Page 23 of Trapped

But as he stood, another question occurred to him. He assumed he would wear gym clothes to physical therapy. Were they in his room?

He guessed he’d find out. And maybe his feet would tell him where to find the gym.

He was halfway down the hall when another thought struck him. This was pretty poor planning. Physical therapy right after breakfast? Lucky he hadn’t eaten a full meal, because that was a setup for stomach cramps.

He hurried back to his room and shuffled through the chest of drawers—where he did indeed find gym shorts and a tee shirt. And there were tennis shoes and socks in the bottom of the closet.

After he dressed, he lay down on the bed, trying to picture the route to the gym. Feeling a little shaky, he gripped the wooden slats at the sides of the bed and encountered something that shouldn’t be there. A flat metal strip attached to the far side of the frame. When he pulled it out and held it up, he felt his stomach knot.

It was a bug. Somebody had put it there to listen to him.

But who?

The encounter of the night before came zinging back to him. He and Sophia had had plenty to say to each other. Stuff that could get him into trouble. And, so far, nobody had reacted to the conversation. Or come to arrest him, for that matter.

Was Montgomery going to say something? Or somehow use the information?

He carefully put the thing back where he’d found it—wondering if he’d made a lot of static in somebody’s ear by handling it.

A small detail from the night before came back to him. Sophia had banged her knuckles against the wall.

Had she been planting the listening device? Was she the one checking up on him? Better her than somebody else?

He glanced toward the side of the bed. “So, did you plant the bug I just found,” he asked, grinning as he pictured her startled expression when she heard the direct question. Too bad he wouldn’t get an answer.

He thought about the pill Lopez had brought him this morning. He’d pretended to take it. Then, when the sergeant had left, he’d flushed it down the toilet.

He’d like to tell that to Sophia since she’d warned him not to swallow the medication. But he couldn’t take the chance, in case he was wrong about how the microphone had gotten here. And he hadn’t given her away. In case someone else was listening, they’d think he was addressing them. Wondering if he’d made a mistake by talking out loud, he moved restlessly on the bed.

Damn! He was starting to feel as jumpy as a tomcat staring down a Doberman Pinscher.

Had he made another mistake—about the medication? Should he have taken the damn pill? Would it calm him down?

Or would it muzzy his brain again?

Instead of getting up, he folded his arms across his chest and lay with his eyes closed for a few minutes, ordering himself to chill.

When he thought he was going to be late if he waited any longer, he got out of bed and started down the hall again—in the direction of the mess hall. Only he kept going and did indeed come to a gym. So even if he thought he couldn’t remember dick about this place, his feet seemed to have knowledge of their own.

The facility was empty except for one guy wearing gym clothes. Again, Cash was grateful for the name tags.

“How are you doing?” Sergeant Henry asked.

“Better.”

The sergeant got out a folder and consulted a chart. “You’ve regained eighty percent function in the arm and seventy-five in the leg,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you warm up with ten minutes on the bike. Then we’ll do your exercises.”

He climbed on the recumbent bike, set it to level four and started pedaling. The rhythm was soothing, and he focused on the physical activity.

“Are you still having those dreams about Afghanistan?” Henry said in a conversational tone.

“I told you about them?” he asked before he could evaluate whether the question was a good idea.

“Well, you were on edge, so I asked you what was wrong, and you talked about it some.”

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