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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
“Inside of a dream world, I stumble and fall
A coffin announces the end of it all”
By RRP
Lyle allowed himself the relief of an inside sigh before growling at the half-determined intern that was working in physical therapy at the present time. The poor kid bit his lip but kept his chin up. Lyle raised an eyebrow, and frowned at the brace on his leg.
“Honestly,” The young man began. There was a few seconds of throat clearing before the kid mustered enough courage to continue. “You’re obviously not a very patient man.”
“And you’ve got a gift for stating the obvious.” Lyle shot back. He was, however much he hated to admit it, at a loss of control here. The situation was rather compromising, as he was indeed the one with the knee brace and cane- standing resolutely in the otherwise empty physical therapy room. His leg hurt like hell, and he was getting very far alone. That much he knew. Even the wheel chair, sitting less than five yards away, he couldn’t use without help. And that was extremely annoying as well as frustrating- to not have control of the situation put him at a loss and that made him uncomfortable.
He was also worried that a Centre assassin might be making a trip to a certain hospital room sometime in the near future- not really a good thing for his health. The kid that was with him was clearing his throat again, and seemingly developing a backbone at an alarming pace.
“Can you please just try to work with me here? I don’t know what shit possessed you to request an eleven o clock physical therapy session, but I do know I’ve got ‘terms tomorrow and I’m still due for a cram course. You’ve been difficult and rude ever since we left the stupid hospital room, and you haven’t asked my name. I suggest we start at the beginning, then actually work through this in a way that will keep us both alive and remotely happy.” Lyle looked the young man over appraisingly, and nodded to himself more than to the kid.
“Okay. What’s your name, and how the hell did you not end up in law or business?” There was a shrug from the shoulders of the kid, and a slight smile as his proposal was accepted.
“The name is Jonas. Jonas Stvosky.” He returned. “I like working with people, and would have gone into foreign relations if not for my father. He has this thing about carrying on the family tradition of medical work. But those dreams are quickly fading, whether he likes it or not, with the approach of my final exams.”
“Fathers are a tough mix. Sometimes they’re downright hellish.” Lyle nodded his agreement, eyes clouding with memories he wasn’t ready to discuss with anyone. “But about this,” He twirled the cane absently, “What do I have to do? I’m ready to get it over with already.”
“Well, first we lose the brace. Then you’ve got,” Jonas consulted a chart in his hands, “twenty knee-bends and five laps.” Lyle flicked his wrist over to look at the expensive looking Rolex on his arm, in one quick snapped motion.
“Damn. Let’s get it over with, then.” Jonas took a deep breath and gave an awkward nod of his head, as if diving into something he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to deal with, then knelt to unstrap the brace.
Two arguments later, Lyle was on his back, one aching leg bent at the knee and partially stretched out along the floor. Jonas was sitting Indian-style next to him, coaching unsurely. Jonas knew what to do and what to say with most patients, but Lyle was making it extremely difficult to make any progress whatsoever.
“How many left?” Lyle demanded through clenched teeth after another bend. Someone was going to die if the number was still a double digit.
“Eleven.” Jonas sighed, waiting for the explosion. He closed his eyes and cringed, and then slowly opened one eye when nothing happened. He peeked hesitantly over at his charge, and saw that Lyle had simply closed his own eyes as if to shut out the world. “Mr. Lyle?” There was no answer for several uneasy seconds.
“God, I hate guns...”
“I don’t blame you.” Jonas make a weak attempt to banter at a lighter level. To his surprise, it worked.
“I don’t blame me either, for once.”
“You want to take a break?” Jonas offered, and Lyle shook his head resolutely.
“Only eleven, right? You’ve still got cramming to do, and I don’t want to keep you too long. At least one of us should be able to please a father.”
“I take it that means you’ve haven’t been too successful in that department.” Jonas ventured to pry, as Lyle gritted his teeth through another knee-bend.
“I seem to have a running record of failing every one I come across.” Lyle had no idea why he had suddenly decided to be so honest and open with some little-known intern, but he usually just went the way the wind blew. Another knee-bend. Lyle winced.
“Nine more.” Jonas announced. “More than halfway done. So, what’s your job like?”
