Saving Sam (The Wounded Warriors Book 1) (8 page)

Sam's combat helmet was too hot, and felt too tight, as though his forehead was swelling with the pounding of his blood. Sweat trickled down one cheek and between his eyes. Tears – drawn by stinging dust and smoke – streamed down his face. His vision clouded, he scanned the area desperately for his fellow soldiers.

Ray, off to the left, gave him a hand signal indicating he was okay. Mike… Sam glanced over his shoulder. Mike was behind him, radioing in their coordinates.
Good.
Jorge… where was Jorge? Not to the right, where he'd been helping a couple of kids get their wagon out of a deep rut in the road. Not in the courtyard beyond. Could he be inside the house? Why hadn't he seen him pass? Sam had to account for his friend. He stepped over the threshold and a small, unfamiliar hand closed down on his elbow.

His pounding heart shot adrenaline straight through him.
Insurgent. Where's my weapon?
Fumbling for a sidearm he couldn't find, Sam whirled, hand balled into a fist, arm pulled back; ready to make mincemeat of this enemy…

“Sam?”

He knows my name. Is he a traitor?
Sam's eyes focused on the figure before him and he couldn't help thinking,
Tiniest rebel ever… and so pale. His voice sounds like…

All this passed in a split second as Sam's fist flew forward, toward the trembling creature, frozen before him.
Oh God, Amy
. Sam jerked himself away at the last moment, all but falling from the momentum of the interrupted swing.

“Sam?” she said, looking uncertain and afraid.

Sam stood in shock, his brain refusing to connect the facts together. He blinked and shook his head, but he couldn't snap himself fully back into the present. It was like two worlds were intertwining, meshing together in an incomprehensible reality.

Through wavering vision, he saw a tiny hand reach for him. He pulled back violently. “Don't touch me!”

“Sam, I'm okay, I…”

He stumbled backwards.
Is there sand under my feet or tile? Where am I? What the hell is happening?

Without another word, he turned and fled, his feet slapping heavily against the floor as he rushed through the house. A closed door provided no obstacle as he crashed through it, shoulder first, splintering the wood of the frame and freeing his towel. He had a brief thought about the noise he was making, but then another figure appeared in the suddenly-blinding light. This one, for whatever reason, brought him up short.

“Sam?” Red hair swirled against an oversized white bathrobe.

Janie.
His mind acknowledged her name, but his lips refused to form the words. He slipped a bit as his wet feet lost traction, and he grabbed the edge of the counter with one hand.

“Sam Wallace, why the
hell
are you running naked through the house in the middle of the night?”

“Uh…” He grunted, but no coherent words emerged.

Sam shut his eyes tightly for a moment.
Bad! This is very bad!
New memories swirled. Not of combat, but of Amy, standing before him, terrified as he swung…

“Oh my God, Amy!” he managed to whisper, nausea clenching his gut.

“What?” Janie's eyes widened. “What did you do to Amy?”

He shook his head. “Not sure. The desert. The town. Why… why was she there? I didn't… but almost. Oh God, Janie. Make sure she's all right!”

He crumpled to the floor, shaking violently. His mind whirled and he panted, the adrenaline that had powered him quickening his heart rate. Scenes flashed in and out of his mind, but he wasn't able to hold onto any particular thought or vision for long. The confusion he felt added to his anxiety-induced quivering.

Something soft hit him in the chest.
The bathrobe.
He glanced up, but Janie was gone. The door of her bedroom, which was attached to the kitchen, stood open. A moment later she emerged in a pair of sweat shorts and a tank top. His father followed close at her heels.

“Stay with him,” the chef barked as she skirted wide around Sam. He could hear her footsteps retreating down the hallway, leading to where he'd left Amy behind.

Dusty said nothing, but his posture was tense and he seemed poised for action. Sam was baffled by his father's behavior. Could his dad really be worried that he'd become unexpectedly violent, or was he just disappointed in his son? Though he wanted Dusty to say something, anything, Sam decided he was better off with his father's silence. He was certain his mind had become too fragile to hear Dusty's harsh, uncensored comments.

