Page 60 of Intrepid

“Jameson, do you know where you are?” the doctor asked.

“Hospital,” I answered weakly.

“That’s right. And do you know how long you’ve been here?”

I shook my head, trying to estimate the time it must’ve taken to wake up from whatever Fox and Gideon had given me. “Few hours?”

The doctor’s eyebrows lowered, and he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. “You’ve been here nearly two weeks.”

“What? H-h-how did I get here?”

“Some kids found you unconscious, in a field near the Packard Plant. They recognized you from the news reports. You appeared to have been heavily drugged, and there seemed to be signs of torture, as well.” The doctor lifted a large green folder from the bed table at my feet and flipped through it. “According to the EMT’s who picked you up and brought you here, you were hypotensive and required mechanical ventilation, so we’re guessing you weren’t there long.”

Rubbing my knuckles against my temple, I tried to make sense of what he’d said. “Two … weeks? I … don’t remember.”

“Two out of the three times the police have come to interview you, you’ve told them the same story,” the doctor kept on. “Nearly word for word.”

A creeping numbness snaked beneath my skin, seizing my breath. “They … Fox and Gideon … they brainwashed me. They told me to say that.” Panic wrapped around my lungs, squeezing my chest. My focus switched back to my father, who sat rubbing his chin, his refusal to look at me like a punch to the gut. “Fox and Gideon killed Eli!”

“Son … the police … they found Eli’s blood and hair all over that house. Only one guy was there. The junkie you described.”

“The police are in on it! Fox and Gideon have connections. To police. Lawyers. Doctors.” My gaze lifted toward the doctor standing across from us, my thoughts stirring suspicion. “You’re in on it, aren’t you? That’s why you don’t believe me?”

Arms crossed in front of him, he tipped his head. “In on what, Jameson?”

“Covering up Eli’s death!”

“Calm down, Jamie.” My father sat forward, setting his hand on my arm. “You get worked up, and they’re going to have to restrain you again.”

“I’m not crazy, Dad. I know what I saw. It was real. It was real!” I yanked at the line sticking out of my arm. “I’ll show you! I’ll take you there!”

A force against my arms slammed me back against the mattress, and I peered up at my father. Betrayal whirled a vortex of nausea in my stomach. “What are you doing?”

“Nurse!” the doctor called, pinning my legs.

I wriggled and flailed to get free. My body seized under the weight of them, and for a brief moment, it wasn’t my father and the doctor, but Fox and Gideon staring back at me, holding me down. They shoved a needle into my arm, and a warm fuzzy sensation settled over me, like Christmas Eve by the fireplace. Felt so good. So … warm.

I let it pull me into the darkness.

* * *

I blinked my eyes open to a dimly lit room and the incessant beep in my ear. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was, until I glanced around and found my dad slumped over in the chair beside me, his mouth gaped open, catching flies. The sight of him made me chuckle, and the slight sound must’ve woken him, because he jerked forward, like he’d had one of those cliff jumping dreams.

He blinked and rubbed his hand down his face. “Hey, Champ.” He sat forward in his chair and massaged his eyeballs. “How you feeling?”

“Better. How long was I sleeping?”

“Two days? I guess? You kind of freaked me out the other day. Talkin’ kinda …” He smiled, patting the bed, and shook his head. “Doc says it’s the drugs, and some post-traumatic mumbo jumbo I didn’t really understand.” He sighed, his thumb rubbing against my hand. “Your Uncle Hank went through a bit of that himself. It can be scary, but I’m here for you. I want you to know that, son.”

“Dad? There’s something I have to tell you.” The sting at the rims of my eyes threatened tears, and my breath stuttered with a deep inhale. “I don’t know … if I can say it.”

Brows knit, he sat forward in the chair. “Hey, you can tell me anything, Jamie.”

Could I? Did love extend so infinitely that he could listen to me confess that I’d disposed of my best friend’s body without judging me? Without thinking that he’d done something wrong in raising me? Blaming himself for yet another misfortune in our family. Could he bear to look at me with pride ever again?

“Something …. Please, just … don’t hate me.”

“Ain’t nothin’ you could do to make me hate you, Jamie. Nothin’.”