The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel (28 page)

“But he could still be alive?” Polly said.

“Under what circumstances?” Chas countered and started to cry again.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Polly insisted and helped her to her feet. “Have you taken anything yet to help you sleep?”

“No,” Chas said. “I don’t want to sleep. I want to . . .”

“What? Cry your heart out all night? You need some sleep. It’s just the two of us here tonight, and we’ll talk it through in the morning.” She handed Chas a pill and glass of water.

“Don’t leave me, Polly.”

“I’ll stay right here until you go to sleep,” she promised, “and then I’ll be in the next room with the door open. I’ll be here if you need anything. Now rest.”

Chas was grateful for the numbing effect of the pill that lulled her into sleep, but her dreams were littered with images of Jackson being shot down in the streets of some third-world country—or worse. She knew she’d watched way too much TV when visions of what could be happening became all too clear in her mind as she drifted in and out of sleep, caught between the terror of her dreams and the horror of her thoughts.

* * * * *

Jackson was grateful to spend more time unconscious than awake, but he wondered if that meant he was nearly dead. He hoped so. He’d lost his sense of time, but he knew he’d been there at least three weeks. His mind had started playing tricks on him as memories and fears all mingled with the present and he couldn’t tell what was dreaming and what was hallucination. More than once he heard a voice; a comforting voice, familiar and warm. But he couldn’t quite tell what it was saying. Then he heard the voice and thought he felt a hand on his face. He jumped at the sensation and found no one there. Then the voice became more clear. Whether it was in his mind or he actually heard it with his ears, he couldn’t be sure, but he distinctly heard the words,
Hold on a little longer, young man. You have much to live for. You’re just getting started.

Jackson drifted again into oblivion, and his next awareness occurred as he was being dragged to his feet, as much as that was possible when he was too weak to stand. He was literally being dragged by two men holding his arms. The pain such movement provoked was excruciating, but he didn’t have enough voice to protest. He hoped this was the end, and prayed that it would be quick and painless. And he prayed that the three women who loved him would forgive him, and be comforted. He could barely see shadows and glimpses of blurry light through his swollen eyes, but he knew they were going the opposite direction from where he was taken for the usual torture routine. This increased his hope that death was coming. He felt fresh air and knew they were outside. It was dark; nighttime. He was shoved into a vehicle, and he groaned. He heard an engine start, and a second later he was pulled out of the vehicle through the other door. He heard whispered words near his ear, “We’re going to drop and roll, buddy. Just hold on to me.”

Jackson’s heart began to pound. The voice was familiar! The words were in English! It only took him a few more seconds to recognize that he was rolling on the ground with another man holding onto him. It all felt familiar. Marine training. Rescuing the wounded. He found enough adrenaline to assist in the efforts of his rescuer. A split second after they stopped moving, an explosion occurred; presumably the vehicle they’d gotten in and out of.

“Okay, buddy,” he heard near his ear. “We’re going to stay right here and not move for a while. With any luck they’ll think you’re dead.”

“Got it,” Jackson managed to say. “Thank you.” Then he lost consciousness. When he came around again, he still couldn’t see more than shadows, but he knew the sound. He was in a helicopter. He moved slightly and realized he was strapped to a rescue gurney. There was an IV in his arm. A soothing male voice said, “Don’t try to move. Just relax. You’re going to be fine.”

“Okay,” Jackson said. “Water.”

“You bet,” the voice said, and his head was lifted so that he could drink. And it was
real
water. He couldn’t believe it! He was really going to survive this.

The next words out of his mouth were, “Phone. I need a phone.”

He heard chuckling. “Give us another hour or so, Agent Leeds, and you can use my phone.”

“Okay,” Jackson said again. “More water, please.”

“You got it,” he was told, and Jackson pulled the water into his body like he pulled hope into his spirit. It was over!

