She hurried across the room and retrieved it from the waste basket. Martin Mills—the same bottle. She ran to the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. “I need an ambulance, quick. And the police. Please hurry.”
CATHERINE BRAND LOOKED down at her husband in his hospital bed. Stupid fucking drunk. Whoever did this to you did me a real favor. When the nurses and others were present, she went through the motions that a grieving, worried wife would; holding his hand, talking to him, asking him to come back to her.
He stirred occasionally.
The doctor entered the room. “What’s happening to my husband?” she asked. “Why is he like this, with all these tubes in his arms and nose?”
“We’re trying to figure it out, Mrs. Brand,” the doctor answered. “We believe he’s been poisoned, but we don’t have complete toxicology reports yet. The team is having a hard time identifying what he was given. It was something in the bourbon he drank last night. That’s all we know right now. We’re testing the bottle as well.”
The doctor took some vitals and observed him for a few moments, then left.
She got up and looked out the window, at the media trucks outside and the gathered crowds in the morning light.
Taking her seat next to him, she began to think about what this meant for her. If he dies, I’m free. I can start over. I’ll choose someone for love this time, not ambition. I’ve learned my lesson. I don’t give a damn if he’s penniless, I’ll find someone that will make me happy. She grew excited at the prospect, and looked at the tubes, wondering if she could help things along by pinching any of them closed.
She thought she heard him make a noise, and leaned in close to his mouth.
“What, honey? What did you say? I’m here, honey. Speak up.”
“Mommy,” she heard him whisper.
She looked and saw that his eyes were open for the first time since she’d arrived. She leaned in close again, this time next to his ear. “Fuck you, buddy,” she said.
His eyes closed, and he became silent and still. Catherine went back to her romance novel, occasionally glancing up at the coverage on the television.
Suddenly he began to convulse. She looked at the equipment, the numbers and graph lines jumping erratically. Then, all at once, his convulsions stopped, the heartbeat graph flat-lined, and the machines began to sing their alerts in harmony.
She put the novel down and began her performance.
28 Already Gone
Whitey seemed unusually excited and restless throughout the night. He had slept with Tara every night on the bed, while Ol’ Jerry laid next to them on the floor. She hadn’t slept well either. She knew it wasn’t just because of the dog—it was because she had seen Tommy at the rally, amid the chaos, and now there had been a murder and firebombing nearby, according to the late news last night.
It was earlier than she usually got started, and still dark. She rallied herself to get up and shower. The market is always waiting. She turned on the television with apprehension and began to get dressed.
The news anchors were discussing the horrible events from the previous night, and how they had tainted the positive publicity that Brand had hoped to gain from the event. They showed video of him again, in the room with the veterans, wheeling Tommy in a wheelchair. It saddened her. Is Tommy really that far gone already? She wondered why Brand wasn’t already dead, now having guessed what Tommy was up to.
Whitey watched the screen from the bed, having moved over to lay on her pillow. He jumped up and barked once, then circled around on the bed, whining, before burying his head in the coverings.
The anchors continued to discuss Brand.
“...the candidate has reportedly been overcome with stress and compassion due to one of his supporters being murdered in such a grisly fashion, and has canceled his events for the day. The police are looking into whether the killing and the firebombing of a nearby Army/Navy store are related, as the explosives used in both are reportedly similar. A fake bomb was also found, fashioned to blend in with the concrete dividers in the crowd.”
The pieces began to fall together in her mind as she finished getting ready for work. She turned off the television and locked up as she left, the two dogs in tow. She placed Whitey in the basket on her handlebars and headed down the road to the farmer’s market with Ol’ Jerry trotting beside her.
Whitey became more restless as Tara neared their destination, standing in the basket with his front paws on the edge. “Stay, Whitey. Stay,” she commanded. As she came within view of her stall, the dog leaped from the basket and ran, disappearing under the canvas fronting.
