Closure

by Randall Wood

  “What are his chances now?”

  “I don’t quote odds to patients, but to you, 50-50 if he comes in. Maybe less now if it’s taken hold again and we don’t know it. It will progress fast if it comes back.”

  “If I can catch up to him, I think he’ll listen to me. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “All right, thanks, doc. I appreciate it.”

  “Then do me a favor?” the doctor said. He had a command voice of his own.

  “What’s that?”

  Jack watched as Dr. Maher stood up and walked around the desk. He stopped in front of Jack and rolled up his right sleeve. Jack saw an army medical branch tattoo on the doctor’s forearm.

  “If you catch him, take him to the hospital first and call me. The jail can wait.”

  Jack looked him in the eye.

  “Done.”

  —THIRTY-SIX—

  The state of Oklahoma holds 22,821 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 15,290 are repeat offenders.

  After slipping out of Memphis, Sam had made it as far as Columbus, Indiana, before the need for sleep had finally won. Choosing a small motel outside of town, he paid cash for the room. On entering it, he wasn’t surprised; he had gotten what he paid for. It did however fit his current look. Sam was in need of a shave and a shower, but all he’d seen was the bed.

  His need for sleep had overridden his internal alarm clock, and he somehow slept till 10 a.m. The activity of the maids outside his door had awakened him, and after determining there was no threat, he rose and stretched before walking to the shower. After a wait for the hot water, he treated himself to a long soak before exiting and shaving. Reassembling his shaving kit, he tossed it on the bed next to the suitcase before finding the remote for the TV. A quick search through the channels rewarded him with CNN. He thumbed the volume up while he returned to the sink to brush his teeth.

  Unfortunately, his stomach was not cooperating, and the taste of toothpaste set off his gag reflex. As he retched and spit and fought the urge to vomit, his gut sent a sudden wave of pain that brought him to the floor. He curled into the fetal position and gritted his teeth as he waited for it to pass. After a few agonizing minutes, it finally did, and Sam, covered in sweat, lay panting on the floor.

  Hearing his name on television brought his mind back to the room. He turned and crawled until he could see the reporter on the screen outside his brother-in-law’s house. Several police were in the background going in and out, most carrying a box of something. He watched and listened in horror as the reporter described the raid and capture of Paul. The story cut away to some footage of Jack walking through a bevy of reporters as he entered the local police headquarters. He waved them away and made no statements. The reporter reappeared on the screen and summarized everything she had just said, before sending it back to the newsroom for the next story. Sam grabbed the remote and changed the channels till he found FOX. After a small wait, he was treated to the same story. Paul was in custody. The FBI believed him to be an accessory to the sniper killings over the last few weeks. A warrant had been issued for Sam, and his picture appeared on the screen. It was a cutout of last year’s Christmas card, and the whole thing was shown next. The sight of his wife and daughter on the television brought back a wave of memories and Sam watched in dread as the story of their death was once again news, this time on a national level.

  As the story turned to sports, Sam snapped out of the fog he was in. His identity was now public, and he was stuck with whatever he had with him to get by. He did some quick thinking before getting to his feet. The young man who had checked him in last night had been more interested in his movie than what Sam had looked like. Sam was sure he was home in bed by now. He had some time. Rummaging around in the bag, he located the box. The instructions were on the paper inside, and he read them before looking at the clock. He had just enough time before check-out if he hurried.

  * * *

  Danny sat impatiently in the terminal bar watching CNN on the overhead screen. He was forced to read the captions at the bottom due to the volume of noise. Once the story was over, he flipped open his laptop and clicked his way online. He was reading the third version of the story when his phone rang. He looked at the screen before answering it.

  “Hey, Ed.”

  “Where you at?” the editor demanded.

  “I’m in the terminal in Memphis waiting for my flight home.”

  “Screw that. I need you in Kalamazoo yesterday. Have you seen the story?”

  “Just caught it on the TV. I’ll change my ticket to Kalamazoo if you want, but I think it would be better to head for DC. Don’t you?”

  “Think they’ll move him that fast?”

  “It’s his brother-in-law they need to catch, and it looks like he’s still out there. The whole thing will move to DC. You see them loading up all those boxes? They’ll all be in the Hoover Building by end of the day, with a hundred people going over them. Jack will be, too.”

  There was silence as Ed thought it over. Danny sipped his bloody Mary while he waited.

  “All right, I’ll send Karen to Kalamazoo just in case. You get to DC and get ahead of this thing. You still have your source?” Ed asked.

  “You know better than that Ed. We get any letters?”

  “You got one today, same as the others. The feds have it.”

  “Then I’d say both my sources are still with me.”

  “Okay, okay, I had to ask. Get moving.”

  “On my way.”

  Danny finished his drink before getting back on the internet and looking up flights. He booked himself on the next one to Dulles. He had another hour to wait, so he flagged down the bartender. It was still kind of early, but screw it.

  “Another one.” He pointed at his empty glass.

  * * *

  “Nothing?” Jack asked.

  “And I do mean nothing. Other than to ask for a drink and to go to the bathroom, the man hasn’t said a word. We worked on him for a few hours. He just nodded when we told him what the charges were, a very cool customer.” There was a sense of admiration in the agent’s voice. “It’ll take some time, but eventually he’ll talk.”

