Amanda's Eyes (4 page)

“How do I know if she’s awake?”

“Hey, A.J.?”

“Yeah, Dennis?”

“Mr. Maxwell here is wondering if
you’re awake.”

“Depends on what he wants.”

“What do you think I want?” growled
Tug, doing his best imitation of aggrieved innocence.  Unfortunately for Maxwell,
innocence of any kind isn’t his forte.  “Can’t a man drop in to cheer up a hurt
friend?  Here.  I brought you flowers, you ingrate.”  He dumped a florist’s box
in my lap.

I fumbled the lid off the box,
releasing a sweet perfume that made my jaw drop.  “You brought me
roses
?”

“What?  You don’t like roses?”

“Sure I like roses.  But since when
did you start spending a hundred credits a pop on flowers?  Or anything else,
for that matter?”

“Now, is that any way to talk? 
You’re gonna have Nurse Baker here thinking I’m some kind of cheapskate.”

“If the shoe fits, Tug.”

“You hear that, Baker?” he groused, dragging
up a chair.  The scent of rose petals didn’t stand a chance against the
ever-present cigar smell that clings to him like a pungent aura.  “No respect. 
No respect at all.”

It wasn’t true, of course.  We enjoy
baiting one another, that’s all.  I actually have a boatload of respect for my
editor.  Even consider him a sort of mentor in my less judicious moments.

Tug Maxwell is a short fireplug of a
man with steel-wool for hair and a mustache to match.  His wardrobe runs to
rumpled suit coats he wears unbuttoned over creased shirts straining to cover a
belly that overhangs his belt buckle.  He’s got a face like a
bulldog—pugnacious, flat, and heavily jowled—a mug that telegraphs his personality
long before he opens his mouth.  One look at that face, and you sense it would
take an act of God to keep Tug Maxwell from getting the story.  He doesn’t know
how to take
no
comment
for an answer.  Of course, that’s the
brand of moxie it takes to work your way up from copy reader at some Podunk
weekly to editor-in-chief of World News Network, the largest news organization
on the planet.

Most of what I know about reporting
I learned from him, starting the day I walked through the doors of WNN for an
internship during my last semester of college.  Maxwell was captain of the West
Coast police beat, I was full of vinegar and gunning for my first byline.  Day
one on the job, he sent me for sandwiches.  Not exactly the foot in the door I
had in mind, but I kept my disappointment to myself and trotted off to the deli. 
After two weeks of scut work and gofering, Tug figured I had paid my dues and
let me tag along when he visited the precinct houses.  A month later, he gave
me my first shot at a story, then bullied me until I got it right.

Rewrite it, Little Miss Got-Rocks. 
Lead with the meat this time.

You call that a sound bite?  Hell,
I’ve seen commercials with bigger teeth!

Bad neighborhood?  What does that
have to do with the friggin’ price of potatoes?  Listen, Rocks, you wanna be a
police reporter, you gotta get to know the man on the street.  Every John Doe
out there is a potential source.

Nobody was more surprised than I was
when he offered me a job after graduation.  He’s been my boss ever since, mentor
and dictator all rolled into one.

The day he hired me, he ordered me
to work on my name.

“You ever hear of a hard-hitting
crime reporter named
Amanda Joy
?”  I guessed his sandpapery rendition of
a girlish falsetto was supposed to emphasize the point.  “Listen, a cutesy moniker
like that might be okay for high-school cheerleaders, but it’ll kill you in
this business.”

The same thought had already crossed
my mind.  Not that I would admit it and give him the satisfaction.

“So what do you suggest?” I asked.

Well, Tug is big on initials:  M.T.
for Mark Tong, K.C. for Kenseisha Caroline, and so on.  Efficient, he says.  So
while he still calls me Rocks, my fans know me as A.J. Gregson.

At last count, said fans numbered around
four million.  It has taken ten years, but I’ve worked my way up from sound
bites on fender benders and shoplifters to covering the big, the bad, and the
nasty.  Bloody murder.  Serial killers.  Major swindles and organized crime.  Even
the occasional cold case, when an unsolved’s anniversary rolls around.  I’ve
got a syndicated, bi-weekly column and a weekly hour-long talk show, both
called
Crime Watch
.

Tug has been behind me all the way. 
But while I like and respect him and owe him more than I can say, I’m not
gullible enough to take his every word and gesture at face value.

Today’s roses smelled fishy, because
the story
always
comes first with Maxwell, and he was there to get one
by hook or by crook.  Never mind the fact that I had been conscious for three
lousy days.  It was only a matter of time before he started in.

Right on cue he said, “Thanks for
showing me in, Baker.  I’m sure you have plenty to do.  We can take it from
here, right, Rocks?  I’ll stop by the nurses’ station to check out.”

“No need to stop by the nurses’
station,” said Dennis.

“I don’t have to check out?”  Tug
sounded surprised.  “I thought CIIS wanted every visitor to check in and out.”

“That’s the protocol.”