* * * * *

Chas was practically inconsolable, and she was so upset that Polly finally called the home teachers, who came to give her a blessing. She was offered comfort and peace, and she was able to rest better. But there was no promise of the outcome, and her heart ached for Jackson in ways she couldn’t comprehend. At least when Martin had died she had known he was dead. She had known how and when it had happened. She had known that it was quick; he hadn’t even known what hit him. This was pure, unrefined agony.

Two and half days after Chas had received news that she felt certain she would never recover from, Polly told her she needed to go out for twenty minutes, and as Jen hadn’t arrived yet, Chas would need to man the phone.

“Are you okay with that?” Polly asked. “Or do you want me to have someone come over and—”

“I can answer the phone,” Chas said. “It’s not likely to ring, anyway. I’m not completely crippled, and I’m going to have to get a grip sooner or later. Just go, but hurry back.” She knew Polly had meant that she was more afraid to leave Chas alone than she was of leaving her to answer the phone. She’d never felt so traumatized in her life. At least when Martin had been killed, Granny had been here. And Granny had been here when the baby had died. And Jackson had been here when she’d lost Granny. Now she couldn’t imagine what she would do without Polly, and she didn’t want to be alone.

Polly hadn’t been gone five minutes when the phone rang, and Chas wanted to curse, except that she had a rule about that. She looked at the caller ID. Out of area. That didn’t mean anything. She cleared her throat and struggled for an even tone of voice, answering as she always did, “Dickensian Inn. How may I help you?”

“Chas?” she heard through a horrible mass of noise in the background.

“Yes,” she said, her heart pounding with hope that it was him, and dread that it wasn’t. She sat up straighter and clutched the phone more tightly.

“Thank God it’s you,” the voice said, and with those four words she knew it was Jackson, even though his voice sounded gruff and unnatural.

She resisted the temptation to start sobbing when she feared barely being able to communicate with him at all. “Where are you?” she demanded.

“What?” he asked.

“Where are you?” she shouted. “I can barely hear you.”

“I know. It’s insane here. I can’t tell you where I am, and I don’t know when I can call you again. I only have about a minute—literally—so listen carefully.”

“Okay, I’m listening,” she said, tears rolling down her face.

“There’s a reason I didn’t call, Chas. You need to know that. But I’m okay now.”

“Now?”

“I don’t know when I can call you again, but please don’t worry. And don’t think it’s because I don’t care. I love you. Are you hearing me?”

He was shouting and she could barely hear him, but she replied firmly, “Yes. I hear you. I love you too.”

“I’ll be in isolation; I don’t know how long. They’ll be treating me for PTSD, and there’s the whole debriefing thing, and . . . I’m rambling. It doesn’t matter. Just know that I’m okay, and will you call my mother and . . .”

The phone went dead and Chas yelled into it, “Jackson? Jackson?” as if she could make it reconnect. She turned the phone off, then hung her head and sobbed every bit as hard as she had when Melinda had called a few days ago. Then she sank to her knees and thanked God for giving her a miracle. She couldn’t imagine what Jackson had been through. But he was alive! Oh, he was alive! In the midst of her prayer, a question popped into her mind.
“PTSD?”
she repeated aloud. What kind of horrible disease had he contracted? Was that it? He’d gotten sick somewhere? Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she’d been believing. She hurried to the computer and googled the letters. She gasped when the list came up. She put a hand over her mouth.
Post traumatic stress disorder.
“Oh, help,” she muttered and started to cry again.

Polly came in and startled her. “What are you doing?”

“He’s alive, Polly. He called.”

“Oh, my
gosh!”
Polly squealed. “I’m never here when the drama hits!”

Chas repeated the gist of the conversation, then pointed to what was on the computer screen. “Oh, dear,” Polly said. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it doesn’t, but . . .” Chas hugged Polly tightly, “he’s alive. Oh,” she said, “I need to call his mother. I’ve got to do it now.”

“I’d say,” Polly said.

Chas dialed the number with trembling fingers. Melinda answered, and Chas said, “It’s me. Put your mother on the other extension.” She whimpered. “Jackson just called me. He’s alive.”

Melinda let out an excited shriek and said, “I’ll get her. Hold on.”

