“Meaning?”
Turkle tapped his index finger on the table and looked around the cafeteria. He seemed to be grappling with something. Finally, he lowered his head and maintained an even gaze on Bryant. “I think you know by now that Margo Sutter died on that plane, don’t you?”
Bryant couldn’t help but grin. “That’s your theory?”
Turkle leaned back and took a deep breath. “Look, the FBI trains their agents to theorize. They nurture the creative thought process, offering seminars and workshops on the power of critical thinking.”
“So why are you telling me? Why don’t you have her taken in and examined?”
Turkle’s cheek muscles tightened as he avoided eye contact. A clear sign of stress. Bryant understood the reason.
“Oh,” Bryant said, suddenly understanding. “This isn’t the FBI’s theory, is it? It’s
your
theory.”
To his surprise, Turkle caved in and nodded, the smugness taking a momentary break.
“So what do you want from me?” Bryant asked.
“I want you to declare her a danger to society. Then I can take over the investigation from there.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re one of the most respected psychiatrists in the nation for treating teenagers. Your integrity wouldn’t be challenged.”
“But as far as I can tell, she isn’t a danger to anyone.”
“Yet.”
Bryant thought about her clairvoyant abilities. Listening to Turkle’s theories made neuroplasticity seem more and more plausible. At least there was science behind the concept and that was the only thing Bryant had faith in anymore. Science.
“Listen,” Bryant said. “There might be a biological explanation for some of this stuff.”
“Really?” Turkle said. “Tell me one biological reason she could do what she did.”
Bryant wasn’t ready to give up the extent of Margo’s telepathic ability to the FBI. There was still too much he needed to know. Too many questions to answer before he gave that up.
“I’m not doing your dirty work for you,” Bryant said. “If you have justification to deem her dangerous, go ahead and do it, but I won’t be complicit.”
“Complicit? That’s a strong word. You don’t think there’s anything here that requires further inspection?”
Bryant pointed to the ceiling. “She’s lying in a bed on the third floor. Inspect away.”
Turkle grimaced. “Why do you have to go and force me to upset you?”
Bryant sat upright while Turkle pulled a large manila envelope from his black, leather brief bag. He lay the envelope on the table and spread his hands across it as if gravity couldn’t be trusted to keep it down. The conceit returned to Turkle’s face and it made Bryant’s head throb.
“I’m an investigator,” Turkle said. “Investigating is like putting together a puzzle. Some people get down to three or four pieces and stop. They see the picture and lose the desire to finish. Me, I’m more of a finisher. I wait until the entire picture is completely clear, then I declare the puzzle finished. Never before.”
Turkle drummed his fingers across the top of the envelope. Bryant couldn’t keep his eyes away. The longer Turkle waited to open it, the warmer the room seemed to get.
Turkle looked down and straightened the aluminum clip before pulling out a large photo. He twirled the photo to face Bryant and slid it in front of him.
“Robert Henson,” Turkle said.
Bryant pushed it away. “No, no, no,” he stammered. Suddenly his legs were wobbly. The sturdiness of a four-legged chair didn’t seem enough to keep him upright.
“What is this?” Bryant panted.
“Photo radar,” Turkle said dryly. “He was speeding down Rittenhouse Road on March 19th, going eighty-five in a forty-five mile-per-hour speed zone.”
If he could’ve run, he would’ve, but Bryant could only stare down at the man who had killed his wife and daughter with a suffocating pressure in his chest. The man was slumped over the steering wheel, his head leaning on the dashboard.
Turkle began talking too fast, the words coming at Bryant like bullets. “This was taken two miles before the accident occurred. He had nine times the legal limit of alcohol in his system. The human body can’t survive that much alcohol.”
“What?” Bryant murmured, leaning back as far as he could. The grief coming at him in waves.
“He couldn’t have kept the car on the road for that long after he died. That’s impossible,” Turkle rattled on.
“You’re a sick bastard,” Bryant growled.
“I believe his body was taken over by the aliens. Just like they took over Margo’s body. That’s why the timing of Margo’s accident and your family’s accident were so close. They targeted your family.”
Bryant grabbed the photo and tore it in half, then in half again. “You’re insane.”
