Children of Paranoia (19 page)

I bent down and placed the Aussie on the ground without taking my eyes off the cops. The Aussie made an audible gasp when he hit the ground. By now he was completely covered in blood, but he was still conscious. I looked at the paramedics. “Take him to the hospital. Fix him,” I ordered. They didn't move. I took two steps backward. “Now!” I shouted. Their daze broken, they went into action. They pulled the cot off the ambulance, got the Aussie on the cot, and loaded him inside. They moved quickly and with purpose, suddenly realizing that the faster they moved, the faster they would get away from the psychopath with the gun. The cops watched with envy.

As soon as the ambulance drove away, I knew that the paramedics would be radioing for backup. Within minutes, the area would be inundated with cops. This wasn't protocol. I wasn't trained for this. I looked at the two cops in front of me. They were as white as ghosts, scared shitless. They were probably even more scared than I was. “You saw me save that man, right?” I yelled. I was standing close to them. I probably didn't need to yell anymore. They nodded in unison. “I don't want to kill anyone,” I yelled again. They shook their heads in agreement. “I'm going to run away,” I said. They nodded again. “But if I hear a single gunshot, I'm coming back and there will be hell to pay.” More nodding. I turned and ran. There was no plan anymore. I just ran as fast as I could. I ran for the park. There were no gunshots. Soon, the sounds of sirens began to pierce the night air. I threw the ski mask away. I kept running. I needed to get back to the safe house. Until I changed clothes I knew that I wasn't safe. That was the fastest I ever ran, probably the fastest I ever will run. I didn't slow down. I burned off the fear as I ran. It was just after midnight when I made it back to the safe house.

 

 

When I got back inside, I stripped off my clothes and got in the shower. It took me a long time to scrub the blood off the back of my neck.

 

 

The rest of that evening went by in a blur. Even thinking back on it now, I only remember disparate moments and nothing in between. I don't remember how I got from place to place. In my memory, I simply drifted from one place to the next as if in a dream. I do remember calling Intelligence and talking to Brian. At first he was pissed off that I had blown the hit. That changed, however, when he realized what a mess I was. I treated the call with Brian as a confessional. I cried, blabbering. “I almost killed someone,” I muttered through trembling lips, repeating the phrase over and over again. Brian just sat there and listened, waiting for the purge to end. When it did, Brian simply responded, “Just get out of the city. Hell, get out of the country. Do it tonight. Find a place to lay low in Vermont. Just get out. Call me in three days.” Then he gave me the code. I broke protocol and wrote the names down. I was worried that my head was too messed up to remember them. Stephen Alexander. Eleanor Pearson. Rodney Grant.

Next, I did the one thing that you are never supposed to do. I did the unthinkable. I went to the hospital to see my victim. I knew that I couldn't move forward, couldn't leave this city, and could never face you again unless I knew that he was going to be okay. I wasn't a murderer. You wouldn't have fallen in love with a murderer. You were too good for that.

Sneaking into the hospital was easy, even in the middle of the night, even to visit a man who had just been shot. The hospital staff's job was to keep people healthy, not to run surveillance for them. I went into the Aussie's room and sat down in a chair across from the bed. I didn't dare turn the lights on. The big Aussie was asleep. He had an IV sticking in his arm. His shoulder was bandaged. His stomach was covered by the sheets, but it had to have been bandaged pretty heavily too. The bandages covered the stitches that closed the holes that I had made only a few hours earlier. He was attached to a heart monitor. The heart monitor let out rhythmic beeping sounds. It was soothing. I nearly nodded off in the chair. I remember wondering if my heart would ever beat that evenly again. I doubted that it would. The Aussie woke up after about fifteen minutes. He turned his head and looked at me, slouching in a chair in the darkness. He looked in my eyes and recognized me. “It's you,” he said. I nodded. He knew I was the guy who had shot him. “In front of the strip club?” he asked. He remembered that too. I nodded again. Then he asked, “Why?”

I wanted to answer him. I wanted to tell him about the godforsaken War that I was trapped in. I wanted to tell him that he was actually the lucky one and that I was the unlucky one—that I would gladly take two bullets to be in his shoes. I wanted to explain to him that I was a good person. Even more than that, I wanted him to assure me that he knew that I was a good person. But there never seemed to be enough time for anything. “It was a mistake,” I told him. I don't think he would have understood anything else. Then I got up to leave.

I had one more stop to make before leaving Montreal. It was about three in the morning when I finally made it to your apartment. I woke up your roommate when I hit the buzzer but you didn't mind. When I got up to your apartment, you pulled me into your room and, before I could speak, kissed me deeply. “I have to leave,” I told you once you released me from our kiss. My entire body shaking as I spoke.

“Why? What happened?” you asked, your voice full of concern. You were worried about me. No one had worried about me like that since I was a child.

“Nothing. I have to leave. Business. Some crazy stuff happened with my business.” I couldn't control the shaking.

You took my hands in yours to steady the shaking. “Are you okay?”

I looked you in the eyes. They were strong. “I'll be all right,” I finally responded. “But I have to go.” Each word was painful. “I'll call you as soon as I can.” I felt like I was being punched in the stomach with each sentence. “And I'll come back soon. I promise.”

“Okay,” you replied. “It's okay.” You rubbed your hands on mine to sooth me.

