ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 29: crumbling of camelot

      Blake’s hospital room is shared with two other patients, so whatever conversation we have has to be brief or barely a whisper. Banks sits opposite me with her chair scooted right to the railing of Blake’s gurney. Sam stands at the end of the bed, hands in his pockets, staring at his shoes.

      My former flatmate has been conscious for about three hours, the amount of time which I’ve avoided this conversation with him. Blake’s peppered me with questions the moment Sam and I bid farewell to Alkaios at the doors of the hospital. Why did Agent Colville pose as a cabbie? Who is the mastermind behind this? What was the point of Nikita causing the accident? When did Blake set Nikita off?

      “Nikita hurt you because you knew something you weren’t supposed to, I know about your little research operation Blake,” I lean forward in my seat. “Can you remember having found anything out of the ordinary?”

      Blake has deep purple bags beneath his eyes and stitches for the small cut near the start of his hairline. Banks had to translate some of his words earlier when Sam and I arrived, it’s like he’s there but not―he’s spaced out. I have to snap my fingers in front of Blake’s face for him to blink and focus on me.

      “I was at the evidence archives with permission from Chief Banks and he directed me to all the evidence boxes on the cases my Dad helped in,” he closes his eyes and opens them after thirty seconds. “Out of all the boxes, there was this one that stood out. It was dusty, like nobody had touched it in a while and it was grey in colour instead of brown. I opened it because I knew it didn’t belong with the others and all it had were papers with different names of people that were declared insane.”

      Jesus Christ, this is just what we need, an oblivious Blake caught in the middle of one of the biggest conspiracies between the NYPD and FBI ever.

      “Just take it slow, a’ight?” Banks clasps Blake’s trembling right hand.

      He nods at Banks’ soothing words, “Uh…I don’t think it was from Dad’s precinct or the PP because it had a fancy sticker on top of the red tape.”

      “Can you tell me what was on the sticker?” I press.

      “It was embroidered with gold points…a blue circle with two golden rings and um, thirteen gold stars,” Blake’s eyes are shut once more and a crease appears on his brow. “There was a garland of some sort…and writing.”

       “Stevens,” Sam says.

      “Prat, now is not the time,” I move my chair closer to Blake. “What did the writing say?”

      “Stevens,” Sam continues.

      “I―I don’t remember,” Blake’s head twitches to the left. “I’m…I’m sorry Akira.”

      “Stevens,” Sam’s voice rises.

      “What?” I turn to him.

      In his hand is the leather flip wallet that all Special Agents in the FBI have to carry. In it is Sam’s ID and standard photo along with his signature. Beneath, however, is an emblem, one that needs no description. The blue circle with the indented outer casing and gold rings is the FBI symbol with a striped shield in the middle and thirteen gold stars.

      Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity.

      Those three words are printed in black on the white banner beneath the striped shield. A pledge that obviously don’t apply to the FBI bastards that don’t know when to keep their noses out of NYPD business. I clasp my hands together on my lap and rest my forehead against the cool metal railing of Blake’s gurney.