Jeremiah by Kris Michaels
Chapter 12
Remi turned off the radio in Gen’s truck and rode in silence heading south. That damn Zeke had pissed him off last night, but once he had distance and time behind him, he’d admit the man looked wiped out. He’d fallen asleep thinking of Eden and awakened to a nightmare of Cyrus holding a knife to Eden’s throat. He processed that dream now while he was alone and had time to think. In fact, he’d learned the psychoanalytic theories about dream interpretations. Freudian theories were a mandatory study, after all. Cyrus’ presence was understandable. The traumatic events of the recent past were still being processed by his conscious and subconscious. And Eden? Well, his subconscious recognized that she was important to him. He lowered his window and let the air blow around him, resting his elbow on the door. Unobtrusive turnoffs to gravel roads punctuated the vast expanses of land.
Miles and miles of fence line dissolved into miles and miles of time to think and process. The trip to Hollister had been about not thinking about the incident, about pushing past it to make forward progress, to live his life, but the trauma stayed with him. Talking to Jamison once a week would help, but with his knowledge, sorting through the memories and pulling them out one by one was something he could do alone. If he ran across something that he couldn’t work through, he’d bring it up to Jamison. So, he started with the thought that had been at the forefront for weeks now.
Why did Cyrus want to kill him?
Jeremiah glanced at the rearview mirror. There was no logical explanation for the way the man had fixated on himself and Agent Docker. But then again, when dealing with an antisocial personality disorder it wasn’t always easy to peg the “whys.” The man was a psychopath with a lack of empathy and remorse coupled with his manipulative callousness that were textbook examples of the diagnosis. Cyrus might not have a logical reason to fixate on him, yet he had done exactly that. The saving grace was the man was behind bars at a supermax facility. The last person to escape from that prison had done so on a medical transport. There was no way the facility managers would allow Cyrus to be transported—he prayed they wouldn’t, not without shackles, cuffs, and chains. He was too dangerous to the world to be sent outside the prison walls for care.
He pulled at the feeling of anxiety, examining what was causing it. It took ten miles to figure it out. His anxiety over the fixation—and Cyrus in general—was due to the fact the man had escaped while in the medical wing and could have used any of the people in the facility to force the guards to open doors.
He shook his head. “They wouldn’t have.” He shifted in his seat. The guards locked down Cyrus during the riot and they would have kept the place locked down if he tried to escape, even with a hostage. Of course, the hostage would be dead, but Cyrus would rot in jail. Anxiety surrounding the belief the man would come after him, no matter how strong, had no foundation.
He drew a breath and then a deeper one. Time and distance helped with perspective. He needed this break, he needed to be away from the confines of the prison, and he needed to examine everything that had happened. One memory at a time, but he wouldn’t push himself. Tomorrow, as he worked, he’d pull out another sliver of apprehension and turn it over and over until he understood where it came from and why he kept feeling the trepidation.
He stuck his hand out the window and felt the warm, buffeting winds try to push it back. The freedom was nothing like riding a motorcycle, but the feel of the air moving around him gave him a sense of peace.
His phone lit up and vibrated in the cupholder. Jamison. Why? He wasn’t supposed to check in with his friend for another four days.
He swiped the face of his phone and answered. “Hello?”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Hold on.” He hit the button and lifted the driver’s side window and switched on the fan in the cab before he spoke again. “Driving to Rapid City to pick up some stair risers. What’s up?”
Jamison was quiet for a few seconds. “Why?”
“Because Gen and Eden’s stairs are a death trap and I needed something to do while I was here.”
“Gen is your sister. Who is Eden?”
“Definitely not my sister,” Jeremiah chuckled.
“Well, that’s an interesting turn of events. Are you thinking of staying longer?”
“Maybe. What’s up? We aren’t scheduled to talk for a couple days.” He adjusted the cruise control up a couple miles per hour. There was no one for as far as he could see, and he could fly down these roads.
“I have a favor to ask,” Jamison came straight out with it.
“What can I do for you?” He’d do anything he could for his friend.
“There is a young woman not too far from Hollister who is in a Post-Traumatic Stress recovery situation. Major mental and physical trauma. Would you be willing to work with her?”
Jeremiah chuffed out a sigh. “Dude, you know I am not licensed to work in South Dakota.”
Jamison mocked him, “Dude, you know I work for Guardian, right?”
“Smartass,” Jeremiah laughed at him.
“Always, but seriously, Guardian will handle everything. You’ll have authorization to practice and prescribe within the week.”
He blew out a lungful of air. “I don’t have anywhere to see her.”
“I checked. There is a county clinic in Hollister. We can make inquiries and see if we can rent a room from them once a week.”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“I have. The only thing I need is you saying yes.” Jamison’s smugness should have pissed him off, but it didn’t.
“Let me work the clinic aspect. I’ve met the Nurse and Doctor that use the facility.” He was pretty sure Eden would allow him to see the patient after hours, and hopefully, that would work for the woman.
“So, that’s a yes?”
“That’s a yes.” He smiled at the whoop that came from his friend.
“You don’t know how much this will mean to people in prominent places here at Guardian.”
“Does she work for Guardian?”
“Ah…” There was a pause as if Jamison was trying to think of a way to answer that question. “Well, no. She was Agency I believe.”
“Agency? Like FBI?”
Jamison chuckled. “No, for those of us who deal with the alphabet companies all the time, Agency is the CIA, the Bureau is the FBI. Then, of course, there is Homeland and ICE, all of which are self-explanatory.”
“Thanks for the tutelage. What’s this woman’s name?”
“Victoria Marshall.”