Amy's terrified face swam in front of Sam's eyes again, distracting him from his father.
As if I could do anything now anyway, useless lump that I am.

Time ceased to have meaning to Sam. Memories superimposed themselves over reality in his mind.
Battle. Amy. Kitchen. Dad. Jorge… where is Jorge?
His mind veered away. And then Janie's red hair appeared in front of him. She didn't touch him, but her tone cut through his hallucinations.

“Sam, Amy is okay. You didn't hit her. She's hurt, but not badly. Sam, can you hear me?”

“Janie, what's going on?” Dusty demanded. “If there's one person Sam would never hurt, it's Amy.”

“Hush, Dusty.” She waved a hand in his direction. “We'll talk later. Right now, Sam's having some kind of breakdown. We need to get him help.”

“What? How? What kind of breakdown?” Dusty's voice rang in Sam's head like explosives. He shook violently and the lights flashed.

“We're hit! We're hit!” Sam shouted. His unexpected exclamation made both Janie and Dustin jump. Janie gasped, wide-eyed when Dusty shoved her, positioning himself protectively in front of her, ready to restrain Sam if needed. “Get back!”

They're coming!
Curling into a fetal position, clutching his head in order to stifle the sounds of the war and to provide meager protection to himself, Sam waited for death to claim him.
It won't be long now.
He couldn't help feeling that he deserved to die.
Maybe then Amy could let me go? If I didn't exist, maybe she could move on…

* * *

“What do we do?” Dusty asked Janie, his face twisting with worry. “Should we take him to the hospital?”

“Yes, I think we should take him to the hospital,” Janie said, eyeing Sam with concern, and then turning to him with a sort of 'duh' glare.
Is it normal to see your son huddled on the floor, dummy?

“Which one?”

She raised her eyes to Dustin's. “SAMMC, honey. This is some kind of military thing. Let the experts deal with it.”

His expression turned nothing short of bewildered. Janie felt a moment of exasperation, irritated by his inept response.
A pillar of strength until he sees his son collapse! At least he threw me behind him when he thought Sam might attack us.
She shook her head, clearing herself from frustration.
Focus on Sam, Janie. You can work through this with Dusty later.

“I'll call. Go get dressed and bring something for Sam to wear. You can drive.” Relief showed on Dusty's face as he shuffled back into the bedroom. Sighing, Janie grabbed her cell from the edge of the counter where she always left it to charge overnight and scanned the Internet until she found the number for the Military hospital in San Antonio.
This is going to be a long night.

Twenty minutes later, Dusty's pickup was bouncing down the long driveway and headed for the Interstate. Janie watched them until the taillights disappeared from view before returning to the house. She hadn't dared leave Amy alone. The girl was almost as big a mess as Sam, though coherent and refusing to go to the hospital.

Moving through the twisting warren of hallways at the back of the farmhouse, she made her way across the tile to Amy's suite. The girl was standing, her hair wet, looking out the window.

“You showered.” At the sound of Janie's voice, Amy jumped violently and gave a small gasp of surprise.

“Yes,” she said, her hand on her chest.

“Why did you do that?” Janie demanded, running out of patience with the chaos.

“What do you mean?” Amy obviously wasn't following the older woman's train of thought.

“Amy, I still think you need to go to the hospital.”

“I'm fine,” she insisted. “I told you, he didn't hit me.”

Janie raised one eyebrow. “But he hurt you. I know he did.”

Amy shook her head in a negative response.

“Prove it,” Janie demanded. “Take a seat.”

“Fine,” Amy said tersely. She took a step forward, causing Janie to hold up her hand.

“No!” Janie ordered. “Not on the bed. On the chair.”

Amy regarded her in consternation, her brow furrowed over her blue eyes, her pale lips frowning. Still, she complied without resistance and sank onto the hard, ladder-backed chair… and winced.

Rage bloomed inside Janie. “I knew it. I hope you didn't wash away all the evidence.”

“Evidence? What evidence?” Amy's eyes shifted nervously.

“That Sam raped you,” Jamie replied baldly.

Amy shook her head so hard her hair flew, the wet strands coiling around her face and shoulders. “It wasn't rape!”