“I wish it were that simple.”
Bryant managed to get to his feet. He noticed a handful of customers paying close attention to them. His legs splayed on him, then stabilized as he hobbled toward the exit. Turkle was up and close at his side.
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” Turkle said, keeping up with him. “I’ve got other evidence.”
Bryant’s rage hummed like a tornado. He stopped to face Turkle and stuck a finger in his face. “You stay away from me,” Bryant roared. “And you stay away from Margo. She’s just a teenager with issues. That’s all.”
“Is that what you call it? Issues? Are you kidding me?”
Adrenalin rushed through Bryant’s veins. He glanced at the audience accumulating around them, then lowered his voice. “You think you know me because you have data and pictures and people crawling through my office looking for information. You don’t know anything about me.”
“You may not care about yourself, Doctor, but I know how to hurt you. And trust me, I will hurt you.”
Bryant wondered what the consequences would be for punching an FBI agent. His hand came up from his side and his finger caught onto something which flew out of his pocket and onto the floor next to Turkle.
The FBI agent bent over to pick it up and stopped as soon as he saw what it was. His hand slowly retreated while he stood up and took a step back, clutching his chest and struggling to breathe.
“You’re making a mistake, Dr. Bryant,” he coughed out. He stumbled backward toward his table. His words were soft and tepid. “I’m going to get what I want.”
Turkle dropped into his chair and clawed at his chest while trying to maintain his composure. Bryant wondered if the agent was having a heart attack. He waited until the episode seemed to pass.
Finally Turkle pulled down his sunglasses and grabbed his brief bag. He never turned his back to Bryant, watching him like he was in a gunfight.
After a long minute of the two men staring at each other, Bryant reached down and picked up the rosary beads Margo had given him, while Turkle examined the move carefully.
Bryant felt the beads in his fingers, feeling nothing but a gritty marble texture. He turned to leave. From behind him, he heard Turkle say, “She’s mine, Doctor.”
Chapter 18
“Michael.”
Bryant heard the faint voice interrupting his sleep. He was in that dreamlike state just before awakening and wanted to prolong the dream as long as possible.
“Michael.”
Bryant could see Kate hugging Megan out in a field. Megan is pulling away, playful, too old to be hugged outdoors by her mother, but it was obvious she loved the affection. They’re both smiling. Megan broke loose and is running away while Kate chased her. Megan jumped and danced with excitement while Kate pretended to be annoyed, but busting up at the same time.
“Michael, please,” Father Joe said.
Bryant opened his eyes to find the priest hovering over him in Margo’s hospital room. He was disoriented. His family disappeared and the hardship of reality hit him like a wrecking ball. Bryant had fallen asleep in a chair while waiting for Margo to wake up.
“What?” Bryant said, rubbing the stiffness from his neck.
“You signed papers as her guardian when Margo was admitted,” Father Joe said. “Now they need you to sign a form to allow her to have a test done.”
Behind Father Joe was a nurse holding a clipboard. She seemed anxious to leave.
“What test?”Bryant asked, wiping the sleep from his face.
Father Joe crouched down and looked over his shoulder. Margo was awake, watching television from her bed. “Michael,” he said in a low but enthusiastic voice, “there’s been a miracle of sorts.”
The nurse kept holding out her clipboard, impatience on her face.
“What happened?” Bryant asked.
Father Joe leaned even closer and whispered, “They came in to change Margo’s bandages and,” he glanced over at Margo who was intently watching something on the television. There were no longer IV tubes in her arm. “And . . . the gunshot wound had disappeared.”
“Sir?” the nurse said, holding out the paperwork for Bryant to sign.
Bryant took a moment to acknowledge Father Joe’s enthusiasm by tapping the priest on the shoulder.
“What test are they scheduling?” he asked.
The nurse looked down at the clipboard. “EEG.”
“Why are they doing an EEG on someone after a gunshot wound to the chest?”
The nurse was clearly agitated now, not wanting to add any extra time to her chore. “I’m not sure, sir. Dr. Sanford requested it be done right away.”
“Michael,” Father Joe said. “Did you hear what I said? The wounds disappeared.”
Bryant nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“Sir?”
