Second Comings III The Mask of Anar

"No."

"Because you aren't as smart as you think you are, Dickhead. You've been texting all this shit to your buddy Kyle. Since September, even. We have print outs now, of all your ideas and actions, of all your texts. Meeting her to fuck, how she likes it up the ass, all of it. Meeting with her last year to plan this thing, and again, over the past month, when she started getting you guys thinking about doing this again. I can't fucking believe you, Tony! So smart! So, you know what, Tony? I don't need you to open your fucking mouth, so do me a favor and keep it shut. Just keep in mind, kiddo, if this Lansing dies, you're going to stand for murder in the commission of another felony. That's mandatory life, no chance of parole. You know, we got some real big farm boys up here in our little prison, too. They'll fuck you in the ass so hard the heads of their dicks will pop out your mouth. You'll get used to it, though, so don't lose any sleep over it. But you know, I gotta ask, 'cause there's just one thing I don't get. Why? Why'd you do it, son. Why? Was it 'cause you love this Grier woman? Or because you hate this Secord guy? Huh? Which is it?"

"I love her. That's why I did it. Now fuck off!"

"Ya know, Tony? I think I will," Marchand said as he yawned, hiding his triumph. "I think I'll go home now, and yeah, I might just fuck off. You too, kid. You have fun tonight. You deserve to have some fun, so I'll seeya in the morning. The judge and I are going to have a little talk about you then. He's going to talk to you too. I think you'll like him, Tony. Really, I do. I think you'll have lot's of fun."

+++++

When Secord opened his eyes he saw what he thought was a gauzy impressionist's rendition of Mission Control; in this darkened room there were all kinds of blinking lights and beeping monitors, and there were women here too, but no engineers with slide rules sticking out of their shirt pockets.

"Where am I?" he said after several minutes, and one of the woman came to him, wiped his eyes with cool water and dried them off.

"Dr Secord, you're at Mass General, in the Coronary Care Unit. You were downstairs and had an episode."

"An episode? Of what? Gilligan's Island?"

The woman apparently had no sense of humor. "You had a heart attack, Dr Secord. Apparently stress induced."

"We came. Uh, we came when my girlfriend was transferred here from Vermont. She was sexually assaulted this morning. They brought her here by helicopter. Do you know anything?"

The nurses eyes squinted a little, her demeanor hardened. "Let me check with the doctor."

"Don't you want to know her name?"

"I know her name, Dr Secord."

She was gone about a half hour, and she returned with two physicians. They looked at monitors, held out long strips of paper, then looked his way.

'Oh, no,' he said to himself, 'she's gone...'

One of the physicians, a very petite woman, came into Secord's part of the CCU and took a syringe and pushed something into his IV, then she watched a readout behind his bed for a moment.

"Dr Secord?"

"Yup."

"My name is Linda Fiorello, and I was the neurosurgeon working on Miss Lansing. It's my understanding she's your girlfriend? Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Well, we had a difficult time with some of the injuries, notably a T3 fracture that nobody caught."

"A broken vertebrae?"

"Yes. That's right."

"Is she..."

"No. We caught it. She's immobilized for the time being..."

"She's alive? Are you telling me she's alive!?"

"Yes, of course. You mean, no one's told you anything?"

"He just woke up, doctor," one of the nurses called out.

"Oh, I see. Well, yes, she's doing fine now. Her hand will be..." She stopped, looked at Secord. He was crying now and she gave him a tissue, let him get caught up.

"You said something about her hand?"

"Dr Secord, she had extensive trauma to her head and face, left ribs and right hand, as well as a punctured lung. There was concern the left renal artery might have been compromised, but we're convinced that's okay right now. The, uh, well, all forensic examinations have been completed and results will be forwarded to the Vermont State Police."

"I see. So she's stable?"

"Her condition is critical, but stable. Until we know how she is when she wakes up."

"She's still out?"

"She should come-around in about an hour. I'm staying here 'til she does, and I'll drop by on my way home to let you know. Okay?"

"Okay, and thanks for all you've done."

She took his hand and squeezed it, gave him a little smile before she walked out, then the other doc came in. With chart in hand he described Secord's 'episode' in glowing, technicolor detail, and what they'd be doing to him the next few days, then he too was gone and the nurse came back in.

"I don't suppose I could have a Coke or something?"

