NUMB by Judy Colella (tools of titans ebook txt) 📕

The nurse put his head to one side, frowning. “Well, I could check the lounge to see if any of the ones borrowed by some of the other patients has been returned.”

“That would be lovely!” She smiled again, noticing almost subconsciously that the man’s uniform was too tight across his stomach. “Thank you!”

“No problem, Miss. That’s why I’m here.”

What? She picked up the glass again and headed to her bed. “I appreciate it.”

He was gone a moment later.

You’d think an exclusive medical clinic like this would provide uniforms that fit their personnel! Unless the guy recently gained weight, but…oh! Oh my God! Yes! The uniform!

If she managed to smuggle a uniform into her room and change into it without being found out, she could leave the building, hide somewhere on the grounds, and when the search for her began, join everyone else. With her height and short hair, she suspected she could pass for a man, if she used a nightgown to bind her breasts; her pregnancy made them sore so it would be painful, but worth it beyond question. What else? Sunglasses…where had she seen a pair lying around? Somewhere in the lounge, was it? Or maybe the kitchen? No – ah! They were on a shelf in the pantry where patients were allowed to go to get snacks for themselves. Maybe the glasses would still be there, and thus provide her with the final touch to make her disguise viable.

It looked like she had a working plan, and at that point, the only thing that concerned her, other than the possibility of getting caught after all, was that she’d be unable to get her daily medication, the small pills that kept her headaches away. According to Kobienko, the first two operations had been successful in releasing pressure on her brain, but the medicine was necessary to prevent its underlying cause from returning before the third and final one.

When she considered all her options and weighed headaches against being imprisoned as someone’s sex toy, there was no question that leaving the medication behind was practically irrelevant. So no, all that remained was to get her hands on a uniform, the sunglasses, and still be in her room when the nurse returned.

A little more thought, and she’d figured the rest out. Smiling with open relief, she put on her slippers and got started.

The pipe was hollow metal and had no tip, but the weight and length were right. As a javelin in an ancient battle where good weapons meant life or death, this would be useless. But as a tool for practicing while he continued to build up his throwing arm, it would do. He’d used medical tape to make a grip at the pipe’s center of gravity, and measured out his “runway” by eye, not having access to a tape measure that was long enough to give him the accurate 98-foot path.

Jett hefted it to shoulder level, disused muscles in painful revolt but remembering everything they were supposed to do – the position, the stance, the angle for hitting the right arc. His target within the sector he’d designated was a piece of paper in front of a tree he estimated to be about as far as he’d been able to throw at his last Olympic event. Not expecting the pipe’s tip to land anywhere near it, he was still curious to see how much strength he’d regained.

Several weeks of training with the facility’s equivalent of free-weights – large cans of soup and vegetables – had strengthened his arms and chest somewhat, but he needed a lot more work, and knew it.

“Come on, N! Throw the stupid thing!”

Without taking his eyes from the barely-discernible target, he smiled, gathered himself, and began his run.

Around him on the grass, about thirty patients stood watching. He’d been told he would have an audience because the patients needed the entertainment, but assured that none of them was aware of Jett’s real identity or of his Olympic record. All they knew, he concluded, was that one of their own looked like he was getting better, and they had all been invited to watch him do something unusual.

A few feet before the end of his improvised throwing area, Jett pulled his arm back a little further. Almost there…now!

It felt like someone had torn his arm from its socket and he gasped, gripping his shoulder and going to one knee. Through tears of agony, he saw where the pipe had landed, noting that the tip had barely touched the outside edge of the paper before its length clanked to the ground.

Shocked that he’d thrown it so far, Jett got back to his feet, still holding what felt like a small fire in his right shoulder joint and upper arm, and walked to where the pipe lay. He didn’t hear the cheers, but even during the Olympics he’d been deaf to the noise of approval and support.

“Incredible.” Jax had joined him and picked up the pole. “Even in your way-less-than-top condition, you nearly matched your record! I’d like to see someone accuse you of using steroids this time!”

Jett gave a silent laugh and shook his head.

“So, uh, how bad does it hurt?”

He mouthed the word “bad,” and turned. Now he couldn’t help but register the presence and sounds of his audience. He smiled at them, nodding. It seemed like the right reaction.

“You – you’re really good,” said Windowpane, approaching from Jett’s left. “I’ve watched people do that at school, and none of them ever came close to throwing that pole thingy as far as you did.”