“Really?” Janie snapped. “Then why did you wash, Amy? Tell me that?”

“I didn't!” Amy insisted. “I wasn't… Look, I'm sure they'd still find plenty of semen. I mean, we were having sex, but it was consensual. Hell, Janie, it was my idea. You know that.”

“Then why are you so sore?” Amy gulped at Janie's question. Janie crossed the room to Amy and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hon, I've had sex once or twice, you know. I've even had a twinge the next day. But if you're hurting this bad, something went really wrong. What happened?”

“He, ah… he lost control.” Amy broke eye contact and seemed to be studying the grout with great intensity. “I guess the food play was too much for him.” Then hurried she added, “But I never told him to stop, so it wasn't rape.”

“You're defending him,” Janie pointed out, “just like you always do!”

“He didn't do anything wrong,” Amy barked stubbornly.

“He
hurt
you!”

“It was a mistake.” Amy persisted, a hint of a whine in her voice.

“What the hell does that mean?” Janie demanded.

Amy swallowed and looked at her hands. “Sam seemed… to get lost. It was as if his need overtook him.”

Janie compressed her lips into a thin line. This conversation wasn't over, but she was pretty sure it would have to wait. Amy wasn't thinking clearly tonight and Janie refused to put more strain on the already distraught young woman. Besides, she didn't want to say something in anger that she might regret later; she needed to convince Amy to go to the hospital, not ostracize her.

“Look,” Janie sighed heavily, “why don't you try to get some rest, huh? We can discuss this matter further in the morning, when we're both rested.”

“I don't think I'll be able to sleep,” Amy confessed. “At least, not until I know Sam's okay.”

The chef shook her head. “Come on then,” she ordered. “I'll make us some coffee while we wait.”

Sam huddled against the door of the Humvee. Out in the darkness of the Afghani night, lights sped past. He wondered where the insurgents were taking him. Funny, he couldn't recall how they had captured him in the first place.

Nowhere good.
He shuddered.
God, please don't let me humiliate myself. Let me die with dignity.
An image of beautiful blue eyes floated in front of him.
Amy. I never got to tell her how much I love her. She's probably moved on without me… good; she's better off!

More images flashed through his mind; images that consisted of Amy feeding him at a noisy restaurant and rescuing him from a party. His mind recalled how beautiful she looked as he ran his soapy hands over the curves of her slender body. And a picture of Amy spread out on the bed, her golden hair spilling around her, waiting for him to join her.
What are these memories? When did they happen?
“Amy…” he whispered.

“She's all right, son,” a rough voice said softly.

“Dad?” Sam lifted his head and turned, taking in his father, who was driving the Humvee. “What's happening? Where are we going?”

“The hospital,” Dusty replied, meeting his eyes briefly before returning his gaze to the road.

“Were we hit? Was it an IED?” Sam blinked, trying to focus on the proper order of events as his mind raced through a barrage of thoughts. “Dad, why are you here?”

“Janie wanted to stay with Amy.”

The answer made no sense to Sam whatsoever. “Amy's here? Why is Amy here? Dad, it's not safe!”

“What are you talking about? Amy stayed home, remember?” Dusty replied with some confusion.

“No, you said she was
here
,” Sam insisted, trying to understand.

“Sam, you're not thinking straight,” Dustin said. “You're having some kind of… problem. I'm taking you to the military hospital. They'll be able to help you, okay?”

Lost, Sam turned back to the window. A bright light flashed, and he flinched, but then dared to relax a little as he recognized the street lamp. He still wasn't sure why his dad was in Afghanistan driving a Humvee, but at least he hadn't been taken by insurgents.

“Dad, where's Jorge?” he asked without moving.

“I have no idea,” Dusty replied, and then shut his mouth, turning on the radio, filling the cab with country music ballads at an extremely low volume. Sam felt no relief at this answer, but decided to wait until more information was forthcoming. He was too conditioned to his father's avoidance of emotions to push further. Besides, he wanted to clear his own head and try to make more sense of what was happening before he attempted any more discussions.