"A Coke!?" the nurse said, breaking out into a real laugh. "Doc? You've had your last Coca-Cola for a long, long time! A Coke?! Hah! That's a hoot!"

"Something to drink, then?"

"Ice chips for now, doc. Zero sodium for the time being. Like the next two years." She laughed as she walked from the cubby, laughing "coke" under her breath as she went, then Secord remembered he had a stack of term papers to grade...

+++++

Justin Lake took off his rain coat and looked at Laura's unfinished papers and wondered just what the hell the college would do about that. Maybe someone from her department could finish them? Then he looked at his own stack of ungraded essays and groaned.

He'd been home for an hour and suddenly felt about as alone as he ever had in his life, and grading papers was the last thing on earth he wanted to do just then. He got up and went into the bedroom – their bedroom – and he looked at her clothes. Some on the floor, some hanging in the closet...then he looked at the bathroom counter...and all her things. And he thought he'd known her so well.

'How well do we ever really know anyone,' he asked the reflection in the mirror. He didn't know what to do then...put her belongings in trash bags? Call the college? Let them deal with it?

He couldn't stand it...so many questions, all crowding in on him, pushing him, twisting him from one unanswerable question to the next.

A knock on the door. He looked at his watch...it was now after two in the morning. 'Who could that be...' he said as he went to the door.

Sharon Hastings, looking disheveled and very upset stood there in the rain.

"I got home," she sighed wearily, "went to the bedroom, and Dennis was there sucking off some kid. He heard me, no way he couldn't have. It's like he's forcing the issue, pushing everything in my face right now. Sorry, I'd have gone to Jordan's house, but..."

"God, no, please, come on in. Can I get you something?"

"Whiskey maybe, and a .357 Magnum?"

"Not sure this campus could deal with two fights in one day. Maybe just some bourbon?"

"Bourbon. Yes. That would be nice right about now." He came back with two classes and an unopened bottle a moment later.

"I was looking at all her things, wondering..."

"College will store it. Call the Dean's secretary in the morning."

"Oh."

"Get all her term papers and grade books to the English chair's secretary too. That's their problem, not yours."

"Okay. Two down, a few dozen questions to go."

"Fire away."

"Well, Laura. What you said earlier. About helping her."

"What about it?"

"I'm lost."

"Fuck the bitch. Let her roast in hell."

Lake laughed. "Why the change of heart?"

"Oh, fuck, where do you wanna start? How about Dennis? How about Jordan, and Michele? I'm getting tired of all the good people I know going down in flames – while all the evil shits walk around calling the shots, and smiling all the way to the bank."

"And you teach political science?"

"Yeah, I used to believe in all that shit, too. I'm going to start preaching anarchy..."

"Jordan said something about fighting the good fight..."

"He would. He always takes the high road."

"Mind if I ask you something personal?"

"Justin, if you can't by now, no one can."

"Do you love him?"

"Secord?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is it that obvious?"

"No, not really. I just wondered...after watching you today."

"I fell for him last summer, slowly, but he grows on you." She took a long pull on her bourbon, swirled the ice around inside the glass, staring at it as she did. "We met at the faculty dinner, and I got stone drunk. Can you believe it? A conservative from Ws White House, and a liberal poli-sci professor from Massachusetts. We were destined for one another, just had to be, ya know?"

He laughed, she did too.

"Y'all ever have sex?"

Her eyes narrowed: "Wow, you really do want to get personal, don't you?"

"I don't understand why you two are so close. Things don't add up"

"When Jordan first met Michele, well, it didn't work out. He was pretty freaked out, and I helped him pick up the pieces. Some hand holding was involved, yes, if that's what you mean."

"Fair enough."

"Yeah, anyway, I could tell even then he loved her. It was an emotional connection, Justin. The sex thing freaks him out, though. Still does, I think."

"And you help him with that?"

"Not since they got together. No."

"But you still love him?"

She looked at him, hesitated. "Yeah. Madly, deeply and out of mind. I love the hell out of him. I didn't know Michele then, but I do now. I hate to say it, but I love her too. And no. Never. Won't happen, so don't go there."

He laughed. "You have a dirty mind, don't you?"

"You have no idea."

"So, what happens with Dennis?"

"Divorce. Tomorrow, as soon as I can get to my lawyer."

"So, you'll move down to Massachusetts, to Holyoke?"

