Gone were the groups of family and well-wishers, their eyes bleary, waning attention aimed at televisions along the ceiling or handheld electronic devices. In their stead were scads of hospital staff, all dressed in scrubs or white coats, most of them awake and energized, ready for the start of a new day.
Unlike the surgeon that Ridge had spoken to the night before, none of the people looked to be pulling extended duty, buzzing past as if he wasn’t even standing there.
The heels of his boots clicked softly against the tile floor as Ridge rolled forward onto his toes, stretching out his strides, flicking his gaze to either side, watching the numbers to the patient rooms rise.
Fifty feet down the hall, more than halfway to the end of it, he found the one he was looking for and stepped inside, the curtain pulled almost all the way shut, the lights dimmed.
It was hard for Ridge to recognize Clara Tarby at first, the woman free of her enormous coat, her hair left free to fall on either side of her head, splashed against the pillow beneath her. Beneath it, her entire throat was wrapped tight in gauze, a bevy of IV’s connected to her left arm, a series of bags hanging from a metal stanchion beside her.
Lining the back wall was the standard array of machines and monitors, each making small sounds as they performed their task, none seeming to interrupt her sleep in the slightest.
Sliding forward a few feet so as to avoid making any sound against the floor, Ridge pushed his hands into his pockets, feeling his card in one side, the note with the information from McArthur in the other.
“Good morning, Ms. Tarby,” Ridge whispered, knowing before he arrived she would likely be sleeping off the surgery, that even if she wasn’t awake, there was no way she would be able to speak to him.
“Let me just start by saying how very, truly, sorry I am. When I offered to move you to the Hilton, I could have never imagined...”
For more than an hour, Ridge had been trying to find the right words, contemplating the best way to approach Tarby, to best summarize everything he had found.
Even as he stood by her side though, he was at a loss, the right words evading him.
“I don’t want to disturb your rest,” he whispered, “and I will be back later today, and tomorrow, and every day after for as long as it takes until you are better, but I thought it was important to come by this morning.
“You came to me yesterday and asked me a question, as your senator, and I needed to come back and answer it in much the same way.”
Pausing for a moment, Ridge looked back over his shoulder to the outside hallway, seeing a pair of orderlies pass by, nobody even seeming to realize he was there.
Despite that, he felt himself lean forward at the waist, removing his hands from his pockets and placing them on his knees, using them to brace himself as he lowered his face just a few inches from hers.
“Yes,” he whispered, his voice just barely audible. “Your son’s death was worth it.”
Fixed in that position, his mouth half open, Ridge paused. There was so much more he could share, so many things that he had learned about the incident in Afghanistan, about Josh’s role in it, about his motivation for doing so, but he chose not to.
There would be time for that in the near future, long hours of sitting by Tarby’s side and allowing her to scrawl out every question she had, doing everything he could to respond, perhaps even going as far as to track down Sara Yellowhair so that the two women could meet.
Now was most definitely not that time, though.
Pushing himself back to full height, Ridge remained rooted in place a moment, watching as a faint flicker tugged at the corner of Tarby’s eye. As it did so, a single bit of moisture managed to leak out, streaking sideways down her face, before disappearing into the tangle of hair that lay spread atop her pillow.
Epilogue
Marian Ellerbe and Kyle Stroh had both gone directly home from the hospital, Ridge even asking the Capitol police to drive them there personally, allowing a slight insinuation that the two cops had failed to do the one small thing they were tasked with the night before to coerce them into providing the escort free of complaint.
More than once he had tried the same approach with Susan Beckwith, the woman having recovered from her bout with shock, and the ensuing medication, her usual staid demeanor back in place, dismissing the idea as quickly as he suggested it.
Knowing better than to argue, that it would end no differently than their previous trip away from the hospital, Ridge had hailed a cab to take them back to Dirksen, the two now seated in his office, assuming the same stance they had a day before, just as they had a thousand others before that.
“So,” Ridge said, extending his feet out and placing them on the corner of the desk, folding them at the ankle, “what do we have on the agenda for today?”
Allowing the corner of her mouth to curl up slightly at his attempt at mirth, Beckwith just as fast let it fall back into place, all business to the end.
“Well, I would say it looks to be pretty uneventful, but the last time I said as much seemed to jinx us.”
Ridge’s first reaction was to smirk, a movement that pushed the top of his head back several inches, a small sound escaping with it.
An instant later the look vanished, the events of the last day rushing back to him in a thick fog, so much having transpired, large parts of it bucking comprehension, even now as he sat and pondered on it.
“Susie,” he said, his voice low, “I cannot begin to thank you enough for everything you’ve done these past twelve years.”
Across from him, Beckwith seemed to go rigid, veins and muscles standing out, striated beneath the skin of her neck.