Tests were going to lead to more questions, then more tests. It would only be days, maybe hours before Margo would become a circus act for the new illiterate pop culture. It would also leave her vulnerable to someone like Agent Turkle, who would use the results to suit his own purposes. It’s possible that Turkle even had something to do with the request. The FBI agent’s threat still rang in his ears: “She’s mine, Doctor.”
Turkle’s authority must have been limited, otherwise Margo would be gone already. Bryant needed to use his knowledge of the healthcare system to his advantage.
“No,” Bryant said. “She’s not having an EEG.”
“Excuse me?” the nurse seemed appalled at the denial.
Bryant got to his feet and walked around the priest and nurse. “I said no,” he repeated. “Tell Dr. Sanford to see me if he wants any more tests done.”
The nurse shook her head in disgust and left. Father Joe followed Bryant as he approached Margo. She turned down the volume on the TV, then looked up at him with a smile.
“Hi,” she said with the sweet innocence of youth.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Okay, I guess.”
Bryant brushed a loose hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her forehead.
“Good.”
“She’s our little miracle girl,” Father Joe said.
Margo turned her head slightly, embarrassed. Bryant could tell there was something on her mind.
“What’s the matter?” Bryant asked.
Her expression changed. She was somber. “I don’t know.”
“Miracle,” Father Joe murmured behind him.
Bryant rolled his eyes. “Joe, please?”
“What? You have a better explanation for what happened?”
Bryant looked down at Margo and sighed. “You know about the wounds healing?”
Margo nodded. “Everyone thinks I’m some kind of freak,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “They do.”
“Dr. Bryant.” She looked up at him with wrinkled eyebrows. “Am I real?”
Bryant took her hand into his and gave a gentle squeeze. “Feel that?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He smiled. “That’s as real as it gets.”
Father Joe just kept grinning.
“Can I ask you something?” Bryant said.
“Sure.”
“Did you ever have a wound that didn’t heal right away?”
Margo seemed to consider the question, looking up at the ceiling. “Not really. I always carried Band-Aids with me when I was younger. I was sort of a klutz.”
Bryant nodded, but this wasn’t the time to go into her personal recollections. Especially when the past held so many landmines.
Bryant wandered over to the window and looked down at the parking lot.
He froze.
Agent Turkle stood there, cell phone to his ear, staring directly at Margo’s hospital window. By the glare in Turkle’s eyes, Bryant knew he was standing at a crossroads. He needed to decide quickly. He could walk out of the hospital and let nature take its course. Go back to being a brooding widower searching for something that no longer existed. Or he could find a purpose to his involvement. Find out why all these incidents seemed to surround him like a circling shark, nudging its head against Bryant, taunting him into action. He sensed a force pushing him, guiding him toward a decision. That force exposed itself in the smile that grew across Agent Turkle’s face.
Bryant turned to Margo and said, “We have to get you out of here.”
Chapter 19
Father Joe was flipping through passages of his Bible when Dr. Sanford barged into the room with a manila file in one hand and a pair of reading glasses in the other. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d run up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. He saw the empty bed, then swiveled his head around in confusion. Finally he focused on Father Joe.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Father Joe looked straight at him and said,” Who?” with a straight face.
Dr. Sanford frowned at the response. “Margo Sutter,” he said. “The girl you came to visit.”
Father Joe shrugged. “I think she went to get something to eat.”
Dr. Sanford looked at the priest suspiciously. “Father,” he said, “this girl is recovering from a gunshot wound she’d acquired this morning. She shouldn’t be ambulatory.”
Father Joe resumed his page turning. “I’ll let her know that,” he said with as much indifference as he could muster. In his peripheral vision he could tell the doctor was standing there trying to decide how to react. It was hard to get angry with a priest who was reading a Bible. Finally Dr. Sanford let out a huge sigh and left the room.
When the door clicked shut, the priest waited a long moment, then looked up to the ceiling and shook his head. “Forgive me, Lord.”
“Would you like to confess your sins, Padre?” a voice said.
Father Joe recognized the FBI agent poking his head into the room from the hallway. Agent Turkle pushed the door entirely open and entered the room. He swirled a pair of sunglasses and never even looked at the empty bed next to him.