"I guess."

"Away from Jordan?"

He could see it on her face right then. She'd never leave Jordan. Never.

"Do you mind if I bunk out here tonight?" she said, knowing she had to change the subject right away. "I can't go home right now."

"Sure, I'll take the sofa."

"Bullshit. Pillow and a quilt are all I need."

"Bathroom's in there," he said, pointing.

"Same floor plan as Jordie's. I know the way!"

I'll bet you do, Justin thought. I just bet you do.

She came out a minute later wearing just pale yellow panties and a t-shirt, and while she was pale as a sheet she was attractive enough, in a stocky New Englander way. She sat on the sofa and he continued to look, to stare, really, at her bare legs.

"Justin? Pillow? Blanket?"

"I'm afraid, Sharon."

"Afraid? Why?"

"I don't know why. I just am, that's all."

"We'll get this place squared away in the morning, Justin. You'll feel better then. Could I ask you something now?"

"Huh?"

"Why are you staring at me?"

He shook himself to, looked up at her – now almost embarrassed – but a sea change was rolling over him now. "I can understand why Jordan came to you. You're like a lifesaver tossed to a man who's just fallen overboard...easy to cling to...hard to let go of."

As she watched him, Lake began to tremble, to fall apart before her very eyes, and within the span of a single breath his was crying, coming completely undone, the events of the day finally catching up to him. She went to him more out of instinct than anything else, but she took him and held him and let him go deeper into his grief. She made gentle noises in his ear, ran her fingers through his hair and she felt his hands clinching her back through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. He was sobbing now, really out of control. Not knowing what else to do, instinct took over.

She walked him into the bedroom and lay him down, took off his shoes and khakis, then covered him with sheets and blankets. He was facing her, and she sat beside him and draped herself over his body like it was the most natural thing in the world, then he looked up at her, his face a mess while she rubbed his head.

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to sound manly and in-charge again.

"For what," she whispered, because if anything she knew who was in charge now.

"For all...for everything..."

"Just relax," she said while she rubbed his face, then his head. She knew she was walking the razor's edge but she really didn't care anymore. Dennis and all his smoldering infidelities, Jordan and his impossible windmills, and all her hopes and desires drifting away on the wind. She brought her legs up onto the bed, let his eyes fall on them, let his gaze linger there as she parted her thighs – and soon, all his crying stopped.

+++++

She woke suddenly, knew she was coming out of a dream – no, a horrible nightmare – but everything was wrong.

She was in a small room of pale green walls, a cotton curtain separating her immediate space from the world beyond, and there was a strange man sitting in the corner, reading a magazine, and it hit her then. Her name was Alice, and she'd followed a rabbit down his hole! There was no telling where she was now...so perhaps she'd finally get to meet the White Queen tonight...

Her nose began to itch and she unconsciously moved her hand to scratch it, but nothing happened. She struggled to move her hand – and nothing! She tried with her left and she felt the arm move, then something stopped it and she looked, saw a handcuff and sighed a kind of strangled sob of relief. 'So that's it!' she told herself, then the man and a nurse were by her side.

"You're awake now?" the nurse said. "How do you feel?"

"Where am I," Laura Grier said, now clearly very confused. "What happened?"

"I need to do a few things, look at your dressings, then we'll need to let this man talk with you," the nurse said as she moved to Grier's right shoulder. Laura looked and saw masses of thick white surgical dressings there, some blood-soaked and oozing, and panic gripped her.

"What's happened?!" she screamed, and the nurse just continued working, exposing the wounds, cleaning the area with saline and iodine.

"You lost you arm, Miss Grier," the man said, and she turned to the sound of his voice, looked up at him with red-rimmed, perilously frightened eyes. "Do you remember anything, Miss Grier?"

"My arm's gone? Is that what you said? My arm..."

Frank Marchand had interrogated so many broken human beings over his twenty years of detective work that he had developed a certain benign apathy for the feelings of others, especially for those who'd caused great harm to their victims, but suddenly he saw his own daughter laying there in the light, saw this girl's abject terror rise up from depths of her soul and reach out into the night for some small measure of comfort – and he was all she had. He shook himself free of his own restraints and cradled her face in his hands, then daubed her eyes with tissues, aware only that he had to meet this girl in her moment of need or somehow fail a very simple test of his own humanity.