“Nor can I tell you how very sorry I am for these last twenty-four hours. If I had had any idea...”
Beckwith’s nostrils flared just slightly as she sat and stared at him, processing what he had told her, a small part forming between her lips as she took it in.
“I’m sorry too, sir. I can’t help but believe that this was somewhat my fault for not properly screening Ms. Tarby-“
“Nonsense,” Ridge said, waving a hand to cut her off, “if there was any fault at all in this, it rests with Black Water and nobody else.”
Even though Ridge had spent the cab ride over filling Beckwith in on everything that had transpired with Ames that morning, it still wasn’t clear if either one believed what he’d just said.
“I’m just glad we were able to get to the bottom of things before time ran out.”
Moving slowly, Beckwith reached up, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. Holding the pose for a moment, she drew in a deep breath, seeming to be debating something, before lowering it back into place and staring straight at Ridge.
“What you did here was a good thing, Jack.”
Feeling his eyebrows rise slightly, noting it was the first time she had ever used his first name, Ridge remained silent.
“It was the kind of thing that the man I signed up to work for would do, a completely selfless odyssey to help someone else, a right proper use of power, the kind of thing a lot of people in these buildings could stand to show more often.”
“The sort of thing I hope Willis Hodges understands before he steps into the office because he has some mighty big shoes to fill if he ever wants to be considered in the discussion of great Wyoming leaders.”
His lips parting slightly, his eyes bulging at the unexpected outpouring, Ridge sat silent for a moment.
She was right, just as Ames had been before her. He had been coasting the last few years, had gotten complacent, and a hungry constituency had made him pay for it.
But just the same, it had also provided him with one last chance to make amends.
“It was a hell of a last day, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, it was,” Beckwith agreed.
Nodding slightly, Ridge raised his left arm up from the desk and pushed back the sleeve of his shirt, checking the face of his watch.
<
br /> “Eleven-thirty,” he said, releasing his grip on the shirtsleeve and lowering his hand back into place. “What do you think? Is it getting to be that time?”
For a moment there was no response, Beckwith staring straight at him, her features impassive, completely void of a reaction.
Just as quickly, a faint smile crossed her lips, the right side of her face scrunching slightly.
“The Constitution says we have until noon. Let’s let that bastard wait while we enjoy every last second of it.”
Turn the page to keep reading Going Viral!
Going Viral
“May you get everything you ever wished for.”
--Chinese curse
Prologue
Was it worth it?
I know with complete certainty it is the first question she will ask me in the morning. It always is, as if my answering in the affirmative will somehow condone everything that happened.
When she does, I will look at her, I will do my best to try not to smile, and I will hold up my hand. A moment will pass as I pretend to contemplate the question, put on my most remorseful face, and shake my head gravely.
But I won’t answer her.
Not then, maybe not ever.
Instead, I will tell her that we’re getting too far ahead of ourselves, that we still have much to discuss before delving into that.
Both of those statements are true, but that’s not the real reason I will respond that way.
The real reason is that I already know the answer to her question, and I can guarantee it isn’t what she wants to hear.
I
The Spark
Chapter One
Friday, January 21st, 2015
10:00 am
“Free Char-lie! Free Char-lie!”
From my chair, I can hear the chanting grow louder for just a split second and I know that the door to the outside world has been opened. My visitor will soon be here, the last remaining task I must perform before my time on this earth is through.
Just as fast the chanting disappears, replaced by the clang of an iron door swinging closed; the sound of metal smashing against metal reverberating down the hall. For a moment that singular sound fills my ears before falling away, the muted tones of the protesters outside again finding their way to me.
After two weeks with their incessant banter, I am long since immune to it.
Providing a percussive undercurrent for them is the sound of footsteps approaching in the hall, the groan of a guard’s utility belt straining beneath its weight. Much like the protesters outside, both are sounds I’ve grown accustomed to in the preceding months.
A tiny ripple of anticipation passes through me as I sit and wait, hearing the slap of feet growing closer.
I know before they arrive that there will be two of them. One of them I have known for quite some time, the other I have never once laid eyes on. It is the latter that brings me the slightest tinge of nervousness, carrying with it the hope that a year of careful planning will finally pay off.
Slouched down in my chair, the plastic corners of it digging into my back, I aim my attention on the wall opposite me and wait as the pair comes into view. They approach on my right side, both entering through a grey metal door along the wall. As they do, I shift my attention to face them fully, unable to stand in any kind of greeting, my hands cuffed to the table in front of me.
Leading the way is Will Brantley, a guard that has been working the Row for seventeen years. At this point he is as much of a fixture around here as the metal toilets or the slate grey paint, a point he seems to be proud of, though I can’t quite figure out why. Having started right out of high school, he is just in his mid-thirties, a boyish face betraying the weariness that the rest of him seems to exude.