She pulled up on the bike and approached cautiously, afraid that the investigators had come back. She unlocked the padlocks at the bottom of the canvas fronting and pulled it up carefully, as it was still too dark to see clearly. Only fruit and vegetables. Where’s Whitey?
She crept in cautiously, noticing the door to the back office was ajar. Whitey was whimpering from behind it. She pushed it open, and he was there, unconscious and breathing in a heavy, gurgling rattle, sitting in the wheelchair. Whitey had jumped up onto his lap. He was dressed in his Marine Corps uniform, but his jacket and shirt were unbuttoned, exposing the peace medallion she had given him, a religious medallion, and his dog tags.
“Tommy!” she exclaimed, running to him. She shook him and patted his cheek.
He came to slowly, and feebly motioned to the floor. “Inhaler,” he said, almost inaudibly.
She turned and saw it, then grabbed it and placed it in his mouth, pumping it vigorously.
She paused to gauge the effect. His breathing was slightly better, but he was clearly in bad shape. She ran back out to pull down the canvas stall in front and lash it into place.
“Honey, I’m home. I’m back, like I promised,” he wheezed, smiling slightly at her.
“Oh, Tommy. I love you. I’m going to call an ambulance...”
“No. Too late. Please. Let’s go to our place. I just want to be there, with you. There’s not much time. Cops will come, and I’m almost finished. I feel it, coming for me now, Tara.”
She leaned in and hugged him, then kissed him. “Wait here. I’m going to go get Micco’s truck. I won’t say why. I’ll take you out through the back.”
She rushed out and pulled the vehicle to the rear loading area of her stall. She jumped out, leaving it running, and came around to open the passenger door. Back in the office, she pushed Tommy’s wheelchair out into the bright sunlight, up to the open door. Whitey circled them, barking, clearly not understanding what was happening.
Tommy tried to rise to get in, and she had to help him. He’s lost so much weight—like he hasn’t eaten at all since he left. She was able to get him to the seat, and he immediately lay down across it. She collapsed the wheelchair and removed some blankets from the truck bed before placing it in.
She covered him, and he said that he loved her again. Whitey jumped into the back as she went into retrieve Ol’ Jerry, and then pulled the truck away from the market.
“Hang in there, Tommy, we’re on the way.”
She resisted the urge to speed, not wanting to attract attention. She took the back roads, stopping at every stop sign for the minimum time before surging forward. Whitey continued to whine, and she could hear Tommy’s horrific rattle as he struggled to breathe.
Finally, she came to the narrow bridge that crossed over to the private key they had spent their amazing days on. “Almost there,” she said, now crying. “Hold on, Tommy.”
She pulled up to the bungalow and retrieved the wheelchair. As she loaded him into it, he told her again that he loved her.
She got him inside and went to the bedroom. “Come on, Tommy, let’s get you up on the bed.” This time the effort to move him was mostly hers. When he was completely on the bed, his upper body propped up with pillows, she used the inhaler again, to try to dilate his lungs enough for him to talk. He motioned to her to keep pumping, and she did until it ran out.
Whitey b
egged to be lifted up and join him and Tara did so. The dog nestled himself against Tommy and whimpered. Tommy placed his hand under his shirt again, over the two medallions and the dog tags.
She got up and turned on the radio, tuning to the local-easy listening station for some soothing music. A jazz version of “Stormy Monday” was playing, and it seemed to bring a slight smile to Tommy’s face.
She lay next to him, and they faced each other, professing their love again and again as they both cried and the sun continued to rise over the ocean through the panoramic bedroom window.
The radio personality interrupted the music.
“In important breaking news, Thomas Brand, Republican candidate for President of the United States, has died. The only information we have—and this is an unverified rumor—is that he reportedly lapsed into a coma after an exhausting day yesterday, which was followed by a night of heavy drinking.”
She looked at Tommy, and he smiled. “The world’s a better place now, Tara.”
“Tommy, did you...”
“Don’t,” he whispered between rattling, heaving breaths. “You don’t know anything, Tara. You can’t. Plausible deniability, remember?”