I leaned in toward your face and we kissed. I prayed that it wouldn't be for the last time. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

 

 

I took a cab to the airport and from there I rented a car. I drove through dawn. I saw the sunrise out of my car window. I crossed the border sometime in the morning. I listened to French talk radio during the drive. I don't understand a word of French. For some reason, the sound just soothed my nerves. Eventually, I stopped at a small roadside motel in Vermont. The parking lot was full of cars with ski racks and skis. Vacationers. I stumbled into my room and dropped onto the bed. Over the next twelve hours, I may or may not have slept—I can't be sure—but I know that I didn't move, not once. I just lay there, slowly trying to forget everything about my life except for you.

At about noon on Thursday I got up and went for a run. I had neglected to exercise during my time in Montreal and it almost cost me. I ran ten miles. When I got back to the motel, I did sit-ups and push-ups until I nearly collapsed from exhaustion. I was hoping that the exercise would help to calm my nerves. It didn't. I felt trapped in the little snowbound motel. I felt like I was about to spontaneously combust. Even if I got in my car and drove, I had nowhere to go.

The first day went by and I didn't call you. I wanted to. I even picked up the phone and started to dial countless times, but I couldn't. I didn't know what I could say to you without lying. I had promised not to lie to you so I didn't call.

I spent most of the rest of the day watching television. I drove to a nearby pizza place for lunch and dinner. That night my insomnia returned. I tossed and turned. I decided that your voice was the only thing that was going to keep me from going insane. I called you at two o'clock in the morning. I was trying to fend off madness.

The phone rang three times before you picked up. You had been asleep. It made me jealous that you could sleep while my agonizing over you kept me awake. Your voice was quiet. It had that husky quality that it often has first thing in the morning. “Hello,” you said. I almost hung up the phone. I was suddenly afraid to speak. “Hello?” you repeated. “Joseph?” When you said my name the spell was broken. It gave me courage.

“Hey, Maria,” I answered.

“What time is it?”

“It's late. Really late. I'm sorry for waking you up. I just wanted to hear your voice. I'll let you go back to sleep.”

“No. Don't go,” you replied. “Where are you?”

“I'm in the States. I'm stuck in a motel for a few days but I'm hoping that I can come back to Montreal soon.” There was silence on the other end of the line. I wasn't sure if you were nodding off. “Do you think you can wait for me?” I asked.

“I wait for no man,” you replied with a laugh. You were slowly waking up. “So you better come back here soon.” Your voice made me feel better, like I belonged to the world.

“I'll come back as soon as I can,” I replied, “but I'm going to have to go now and I'm not going to be able to call you for a couple of days.”

“Why can't you talk to me, Joe?” you asked. I could hear the disappointment in your voice.

“When I get back, if you'll still have me, I'll tell you everything,” I replied. I'd have to lay my cards on the table at some point. You deserved as much.

“You promise?”

“I promise,” I replied. “Go back to sleep.”

“Joseph?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” The words were like a shot of morphine, a cure-all for all my pain.

“I love you too,” I answered.

“I'll wait for you, for as long as you need me to.” Then you hung up. After our conversation, I slept.

I exercised again the next day, going through the same routine. Friday afternoon I drove to the nearest bar. It was half roadhouse, half Swiss ski chalet. I sat alone at the bar and drank a couple of beers. I was just biding my time until that evening, when it would be safe to call Intel again. I threw the beers back and ordered a cheeseburger. The place began to get crowded as early-season skiers started coming in off the slopes. Soon the place was alive with people who didn't seem to have a care in the world. That's when I had to leave. I knew I didn't belong there anymore.

I drove back to the motel. As soon as I go into the room, I picked up the phone to dial up Intelligence. I was looking forward to hearing Brian's voice even if he was going to yell at me. I took out the piece of paper that I had written the code for this call on. I went through each of the operators. Stephen Alexander. Eleanor Pearson. Rodney Grant. Finally, it was time to be transferred to a real person. I was ready to do everything that I could to convince Brian to send me back to Montreal, ostensibly to finish the job, but really so that I could see you again.

“Hello, Joseph,” the voice, a deep, gravelly man's voice, said. I had never heard the voice before. “This is Allen.” Allen? Who the hell was Allen? I looked back down at the piece of paper on which I had written the names—Stephen Alexander. Eleanor Pearson. Rodney Grant—just like I had said.

“What?” I said. What I meant to say was “What the hell is going on?” but only the first word made it out of my mouth.

“My name is Allen.” Allen? What happened to Brian? I was confused.

“Where's Matt?” I asked, careful not to let on that I knew Brian's real name.

“Matt's been transferred. It was decided that the two of you no longer made for a productive working relationship. You'll be working with me now.” Allen used the same tone with me that you'd use on a misbehaving five-year-old.

“That doesn't work for me,” I replied. I did my best to sound strong, even though I felt as weak as I'd ever felt before. “Did Matt ask to be transferred?”

“No, he did not. In fact, Matt put up a pretty big fight. Apparently, he liked working with you. That may have been the problem. Let's just say that we weren't happy with how things were advancing with you. First there was the incident in Long Beach Island, where you were fraternizing with other soldiers without permission. Then you fuck up this hit in Montreal. It was decided that you needed to work with someone else—someone with a little more experience.”

“I don't get any say in this? I want to speak to Matt.” My voice was trembling. I could barely control my anger.

“I don't care who you
want
to speak with. You're going to speak with me, and only me, from here on out.” Allen's voice was even and monotone.

“Fuck you,” I said, holding the phone an inch from my mouth. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I wanted it fixed. “I'm only working with Matt. Get Matt on the line, or I don't do anything.” I kept trying to sound tough, but it was all bluster. I was scared. Brian was my only real connection to the world. My mother was clueless. I couldn't get in touch with Jared and Michael without Brian's help. Without Brian, I was simply adrift, alone. I didn't know what this Allen character would be like, but I already knew that I didn't like him.