"Miss Grier? Do you remember anything about yesterday?" Marchand asked again, when some of the terror he'd seen left the girl's eyes.

Wide-eyed and quiet, Grier shook her head. "No. Nothing."

This was a worst case scenario, Marchand said to himself. She had no recall, therefore no effective Miranda warning, so no questions for now. "Miss Grier, I have to advise you that you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, and that you have certain rights..."

"What! What are you talking about! Wake up! I want to wake up now! Somebody wake me up!"

Grier was thrashing around the bed, the nurse barely able to restrain her and with these wounds exposed she needed help. She hit the call button and asked all the nurses on the floor come to help, but now, when she tried to find a place to restrain Grier there was simply no good place to do so. She was struggling when the first nurse arrived, and now there was blood everywhere.

"Sedation!" the nurse called out. "In the IV, now!"

Marchand left the room – now completely shook up, and he looked down at his arms. He saw blood on his sleeves and on his hands, and he felt panic rising – like the sun outside. He went down the hall to a bathroom and went in, saw the splatters of blood all over his face, on his eyes, on his lips, and he felt a cold chill run through his body. He washed his face and hands, then washed them again, then he leaned over the sink, looked at his face in the mirror, shaking his head. When he had calmed down he walked to the nurses station. The two from the room were there, washing Grier's blood from their faces and arms.

"Excuse me, but does anyone know her HIV status?"

The nurses turned and looked at him, then at one another. "I didn't see anything on the chart?" one of them said. "Did you?"

"Someone would have flagged her. We have protocols for this..." but this nurse was flipping through Grier's chart now, then typing on her computer. Then Marchand saw her stop on a page and start reading, then this woman's hands were in her face.

"What is it!" the other nurse said.

"She's positive," the head nurse said, shaking her head. "Okay, someone fucked up. I'm calling the administrator; Anne, find out who's on call for infectious diseases, and call them now.

Marchand went to a nearby chair and collapsed into it, suddenly feeling very, very unsure about life – and what he was doing continuing to waste his in this ever encroaching sewer called law enforcement.

+++++

"How'd you sleep," Sharon asked as Justin rolled over and looked her in the eye.

"That was a lovely way to spend the night," he said. "Like I said, you're a lifesaver."

She smiled, kissed him again, held has face. "You're a good kisser, ya know?"

"No...no I'm not, but thanks."

"Men these days are so insecure!" she said as she laughed. "Want me to wash your back?"

"Only if I can do yours!"

"Deal! Let's go!" They got out of bed and almost ran to the shower; they let steaming water run run through their hair down their backs, held each other for the longest time, each lost to the other, wanting to reconnect. Each not understanding what had happened in the night, maybe hoping something important had happened, but each still unsure what that might have been. Tired. Shock. Disbelief. Relief. Release...all moves in a dance each knew about, but had never moved to before – together. Known music, but unknown all the same. Two confused people, suddenly alone, suddenly knowable.

What was she, he thought as he held her, ten years older? Fifteen? Her skin was still firm and smooth, her eyes alive, fresh and young and alive, but he'd seen bitterness there too. He remembered the first few times he'd seen her: she was old, he thought, and she looked like a bitter, burned out alcoholic.

So what had happened, he wondered. How could perception change so radically. How could someone look old and burned out one moment, then fresh and all life affirming the next? She was the same person. Nothing had changed, yet everything had. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled all the hair from her face, looked at her again and he saw layer after layer of pain and hope, desire and anger, then she was looking at him, wondering if the spell had been broken, and he saw the goodness in her within that moment, and he wanted to hold it, caress it. He knew everything was the same now, yet nothing was.

They were toweling each other off, and still he wanted to hold her. She turned around, her back to him, and he kissed her neck. She fell back into him, reached over her shoulder and pulled him close, rubbing against his need. She felt his face against her neck, his breath as it washed over her breast.

His phone rang. He tried to ignore the beeping, but he broke away, pulled back from the music and took the call.

"Hospital," he said, his face white. "I need to come down, for blood tests. You'd better come with me."

+++++

Marchand sat next to Bianchi and the three other boys, listening but not listening to the judge as he set bail and remanded each to custody, but he stood suddenly and asked the judge if he could approach the bench. The country prosecutor was caught off-guard when the judge acceded, and joined Marchand at the Bench with the huddled mass of defense attorneys.