With Melva and Melinda both on the phone, Chas repeated what had happened, and they
all
cried. After she got off the phone, Chas took a nap. It was the first sleep she’d had without drugs since Jackson had stopped calling. That evening Melinda called to tell her that the FBI had called to inform
the next of kin
that Jackson Leeds was alive and in a military hospital, which they would not name, and they weren’t sure when he would be able to make any calls. When Melinda had inquired over his condition, she was told that he was stable and he would recover; nothing more. The two women talked for a long while and concluded that they just had to be patient and settle for the relief of knowing that he was alive and that he
would
recover. And they didn’t even want to talk about what it might be that he needed to recover
from.

For more than a week none of them heard anything. Chas fought to keep busy, and now that she knew he was alive and in a hospital, it was easier to focus on something besides her grief and fears. Still, she felt afraid—and haunted. Haunted by things she didn’t know and could only imagine. She started having nightmares about him, and had to call the home teachers again to ask for another blessing. Ironically, Ron had a brother-in-law who had been through some horrible things in the military, and had been treated for PTSD. Ron reported that it took some time, but he was doing well. That information, combined with the blessing, helped Chas feel more calm, and she stopped having nightmares.

Chas woke up one morning with the determination to find out what was going on with Jackson, and if possible, to at least hear him assure her with his own voice that he was okay. She was fed up with this FBI covert excuse for keeping this man’s loved ones from being involved in his recovery. Even his own mother hadn’t been informed of anything that gave her any consolation.

Chas started with a prayer, then she called the office where Jackson had worked and asked to speak with either Agent Veese or Agent Ekert. She said it was urgent but remained vague. She hoped they might believe she had information regarding something they were currently working on, which would encourage them to call her back sooner rather than later. Only twenty minutes passed before she got a call from a wireless number, and heard a male voice ask to speak to her.

“This is me,” she said.

“This is Special Agent Veese calling from the FBI. I was given a message to call you.”

“Yes, thank you for calling me back.” She told him exactly who she was, calling herself “the woman in Jackson Leeds’ life, the one whose picture is on his desk and all over his apartment,” and that she needed more information to go on. She expressed concern for Jackson, and a desire for him to know his loved ones were there for him. She also expressed frustration on behalf of herself and Jackson’s mother and sister. Even with her careful explanation, she was still expecting to be diplomatically brushed aside with the same old answers. But Agent Veese said kindly, “You’re Chas. You’re the one I picked up at the airport.”

“That’s right,” she said eagerly.

“In that case, you call this number back when you have a flight to Norfolk, and I’ll pick you up at the airport and take you to see him.”

“You can do that?” she asked, suppressing the urge to squeal loudly into the phone.

“Yes, but I can’t promise you’ll get more than a few minutes with him; an hour if we’re real lucky. He’s heavily sedated, and an agent is required to be with him all the time, especially when any visitors or medical personnel are in the room.”

“Why?” she asked, aching for answers, anything to help her understand this.

“It’s protocol, ma’am, under the circumstances. Because of the work he’s been involved with, we need to know what he says when he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“Okay.” That made sense to her. It was nice to finally have something actually make sense.

“And what about his condition? Can you tell me how he’s doing . . . really?”

“I can tell you that on the drive to the hospital. But I have to warn you, ma’am, I’m willing to do this because I think Jackson needs to see somebody that can give him some hope. However, you might want to reconsider. He still doesn’t look very good; not at all like himself. He might belt me in the jaw after he comes around for letting you see him like that.”

Chas thought about that for a second, managing to keep silent the tears that came. She asked quietly, “Can he talk on the phone if someone could help him?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it would be very effective.”

“You’ve worked with him for years, Agent. What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should be on the next plane and make sure he knows that you love him no matter what’s happened. If you’re the kind of woman who can do that, I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

“Why?” she asked, wiping more tears.

“He would do the same for me.” His voice picked up traces of warm pride and fierce determination. “He’s put his life on the line for me more than once, and if it weren’t for him, we never would have brought down the drug-dealing scumbags who nearly got us
all
killed.”