  “Don’t bet on it. His brother-in-law was a SERE school instructor. Survival-Evasion-Resistance and Escape. I’m sure he gave him some lessons. We can’t make life tough as if he was a POW, and he knows it. It’s gonna be awhile before he talks, even to his lawyer.”

  “Funny thing, he hasn’t asked for one. Some rookie from the local office will walk him through the arraignment, but that doesn’t take a lot of conversation, you know?”

  Jack watched Paul through the glass. He was sitting calmly as if he was waiting for something and had all day to do it. He knew exactly what he was doing. Jack had no doubts about that.

  “Yeah, I know,” Jack said before turning and leaving.

  * * *

  Sam parted his hair for the third time and finally decided to keep it on the left. He was happy with his results. The woman in Canada had suggested a certain shade, and Sam had bought it as soon as he had returned home. The stench was hard on his stomach, but he had managed to get the job done.

  “You look good as a blond,” he told himself in the mirror. He moved his head from side to side. It looked natural, not fake as he had feared. He cleaned up the mess, and bagged it all up to take with him. If the police discovered that he had stayed here, he didn’t want them to know what his hair color was now. He was going to have to take the towels, too, but he was sure the little motel was used to that. He wiped every surface of the bathroom, and then applied a fresh coat of Super Glue to his fingers while he waited for his hair to dry. Once that was accomplished, he checked to make sure the Yellow Pages ad was in his pocket before leaving the room.

  A few miles of travel brought him to another used car lot, this one also chosen for its selection of used vans. He casually exited the car and walked the row o
f vans, waiting to be noticed. The lot was empty except for him. Slow day.

  An older man exited the trailer and walked toward him with a limp. Once in range, he shouted a greeting.

  “Hello,” Sam answered with a smile.

  “Need a van, do you?”

  “Yup. Just something simple.”

  “Well they’re all pretty much the same, former fleet of plumbing trucks. Miles are within a couple hundred or so of each other and nothing in the back. You want gas or diesel?”

  “Gas if I can have it,” Sam answered.

  “Those two on the end.” He pointed. Sam saw the man’s nose twitch.

  They strolled the length of the row and the man rattled off some more information on the vans. Sam adjusted his pace to his. The two vans were gray in color with some lighter areas where the company name had been, plain and simple work vans. Sam peered in the windows as the man sized him up. Sam caught him looking in the mirror and suspected the price was being calculated by Sam’s apparel. The man’s nose twitched again.

  “They all run fine, but I’d take the one on the end. Less miles, and it has a better radio. Used by the owner, I think.”

  Sam turned his attention to the last van for a moment before turning back to face the elderly salesman.

  “What are you asking?” he inquired.

  The man gave Sam a thorough going over before voicing his reply. “For you, I think I can just make it a donation.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Relax, young man. I’m no danger to you.”

  Sam’s heart froze. The man had recognized him! The first person he had seen! Yet he was smiling.

  “My wife used to dye her hair all the time. The smell always drove me down to the bar,” he explained.

  Sam finally smiled back. “You’re sure? I don’t want to make any trouble for you.”

  The old man just shook his head and smiled. “Been a fan since day one.” He patted his bad leg. “Used to own a store once. Some kid tried robbing me. I stuck one through his arm with my Smith and Wesson, but he winged me in the leg here. They let him out, and I’m still limping.” He turned and started walking back to the trailer. Sam once again kept pace. “Lemme just get the keys. You can pull that rental you’re driving around back and park it. Nobody looks back there. I’ll report the van stolen in a week or so. That give you enough time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Might want to stay off the main roads, but I’m sure you know that. You need some spending money?” he asked as he entered the trailer

  “No, sir, I’ve got plenty. I insist on paying for the van, too.”

  “Don’t matter to me, son, isn’t mine anyway!” The man answered with a short laugh. He watched as Sam peeled several bills off the roll in his pocket and thrust them out.

  “Really, son, just take it.” The old man shook his head.

  “You’re gonna get a visit from the cops eventually, for your time and trouble,” Sam answered. “I won’t need it much longer anyway.”

  The old man refused to touch it, so Sam dropped the money on the counter and picked up the keys.

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sam moved the rental car before climbing in the van. It started on the first crank. Oil pressure was fine and it had 3/4 of a tank on the gas gauge. Sam dropped it in gear and pulled out of the lot. He got a friendly wave from the man in the window.

  “A friendly civilian, how about that shit?” he asked himself.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Sam was approaching Indianapolis. He had made a stop at a sporting goods store, and the van now held an air mattress and sleeping bag, along with a few comfort items. Another stop at a grocery store provided enough food and drinks to last him a few days. Sam had decided that the hair was only going to do so much, so he added a pair of glasses. He would stay out of the public eye as much as possible. It was a long way to the next storage unit. He had thrown away all the items from the motel, but had kept the phone. Why, he wasn’t sure, but he caught himself eyeballing it on the seat next to him every once in a while.

