Acts of Honor (27 page)

Sara leaned against the desk and trod easy. “How long have you been here, Shank?”

Shuffling some reports from her desk to Beth’s, Shank shrugged. “A couple of years.”

“How long do you plan to stay?” Sara kept her voice light, but the look in Shank’s eyes and the tremble in her hand proved she knew the questions weren’t idle.

“I’m not sure. Probably until I retire.” She frowned at Sara. “Why?”

“Just curious.” Sara poured herself a cup of hot coffee, then returned to the desk. Studying the steam lifting from her cup, she probed deeper. “Life here is so isolated and restrictive. How do you cope?”

“It’s a military thing.”

What did that mean? “Protocol?”

“Not exactly.” Shank set a plastic bottle of saline down on the desk ledge. “Way back, people served in the military because they considered it their duty. Then we went through a time where people saw joining as a career. But now those days are over, too.” She cocked her head, gazing off into space, seemingly talking more to herself than to Sara. “In a way, we’ve come full circle, back to duty. Yet, now it’s even more complex. Serving is about duty, but it’s also about having a desire to preserve ideals that most people don’t even think about anymore. And it’s about honor.” She nodded, adding weight to her claim. “Mostly, it’s about honor.”

Sara leaned against the desk, propped her chin on her hand. “You’ll stay isolated here until you retire as a matter of honor?”

“Not exactly.” Shank grabbed a soda from the fridge, rejoined Sara at the desk, and then popped the top. The soda fizzed. “It’s hard to explain.”

“I appreciate your trying.” Sara chewed on her lower lip. “Is it a need to serve mankind to feel validated?”

“It’s not my honor, Doc.” Shank grunted. “It’s theirs.”

Totally baffled, Sara lifted a questioning brow. “Whose?”

“The patients’,” Shank explained. “Yeah, I’m isolated here. There isn’t much of a social life, or much to do outside of work. I used to work pediatrics, and at times, I still miss the kids. But what I’m doing here matters. I make a difference to these patients every single day, and nothing I do is wasted.”

“So you volunteered to come here?”

“Yes and no. I didn’t know where ‘here’ was, but I volunteered for an indefinite, remote tour. And I’m not sorry, Sara. None of us are sorry.”

Amazing. Seldom had Sara seen such an intense focus on purpose. And so far, nothing contradicted anything Foster had told her. She brushed her hair back from her face and noticed the phone. It had five lines. Four had numbers. The fifth was coded red and had no numbers on it. “I’m still feeling a little like a fish out of water.”

“Fontaine’s riding you hard, but he’ll back off sooner or later. Just maintain discipline.”

“It’s not that.” Beth was away from her computer, but Sara still lowered her voice. “It’s just that things are strange here. Have you ever worked in a facility where there weren’t blood drives, fund-raisers, or social events like picnics and ball games? I haven’t. All you see on these boards are employee directives.”

“Well, Braxton is a little different from other facilities.”

“I know about the security factor. But those type events are emotionally healthy and necessary for morale. Why doesn’t management have them here?”

“I don’t know.” Shank set down her pen. “Never thought about it.”

Dead end. Shank had shut down. “So what’s the word on Fred?”

“A cardiologist did an initial workup on him yesterday. He’s still having irregular rhythms. They start treatment today.”

“Good.” Sara turned. “I’m taking Joe outside. I want to see how he reacts to stimuli.”

“The patients aren’t allowed outside.”

“Joe is today.” Sara gave Shank a grin, but there was steel behind it. She’d maxed out on interference. “He wants to see the sun.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.” Admiration gleamed in Shank’s eyes. “Stick pretty close to the building, and notify Security. We don’t want another incident.”

“Will do,” Sara said, knowing she was lying and that Shank knew it, too. “Shank, why is that phone line coded red?”

Shank’s face flushed, but there was an appreciative twinkle in her eye. “It’s a secure line.”

“A secure internal line?”

“It’s external, too.” Shank looked away.

No, he couldn’t have. “Is a secure line in here the same as everywhere else?”

“What do you mean, Major?”

Beth was back and listening. “I mean, is it private?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shank said, shifting on her feet. “No one taps in, flat out.”

Anger boiled in Sara’s stomach. That sorry bastard. Foster could have told her there was a secure line here. There was no reason for her to go through the guard and lockdown bit. Tests. Him and his damn tests.

She grabbed a wheelchair and then a straitjacket from the supply cabinet. She should have kicked him out of her office on his ass when she had the chance.

In the hall, she passed Mick Bush on her way toward Isolation. “Morning.”

“Doctor.” He watched her pass.

Feeling the heat of his gaze, Sara resisted the urge to shrug and walked on to the nurses’ station.

Behind the Plexiglas, someone new sat at the desk, watching the monitors. A blond woman, painfully thin, early thirties, with a stiff chin and cool eyes. Sara nodded. “Morning. I’m Dr. West. Would you open Joe’s room, please?”

“Joe?” The young woman looked confused.

Since William had briefed her, and he refused to use Joe’s name unless forced, no doubt the woman was confused. Sara resisted a sigh. “ADR-30. His name is Joe.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The woman buzzed Sara through.

Outside his door, Sara parked the wheelchair. The wing smelled stagnant, stifling. Claustrophobic feelings reared their ugly heads, and Sara drew in a long breath.
There’s plenty of air. It’s just warm, but there’s plenty of air.