Whitey lay at his side, silent, his unwavering gaze trained on his master. Tommy had his hand on the dog’s back, and he seemed to be trying to soothe him. She put her hands on his chest lightly, wishing she could heal him. Then she leaned in and kissed him.
“That’s...all I wanted...one last kiss from you. And...to die heroically...not pathetic...”
“Just Tommy, you’re my hero. You’re many people’s hero now,” she said through her growing hysteria.
He turned his head slightly, to the huge orange ball of the sun, now fully up over the ocean and casting the room in a brilliant, heavenly glow. “What a beautiful...place to die. In heaven...with an angel by my side. You...gave me love...peace, Tara. It was beautiful...like you. I’ll see you there...someday. You...and me...”
She frantically tried the spent inhaler again as he closed his eyes. His breaths were coming more slowly now, the rattling louder each time, sounding like a wasted attempt to suck an empty drink through a straw.
She thought she heard him say something else between the ragged breaths. She leaned in close, hoping he would repeat it. “Going home, Whitey. Wait here, boy.
He struggled to inhale and continued. “Hello, Bobby. Hi, Moses. Hey, Sensei. I’m here...” she thought she heard him say. She considered whether it was cancer in his brain, causing delusions. Or perhaps he was already partly in another world, one beyond theirs. Maybe he’s with angels there to greet him.
She took his hand and put her head back down on his chest, listening to the last beats of his heart growing fainter, and the struggling of his tortured lungs, until he was gone. His firm grip on her hand relaxed, and she stayed there, lying quietly beside him with the dog until she had cried herself to sleep. She knew it wouldn’t be long before they tracked him to this place.
SHE WOKE WHEN WHITEY barked sharply and jumped from the bed, startling her. She heard faint activity outside and saw a shadow move in the window. As she watched the bedroom doorknob, she saw it move slightly while Whitey stood in front of the door, barking.
The door burst open, and several men in black tactical gear flooded in, shouting “FBI, don’t move!”
They formed a semi-circle around the bed, each in a rigid stance, pointing weapons at her and Tommy. “Relax,” she said, crying, running her fingers through his short, patchy silver hair. “He’s already gone. He’s in a far better place.”
“Step away, ma’am,” one of them said to her.
She leaned over, kissed him on the forehead, and complied. They placed her in handcuffs, and as they led her outside, she heard them reporting their status and asking the ambulance to proceed down the road to them.
She sat in the rear of a police vehicle, watching through her tears as a light summer rain shower streaked the windows of the car. They pulled the gurney from the bungalow, the depleted form of her lover strapped down under a brilliant white sheet. They loaded it into the ambulance, with what seemed like reverence.
The shower cleared as suddenly as it had appeared, and the sun once again illuminated the ocean and beach beyond the small house they had shared for one perfect week together.
“Goodbye, Just Tommy,” she said, as it swallowed him up and they closed the doors behind him.
29 Honeymooners
Whitey lay on Tara’s lap in the shade of the market stall. Most of the woven baskets were empty, and Tara stared off to the horizon beyond them.
Micco appeared in her field of vision, and she motioned to the empty chair beside her.
“How’re you holding up, Tara?” he asked.
“It’s a process,” she responded. “I’ll be okay. I probably shouldn’t be here, but it was unbearable sitting at home and hiding from the media. At least they’ve finally lost interest in me, for the most part. I just miss him, terribly.”
“Me too. He’s been an inspiration to me. I’m gonna get a new boat and name it after him.”
“How did your questioning go, Micco? Are they charging you with anything?”
“No, they got nothing on me. I guess they’re going with the lone wolf thing and don’t want to bother. To tell you the truth, I think most of them view Tommy as a hero.”
“Same here. I guess we go back to our old lives now.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Tara. I’m going to head back down the row. Stop by and visit in a little while, okay?”
“Sure thing, kid,” she responded.
