Unfortunately, the car did not stop. Instead it skidded uncontrollably, but all was not lost. Because the Accord’s rear end swung left just as the Navigator gored it, the big Lincoln’s hit was off target, barely clipping the Honda. Now it was the Navigator that was out of control, spinning, nearly tipping over on its side, sliding into the grass. When Joe came out of his skid, he raced to the approaching exit. He sped off the road, around one curve and then another. The big Lincoln was nowhere in sight, but Joe was paying too much attention to what was not behind him at the cost of missing what lay ahead. The Honda hopped the curb and slammed into a clump of trees. Bang!
This time it was the air bag. But because of the angle at which the car had jumped the curb, Joe’s head snapped sideways and thumped against the door glass. At first he just felt sort of disconnected, more an observer of what was going on than a participant. Then came the pain. It didn’t last long. Blackness fell down on him, and he had no weapons to fight it.
Healy had gotten a call, but not from Serpe. It was Strohmeyer Jr., calling on the cell to let him know where to meet tonight. Healy had been purposefully vague about his address and had made sure to give out only his cell number as the exchange wasn’t traceable to a particular town. He was under no illusion that he’d be able to hide the fact that he didn’t live anywhere near Farmingville or Ronkonkoma. He had already worked out a cover story to tell if need be. In any case, he didn’t figure the AFA was real choosy about where their recruits came from. He was white, had half a brain, and carried a gun. What else did they need?
The house phone rang.
“Healy,” he said.
There was an unnatural silence on the other end. Healy thought he could hear labored breathing and some sort of movement. “Hello,” he shouted.
“Healy?”
“Serpe, is that you? Are you drunk?”
“Healy,” the voice repeated. “Where are you, Joe?”
“I’m not sure. I smacked up my brother’s car.”
“Are you okay?”
“My head’s all foggy and I’m bleeding a little. Come and get me.”
“Where are you?”
“I remember leaving the Suffolk County Jail and it was snowing pretty bad. Frank’s scared. He’s protecting somebody, but I don’t think it’s-”
“Okay, Joe, let’s stay on point here. Try to remember where you are.”
“I guess I’m near the L.I.E.”
“That’s something,” Healy said. “You were headed west on the L.I.E. from Riverhead. We can work with that. How bad are you bleeding?”
“Not bad. I got a bad headache and-”
Healy thought he heard Joe puking up his guts. “Should I call the cops?”
“Just come get me.”
After he hung up with Healy, Joe tried Marla’s number and got her machine. This is the message he left: “It’s me. I love you. Don’t be mad.” He snapped the phone shut, knelt over, and emptied out the remainder of his breakfast and lunch.
An hour after putting down his house phone, Bob Healy pulled up to what was left of Vinny Serpe’s 2000 Honda Accord. He couldn’t believe what bad shape the car was in for what looked to be a low speed run-in was some scrub pines. When he clicked his flashlight on, Bob noticed streaks of black paint all across the crushed passenger side of the Honda. Well, that explained it, Healy thought. There had been an impact with a black vehicle that launched Serpe’s Honda over the curb. If there were skid marks, they were obscured by the snow and there was no black car in sight.
“Come on, Joe,” Healy said, pulling Serpe out of the driver’s seat. The stink of vomit was intense.
“Bob?” Joe asked, voice thick, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Yeah, it’s me. Let me have a look at your cut.”
It was hard enough to see anything through Joe’s thick hair, and the darkness wasn’t helping any. The flashlight wasn’t of much use either as the blood had dried and caked up.
“Okay, I’m taking you to the ER at Stony Brook. I don’t think you’re bleeding anymore, but I think you’ve got a concussion.”
“I’m all right.”
“You probably will be, but you’re not now. Come on.” Healy walked Joe back to his car and help fold him into the front seat. He reached over him and put his shoulder belt on.
“Stay here. I’ve got to make some calls and get your car picked up.”
When he got back into the car, Joe seemed agitated.
“Frank’s protecting someone!”
“Yeah, you said that before.”
“I did? When? I don’t remember.”
“Try and keep calm, Joe. You got a nasty knock.”
“What happened to me?”
“You had a car accident.”
“I know that.”
“But do you remember the actual accident itself? You don’t remember a black car hitting you?” Healy asked.
“A black car? I remember leaving the jail and then… There’s like a jumble of stuff that doesn’t make any sense. What’s this about a black car?”
“You got black paint all over the passenger side of your car.” Suddenly, Joe was agitated once again. “Call Marla! Did you call Marla?”
“Marla?”
“A woman.”
“I figured that one out, but who is she, someone you’re dating?”
“Dating, yeah.”
“What’s her number?” Healy asked.
Joe handed Healy his cell phone and passed out.
When he came to, he was on a gurney being wheeled into an examining room. The lights hurt his eyes and he felt the world spinning. When he shut his eyes and the gurney came to a full stop, the spinning of the planet stopped as well. He could hear people speaking, thought he recognized Healy’s voice, Marla’s too, and a stranger’s. All he wanted was to be unconscious.
“Mr. Serpe. Mr. Serpe,” the strange voice called to him. “That’s it Mr. Serpe. Can you please sit up. Good. Good. Take it slowly. Slow.”
When he opened his eyes, he could make out Marla’s face, Healy’s and the stranger’s, a doctor, Joe guessed. But Joe had that disconnected feeling again, like he was locked away in a bunker in his own head watching himself watching. He could feel one eyelid being pulled back, his eye forced to follow a beam of light. Then the same routine was followed with his other eye. He was poked and prodded for a good ten minutes and then sent to X-ray.
“Is he all right, doc?” Healy asked. “His memory keeps going in and out.”
“Well, he’s got a concussion, but I suppose that’s no revelation to you. I’m just having x-rays taken as a precaution. I don’t really think he’s got a skull fracture. The cut is relatively minor. His memory. Let’s just say it’s not uncommon for there to be some measure of memory loss with this type of head trauma. His brain got thumped up against his skull pretty hard. He’s a little disoriented, but it’s nothing that rest shouldn’t take care of. I’ll prescribe some stuff for the pain and I’ll schedule him to either come back for a follow up visit with me or another physician.”
“As he heals, will any of his memory return?”
“I’ve got a very simple answer to a very complicated question. I don’t know. The brain isn’t like any other organ. He might regain some, but the closer you get to the actual impact, the less likely he is to recover those memories. This isn’t like TV or the movies. You don’t get whacked on the side of your head and wake up perfectly oriented and remembering everything clearly.” The doctor regarded Healy with suspicion. “Why are a few minutes of memory loss so important? It says here that Mr. Serpe received his injuries in a routine traffic accident.”
“Exactly,” Healy said. “He smacked his car into some trees and it’s probably not important. I was just wondering if maybe another car was involved that might have left the scene. That’s all.”
The doctor seemed satisfied with that explanation and excused himself, saying he’d check up on Joe when he came back from X-ray. Marla, who had sat quietly as Healy questioned the doctor, approached Bob. They had shared only a few words before Joe was brought in to be examined.