Jonas, page 21
“What?”
“I asked Ford to stop by Shae’s place in San Diego.” He pulled off his hat, set it on the counter. “I know it was a little desperate, but the next step was me getting on a plane, so…” He set both hands on the counter, as if steadying himself.
Jonas didn’t know why a fist formed in his gut. But seeing his brother’s expression…
“She wasn’t there. Hasn’t been there, given the mail piled up in her box. The house is dark.”
It took a second, and it was his mother who seemed to put the math together. “Are you saying that she hasn’t returned from Europe yet?”
“I don’t know. I called her uncle in Montana—sometimes she goes there. But it went to voice mail.” His mouth tightened. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, son, if you think she’s in trouble, you go find her.”
The way his mother said it, it sounded so simple. Easy.
And right.
He nodded. “I think maybe I’m going to grab a flight to Montana. See if she’s out there. Ask her uncle.” He pocketed his phone. “Thing is, I have this crazy gut sense that she never left Europe. That…maybe something happened to her after she left me at the hotel.”
“She left you?” This from his mom.
“We got in a fight,” he said. “Misunderstanding. Or…I don’t know. I said some stupid things.”
“You?” said his mom. But she walked over to him. “Listen. I know Shae loves you. And I’m sure you’ll work it out. I’ve learned that in a fight, I need to ignore about fifty percent of what I’m feeling, about twenty percent of what I think I hear, and go with what I know. What the truth is. Otherwise, we get caught up in the destruction of the fight, and we end up much more wounded than we need to be.”
She put her arm around Ned’s shoulders. “He will keep in perfect peace he whose mind is stayed on Him, because he trusts in Him. That’s where you should go when your thoughts lead you to panic. God will give you your next steps.”
Giving his shoulder a squeeze, she then glanced at Jonas, then Fraser, and raised an eyebrow.
So maybe Dad had briefed her last night after he came into the room.
“Want me to ask Ham if Coco can pull footage from the hotel?” Fraser asked.
“Yeah, Ford mentioned your foster sister. I thought she was in Russia,” Jonas said.
“She returned a couple years ago armed with some series hacking skills. But she might be able to pull up CCTV, if they have any. Give me the details of the day and time and I’ll text him.”
Ned picked up his phone, headed over to the living room, and sat on one of the worn leather sofas.
But Jonas was back in last night’s conversation. Forgive yourself.
Yeah, that would start with someone else.
He pushed off his stool, picked up his plate, and brought it to the sink. Rinsed it and put the plate in the dishwasher. Then he picked up his coffee.
“Where are you going?” his mother said.
“To get a shower.” He finished his coffee and set the mug in the dishwasher. “And then I’m going to stop being a wuss.”
“About time,” Fraser said. “I’ve been waiting for that for twenty-eight years.”
Running seemed like the only logical thing to do.
Besides, Sibba had to get out of the house, air her brain out. Stop reliving the moment when Jonas saved her life.
No, the moment when she destroyed his by walking away.
What. A. Jerk.
The wind snaked down from the mountains, through the wet streets of Cerkno where her feet slapped against pavement, her breaths forming in the air in front of her. She wore mittens and a hat, but just a lightweight pullover and running leggings, and still the sweat streamed off her.
Just keep running. And maybe she wouldn’t hear the way he made that low rumble in his throat when he was thinking. Or see the flash in his blue eyes when she verbally sparred with him. Or his smile when he thought she was funny.
She wasn’t funny.
She was stupid. What kind of person walked out on the man who saved her life?
The person who feared he’d someday lose it running after her again, thank you.
She had run through town, all the way out to the ski hill, some seven kilometers west. They were gearing up for the season, checking seats on the two six-seater lifts. She stood for a long moment in the parking lot, her hands on her hips, breathing hard, watching the clouds, the thermals. She loved skiing—right after paragliding.
No, what she loved was speed, the wind in her ears, the sense of being fully alive.
“I don’t know how to do this, Jonas.”
“Do what?”
“Be with you. Past today. Past this moment. Tomorrow.”
“Do you want that?”
Yes. Yes, she did.
Or at least she’d thought so.
And then the jerk had nearly died saving her life—
Aw. She wiped her eyes—stupid wind. Drew in a breath and took off for home, the familiar slap of her feet drilling into her, setting a rhythm.
This was her life. One step at a time, one moment at a time. She didn’t need more.
Whatever.
The sun had already broken in the east, was starting to dry the streets from last night’s thunderstorm. It had only made her think of Jonas, of course.
She had to get the man out of her head. Three days, and he’d made such a place inside her soul she’d probably bear scars for a while.
But alone was better than…
She shook away the thought and turned up her street.
Slowed.
A car sat in her driveway to the townhouse. A rental, late-model Panda, and…her breath caught.
What?
Her breaths quickened, and everything turned hot.
What was—
She sped up, took the stairs two at a time, then hit her door, every cell sparking.
A woman stood in the family room talking to her grandfather, and as Sibba entered, her breaths betrayed her.
Along with, she supposed, the shock on her face. “Ziggy?”