“Oh, I get it.  Listen, that’s real
nice of you, but I don’t need any special favors.  I put my pants on the same
way as your average working stiff; I don’t mind playing by the rules.”

“Guess that’s why everybody calls
you a stand-up guy, Mr. Maxwell.”

“I try,” Tug replied with spurious
modesty, rolling right over the sarcasm.

“And since you are such a stand-up
guy,” my nurse-watchdog continued mildly, “I’m sure you won’t mind if I stay. 
It being required in this case, except when the visitor is family.  Besides,
somebody has to put A.J.’s roses in a vase.”

The box was lifted from my hands.  Seconds
later the skink in the bathroom kicked on.

“Hold on, now,” Maxwell sputtered. 
“Are you trying to tell me I can’t have a few minutes alone with my own repor—
... ah ... with my good friend?”

Thwarted
had never been part of my editor’s
personal vocabulary, but that was about to change.  Thoroughly enjoying the
prospect, I had to throttle a chuckle into a cough.

“Sorry.  Tickle in my throat.  Can I
have a drink, Tug?”

“What?  Oh, sure.  Here you go.”  He
shoved a plastic cup into my extended left hand, predictably oblivious to the
water that sloshed over the rim and into my lap.  The cigar smell got stronger
as he lean in close.  “So, what have you got for me?” he muttered
sotto
voce. 
“Must have been one hell of an explosion, huh?”

“Must have been,” I agreed, matching
his tone.  “Too bad I can’t remember it.”

“You don’t remember
anything
?”

“Not so far.”

I toyed with the idea of passing
along the few details the doctor had given me, but decided against it, mainly
because they were second-hand, vague, and would unleash a barrage of questions
I couldn’t answer yet.  Besides, if I gave him anything at all, he would run
with it.  But nobody was going to tell
this
story, but yours truly.

“Damn,” said Tug, as the sink in the
bathroom cut off.

“Tell me about it.”

“Watch it,” he muttered.  “He’s
coming back.  Whatever happened to privacy?” he groused as Dennis’s footsteps
approached the bed.

“You’ll have to take that up with CIIS. 
Meanwhile, pretend I’m not here.  There you go, A.J.  I put the roses on your
side table, so you’ll be able to smell them.”

I lifted my nose for a sniff,
smelled nothing but Panatelas.  Still, it was the thought that counted, so I
said, “Nice.  Thanks.”

Tug’s “Now, look here, Baker,” was
punctuated by the scrape of a chair as he shoved to his feet.

His usual MO would be to get in his
opponent’s face, intimidating by sheer force of Maxwell’s infamous indomitable
will.  That strategy worked with most people, but from what I had heard, Dennis
wasn’t most people.  As tempting as it was to let Mister Pushy find that out
the hard way, I figured there was no use
both
my editor and me being
hospitalized.

“Tug!”

“What?” he snapped impatiently.

“Did you know Dennis here used to be
Special Forces?”

Silence.  Then, “That so?”

“Six years,” Nurse Baker assured him
happily.

“Huh.  Well, then, I guess he’s
gonna stay.”  He dragged back the chair and sat down.  “So, Rocks, how you
feeling?”

He left ten minutes later.  Without
the story.

I jolted awake, heart pounding a
mile a minute, those frustrating mists swirling in my head as I fought to calm
my breathing.  Desperate to reach beyond the darkness and ground myself in
reality, I groped for the short sections of bedrail framing my pillow.  With my
fingers wrapped around cool, solid metal, I fought to recall the dream.  But by
the time my cardio-vascular system leveled off, I was forced to admit defeat. 
Again.  Ten days since I came around, and there was still a blank wall where those
memories should be.  Maybe Doctor Ramirez was right, maybe I would never
remember.

Physically, I was doing great.  IV-free
and no cast.  Plenty to be thankful for, but I wanted more.  I wanted it all. 
I always do, even though I know life doesn’t usually work that way.  Still, it
never hurts to aim high, and giving up gets you nowhere. 
Maybe tomorrow.

“I wonder what time it is,” I sighed.

“Sixteen fifteen.”

I yelped and levitated an inch off
the mattress, because that’s what you do when you think you’re alone, and a
voice as deep and dark as midnight pipes up from right next to your bed.

“Four fifteen p.m.,” the voice
explained.

“I know that.”  I clapped a hand
over my jackrabbitty heart.  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“Name’s Eagan, Ms. Gregson.  Special
Agent Jack Eagan, with CIIS.  I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Uh-huh.  How long have you been
sitting there?”

“Not long.  Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

Watching me sleep.  Watching me
surface from my obscure nightmare like a drowning swimmer.  I felt almost
indecently exposed.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said.  “Anybody
in my line of work understands about nightmares.  They’re nothing to be ashamed
of.”

Doubly flustered because he had read
me so easily, I snapped, “Yeah?  Well, it’s disconcerting to wake up from one
and find out you have an audience.”

He thought about it.  Then, “I can
see where it would be.”

