Free Next Day of the Condor by James Grady Page A

held a laboratory-aged wallet with never-used I.D.’s and credit cards. Felt sad to take off his old friend the black leather jacket. Felt good to shed its weight of new lies.
    He wore a long-sleeved, suitable for an office blue shirt over black long-sleeved, thermal underwear suitable for the autumn forest. Fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Sensed the nurse resisting helping him pull off the thermal underwear.
    He sat on the bed. Naked from the waist up. Shivered, maybe from the evening chill, maybe from the proximity of a red-lipped younger woman.
    Who couldn’t help herself, cared about who she was and was a nurse, stared at his scars but there was nothing she could do for them now, for him, she was not that able.
    Or free.
    She unzipped the medical bag that opened like the jaws of a trap: one side held hypodermic needles, alcohol and swabs, the other side held pill bottles.
    “You already took your final dose of meds back in the ward,” she said.
    “I took what they gave me. Hope that’s not
final
”.
    Crimson lips curled in a smile. Tears shimmered her green eyes.
    He said: “I’m glad it’s you giving me the needle.”
    “’Had to be,” she whispered.
    Swabbed his bare left shoulder.
    Slid the needle into his flesh.
    Pushed the plunger.
    Said: “Not long now.”
    He dressed, stood to tuck his shirts into his black jeans.
    Nurse Vicki turned down the blanket on the rack he’d chosen.
    “Might want to keep your shoes on,” said Doug from outside the van.
    The package stretched out on his back, pillow under his head.
    “Just a tip,” said Doug. “Straps
first
is more comfortable.”
    Vicki—
made it through night school working as a grocery checker and sitting vigil beside a hospital bed where the patient never stirred
—Vicki fastened Safety Straps across the prone man, tucked the blanket over him to his chin, knew he could have been her father, knew she could have made him one, knew that wasn’t—
isn’t
—what mattered or what decided what was never going to be more than stolen heartbeats of rebellion and escape, comfort and yearning, the fever of beasts.
    Let it go. Let it go.
    “Do you remember the new name you picked?” she asked him. “
Not
Condor .”
    “How can I not be who I am?”
    “That’s part of the deal to get you out of here. Back to the real world.”
    “So that’s where I’m going.” His smile was sly.
    “So they tell me.” Her smile was honest. “Who are you, Condor ?”
    “Vin.”
    “
V
for
Vicki
,” she said, like it was nothing.
    “Yes,” he lied to let her have everything he could give.
    She pressed her crimson lips to his mouth:
Last kiss
.
    Floated out of the van, a blur of white, the night spinning as Doug whirred the side door closed, climbed into the shotgun seat, slammed his door
thunk
.
    Condor, Vin
, whoever he was dropped into a black hole.
    Drugged sleep. Flashes of sight, of sound, dreams in a heartbeat rhythm.
    …white stripes flick through a night road’s headlights…
    …Springsteen guitars
State Trooper …
    …beeping machines web a hollow Marine to a hospital bed…
    …naked thighs straining
yes yes yes
…
    …
snap-clack
of a chambering .45 …
    …red lips…
    …Arab Spring crowds: “
Lib-er-te! Lib-er-te!
”…
    …footsteps behind you on Paris cobblestones…
    …the mailman clings to his pouch…
    …drone’s view of a rushing closer city square…
    …plopped on a closet toilet, no pants, some guy saying, “
OK, here you go”
…
    …walk into the alley, a friend waves you forward…
    JOLT. Awake. He felt himself…awake. Sunlight through black glass windows.
    Blink and you’re flat on your back on a bed in a van. That’s stopped.
    Coffee
, that wondrous rich aroma.
    “OK, man,” said…
Doug
, his name is Doug. “Straps are off. Sit up, have a cup of the good stuff from inside.”
    Inside where? Where am I?
    He sipped coffee cut with milk from a paper cup logoed: ‘bucks!
    “You gotta go again?” said Brian