* * *

San Antonio Military Medical Center, or SAMMC, was located on the southeast side of Fort Sam Houston. Serving as the hospital for the Brook Army Medical Center, known as BAMC, SAMMC had become the Defense Department's largest inpatient hospital in 2011. The hospital provided care for active military members from all branches, their families, veterans, and even some civilians. It was a state-of-the-art facility that also specialized in the care of Wounded Warriors being transitioned back into society after fighting in the Global War on Terror.

After presenting the necessary identification and being granted entrance onto the army post, Dusty followed the directions the guard gave him with growing anxiety. Sam's prolonged silence was just as unnerving for Dusty as his previous scrambled mesh of questions had been. Feeling agitated and he wanted nothing more than to get Sam into professional hands.

“Sam,” Dusty began, speaking after turning the engine off on his truck, “we're here.”

Sam just looked at him absently, making him feel more strained. Dusty had never seen his son look so dull and lost before. “Come on then,” Dusty said sharply. He turned to get out of the truck, walking around the back end in order to meet up with his son, ready to direct Sam to the appropriate location.

When Sam climbed out of the vehicle and stood idly beside his father, Dusty locked the doors and guided him to the SAMMC main entrance. When they moved through the automatic doors and the gush of air blew into Sam's face. He lurched forward, bending at the waist, supporting himself by putting his hands on his thighs. He began to breathe heavily, hyperventilating. Dusty stopped moving and stared at his son.

The admission clerk, a young woman with dark hair pulled into a severe bun, rushed forward to help, asking questions. Dusty was focused on his son, not paying attention. Hearing the female voice, Sam looked up and called, “Amy?”

“What happened?” the clerk enquired with some urgency. Then, looking at Sam, she asked, “Sir, are you okay?”

“This is my son, Sam, and he's an airman about to separate from active duty,” Dusty replied in a shaky voice. “He just got back from a tour in Afghanistan, but he's been on leave… is on leave until his discharge date.”

“Sam?” the clerk questioned. “Sam, can you hear me?”

“Where's Jorge?” Sam asked in a weak voice, looking around with a puzzled expression.

“He keeps asking that, but we don't know who Jorge is,” Dusty exclaimed anxiously.

“Please, follow me. I'll take you to a room that will provide a safe environment for you to wait in until the doctor can see you,” the admission clerk told them. “I'll need some information from you once we get you settled.”

“Okay,” Dusty replied and immediately assisted the clerk in leading Sam through the lobby.

The clerk brought them through the doors separating the waiting room from the emergency ward. She pointed to a small room located to the side of the large open bay. It was unlike anything Dustin had ever seen before and he wasn't sure what to make of it. The oddity of it only increased his sense of unease.

The room was a sound-proof box on the side of the ER. It was constructed of glass so the occupants could be viewed by the staff manning the desk inside the emergency unit. There were two plastic chairs with rounded corners and the lights were dimmed inside; an attempt to reduce stimulation, thereby easing anxiety. After helping to seat Sam in one of the chairs, the clerk took the necessary documents from Dusty and then left to process him into the system, saying a nurse would be in shortly.

Dusty looked at Sam nervously. “Are you okay?” he asked, moving to sit beside him in the other chair, noting how cold it was.

* * *

Looking up to regard the gruff cowboy, Sam felt exhausted. He wanted to answer his dad, but he felt too tired to put forth the effort. So many thoughts washed through his mind, and though he was starting to feel calmer, the strain from his distress seemed to sap him of all energy. He sagged into the icy chair and looked away.

The silence was uncomfortable for both of the men as they waited in the quiet box. The clerk came in to return the documents Dusty had given her earlier, followed by the promised nurse, who began taking Sam's vitals. Though he didn't understand who was touching him or why, the woman put out an unthreatening vibe. Her hands touched him gently and she moved slowly and deliberately. He allowed the process to continue, neither helping nor protesting.

Then she turned to Dusty and asked a number of questions Sam couldn't process. His numb brain refused to engage.

“So, I'll just let the psychiatrist on duty know you're ready. He should be with you soon. Try to relax.”

Her final words, at last, penetrated Sam's foggy mind, but they made no difference. He could no more relax than he could understand where he was. The time seemed to crawl as they waited. Sam just wanted to die. He started to think it would've been a better fate had he really been taken by insurgents.

