happy to know we managed to salvage your keys and all the plastic stuff in that little leather wallet of yours. The wallet and cash we had to incinerate, but the rest of it we decontaminated, free of charge. Why do you carry a guy’s wallet? I thought pretty ladies like yourself carried handbags.’
‘I can stick it in my front pocket. What about my phone?’
‘Don’t know anything about that.’
‘You going to reimburse me?’
‘Talk to someone in New Hampshire.’
Darby looked up. ‘I’m talking to you . I invested a lot of money in that equipment.’
‘Take it as a tax write-off.’
‘I need to use the bathroom.’
‘Finish signing and initialling, and you’ll be good to go.’
She did, making a dramatic show of being uncomfortable.
When the last page was signed, she picked up the clipboard. The pages weren’t fastened underneath the clip, and when she went to hand the clipboard over, they fell and spilled across the floor.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said, and tossed the clipboard on the desk. ‘I’ve got to use the bathroom now. I’m bleeding.’
Confused, he examined her arms and face.
‘My period,’ she said.
Now he looked disgusted. He sprang to his feet and then wheeled her out of the room and across a painfully bright white hall to a bathroom door with a handicap sign. Standing around the corner were two army boys dressed in fatigues, heavy jackets and caps. Both white males, both young and packed with muscle – and name tags. She saw them sewn into their jackets: Anthony and Weeks. The tall one with the doughy face, Weeks, had a submachine gun strapped across his chest.
‘They’ll take you on out after you’re done,’ Billy Fitzgerald said.
Then he grinned and winked at her. ‘Remember to behave yourself out there, missy.’
22
Darby glanced up at the ceiling, looking for security cameras. In a place like this she wouldn’t have been surprised to find one peering down at her, but the white walls were bare. She removed the Velcro straps and tossed them into the metal trash bin sitting next to the toilet. Then she got to her feet, pulling the folded sheets free from her thighs, and locked the door.
Billy Fitzgerald’s parting words with their smug tone echoed through her head: Remember to behave yourself out there, missy .
Don’t worry, I will , she thought, about to rip up the sheets and flush them down the toilet when another thought, this one more pleasing and appealing, occurred to her: Billy Fitzgerald had touched these pages. She could run his prints through the automated fingerprint database. Military personnel and law enforcement officers were required by law to submit their fingerprints to IAFIS.
Is that right? Billy Fitzgerald asked in her mind. And why, pray tell, are you going to do that?
Because I don’t believe you’re in the army.
She didn’t have any proof, just a gut feeling based on the military men she knew who had served in Iraq or Afghanistan. Almost every one of them had some sort of military tattoo proudly inked on a forearm or bicep. It was a rite of passage. Her father, a former marine, had ink on both of his meaty biceps: the USMC emblem in faded blue on his right arm, and on the left, this one more colourful and intricate, the classic USMC bulldog with the words Semper Fi .
Billy Fitzgerald didn’t have any tattoos, and, while that wasn’t necessarily odd – not every military man got tattooed – he didn’t have a military-regulation haircut. And he hadn’t shaved either. If he wasn’t military, why was he pretending?
Darby folded the sheets into a small square. Wrapped them up in a paper towel and tucked that in the front of the big hospital granny-panties they’d given her. You couldn’t see a bulge under the baggy scrubs. She kicked the toilet handle with her foot and then went to the sink to wash her hands.
Walking out of the bathroom, the GI Joe named Anthony barked at her to park her ass back in the wheelchair.
Darby
‘I can stick it in my front pocket. What about my phone?’
‘Don’t know anything about that.’
‘You going to reimburse me?’
‘Talk to someone in New Hampshire.’
Darby looked up. ‘I’m talking to you . I invested a lot of money in that equipment.’
‘Take it as a tax write-off.’
‘I need to use the bathroom.’
‘Finish signing and initialling, and you’ll be good to go.’
She did, making a dramatic show of being uncomfortable.
When the last page was signed, she picked up the clipboard. The pages weren’t fastened underneath the clip, and when she went to hand the clipboard over, they fell and spilled across the floor.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said, and tossed the clipboard on the desk. ‘I’ve got to use the bathroom now. I’m bleeding.’
Confused, he examined her arms and face.
‘My period,’ she said.
Now he looked disgusted. He sprang to his feet and then wheeled her out of the room and across a painfully bright white hall to a bathroom door with a handicap sign. Standing around the corner were two army boys dressed in fatigues, heavy jackets and caps. Both white males, both young and packed with muscle – and name tags. She saw them sewn into their jackets: Anthony and Weeks. The tall one with the doughy face, Weeks, had a submachine gun strapped across his chest.
‘They’ll take you on out after you’re done,’ Billy Fitzgerald said.
Then he grinned and winked at her. ‘Remember to behave yourself out there, missy.’
22
Darby glanced up at the ceiling, looking for security cameras. In a place like this she wouldn’t have been surprised to find one peering down at her, but the white walls were bare. She removed the Velcro straps and tossed them into the metal trash bin sitting next to the toilet. Then she got to her feet, pulling the folded sheets free from her thighs, and locked the door.
Billy Fitzgerald’s parting words with their smug tone echoed through her head: Remember to behave yourself out there, missy .
Don’t worry, I will , she thought, about to rip up the sheets and flush them down the toilet when another thought, this one more pleasing and appealing, occurred to her: Billy Fitzgerald had touched these pages. She could run his prints through the automated fingerprint database. Military personnel and law enforcement officers were required by law to submit their fingerprints to IAFIS.
Is that right? Billy Fitzgerald asked in her mind. And why, pray tell, are you going to do that?
Because I don’t believe you’re in the army.
She didn’t have any proof, just a gut feeling based on the military men she knew who had served in Iraq or Afghanistan. Almost every one of them had some sort of military tattoo proudly inked on a forearm or bicep. It was a rite of passage. Her father, a former marine, had ink on both of his meaty biceps: the USMC emblem in faded blue on his right arm, and on the left, this one more colourful and intricate, the classic USMC bulldog with the words Semper Fi .
Billy Fitzgerald didn’t have any tattoos, and, while that wasn’t necessarily odd – not every military man got tattooed – he didn’t have a military-regulation haircut. And he hadn’t shaved either. If he wasn’t military, why was he pretending?
Darby folded the sheets into a small square. Wrapped them up in a paper towel and tucked that in the front of the big hospital granny-panties they’d given her. You couldn’t see a bulge under the baggy scrubs. She kicked the toilet handle with her foot and then went to the sink to wash her hands.
Walking out of the bathroom, the GI Joe named Anthony barked at her to park her ass back in the wheelchair.
Darby
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