.”
Claypool blinked, confused. “What, like… to a hospice care facility? I thought that was for when you only had a month left.”‡
“We can’t wait that long. We’re gonna move you today, ’fore that woman comes back.”
“No, I… I need to see your SCI credentials….”
Cheyenne glanced at the door and lowered his voice further. “We work for Harold Wren.”
Claypool’s face lit up, but then his expression turned wary. “Describe him.”
“’Bout your height, but thinner. Spiky brown hair, blue eyes, glasses. Cleft in his chin, dimples when he smiles big enough. He’s a baseball fan, likes the A’s, the Cubs, and the Red Sox.”
“Where’s he from?”
“That I don’t know-he’s never said. He’s a very private person.”
Claypool seemed pleased with that answer but held up a finger. “If you really know Harold… who was his best friend in college?”
“Nathan Ingram,” Cheyenne answered and thanked God that Reese had already told him that.
“And where does Nathan live now?”
“He doesn’t. He was killed in the ferry bombin’ three years ago.”
“Describe him.”
Cheyenne shook his head. “I never met him. I only went to work for Mr. Wren this summer.”
Claypool sighed and relaxed. “Sorry for giving you the third degree.”
“Don’t be. You don’t know me, and you’ve got good reason to be suspicious. We don’t know who that woman is or who she’s workin’ for, or even whether she’s workin’ alone. I could be anybody.”
“Yes, but they’d really have to dig to have you mention that name as part of a deep cover. I haven’t seen Harold since before I got married-in fact, I think the last time I saw him may have been Nathan and Olivia’s wedding.”
“Well, we’ll get you to ’im in time for lunch.”
Claypool smiled. “When do we leave?”
“I still gotta get these dishes back to the kitchen, but I’ll be back in about half an hour.”
“All right. I hope I still remember what we’re doing by then.”
Cheyenne smiled and stood. “I’ll remind you.” And he collected the tray and left.
Next
* Often credited with inventing baseball.
** After Cheyenne ended, Clint Walker co-starred in both None but the Brave (1965) and The Dirty Dozen (1967), both released before the birth year given for Cheyenne’s cover identities. (L. Q. Jones, who played Cheyenne’s sidekick Smitty in three of the first four episodes of that series, was in Hell Is for Heroes.)
† Proverbs 17:22a
‡ It’s actually six months or less-not that Cheyenne would know!