The spy—or whatever she was—wore a puffy black jacket, a pair of green cargo pants, running boots, her hair pulled back, shiny and dark, and now turned to her with a smile. “Hey, Sibba. How are you?”
She almost looked around for Jonas and wondered if they could see the explosion through her, the sudden whoosh of darkness.
She was a fool. The man was not going to come after her. Not in his condition.
Not after she’d probably broken his heart.
Besides, he wasn’t a fool. Her life hadn’t changed. She still disposed of bombs for a living. Still lived in a tiny, one-meter box in her mind.
Okay, now the box had pretty big peep holes, but still— “I’m good. How are you?” She pulled off her mittens and put them on the table. “What’s going on?”
Her grandfather turned to her. “Sit down, Sibba.”
She started to walk toward the family room, and then slowed.
Wait. Ziggy held a package in her hands.
Sibba pressed her hand to her gut, remembering Ziggy’s words at the hospital. “I did a little more digging…I know he can’t return to America.” Did…Ziggy hadn’t done something to get her grandfather in trouble with the US, had she?
“What’s going on?” She stood next to her grandfather.
Ziggy still wore that smile on her face. “I was in the middle of asking your grandfather if he’d like to go home.”
Sibba placed a hand on his arm. “You know what that means. Don’t joke like that.”
“What if it didn’t mean…what you thought?”
Sibba reached into the bag and pulled out shiny blue passports.
Sibba looked at them, then at Dedi.
“I’m not going to lie to my government about who I am,” he said quietly. “So if those are an assumed—”
“Nothing of the sort,” Ziggy said. Then she turned to Sibba. “Did you know your grandfather was nominated for a Medal of Honor during his service in Vietnam?”
She looked at him. “No. He left that part out.”
“I didn’t deserve a medal. And”—he looked at Ziggy—“I ran, if you remember.”
“Here’s how the story goes, Sibba,” Ziggy said. “Your grandfather was a corpsman during the war.” She looked at Dedi, her face solemn. “Which meant he ran into danger to save lives.”
Her grandfather’s expression remained still, save for the tightening of his lips.
“On April twenty-third, 1968, he was attending to two marines who were injured, trying to get them to a chopper for casualty evacuation when his rifle company was attacked by a unit of North Vietnamese Army. He not only evacuated those marines to the chopper but returned to aid other wounded marines.”
“It was my job.”
Ziggy held up a hand. “While he was attending to the wounded, a grenade landed near them.”
Sibba stilled.
“He covered the grenade with his body to shield the wounded marines.”
She stared at her grandfather.
“It was…impulse. Not bravery.”
“It was bravery,” Ziggy said. “And just because the grenade didn’t go off doesn’t mean it wasn’t completely, absolutely heroic. And yes, maybe an impulsive move, but you could have jumped the other direction.”
She turned to Sibba. “When he realized it hadn’t exploded, he scooped it up and threw it away.”
“It exploded,” Dedi said quietly.
“Yes. And you were injured. But you’d saved the lives of those marines, and they didn’t forget it. I have testimonies here of six marines whose lives you saved that day. One of those was a nineteen-year-old kid who just happens to be a US senator today, sir.”
She pulled a piece of paper from the envelope. “And this, Hospital Corpsman Second Class, is a pardon from the president of the United States.”
Silence, and in it, she saw her grandfather swallow, blink. Then, “What?”
“I asked my friend Logan Thorne to investigate it, and he found the Medal of Honor application and the details, along with the charge of desertion. He brought it to the president, who conferred with Senator Long as well as the judge advocate general of the Navy.” She shook her head. “Unfortunately, the charges of desertion, since it was in the time of war, still stand. And you were convicted and sentenced, in absentia.”
“Dedi—you can’t go back to America—”
“But”—Ziggy held up her hand—“this allowed the president to take into account your valorous service, and in lieu of a medal…he has granted you a pardon.” She handed over the passport. “And requested that you be issued a new passport, one that you can use to return to your homeland, if you wish.”
Her grandfather took the passport and opened it. Ran his thumb over the picture. Closed his eyes.
Sibba’s throat tightened, tears pooling. Then Ziggy handed her a passport. “Apparently, your father applied for a social security number for you when you were born.”
Inside was a photo taken from her time in service in the Slovenian government.
She looked up at Ziggy, then at Dedi. “I…I don’t know what…do you want to go back to America?”
He turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s time to stop running away and start thinking about what we’re running to.” He raised an eyebrow.
Oh, Dedi. She sighed. “I have nothing to run to.”
“You have everything to run to,” he said as he pulled her against himself. “You just need to open your eyes and see it.”
Thirteen
After his time in Mayo Clinic, the smell of the hospital didn’t feel quite so repugnant.
In fact, the Courage Kenny long-term rehab facility smelled of autumn spices—cinnamon, ginger, cloves—and Kenny G’s easy sax played over the hidden speakers as Jonas got a pass from the reception desk.
Girded himself with a deep breath.
He hoped he wasn’t making things worse—but frankly, maybe it was already as bad as it could be.
“You can’t live in the regrets. It’s unproductive and keeps you in the past. You need to focus on the now.”
Fraser’s words, but he was probably right.