“He’s fast too! Bet if you ran away, no one would ever catch you.” A man who looked more like a mole than a human, came to stand beside Windowpane. “I saw a kid in the Olympics a few years ago who looked a lot like you. He could run like that and throw the Javelin like it was nothing. Ever watch the Olympics, N?”

Jett nodded, amused at being his own look-alike.

“You’re still holding your shoulder,” Jax murmured, leaning closer. “Does it hurt that much?”

Nodding again, the former decathlete took the pipe from Jax, and before his brother could realize what he was doing, trotted off to the far end of the running strip.

“Hey! Dude! What the hell?!” Jax’s voice faded a little on each word as Jett got further away.

Holding the pipe in his other hand, he sighted down the imaginary path, raised it to the level of his left shoulder, and started his run. His ankle had begun to hurt now, too, but he didn’t bother worrying about it. The injury on his right side hadn’t been as severe for some reason; when he released the projectile this time, it felt like his entire arm went with it.

He nearly passed out.

“Jett! Damn it! What were you thinking?”

Lying on his side, teeth clenched, Jett was barely able to move but conscious. Don’t use my name, Jax! Ow, ow, ow…hell. Other feet came into his limited view and a moment later he felt himself being lifted upright. Sniffling, Jett peered around trying to locate the pipe.

Where – ah. Whoa! No wonder his shoulder pain was so terrible. He had taught himself to function with complete ambidexterity despite having been born right-handed, and would switch arms during various events that called for their use – like throwing the shot-put or the javelin, even when pole-vaulting. This had given him an advantage his competitors and team-mates would never have unless they trained themselves in a similar manner. Few of them ever did. Still, he was astounded to see that this time he’d overshot the target and hit the tree. The pole was resting at an angle against its trunk, the top a few inches from the ground.

“…stupid! You could destroy your chances for a full recovery!”

Jett turned to his brother, recognizing that the wrathful expression was fueled entirely by worry. He knew Jax too well to imagine his sibling was angry for any other reason. He wanted to shrug, but couldn’t. So he did the next best thing – he gently tugged himself away from the orderlies holding him, went closer to his brother, and leaned his forehead against Jax’s.

“Aw, hell. I love you, too, Je…uh, N.”

They both laughed, although no one could hear Jett.

“Looks like the fun is over, everyone,” one of the orderlies announced. “Let’s get back inside now – it’s almost lunch time!”

“I want that pole thing!” Fitz was whining. “How come I only ever get to play with the baseball? Huh? Huh? And – and the new kid has a pole thing? That’s not fair!”

One of the orderlies started walking next to him. “And what would you do with it, Fitz?”

“Uh, throw it?”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

Everyone stopped and watched as the orderly jogged to the tree, retrieved the pipe, and brought it to Fitz. “Here you go. Let’s see what you can do.”

The man grabbed it, grinning, but the grin went away quickly when he struggled to lift it, much less throw it like he’d seen the younger inmate do. He gave the orderly a twisted smile. “Yeah, never mind. The baseball will do.”

They resumed their walk back into the main building, during which Jett acknowledged something that surprised him so much, he almost forgot his pain. When it came time to leave this place, he was going to miss it.

*******

Visits to Bluebird Foundation had been all right, but having their son home again had been the ultimate goal. Now, at last, this was going to be a reality. Celia and Bryson had done a lot of talking about how to make sure Jett didn’t go off the deep end again once he was released. They agreed that the smartest place to start was his room – remove all traces of Atarah, at least for the time being. Let him get settled and thinking straight before hitting him with the other bombshell. Learning that his wife was alive would have been the best news he could get, were she there to tell him herself. The next best thing would have been to know where she was. Only no one did. It had been close to a year since the staged plane accident, which meant that if the young woman had, in fact, been pregnant, she would have had the child by now. Somewhere, they could very well have a grandchild they might never meet.

After reading Chara’s email all those months ago, Celia had called her. As nicely as she could, Celia had explained what the other woman’s subterfuge had done to Jett. When she was done, Chara had apologized through tears of deep remorse, and then expanded on her guilt, letting Celia know that Atarah was missing, abducted by the doctor she’d hoped to trick into leaving her family alone. Over the following months, the two mothers had stayed in touch, and once Seth and Bryson got involved, Interpol and the FBI were finally contacted. They found Dr. Kobienko, but no trace of Atarah. One of the male nurses at his clinic in the countryside town outside St. Petersburg – the Russian one – told the police that yes, a