by David Wind
“Of course he did.” Savak shifted in his seat. “Steven, once Pritman gets the nod, do you think Clement will withdraw?”
Steven ran a thumbnail down the side of the Styrofoam coffee cup. Little white plastic flakes sprayed outward. “Are you trying to keep my mind occupied?”
Savak shrugged, and then grinned. “I’m your friend, it’s my job.”
Steven felt a rush of warmth for Savak. It wasn’t a new feeling, but one he hadn’t felt in a while. He returned Savak’s smile. “No, Clement won’t pull out. He’s always been after the nomination, and he’s got a decent share of party people behind him.”
“Which will change once the people who matter hear what Pritman has to offer. They’ll grab at it. They’ll have no choice.”
“They may just as conceivably believe Pritman’s lost his mind and give him the boot.”
Savak’s right eyebrow lifted in response to Steven’s remark. He double stroked the side of his nose. “Never happen, m’boy. They’ll listen, analyze, and make their decision; but, they’ll never point him to the door. They can’t. The Senator is the only viable candidate. No one else has Pritman’s degree of public acceptance.
“In the last two years, every major foreign policy issue of the President’s was derailed. Every diplomatic effort the administration dreamed up failed. America’s foreign policy is a patchwork of half assed stopgap measures.
“Look at the mess in Honduras,” Savak said with a single shake of his head. “That gambit cost us an enormous amount of credibility in the world community. Honduras was our single most important aligned Central American country.
Watching Savak, his face carved into pensive lines of concentration, Steven knew he was seeing a different Arnold Savak than ever before. The Arnold Savak seated three feet from him would soon be, if things went according to plan, the second most powerful man in the country. Savak would be chief of staff, the man behind the President; the person closest to the chief executive, and the one whose guidance and advice would always be heard and accepted. If Pritman is nominated and wins the election.
Not for the first time, but with more clarity than ever before, he saw how tightly linked his destiny was to Arnie. One day he too would be standing behind the President, wielding the kind of power and authority so many people dreamed of but few attained.
He curbed his thoughts and paid closer attention to what Savak was saying.
“Given all the administration’s problems, and if you’ve smoothed out those last few snags in the proposal, the men at the meeting will see Entente for the tool that it is—strength without war. How the hell can there be war, if no one knows who they’re supposed to fight?”
“In theory,” he said as a knock sounded on the door and Sheriff Banacek entered the office.
“Mr. Savak, Mr. Morrisy, good afternoon.” The sheriff turned to Steven. “I got a message you wanted to see me?”
Steven nodded. “It’s about Ellie’s ring. It’s still missing. Chuck says it was never receipted and put in the hospital safe.”
“You think someone here stole it?”
“Chuck says not and I’ll go along with him. But the scrapes on her finger seem to indicate that the ring was taken off forcefully.”
“You think whoever tried to kill her stole the ring?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Saying no, Banacek asked Steven for a description of the ring. He wrote the information in a small spiral note pad, which he tucked carefully away in his jacket pocket, Banacek promised he’d do what he could to find the ring.
“Any word about the plane crash?” Savak asked.
“Nothing yet,” Banacek said without taking his eyes from Steven. “Mr. Morrisy, I understand you’re accompanying Miss Rogers to the hospital in Washington?”
“Is there a problem? Or am I a suspect again?”
“I’m sure you understand the position I’m in.” Banacek’s eyes told Steven he knew Steven Morrisy, attorney-at-law, comprehended the situation perfectly.
He did. If he left now, he would be out of the sheriff’s jurisdiction. Should Banacek decide to bring charges, the sheriff would have to go through the immense amount of red tape involved in an extradition proceeding. “I’m not the one you’re after. We both know that.”
Banacek hitched his belt, shifted the well-worn leather holster an inch to the back, and said, “When I found out about your plans to return to Washington with Miss Rogers, I had to speak with the county prosecutor. He said that because of who you are—and the implications it would attach to Senator Pritman should you be detained—he was not averse to leaving the crime report on open status.”
“However?” Steven knew there would be a quid pro quo.
Removing an envelope from his pocket, Banacek handed it to Steven. “The prosecutor drew up an agreement of cooperation between you and the county.” Steven extracted the folded agreement and began to read as Banacek went on. “It says you agree to return to Greyton, to offer testimony, within twenty-four hours of his office contacting you.”