The mere sight of him brings a sense of revulsion, a swell of nausea roiling through my stomach.
Not that long ago, I was Will Brantley.
Just as fast the moment passes as I shift my focus to the person beside him; the first woman I have seen in eight months. Even still, I feel nothing for the mousy figure before me as her entire posture relays the fear that is gripping her.
Most of her body is tucked behind Brantley as she chances a look over at me, copper-colored hair hanging straight down on either side of a thin face. Her pale blue eyes are offset by a narrow nose and rounded chin while her shoulders are square from a lack of body fat.
“Mr. Doyle,” Brantley opens, walking across the floor one hip at a time.
I can tell from his posture and the hint of a sneer on his face that he’s enjoying this. His head and shoulders are both riding a little higher than normal.
As much as I want to begrudge the man, I can’t. This might be the closest he ever gets to the supernova that is fame. It is human nature to want to bask in any bit of residual glow that is thrown his way.
Hell, that’s why I am where I am at the moment.
“Guard Brantley,” I reply, sitting up a bit higher in my chair.
Without waiting for him to make introductions, I move on to the lady by his side, dipping the top of my head.
“Miss Pearson, I presume?” I say. “I would stand but my current situation makes it rather difficult.”
For good measure, I give a shake of my handcuffs, the polished steel rattling against the black metal bar rising from the table.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” she manages, her voice displaying more strength than her body language.
In a move that seems to surprise us both, she steps forward and thrusts her hand into mine, pumping it once.
“Carmen Pearson.”
I know who she is. I was the one who gave her name to the warden months before, back when all of this was put into motion. In fact, it would surprise her everything I already know, from her majoring in journalism at Vanderbilt to her turning down offers from the major news outlets to remain in Nashville.
Still, I remain impassive, responding with a simple, “Pleasure.”
She nods but does not reciprocate the sentiment, turning to face Brantley.
“Thank you, Mr. Brantley.”
The remark and the tone it is delivered with are both meant to be dismissive, though it seems to go right past him. Already I can tell I have chosen wisely with her, my research worth the effort, though I show no outward display.
“As you can see here,” he says, almost beaming at the younger woman beside him, “this is Charles Doyle, our most infamous inmate here at Clarksville.”
It isn’t the first time I’ve seen the man try to use me for personal gain. I ignore his self-aggrandizing attempt and instead focus on her, watching for any hint of a reaction.
“Yes, I can see that,” she replies, a touch of sarcasm moving in along the edges. “I’m sure his time is very precious at this point, too.”
Once more, the comment is dripping with finality, though she has the social grace not to push further. She hasn’t been here nearly as long as I have and she doesn’t yet realize that the man will stand there all day, grinning like an idiot, unless given an overt reason to leave.
I could sit and wait to see how long it takes her to do so, or I could help the situation along.
“Yes, quite,” I say, responding to her question, jerking both of their attention over towards me. “And we have a great deal of ground to cover.”
Ignoring the girl entirely, I square in on Brantley, knowing I have to prod him along if I’m ever going to force him where I want him to go. Making sure I have his attention, I glance to the clock on the wall beside us.
“And I see it’s already after ten. Commotion outside hold you up?”
The smile fades from Brantley’s face as he looks at me, realizing for the first time that he is being excused. Blood flushes his cheeks as his shoulders slump, his fingers beginning to fidget by his side.
“Yes,” Pearson replies, picking up on my cue and jumping in before any objection can be raised. “I thought I left plenty of time, but I wasn’t expecting so much going
on out there.”
Both Brantley and I look to her for a moment before turning back to one another, our gazes meeting. There is something present on the man’s face that tells me he finally realizes what just took place and it will cost me later.
At this point, there’s not a damn thing he can do to me and we both know it. Just the same, I allow him his moment, bowing my head an inch in unspoken apology.
This is too important to mess up over some eleventh-hour pissing match.
“Yes,” I say, focusing my attention on Pearson, “it is quite a circus around here these days.”
Chapter Two
I sit in silence as Pearson unpacks her bag across from me, never once making eye contact. Her movements are slow and stilted as she works, her hands displaying the slightest bit of a tremble.
One at a time, she unloads an iPad, a laptop, and a spiral bound notebook from her shoulder bag, arranging them in front of her. Each item is carefully positioned to create an electronic barrier between us, allowing her to face forward without focusing on me.
It’s hard for me to bear any ill will towards the placement. There was a time not so long ago when I would have behaved in exactly the same manner under much lesser circumstances. Even driving through the front gate of a maximum-security prison would have been enough to make me soil my sweatpants, never mind walking past a chanting crowd and sitting in a locked room with a convicted felon.
“You needn’t fear me,” I say.
My shoulders are drawn in and I have hunched down as far as my chair will allow. I know from where she sits, hidden by the screens, she can barely even see me.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 50