The approach of a tall man with the traces of grey laced in his dark hair brought Dusty to his feet. The doctor entered the small cube of a room, extended his hand to greet the agitated cowboy, and said, “I'm Major Hansen. I understand your son recently returned from the war, having served in Afghanistan and is now showing violent tendencies?”

“Yes,” Dusty acknowledged. “I don't know what happened. He seemed a little…
off
, but then, it was like he got confused as to where he was. He attacked his girlfriend and he keeps asking for someone named Jorge.”

“The nurse wrote here that you don't know who Jorge is, is that correct?” The doctor asked, seeking confirmation.

“Right, yeah,” Dusty replied, bothered by the events of the evening. “Maybe it was someone he knew while he was in Afghanistan?”

“Could be,” Major Hansen agreed.

“Sam is supposed to be discharged from the Air Force in a week, but I wasn't sure what to do. My girlfriend said I ought to bring him here,” he explained lamely. “She called first and whoever she spoke to said this was the correct place.”

Girlfriend?
Even in the midst of his confusion and distress, Sam realized he hadn't known his father had a girlfriend.

“Of course.” Major Hansen smiled reassuringly and Dusty relaxed slightly. Then the major turned to address Sam. “Airman Wallace, I'm Major Hansen and I wanted to ask you a few questions, if that's alright?”

Sam barely acknowledged the doctor as he took the unoccupied seat beside him. When the doctor repeated Sam's name, trying to get him to engage in conversation, Sam just stared at him blankly for a moment before he asked, “Is Amy with Jorge?”

The psychiatrist patted the young man on the shoulder, saying, “I don't know, but everything's going to be fine.” He stood up, writing something on his digital clipboard and then told Dustin, “I'm going to admit Sam into the hospital here.”

“For how long?” Dusty asked, and Sam had never heard his father speak with so much concern.
That should be good, right? Or is it bad? Why can't I understand what's happening?

“For as long as it takes,” the doctor told him. “I want to observe him and get the proper diagnosis. Once I do, we'll begin the appropriate treatment, delaying Sam's discharge until he's healthy again.”

“What does that mean?” Dusty demanded.

Sam's eyes shifted slowly from the doctor to his dad.
Maybe it's good to stay in one place. Then I can figure out where I am.

“Well, simply put, Sam's new job will be to get better. He'll remain on active duty status until we have deemed him 100% and this hospital will be his new duty station.”

“When can he come home?” Dusty inquired weakly.

“I don't know yet,” Major Hansen replied. “But you're welcome to visit him any time during the posted hours, though they are rather restrictive.”

“So I can't see him any time I want to?”

“I'm afraid not,” the doctor answered. “Sam will be in a lock-up unit where everything is strictly regulated, including visitors. When you do see him, you'll meet in designated areas inside the unit, because only staff and patients are allowed access to the patients' rooms. This is done for Sam's protection and for the safety of his guests.”

“Doc, we live roughly forty minutes away,” Dusty explained. “Can I call him if I'm unable to make it into town during visiting hours?”

“Well, you can call the front desk and if he's available, you can speak to him on the community phone provided in the unit, but no, he won't have a phone in his room.” Dusty made a distressed face and the major added, “We'll take good care of him and if there are any concerns, we'll call you immediately.”

* * *

Dusty nodded in acknowledgement, but he still felt stunned. He had never expected his son to crumble into the mess of a man he had witnessed. Though he realized the necessity of it now, he hadn't anticipated the hospital would retain Sam either, just give him medication and send him home. Hearing his son wouldn't be discharged from active duty as scheduled and access to him would be limited was almost more than he could take.

Leaving Sam behind for the medical staff to take care of, Dusty walked from the room. Sam had given him only a puzzled stare, and offered not a hint of protest.

He slumped in the cab of his truck, feeling drained. At last free from prying eyes, he bowed his head in the shadows and cried. He felt useless and impotent, which was new for him. For a man who was accustomed to being in control, having all the answers and delegating his authority without challenge, this was a blow to his ego. Far from resolved on any course of action, he eventually drove home, feeling empty.