  As he rounded I-465 around the city, he listened to the news stations he had preset into the radio. So far the story hadn’t changed. He took the exit ramp onto interstate 70 and headed east, away from Kalamazoo.

  —THIRTY-SEVEN—

  The state of Oregon holds 12,715 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 8,519 are repeat offenders.

  Anthony Tasone eyeballed the wheelchair waiting for him in the corner. Ignoring it was no longer an option, but he returned to the task at hand and put his back to the chair anyway. He automatically checked the windows to make sure they were shut with the curtains pulled. His skin had lost its olive tint and become paler as a result of his spending less time in the sun.

  He assembled the sandwich with great care, adding the ingredients in carefully measured amounts. The meats stacked just so, the cheese sliced to his personal preference. This may be his last made-to-order meal, and he wanted it to be perfect. There was no telling how long it would be till his next one. On the chance he came through this unscathed once again, he knew just which of his restaurants he would be at tonight. Another good meal would be had, followed by a long vacation, somewhere outside the United States.

  He ignored the crew as they watched him finish construction of the sandwich, and sit down at the table. A cold glass of milk was placed in front of him and he grunted in acknowledgment. As the men watched him eat, he knew they were all thinking of their own futures. Their future rested on his. Some of these men would be friends this morning and enemies this afternoon if things did not go well. He was beyond caring. His family was safely out of the country. He had no sons in the business. He was finished either way. The sandwich was slowly consumed in an attempt to enjoy every bite.

  A knock on the door brought several of them to their feet. After a shout through the door, it was opened and the lawyer came in. As usual, he was decked out in a wool suit and a long wool coat. A $100 silk tie was drawn tight to his throat. The shoes were mirrors. Despite the expensive clothes and custom tailoring, they still did not fit the man. He looked exactly like what he was—a mob lawyer.

  “Are you ready Tony?” he inquired.

  Mob boss Anthony Tasone finished the final bite of his sandwich before replying. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  He pushed the plate aside and rose to his feet. One of the crew held the sweater, while another mussed his hair. Once the costume was all in place, Tony walked to the chair and sat. The blanket was placed over his legs and he was ready. The lawyer gave him a long look before nodding to the crewman behind him. Tony stewed in the chair until they were almost at the front door. He could hear the crowd before they opened it. He let his head fall forward and took on the blank stare he had perfected over the last year. It was show time.

  The door opened and the flash of the cameras greeted him once again. Anthony Tasone was off to court, possibly for the last time.

  * * *

  Sam lay on the air mattress in the back of the van. It had been a cold night, but the sleeping bag and blanket he had purchased had proven sufficient. He now lay listening to the radio and waiting for the sunlight streaming in through the windshield to warm the interior before getting up.

  Finding a news station took a few minutes, but he soon had the financial news, followed by the headlines. The third story was of the expected verdict in the trial of mob boss Anthony Tasone. Sam listened intently to the story, but it was mostly speculation. The verdict was scheduled to happen sometime in the afternoon, just as the majority of the trial had taken place. This had been the topic of much speculation, and the common assumption was that it was due to the location of the sequestered jury. The commute was evidently rather long. It was the third such trial for Anthony Tasone, on a variety of charges. The first two had been declared mistrials, due to alleged jury tampering.
The judge in this case had not fooled around. The jury had been sequestered from day one. The prosecution had done an excellent job of presenting the case. The late night TV experts all agreed that Tasone was looking at multiple guilty verdicts. Yet there were doubts. The accused had been in a wheelchair since the trial began and was presented to the public as suffering from the aftermath of a stroke. Coincidently, the stroke happened soon after the charges being filed. With the jury out of reach, the defense had resorted to this tactic to present their client as no threat to society. Whether the charade had worked on any member of the jury would be seen today. Since Tasone had beaten the system twice already, Sam had little faith in this outcome. He consulted the map Paul had provided and located the courthouse. He wasn’t far. The radio announced the start of the defendant’s trip.

  Sam kicked his way free of the sleeping bag. He soon had the van in gear and was on his way into the city.

  * * *

  Tony sat in his chair and watched the proceedings through his blank stare as he had hundreds of times over the past year. The lawyers huddled at the bench to argue some mundane point. The jury sat in their chairs waiting, all of them first timers. Tony knew; his lawyer had extensive files on all of them, and he had tried to find a way to get to each one. A trial was nothing but a nuisance to him. A few threats or a few bribes, sometimes a combination of the two, and Tony had his verdict long before the lawyers figured it out. It was the beauty of the American justice system. If you had money you could manipulate it to fit your needs. He should know, he had been doing it for years. He had even begun to wonder why he had the lawyer in the first place. $500 an hour. For what? He had arranged the last mistrial for a fraction of what he had spent on the lawyer. Well, he did take care of the paperwork. That was something.

  Yet Tony was nervous about this one. The lack of any progress finding a way to the jury had bothered him. The stroke charade was wearing thin. One of the jury members was a nurse, and he had caught her watching him closely. Could she tell he was a fake?

  His lawyer walked back and sat down. Making a show of shaking the papers in his hand, it signaled Tony to listen.

  “Jury’s reached a verdict. Judge is ready to hear it,” he spoke to the papers.