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IT HAD BEEN THREE YEARS SINCE WALT JENKINS LEFT NEW YORK; 1,140 days since he exchanged the hustle and bustle, the congested streets, and smog-filled air for the quiet tranquility of Jamaica. The time had passed in random stretches of achingly slow weeks and blink-of-the-eye months. By any measure he was doing better today than when he had left. Not fully back to where he had been, but fixed to whatever degree that time heals all wounds, both physical and emotional. He was back in New York for just one night, the same night for which he had returned each of the past three years. Keeping with the tradition of his life, Walt’s return to New York was counterproductive at best, blatantly destructive at worst. He was too smart to believe anything good would come from this night, but too stupid to stay away.
As June approached and the annual survivors meeting crept closer, Walt found himself checking airfare. He returned each year for the annual meeting, selfishly took from the participants whatever spiritual enlightenment he needed to make it another year, and then hopped on a plane back to Jamaica where he drank rum in quiet isolation and tried to undo the damage the trip had caused. It was no way to exist and could not continue. Yet here he was again, caught in a downward spiral from which he could not escape. Something needed to change or he’d swirl down the drain of life and never be seen again. He’d been on the brink with alcohol before the Bureau fired him—retired him, he corrected himself, with his full pension. That was three years ago, and he definitely overindulged now. He hadn’t talked with his parents or siblings in three years, save for a phone call at Christmas. He’d lost just about every friend he’d ever made. The reason behind it all was a woman. The very one he went to New York to see each year. Walt Jenkins gave self-sabotage new meaning.
The New York chapter of Trauma Survivors held its reunion each June in Ascent Lounge of the Time Warner building in Manhattan. It was an annual gathering of trauma victims who had miraculously beaten the odds to cheat death and come out on the other side of life. Alive, yes. But different from the people they had once been. The night consisted of speeches and awards, guests of honor and distinguished charter members, old stories and new. An entire portion of the night was reserved for honoring the doctors and nurses, EMTs and firefighters, and other first responders whose quick thinking and skill had saved every life of every survivor present.
Present this evening were survivors of every kind: A woman who was the only one to walk away from a plane crash that killed eighty-two other passengers; a man who had jumped from a burning car just before it exploded as it crashed down a mountainside; a hiker who had endured two weeks in the wilderness with no food and little water; a motorcyclist who had no earthly reason for walking away from the crash that turned his bike into a jagged ball of steel; and Walt Jenkins, the federal agent who had survived two bullets to the torso—one that tore his neck to pieces, the other that pierced his heart. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred, his trauma surgeon told him, such gunshot wounds were fatal.
In addition to the survivors, the guest list included family members who had lost loved ones to the same trauma the other guests had survived. The families of the victims of that plane crash that killed all but one of the passengers. The parents of the drunken teenager who had died during the auto accident that sent the man’s burning car over the cliff. The sister of the man who did not make it out of the wilderness with his hiking partner. The truck driver whose cab had been the backstop for the sliding motorcycle. Walt returned to New York each year to see one family member in particular.
This far removed from his former occupation in the FBI, Walt owned just one suit. Formal attire was not required for his new life in Jamaica, and he had trashed every sport coat and tie he owned before he made the move years earlier. Now he pulled the lapels down tightly on his shoulders, straightened his tie, and took a deep breath before he pulled open the heavy doors of the Ascent Lounge. He made a beeline for the bar.
“What kind of rum do you have?” he asked the bartender.
The young man slid a menu across the bar. Walt ran his finger down the surprisingly large selection of rum and chose a Mount Gay 1703. The bartender poured it on the rocks and served it in a bottom-heavy tumbler, which felt perfectly balanced in his hand when Walt lifted it to his lips. His pension was not fat enough to afford Mount Gay, and ordering rum he couldn’t afford always stirred anxiety in his gut. Until he took the first sip. With drink in hand he leaned against the rail of the bar and surveyed the room. It was still early. The presentations and speeches had not yet started. He wanted a drink or two in him before he came face to face with her. As he swallowed his second sip of rum, he felt a light hand on his shoulder.
“Walt,” a woman said.
Walt knew the voice immediately. Dr. Eleanor Marshfield was the trauma surgeon who had sewn him back up. He turned with a smile.
“No surprise that I found you at the bar,” Dr. Marshfield said.
Walt offered a pained look on his face, then held up his rum. “Guilty as charged. Can I buy you one?”
“No, thank you. I’m on call.”
Walt nodded. The woman spent her life waiting for tragedies—car accidents and gunshot wounds. It was a hell of a way to live, but Walt was glad for her calling. She had saved his life.
“How have you been, Walt?”
“Good.” Walt bobbled his head up and down. “Pretty good.”
“How’s work?”
“I’m . . . not working anymore.”
Dr. Marshfield raised her eyebrows and wrinkled her forehead. “I thought that was only a temporary thing.”
Walt smiled. “Me too. But I guess there’s an unwritten rule in the FBI that after an agent takes two bullets through the heart, his services are no longer required.”
“It was just one through the heart. The other was through your neck. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
“Thanks for the correction.”
“What’s been occupying your free time as a retired man?”
Rum, surf, guilt, and regret.
“I haven’t quite figured out the retirement thing yet,” he finally said. “But I’m working on it.”
“You’re young. You’ve got your whole life in front of you.”
Walt didn’t bother mentioning that that was exactly what he was worried about.
Dr. Marshfield’s phone buzzed and she looked at the screen. “I was hoping to stay longer. I’ve only spoken to a few of my past patients, but I’ve got to run over to the hospital. It was great seeing you, Walt. I’m glad you’re doing well.”
“Thanks, Doc. I’m glad you found me.”
She smiled. “See you next year?”
