Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I'm trying to enjoy a creamy bowl of rich clam chowder near the Providence train station, while still trying to wrap my head around my meeting with Doctor Libschitz. Nobody wants to see himself as a bad person. Mobsters pose as legitimate businessmen, terrorists hide behind terms like "freedom fighters," and criminals claim to be the products of society. And it goes beyond that; corrupt politicians fake honesty, immoral clergymen preach sanctity and greedy corporations front as warm families looking after their clients. People have incredible nerve to do terrible things, but never actually admit to them.

And what about soldiers? We follow orders and rules of engagement under an oath to protect our country and do terrible things to accomplish this. Friendly fire, collateral damage, civilian casualties, things of that nature have always been part of warfare; as well as rape, torture, abuse, pillaging and murder. The line between what's acceptable in a military conflict is always thin and blurred at best.

I'm not an assassin, I keep repeating to myself. I hunted down terrorists; I was a killer of murderers. But then again, Nietzsche did warn about those who fight against monsters, and I fear that the abyss might be looking right back at me.

I take the 67 regional from the Providence Amtrak Station to Baltimore's Penn Station. It's almost an eight-and-a-half-hour trip, so I have plenty of time. I'd rather have used the plane I stole, but that would create a trail that Blake could easily follow. At this point, if I don't make any mistakes, it would be almost impossible for my pursuers to pay me another visit.

I find my seat on the train, and then lock myself in the bathroom to treat my wounds. The implant incision feels pretty good and the knife cut is healing nicely, but I still bandage them to avoid any risk of infection. When I'm done, I go to the dining car, sit at a table and check my laptop. There's an email from Trishna:

Eric,

I'm in FBI custody. Everything is fine. I told them everything and gave them the evidence. Special Agent Richard Hastings (he's in charge of the task force searching for you) wants to talk to you as soon as possible. He says the FBI will provide protection for you, but you need to contact him. I think you should call him. Also, they're looking to arrest Tony. Please let me know you're safe and be careful. I miss you.

Love,

Trishna

She pasted the first paragraph of the top news story at CNN.com as I had instructed and she also provided me with Agent Hastings' phone number. There's no mention of this in any news site. The FBI is probably playing its cards close to its chest. I'm tempted to write back, but I know it'll be imprudent; not until I'm sure I have everything I need and I'm out of harm's way. When I surrender, it will be on my terms. "Always fight on your own terms, never your opponent's," Master Takahashi used to tell me.

The men in my wing who had wives or girlfriends always had a hard time when they were deployed. Out in the field, any connection with home just makes you weaker. It reminds you that you were once civilized, soft; and that can get you killed faster than a bullet through the head. I always thought I was lucky; I didn't have to go through mental and emotional gymnastics to compartmentalize my life. That was until I returned home after each deployment; then there wasn't a more desolate desert or colder mountain.

If it were up to me, I would've stayed deployed until my contract ran out, an attitude that the Air Force rewarded by giving me medals. Back stateside, I'd throw myself at every school I could get sent to, just to keep the void from catching up with me. The Air Force just pinned more medals on my chest, but no matter the number, it just kept feeling empty. And then along came Tony, Corso, Trishna; I finally saw the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, only to find out it was the gleam from Damocles' Sword.