Jeremiah connected the dots. “As in the Marshall Ranch?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay. Can you send me her records?”
“Nope. Agency won’t release them. You’ll have to do the intake and work up on your own.”
“That puts us both at a disadvantage.” He hated when providers were prevented from sharing information that would help their patients. “I could call her health care provider from the Agency to get a sense of what they’ve done with her in general terms.”
Jamison sighed and cleared his throat. “Remi, the Agency is her biggest problem. They won’t tell you anything.”
“Damn. That sucks for her.”
“It does, which is why I reached out to you, but…”
He looked at the phone. “Yes?”
“We’d want you under contract for at least six months at Hollister. We’d pay you, of course, and help you get your position back in California if the facility managers don’t want to wait for you.”
He pushed his hair off his face and glanced at the rearview mirror. “No, I’m sending in my resignation. I don’t really know what I want to do, but I do know it isn’t going back inside that prison.”
“How are you doing?” Jamison asked, his voice softened when he spoke.
“I’m doing better. Sleeping more, dreaming less. Working at pulling out my emotions one at a time and looking at them.”
“Doctor, heal thyself?” Jamison asked.
“No, more like Doctor, use your skills and work with Jamison to make sure you put this into the proper perspective.”
“I knew I liked you.” The approval in his mentor’s voice was palpable.
“Because I’m awesome. Email me what you can as far as contact information for Ms. Marshall. I’ll set up a place to see her and contact her to work out the time.”
“I’ll send the NDA you’ll need to sign and our contract before I send that information,” Jamison responded.
“We’re still on for our call, right?” Remi asked.
“We are. You may be doing all the right things, but I’m going to make sure they stick.”
* * *
Three and a half hours later, with Gen’s truck filled to the top of the bed with wood and a few other items he decided to pick up last minute, he pulled into Tank’s shop. The man who exited the garage didn’t look exactly inviting, but in broad daylight on a busy street, there was little risk of a confrontation.
“Help you?”
“Is Tank here?” Jeremiah closed the truck door and locked it with the fob.
“Yeah, hold on.” The man sauntered back into the shop and Jeremiah leaned against the truck to wait.
Tank ambled out of the office and the frown on his face turned into a smile. “Well, if it isn’t the shrink. How you doing, man?”
Tank offered a hand, and he took it, giving a firm handshake. “Doing well. I was wondering if you had a Hoglet.”
Tank belted out a laugh. “You’re too damn big for that sized bike. You got a kid you’re wanting to teach?”
“She’s not a kid.” Jeremiah leveled a direct stare.
“No shit, your old lady would rather have her own ride. You know that’s what a bitch seat is for, right?”
“Not my old lady, but she’s a feisty lady who knows motorcycles and loves to ride. She’s about…” Jeremiah put his hand up to just below his pecs. “…this tall. She had a 350cc growing up, but she could handle a 500.”
Tank rubbed the back of his neck with a shop rag. “I don’t have any, but I have a Royal in the back. The thing’s scratched to shit, but it runs. The owner laid it down when he was trying to pass a car up in the Hills. Lucky for the bastard he shot across the pavement to a lookout. Stupid fucker convinced himself the reason he went down was because his bike wasn’t powerful enough.”
“So, no one ever told him about controlling the bike?”
“Right? Like I said, he was a stupid fucker. Follow me.”
Jeremiah chuckled as he walked into and through the shop with Tank. “What did you sell him?”
“Exactly what he wanted, way too much bike even for a man with his ego. He totaled that bike two days later and landed in the hospital with two broken legs and a broken arm.” Tank shrugged. “I got paid, the dipshit is alive, and life goes on.” He followed Tank to the back of the shop, past four maintenance bays, a paint booth, racks of parts, wheels, and tires. “It’s out here.”
He opened the back door and Jeremiah stepped into a small fenced-in area. Sure enough, the Royal leaned up against the fence. It needed a new seat, a paint job, and some chrome replaced. “How much to fix it up and get it ready?”
Tank tucked his cloth into his pocket and crossed his arms as his eyes traveled over the bike. “Most of it is cosmetic damage. Like I said, it runs. All prettied up, a grand.”
“I’ll take it.” Jeremiah stuck out his hand. “When can you have it ready?”
Tank stroked his beard and then glanced back at the shop. “A month? We have a backlog right now. We’ll have to sandblast the tank, prep it and paint it, order in additional parts. What color would you want the tank and fenders?”
“Sky blue,” he said without hesitation. She’d look beautiful on it.
“Okay, maybe a pearl sheen?” Tank opened the door and let Jeremiah in first.
“As long as the base is sky blue, I’m good with whatever you do to it. She’s a nurse, so no skulls and crossbones.”
Tank slapped him on the back and laughed, “You got it, Doc.”
Remi pulled his wallet out. “I’ll pay for it now.”
Tank shook his head. “Nope. Not how this shop works. The client has to love the job, or it doesn’t go out the door and we don’t get paid.”
“Kind of hard to stay in business that way, isn’t it?” Jeremiah shoved his wallet back down into his pocket.
“Doc, I’m giving you a bargain-basement price for a bike I don’t like or want. Tell no one what you paid for that thing or my reputation as a high-priced motherfucker will go to shit.”
“My lips are sealed. Doctor-biker confidentiality and all that.” Jeremiah laughed when Tank let loose with a belly laugh so loud it rumbled the walls around them.
“Doc, you need to stick around. I kinda like you.”
They exited the front of the store and he headed back to Gen’s truck. He stopped and spun around. “Hey, any chance you know of a good sushi place?”
Tank narrowed his eyes and muttered, “I take it back.”