“Murder.” Lyle chuckled, not intending in any way to let Jonas know how close to the truth that answer was.
“Well, my current day-occupation tends to lean toward the study of deceased persons. I wonder if we get the aftermath of your job.” Jonas quipped with a grin, as he watched Lyle do yet another knee-bend. That evoked a small, dry laugh from Lyle. Any further conversation was stalled by a phone ringing- and Lyle sitting up suddenly with a bit-back cry of pain, searching for his cellular.
Jonas grabbed the phone from the wheel chair, with a raised eyebrow- silently questioning how Lyle had gotten a cell-phone onto hospital property as a patient, and managed to keep it. He handed it to Lyle, deciding that an explanation could wait a few minutes.
“What?” The sharp, snapped greeting Lyle gave caused a slightly bemused look to cross Jonas’s face.
“The number you dialed is either out of service or has been disconnected-” The mechanical voice of the operator greeted his ears, and Lyle pulled the phone away from his ear to look at it. The caller ID had no number on it, and he would have forgotten the strange incident entirely if not for the metallic click behind him.
“Jonas, don’t move.” He growled, tossing the phone across the room and praying silently that it would give him enough time. Time to do what, he didn’t know. But he knew he needed time.
“Stand up.” A deep voice ordered, no emotion in the tone. Jonas turned his head to see who was in the room, and an instant later he was groaning and holding his stomach. “Stand up, or I’ll kick him again.” The voice threatened.
“Willie...”
“Stand up!” This time, it was a scream. Lyle stood, half-hopping to keep the weight off his bad knee. He turned, slowly, to see an entire team of Sweepers. They had gotten in pretty damn quietly if he hadn’t heard them until just now. Two of them- nameless, stony faces in a crowd of gun-toting muscle men- grabbed his roughly by the arms, and began dragging him out of the room. It was all Lyle could to do keep from using his leg, and putting unwanted pressure on his knee.
“Move.” Willie snapped, as the two Sweepers pushed him forward. They left the room, but Willie wasn’t with them- Lyle twisted his head to see where the black sweeper had gone, and his eyes focused just in time to see Willie pull the trigger of his 9 mm; blood splattered against the glass of the door but the Sweeper seemed not to notice as he came to join Lyle and the rest of the Sweepers.
Lyle’s jaw had dropped, watching the senseless murder- Jonas’ lifeless body but a shadow through the foggy lower panel of glass in the door. Willie nodded to the two Sweepers holding Lyle’s arms, and they pushed him forward. They passed the elevator and a puzzled look crossed Lyle’s face- but only briefly.
The stairs. They were going to make him go down stairs. There was no way he’d make it down with his knee- and they knew it as well as he did. He gritted his teeth, and fell back on a vow he had made many, many years ago. Never let him know you hurt, never. Let him think he can’t break you.
But, for the first time since his thumb had been taken, he was scared. As hard as he had tried, Lyle knew that the vow wasn’t always kept. The last thing he wanted to do was to be reduced to tears in front of Willie and a group of Sweepers, and knowing that it was a possibly scared the shit out of him. Damn.
The door of the Lincoln was flung open, and Sam jerked around in the drivers seat to shoot a glaring look in Willie’s direction. The black sweeper and his team had been gone longer than expected, and Sam knew that meant Willie had probably done something he wasn’t supposed to. He was ready to chew out Willie, royally, but a new player entered the scene and caught his attention.
A sobbing, moaning Lyle was tossed into the back seat as Willie and two other Sweepers moved in after him. Sam was immediately concerned, but in a situation that made it compromising to speak at all. It wouldn’t help anyone if he ended up dead, which was exactly what would happen if anyone so much as thought he was getting too noisy or concerned.
At the same time, Miss Parker. Sure, it seemed like an incomplete sentence, but you had to know Miss Parker to really understand. She existed, obviously was concerned about Lyle (this Sam knew from quietly observing Sydney slip off with his cell phone at least three times a day for the past week), and would have his head on a silver, make that golden, platter if she so much as caught wind of him disregarding Lyle’s condition.
Sam sighed, and pulled out of the parking lot.
