The Strategist Read Free

reclined in her over-sized first-class seat, pulled her mane of curly black hair into a tight pony tail, and powered up her iPod to near max volume. The pulsating bass line of Stevie Wonder’s Superstition filled her ears and eventually everything around her, including Wendy and her exotic coffee, disappeared. Soon, even the music was gone, and her mind and body were completely still.
    In the two months prior to Camille leaving the Bureau, her REM state of sleep had been filled with continuous images of red and blue lights, the hollow sound of distant screaming, and the warm, wet feeling of blood on her fingers. When neither the Bureau head-shrinker nor the bottle of Ambien her doctor prescribed could make the images go away, Camille decided on a cure of her own: she didn’t sleep. Any legal stimulant she could get her hands on went into her body. The result was an acute case of insomnia. For three weeks she averaged no more than an hour and a half of sleep per day. The visions went away, and for a time she felt better. But what she wouldn’t appreciate until much later was the ability of the sleep-deprived mind to conjure up horrors that made her nightmares feel like child’s play. A second trip to her doctor resulted in an increased dose of Ambien. The sleep eventually came back. Unfortunately, the horrific visions that accompanied her nights as an insomniac never went away.
    But as she slept plane, her mind was quiet. There were no twisted images of the past or obscure visions of the future. There were simply deep pools of calm, comforting darkness that stretched into an empty void of nothingness. She could have stayed there forever, and for a time, she thought she would.
    Then a pull on her shoulder made the darkness go away.
    She awoke to the sound of Kurt Cobain’s primordial growl in her ear and Wendy’s exasperated green eyes in her face. Camille quickly removed her headphones.
    “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to put on your seatbelt and raise your seat. We’re beginning our descent.” 
    Camille nodded as she fumbled for the seatbelt clip. The time had passed too quickly. She had intended to use the flight to mentally prepare herself for the inevitable onslaught that would accompany her arrival. Obviously her body had different ideas.
    She stared out her window with focused, refreshed eyes. The bright blue sky she awoke to steadily disappeared as the plane dove into a thick layer of gray clouds. Streaks of heavy rain blurred her window view.
    Just as the front end of the plane began to dip, a deep voice filled the cabin.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’re beginning our final approach to Denver International Airport. As you can probably see, the weather conditions are a little murky, with moderate to severe storms expected in the city for most of the day. Please continue to observe the fasten seatbelt sign as we could experience a few minor bumps before landing.”
    Almost on cue the cabin began to shake. Camille placed a nervous hand on her armrest. But it wasn’t the turbulence that made her anxious. She knew that airline pilots were the most skilled navigators in the world, and in their hands she would be nothing but safe. Her nervousness came from the fact that in moments the plane would land and she would have no choice but to get off. There would be no one to guide her safely the rest of the way. From the moment the plane came to a stop on the tarmac, and she unbuckled her seatbelt, collected her duffle bag, and entered the concourse, she would be completely on her own.
    It was then that Camille understood why she was able to sleep so soundly for the first time in months. For the three and a half hours she was on the plane, she could relinquish the iron-clad grip that was required to hold her world together. She c ould put her fate squarely in someone else’s hands; hands she trusted to keep her safe. Camille couldn’t remember the last time she felt that level of security with