Calmer, but still eager to get outside, she knocked on the door. “Joe, it’s me. Dr. West. May I come in?”

This time his answer was immediate. “Okay, Sara.”

He had shaved and put on fresh pajamas. They were blue, too, and snug. The long sleeves ended far above his wrists. “Are you ready to go outside?”

“I’m not sure.” He looked toward the wall, down at the bits of padding still littering the floor. “Am I?”

“If you’re aware enough to ask, then I’d say odds are good.” She wanted to help him. He wanted her help, and that was great. But she didn’t want him to go ballistic on her again, and he stood between her and the door. “We need to talk about a couple of things first,
okay?”

He swerved his gaze to her.

“This is your first outing since the incident.”

“Which incident?” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “There have been several.”

His memory was improving. That was good news. “The incident where you choked me.” She could barely force herself to meet his eyes. “Because of that, I’m going to put you in a wheelchair and in a jacket to take you outside.”

“No.” His eyes glittered anger.

“Joe, I have to do it.” She pleaded with him to understand. “I can’t put the other patients at risk. You know that as well as I do. If all goes well, we’ll get rid of them, but until I know everyone is safe, I can’t do this any other way.”

He turned his back on her. Yet what she sensed wasn’t his anger, it was humiliation. As if he resented lacking control over his own temper. Compassion jerked at her. Hard. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but I have no choice. Haven’t you been in situations where you’ve had no choice?”

“Yes, I have. Plenty of them.” He rubbed his hands together. “Okay. But get reassured that I’m safe quickly. I said I wouldn’t hurt you again, and I won’t. I won’t hurt anyone else, either. You have my word on it.”

“I appreciate it, Joe.” Lucid, he would keep his word, but would he remain lucid? That was the question. Still, she appreciated the reassurance.

“I want this part over, Sara.” His serious expression turned grave, grooving the lines alongside his mouth from his nose to his chin. “I’m not crazy.”

“Of course you’re not crazy. Good grief, why would you even think that?”

“I’m locked in the Isolation wing in what is obviously a mental facility, straitjacketed more often than not, and I’m out of line to consider it?” He had a lot more opinions and observations on this, but from the set of his squared jaw, he wasn’t interested in sharing them. At least not with her; and not now. Staring at the wall, he seemed suddenly irritated. “Where are my colors?”

Was he losing lucidity? Color. The trigger hit her. He’d been staring at the white wall when he had become irritated. He sensed the change in himself and wanted his crayons to add color—to get rid of the irritation.

She stepped between him and the wall, blocking his view of the white. “Joe, may I explain something to you?”

“I’m listening.”

“Please look at me. Not at the wall.”

He turned a forceful gaze on her, and she continued, hoping her voice didn’t shake. “I can’t help someone who is genuinely crazy. I can help you, if you’ll cooperate with me.”

“Got it.” He nodded. “Ready?”

“As soon as we get the gear on.”

She helped him get into the straitjacket and then into the wheelchair, parked just outside his door in the hall. When she snapped the seat belt across him, he sucked in a huge gasp, and his face went white. “What’s wrong?” Sara asked. “Joe?”

“I—I don’t like straps. I
hate
straps. Take it off, Sara. I—I can’t breathe.”

She unsnapped the belt and coached him in his breathing. A white line circled his mouth, and sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down his temples. She dabbed at it with the tail of her lab coat. “You okay?”

“Better.” He spoke from between his teeth, his grip tight on the arms of the chair. “Get me out of here.”

“We’re going.” She rolled him down the hallway, heading toward the heavy metal doors. “You doing okay?”

He looked back at her. “I hate straps.”

“I know. But they’re not connected, they’re just resting on your knees.” And, boy would she catch hell if anyone noticed. “I don’t like being confined, either.” Talk about an understatement. “But we have to prove that you’re no threat to the others.”

“I have to prove it to you, too.”

“Yes.” She refused to feel guilty about that, though it pricked at her.

“I can’t breathe when I’m strapped down.” His eyes glittered. “My chest can’t expand, and I can’t get enough air.”

Sara had to head this off. He was moving toward the rage, she could see it in his eyes, in his tense posture. She stopped the chair, walked around to its front, and stooped down in front of him. “Joe.” She rested a hand on his knee. “Please don’t be upset. Please. You are not confined to this chair. The straps are not connected. They don’t cross your chest.”

“They did.”

“But they don’t now.”

“I can’t move my arms.”

“The jacket and chair are steps we have to take along the way. They’re important, but just a speck on the big picture. Please don’t let them upset you.”

He didn’t answer. But the glaze faded from his eyes, and they turned that soft dove-gray. He was lucid again.

She glanced up, and the trigger for his agitation hit her. The hallways, floors, and ceilings in this wing were all white. Damn it, she shouldn’t have missed that. “I know the white bothers you, Joe. That’s what has you upset. But it’ll only take a couple of minutes, and we’ll be outside, so try to ignore it, okay? If you can’t do that, then just shut your eyes.”

“I can do that.” Strain edged his voice. “I’m patient.”

Calling upon his inner strength again. A good sign—and one that made her wonder. How often had he been forced to do that? Under normal circumstances, in his life as a Shadow Watcher? “We’re going to go now, okay?”