She leaned back in the chair and stretched her legs out in front of her. Whitey shifted position and went back to his nap. As was her habit now, she replayed the first day she met Tommy, the first time they made love in his cabin, and their week at the private key, until she fell asleep.
She woke to a rumbling sound in the distance. Whitey perked up at the same time, and leaped from her lap. The dog ran to the edge of the road and looked down it in anticipation. He stood up on his hind legs, raising his two front feet and moving them in a rowing motion, as he did when he anxiously waited to be fed.
Tara got up and joined him, looking down the road to see what had gotten the dog’s attention. Through the shimmer of the heat on the blacktop, she saw a large touring motorcycle appear with two riders on board. A large American flag flapped from the top case on the back.
As it neared, she heard the Marvin Gaye hit “Mercy, Mercy Me” blaring through its sound system. The bike pulled into the market’s parking lot. The driver shut down the engine, and both riders dismounted. They wore black leather vests with rocker patches emblazoned with ‘Black Eagles MC’ in gold lettering. Whitey circled them, barking excitedly.
The two removed their helmets, and the man and woman approached Tara. The man reached down and picked Whitey up, and the dog nuzzled in his arms.
“You must be Ms. Tara,” the man said to her. “I’m Lukas Taylor, and this is my new wife, Tass. We’re friends of Tommy Borata. We’re on the way down through the Keys on our honeymoon, and we wanted to stop by to say hello.”
Tara embraced them both, fighting back the tears again. “Yes, I’m Tara. I’m sorry I couldn’t come up for the funeral. As you can guess, for a long time it was a circus around here with the media. I’m sure it was worse up there for all of you. Besides, I’m not much for funerals or goodbyes. It’s a hippie thing.”
They laughed at the comment. Tara brought them into the stall, and they spent time reminiscing and telling Tommy stories. She carved a selection of fresh melons and served them on a platter, and made sandwiches for lunch. Micco joined them after a while and added his own seafaring tale as the group sat mesmerized by the close call with the Coast Guard and Tommy’s quick thinking and bravery.
“Amazing how a man can endure all that while he’s dying of cancer,” Lukas mused.
“He was no ordinary man,” Tara added. “It was the Marine in him. He never
quit.”
There was a moment of silence, and she sensed they wanted to move on, but that there was something else to their visit.
“So, Tara,” Tass began carefully. “We have a few things for you. You don’t have to take them—if not, we understand.”
“Bring it on, and let’s see,” she said.
Lukas reached into his vest, pulled out a funeral memorial card, and handed it to Tara.
She examined it lovingly and smiled. “That’s my Tommy. Thank you for remembering to bring one to me.” She kissed it and held it out to examine his picture on it again.
Whitey continued to share time between Tara, Lukas, and Tass. “Tommy told me that Whitey had belonged to your Uncle Moses, and to you for a while, Lukas,” Tara said. “Do you want to bring him home?”
“If he’s happy here, we’d like to leave him with you, Tara. But if he’s too much...”
“Oh, thank God,” she interrupted. “I love this dog. He’s a little bit of Tommy here with me. I promised Tommy I’d look after Whitey. My own dog passed away just recently, on top of everything else. I don’t think Ol’ Jerry could stand to see me so sad every day. Whitey is all I have left.”
“This was Tommy’s final place, and Whitey seems happy here with you,” Tass added.
“I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Tara said.
“Sure thing, then,” Lukas said. “There’s something else before we have to go, though.”
He got up and went to the motorcycle, unfastening one of the saddlebags. He pulled a wooden box from it and presented it to Tara.
She looked down at it on her lap, in shock. It was engraved with ‘Thomas Borata,’ an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor Marine Corps logo, an image of St. Michael, and a peace sign.
“It’s Tommy,” Tass said gently. “He asked us to do this, but to tell you that you don’t have to...”
Tara burst into tears, hugging the box to her breast. “He always comes back to me, like he said he would. We talked about cremation, and I think he gave me a sense of what he wanted.”
Vigilante Angels Trilogy Page 42