Sometimes, the tinny taste of blood, the freezing rain, the roar of the tornado could make him curl into a ball. And he had the luxury of waking up and walking away.
He passed by rehabilitation rooms, with weight machines and tables and exercise balls and mats, to other rooms with recumbent bikes and stairs. Passed a person with a walker, in her early twenties, maybe, shuffling to the encouragement of a couple physical therapists.
She grunted as she moved the walker.
He nearly turned around.
But kept going and found the room at the end of the hallway. A bank of windows overlooked the gray sky—a storm hung in the nippy breeze. The trees were almost naked, and it wouldn’t be long before the world would turn white.
In the room, a number of patients in workout clothing were strapped to machines, their physical therapists helping them maneuver.
He’d done his research, back when Nixon was giving him updates on the rehab devices—on the Lokomat, which helped people walk on a treadmill, and Ekso GT, a bionic suit that helped people walk.
He spotted Geena strapped into a Vector Gait, a ceiling-mounted dynamic body weight harness that helped support her weight as she walked. She wore a sports bra with a sleeveless Vortex.com T-shirt that revealed all her tribal tats. She wore a bandanna around her head like Rambo, and the cool dreads she’d started a year ago had been shaven, but her hair had come back short and silky brown.
Two physical therapists sat beside her, moving her legs. Nixon stood in front of her, holding her hands.
Jonas stood at the door, an anvil on his chest.
Jonas, don’t let me die. Please—don’t let me die. Her last words before she had passed out, before the brain trauma started to steal her away. Now, to see her upright, even smiling... Tears filled his eyes.
And still, he couldn’t move.
He should leave. Now. Because—
“Jonas!”
Aw. She’d spotted him.
“C’mere!”
He started over even as Nixon turned, nodded at him, something in his brown eyes. Maybe respect.
He didn’t deserve that.
“Wanna race?” Geena said, then laughed. Her speech was still a little slow, but clearly the accident hadn’t stolen her spunk.
Nixon, too, laughed, and Jonas had nothing. This wasn’t…funny.
“No.”
“Aw, boss, you gotta calm down.” She was sweating despite her humor, struggling for each step. Now, she stopped. Looked at her PTs. “Lemme go.”
One man, one woman, and they both removed their hands.
Geena let go of Nixon.
And then she simply stood. Right there, on her own, for a full twenty seconds.
His heart hammered out every single second. Finally, “Wow.”
She reached out again for Nixon, breathing hard. But looked at Jonas. “Tomorrow, I’ll be dancing. You’ll see.” She winked.
With it, something released inside him. He lowered his head, cupped his hand over his forehead, and started to sob.
Shoot, but he just couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop—
“Oh. Um. Uh. Guys, get me out of this thing,” Geena said.
“I’m sorry—” Ah, see, he was making it worse.
Nixon’s hands landed on his shoulders. Then before he could step back, or maybe run away, Nixon pulled him tight to himself.
And Nixon was a big guy. His huge arms locked around Jonas’s back.
Jonas ducked his head. Pressed his hands over his face. “Sorry—sorry—I got this—”
“No, you don’t.” Nix let him go. His eyes were wet too. “You don’t got this, Joe. But God does. And that’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Jonas looked at Nixon, then at Geena, now in her wheelchair. She came over to him, took his hand. “Boss.”
He knelt down beside her. “I’m so sorry. I should have—”
“What? Stopped the tornado from turning? Chasing us down? Driven faster—oh, wait, I was the one driving.”
He met her eyes. “Please forgive me.”
A beat, and her chest rose and fell. “Please forgive me.” Her eyes filled. “I should have gotten us out of there.”
“I was the one who said to pull over—”
“Stop, please. Both of you,” Nixon said. “I forgive you both for driving me crazy. I mean, I’m the one who has to go to Smashburger every day and bring this one her cold chocolate shake and double cheeseburger.”
Jonas looked up at him. “You’re right. Clearly, you’re the one who is suffering here.”
Geena laughed, ran her palm over her cheek. “I forgive you, boss.”
He shook his head. “And, whatever—I forgive you too.”
Then she leaned forward and put her forehead on his. “Good. Because by next summer, I’m going to be riding shotgun in the Vortex van.”
Oh.
A beat, and she leaned back. “What?”
“I…the van is totaled. And…I’m not chasing storms anymore.”
“Why not?’
He gave her a look.
“Seriously? Jonas—”
He held up his hand. Her mouth closed, and she sighed. “I get it. I think.” She shrugged. “For now.”
“Does it have something to do with that epic cast you’re sportin’?” Nixon said as Jonas stood up.
“No. I fell.”
A beat.
“Do you feel safe at home?” Geena asked.
He looked at her. Grinned. “Yes.”
“What are you doing here?” Nixon said. “Is your gig over? Did you get what you needed?”
He stared at Nixon. Yes. Yes, he had. At least he thought he had.
“What?” Nix said.
“It’s just…I…” He ran a hand behind his neck. “Actually, remember those women we rescued?”
“Women?” Geena said and cocked her head at Nixon. “Want to elaborate?”
He held up his hands. “Jonas did the rescuing.”