More than ready for a change of
subject, I said, “What can I do for you, Agent Eagan?”

“It’s Jack, and I would like to talk
to you for a few minutes, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“I feel fine,” I replied, flipping
back the covers.  I located the left-hand rail again and held on as I sat up
and swung my pajama-clad legs over the left edge of the bed.  No way was I
having this conversation flat on my back like some helpless female.  I heard
him scoot back his chair to give me room.  “There’s just one problem,
Jack
.”

“What’s that?”

“You have me at a disadvantage.  You
know
who I am,” I waved an index finger between us, “but how do I know
you’re who you say you are?”

“Sharp lady,” he murmured
approvingly.  “Tell you what, why don’t you ring for Baker?  He can vouch for
me.”

My eyebrows shot toward my hairline
as I groped for the buzzer.  “You know Dennis?”

“For years.  We served together.”

“On the Teams?”  Silence, which I
took for a yes.  “Don’t tell me, let me guess:  You would confirm that, but
then you would have to kill me.”

That surprised a chuckle out of
him.  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Dennis’s voice broke into our
conversation.  “I see you two have met.”

“I take it you
do
know Agent
… uh … Jack?”

“And all the skeletons in his closet. 
Don’t worry, A.J., Eagan’s one of the good guys.  I hope you don’t mind my
letting him in to see you?”

“No, I don’t mind.  Thanks,
Dennis.”  Right then, my stomach gurgled hungrily.  “That reminds me.  As long
as you’re here ....  What’s for dinner?”

“Woman eats like a truck driver,” my
nurse informed my visitor.  “Not that you would guess it by the looks of her.”

I beamed a smug smile in his general
direction.  “I have terrific metabolism.  So give.  What’s on the menu?”

“Chicken a la king.  Now, if you
don’t mind, I’ve got patients who actually need me.  You two have a nice chat.”

“Chicken a la king!”  I groaned.  “I
don’t even want to know.  What I wouldn’t give for a fat, greasy cheeseburger
with the works!”

“That can probably be arranged,”
reckoned my visitor with a smile in his voice.

“I’ve got news for you, Special
Agent Jack Eagan.  If you think for one minute you can get on my good side by
bribing me with junk food … You’re probably right.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”  He
paused, and when he continued, the smile had left his voice.  “Now about the
reason for my visit.  I was here a couple times before but never managed to
catch you.  You were either out for tests or roaming the hallways.  I have a
few questions about the night of September fourth.”

He might as well have doused me with
ice water.  I nodded slowly.  “I have a few questions about that night myself.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, what happened?”

“You still don’t remember?”

“Not for lack of trying.  That
nightmare you walked in on?  I have it at least every other day, but so far,
nothing sticks.  The only detail I’ve remembered is a man’s face:  young,
African-American, dreadlocks, a gold stud in his left ear.”

“Evander Cuey.  He was one of our
best agents.  Left a wife and two kids—six-year-old twins.  Girls.”

“Oh, no.  God.  I’m so sorry!”

“Yeah.  It’s tough on the families.”

And the friends
, I added silently.

“I’m told two agents were killed
that night.  Who was the other?”

“Sammy Michaels.  Tall, skinny kid
with red hair.  Good with computers, electronics, that kind of thing.”

“Did he have a family, too?”

“No wife or kids, but his
seventy-two-year old grandmother is taking the death of her only grandchild
hard.  She’s in a room two floors down, recovering from a stroke.”

“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?  Why
them and not me?  How did I earn a pass?”

“Don’t go there, Ms. Gregson.”

“A.J.”

“All right, A.J.  You shouldn’t feel
guilty because you lived and they didn’t.  Believe me, ‘Vander and Sammy
wouldn’t have had it any other way.  If you want to honor their memories,
you’ll get well and live to a ripe old age.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.  Okay, you don’t remember
that night.  What about the days leading up to it?  Is there information you
didn’t share about the tip you gave us, for example?  Details you might have
kept back for journalistic reasons, like the name of your informant?”

My brow knit as I scrambled to shift
gears.  “Tip?  What tip?”

“The anonymous tip the three of you
were following up on when Cuey and Michaels were killed.”

I grabbed the edge of the bed as my
dark world spun crazily.  “I gave them a tip?  You’re saying they went to the
Port because of me?”

“No,” he replied calmly, “I’m saying
they went to the Port because that’s where the van was.  Because it looked like
we had finally caught a break, thanks to you.  Don’t forget, you thought so,
too.  You were right in the middle of the action.  Despite the fact that Special
Agent in Charge Ito strongly advised you to keep your nose out of it, I might
add.”

“I’m a reporter,” I murmured absently,
trying to process this new data.  “My nose was right where it belonged.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll tell you what
I
think. 
I think you’re damned lucky to be alive, A.J. Gregson.”

No argument there.

“I don’t remember the tip, either. 
Based on what you’ve told me so far, it mentioned the location of a van.  Why
was that so important?”

“The Ferrymen.  Ring any bells?”