Berwin went to the mirror and scrutinized his appearance. If his own family hadn’t delivered the clothing, he’d suspect that the clothes weren’t really his.
A soft noise, a shuffling, came from behind him.
Turning, Berwin found a skinny man dressed in brown overalls and a brown cap, a broom in his left hand. The man appeared to be startled to encounter someone in the room. “Hello,” Berwin said.
“Hello,” the man responded uncertainly, scrutinizing Berwin’s attire. “I didn’t think anyone was here.”
“May I help you?” Berwin asked, coming around the foot of the bed.
The man shook his head vigorously, apparently intimidated by Berwin’s size. “No, thanks. I’m the day-shift janitor.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jennings. Tom Jennings.”
“Bob Berwin. Please to meet you,” Berwin said, and offered his right hand.
Jennings stared at the hand for a bit, then shook gingerly. “Do you work here too?” he inquired.
“Yeah,” Berwin joked. “I’m the resident amnesiac.”
“You’re a resident?” Jennings queried in surprise. “Man, let me give you a word of advice. Don’t let Doc Milton or old iron-guts Krittenbauer catch you dressed in those duds. They’ll skin you alive. They like all their men resident-types to dress in white.”
“But they gave me permission to wear these clothes,” Berwin said.
“They did?” Jennings questioned. “Then you must be a hotshot at whatever the hell amnesiacs is and they’re givin’ you special treatment.”
Berwin suddenly perceived that the janitor had misunderstood his remark about being the resident amnesiac, and he was about to correct the man’s misconception when Jennings made a most curious comment.
“They usually have a fit if a resident walks around in civvies. They’re military all the way.” He walked to the far corner and started sweeping the floor.
“Military?” Berwin repeated.
Jennings glanced at the giant. “Don’t get me wrong, Doctor Berwin. I ain’t got nothin’ against you military types. I’m just not used to all the spit and polish, is all.”
“Isn’t spit and polish what hospitals are all about?”
Jennings snorted. “Now there’s a good one. It might as well be,’ seein’ as how the HGP runs this floor and keeps close tabs on the whole hospital.
A mouse can’t get into Khrushchev Memorial without permission.”
“Don’t you mean Kennedy Memorial?” Berwin asked.
The janitor laughed. “You’re a real funny guy, Doc. This place ain’t been called that in eighty or ninety years.”
Lines formed on Berwin’s forehead as he tried to comprehend the janitor’s revelations. Nothing made sense. He needed more information, but if he asked the wrong question, if he disclosed his ignorance, the man might clam up. “How long have you worked here?” he inquired.
“Oh, about fifteen years,” Jennings said, sweeping under the bed.
“Before that I pushed a broom at the Committee for State Security building over on Proudhon Avenue.” He paused and swallowed. “I don’t mind tellin’ you that workin’ there gave me the creeps.”
“Why?”
Jennings looked up. “Would you be comfortable workin’ in the KGB
building?”
“I guess not,” Berwin said, playing along, scheming to elicit more news.
“You must enjoy working here better.”
“You bet your ass I do,” Jennings stated. “I don’t have to work nights any more, which makes my wife happy. And some days, when they have a patient on this floor, I get to go home early.”
“Why’s that?”
“You haven’t been workin’ with the HGP very long, have you? They’re a hush-hush bunch. When they’ve got patients on this floor, the guard at the desk tells me not to worry about cleanin’. They take care of it themselves, but they don’t do as good a job as me.”
The guard at the desk? Berwin shook his head in bewilderment, feeling as if his world had been turned topsy-turvy.
“Yes, sir,” Jennings went on, still sweeping. “They do a half-assed job, and I have to work harder when they finally give me the green light. But I don’t mind if it gets me a few extra hours off now and then. You know what I mean?”
“I think so,” Berwin replied.
“So what’s the field you’re in again? Amnesiactics?” the talkative janitor inquired absently.
“It has to do with the mind.”
“Really? I heard the HGP was more into bodies.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. You know. The gene thing. I never did understand science much.”
A tack he could take occurred to Berwin, and he promptly took advantage of the opening. “You must hear a lot about our work.”
“Oh, the usual scuttlebutt,” Jennings said, sweeping nearer to the door.
Berwin stepped aside so the janitor could pass him. “Like what?” he asked, willing himself to remain calm, keeping his tone level and casual.
“There was talk about all the experiments being done on this floor,” Jennings said. “They say the experiments were classified Top Secret. I even heard the North American Central Committee are the bigwigs runnin’ the show.”
Berwin rubbed his forehead, utterly confused. He couldn’t recall his own past, but the name Khrushchev, the letters KGB, and the North American Central Committee all sparked a flicker of recognition in the vague reservoir of his memory, and the word he associated with all three filled him with apprehension:
Russians. Why did the thought of Russians provoke such anxiety? What did he know about them? Think! he admonished himself. The Communists in Russia had been the mortal enemies of the United States, hadn’t they?
But how could there be Russians in Boston? Doctor Milton had told him the United States won World War Three. He looked at Jennings, who was sweeping with his back to the doorway, and went to ask another question.
Before he could, a pair of hands clamped on the janitor’s shoulders and Jennings was hauled roughly from the room.
Chapter Eight
“Where the blazes are we?” Hickok asked, his hands gripping the steering wheel firmly, his eyes on the rutted, pothole-dotted road directly ahead.
“You’re doing the driving,” the stocky man across from him responded.
“Don’t you know?”
“I know we’re in Iowa,” Hickok said.
“The white man’s sense of direction never ceases to amaze me,” cracked his traveling companion.
“And the cantankerousness of Injuns never fails to get my goat.”
“Cantankerousness? Wow. I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had words larger than two syllables in your vocabulary.”
Hickok sighed and glanced to his right at the man he considered his virtual brother, one of the two best friends he had, the other one being Blade. “Look, Geronimo, will you quit givin’ me a hard time and take a gander at the map in your lap?”
“I can’t,” Geronimo responded. A green shirt, green pants, and moccasins covered his muscular form. His black hair was cut short, barely covering his ears. The Blackfoot heritage in his family was evident in his facial features. Under his right arm in a shoulder holster rested an Arminius .337 Magnum, and tucked under the front of his brown leather belt and slanted across his right hip was a genuine tomahawk, taken from the enormous collection of weapons stockpiled in the Family armory.
“Why the heck not?” Hickok demanded.
Geronimo looked at the gunman, his brown eyes twinkling. “Because I want to keep my eyes on you and the road.”
“Why? I’m doing a right smart job.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”