“Dad, what are you doing in the commissary? You know you’re not supposed to be there. What have I not given you such that today, of all days, you were moved to leave your place of dwelling and venture into mine?”
“I was looking for the marriage counselor. I heard you called one in. And why are you talking like some poofcake?”
“I have not called in a counselor. Where’d you hear that? And what made you think he’d be in the commissary?”
“Last I heard, it was called a pantry. Son, are you all right? These four people here have been telling me some things”—and he glanced the camera at the hostages, who were supposed to have been returned to the den gagged, hooded, cuffed. Wayne, who was suddenly adept with the zoom function on the camera, had zeroed in on Anne-Janet’s nose, which was narrow up top but fanned at the base like maybe she’d spent her formative years face pressed to the window, waiting.
Thurlow said, “Dad, I don’t want to see those people.”
Wayne said, “You know, this one’s a professional arbiter, which is almost like a marriage counselor, right?” He framed in close on Olgo.
“Dad, what? You’ve been talking about your marriage? To them? What else have you been saying?”
“Not too many options for chat around here.”
“Dad.” But he stopped there. He could not expect to rationalize with this man. This man was his father; he was intractable. “Dad, you need to stop talking to those people. They are full of lies. Just stay put until I get someone over there.”
Wayne shrugged. “Where exactly would I go?”
“I’ll call for Dean, and he’ll escort you back to your quarters. There’s pink jellies in the kitchen, by the way. Edible foil. FYI.” He offered these as an olive branch because he didn’t like to be stern with his dad. He did like to take precautions, though, and he made a note to disable Wayne’s door opener and short the emergency override. Also: No more computer. And guards at his bed.
At last he got Dean on the phone. Dean, frantic, saying, Where the hell was he? Thurlow was so vexed Dean had left the hostages with his dad, he could barely contain himself. Only, Dean insisted Thurlow had called him not half an hour ago, demanding he meet him in the basement. Aha, so that mole Vicki had them played. Never mind. Just hurry up and get to Wayne. And reassemble the film crew. To hell with it — they had to make the ransom tape right now.
“Okay, Dad? You hear that? Dean’s on his way, so just sit tight”—which was when he noticed Wayne’s face derange and lock. Oh, crap. “Dad,” he said. “Not now!” But of course Wayne had no choice. He lowed, he bellowed, his limbs clenched. And though Thurlow had seen this happen many times, it never got any less awful, and today it seemed worse. Perhaps because where the footage should have lagged for being streamed online, it seemed to mayhem twice as bad. The tonic phase of the seizure lasted for thirty seconds, which gave Thurlow no time to get there before the clonic phase, which was more dangerous, insofar as Wayne could fall and hit his head, which he did. Some epileptics flail and twitch, but for Wayne the movement was more like the string of an instrument, a cello bass, that had been plucked too hard. Luckily, he had pitched to his side, which meant he wouldn’t inhale his own spit. Thurlow waited for Wayne’s body to slow down and then made a run for it.
He had never sprinted across the house, so he was surprised how quickly he got there. Less surprising was that he was winded and likely to convulse himself if he did not sit down. The hostages were appalled, but what was he supposed to do? Wayne was on his side, unconscious. Thurlow propped his head on his leg and waited. The hem of his jeans had crawled up one calf. A vein thick and soft like pasta showed under his skin. Wayne’s head weighed a ton. Thurlow had his back to the hostages, but he knew what they were thinking. He said, “It looks worse than it is, I swear.”
Then he spoke to his dad, “Wake up, boss,” which was the appellation Wayne preferred but never got. When he began to come round, Thurlow tried to diffuse wake-up panic with the facts: “You had a seizure, but you’re fine.” Only he wasn’t having it. He said he’d broken his skull and needed to go to the hospital. Normally, it was hours before fluency with the language returned, and sometimes, for how long it took, Thurlow wondered if maybe Wayne didn’t have a tumor lodged in his brain. But today, he was all rebound. “I could probably get a doctor to come,” Thurlow said, but Wayne said no, it could not wait, his head was broken. The man tended to exaggerate — over the years he’d claimed six heart attacks and three strokes — but it wouldn’t do to ignore him. Ignore him, and he’d just have another seizure from the upset. To be fair, he was slurring his words. And one of his pupils appeared larger than the other.
Thurlow said, “It’s possible you are just experiencing a postseizure headache.”
Wayne said, “Do I look like the sort of man who can’t tell the difference between a headache and hematoma? Call an ambulance — I need to get out of here.” He winced in pain and then seemed to pass out from it.
Dean arrived, breathless. He took in the scene and said, “Where’s two through six?”
“How should I know?” Thurlow shook his head with disgust. So Dean had left guards on duty. But where were they now?
“He all right?” Dean said.
Thurlow nodded.
“Wayne’s a tough old bastard.”
“He wants to go to the hospital. Says he broke his skull.”
Dean gripped his lower lip between thumb and index finger. A thinking man’s pose. He had a set of formulas that helped him determine risk-to-benefit ratios so that when he spoke, it was never knee-jerk.
“Not good,” he said. “Downright stupid. Chances of hematoma: slim.”
Thurlow glanced at the hostages, hoping they agreed with Dean and would indicate as much in their bearing or demeanor. What he did not hope was that they would volunteer advice out loud, which Anne-Janet did, saying, “Not to overstep, but you’d best let him out,” the others nodding and maybe even weeping because, if nothing else, watching someone have an epileptic fit was terrifying.
Wayne looked peaceful, but his breath was short.
“Call an ambulance,” Thurlow said. “And, I don’t know, tell the feds not to shoot anyone when they come out.”
Then he kissed his father on the cheek. He probably would not see him again, though he knew Wayne would be fine.
An hour later, a knock at the door. Norman.
“How is my father?” Thurlow said. “What’s the news?”
Norman flipped through a notebook. “Dean handled it. Ask him.”
“I’m asking you.”
Norman palmed the back of his own neck like he might slam his face into the desk. He said, “I thought I was the one dealing with the negotiator. Dean let one out and got nothing in return. Good job.”
“He’s not one, he’s my dad.”
“Just trying to get with the lingo,” Norman said. “Now that we’re all criminal.”
“You weren’t around, Norman.”
“You could have called.”
Was this really the time to be discussing his hurt feelings? Thurlow said, “You should know and tell the others: Vicki is out. She was bugged.”
“I heard.”
“She won’t be the last, either.”
“Naturally.”
“So, can you find out about my father?”
His face blanked just long enough for Thurlow to realize he wasn’t listening. “Fine,” Norman said. “I’ll check it out. Sorry.”
“You’re sorry. Since when is ‘I’m sorry’ our panacea of choice?”
This time, Norman did not hesitate. He said, “‘Self-indictment will be considered adequate restitution for mistakes made in dereliction of duty, so long as the derelict is earnest in apology.’”