Savak rose from his chair. “This is getting ridiculous!” Steven waved off his friend’s objection and went to Latham’s desk. Using a standard hospital issue clear plastic Bic; he signed the letter of agreement and returned it to Banacek. “Thank you, Sheriff. If anything comes up, you’ll notify me?”
“You can count on it,” Banacek promised.
As Steven shook Banacek’s extended hand, the office door opened and Latham came in. “Time to go, Steven. The medevac’s landing.”
Banacek, who started toward the door before Latham spoke, paused. “Mr. Morrisy, can I give you some advice?”
Steven nodded slowly, wondering if some Pennsylvanian homily was about to be offered, when Banacek said, “Watch your back.”
The medevac helicopter was a self-contained flying hospital, so far removed from the old troop and medevac copters of Steven’s past he couldn’t find an accurate parallel.
The medical compartment was quieter than he expected. Ellie lay on a gurney clamped to the floor. Monitoring wires ran from her head and chest to the instruments on the wall. An IV dripped meds into her arm, and oxygen was fed through the nose tube.
Steven sat in a webbed chair next to Ellie. Two other men occupied the compartment with him. A uniformed medical technician sat before a bank of instruments, keeping a constant check on Ellie’s readings; the other man wore white overalls, without insignia, and sat across the gurney from Steven. He appeared to be either in his late twenties or early thirties.
When Steven entered the copter, and glanced at the man, there had been a twinge of recognition. But the sensation had faded as quickly as it had come. He was grateful for the man’s silence as he buckled himself into the seat.
The thought of Savak, flying his private plane back to Washington, sat heavily on him. He forced himself not to think about Sam Londrigan’s fatal crash.
“Almost there,” said the man across from him, speaking for the first time. “Half-hour should do it; another half-hour from Andrews to the hospital if the traffic isn’t too bad.”
Steven nodded.
“They’re among the best in the world at Georgetown. If she’s got a chance, it’ll be there.” When he met the other man’s eyes, he sensed the man wasn’t speaking simply to get him into a conversation.
“They have to,” Steven said in a low voice.
“Automobile accidents are the worst. It’s always the wrong person who gets hurt.” Taken by surprise at the intensity in the man’s voice, Steven could only stare at him.
“Mr. Morrisy, I know whatever I might say may not help, but I’ve seen a lot worse come through.”
Steven gazed at Ellie, feeling his muscles knot with hatred for the person who had done this terrible thing to her. “She didn’t deserve this.”
The silence resumed, intensified by the whine of the turbine. Five more minutes passed before the technician spoke again. “You are the Steven Morrisy who works for Senator Pritman, aren�
�t you?”
“Yes,” Steven said without taking his gaze from Ellie.
“My name is Joshua Raden, sir. I...”
Steven’s head snapped up. He realized the familiarity he’d sensed earlier came from the well-defined contours of the man’s face. “Raden?” When the technician nodded, Steven shook his head in denial. “You’re too old. You couldn’t be—”
“His brother, not his son. You wrote to me and my mother after you got out.”
Raden’s words turned him mute. He tried to speak, but managed only a weak and strangled grunt. Then it started again. His mind began to slip from the present and slide into the past. He fought back the pain and anguish, refusing to be beaten.
“The sergeant was a good man,” he said at last.
“I hated the war with all my soul. My father died shortly after we got word of Jeremy’s capture. My mother went through hell. When your letter came, it helped her to cope. Lana told us you had also written to her.”
Steven blinked at the mention of Raden’s widow.
“I was twelve when my mother showed me the letter,” Raden went on. “She made me read it over and over until I understood. It helped change my perspective of why my brother, and the others like yourself, were over there.”
“Is that why you became a medical tech?”
“I’m not.”
Puzzled, he started to speak: Raden stopped him. “I’m a neurologist, on staff at Georgetown.”
Raden explained how he had schemed his way onto the medevac when he’d found out who Ellie was, and that Steven was going to be traveling with her.
“I wanted to be on this flight,” Raden added, “so that I could tell you who I was, and let you know that I’ll do everything in my power for Miss Rogers.”
Raden looked down at his hands, which he rubbed together absently. “A long time ago you went out of your way for my mother and myself, by writing to us and telling us the truth. What you did meant more to us than the medals the army awarded Jeremy. As you asked in the letter, we’ve never said a word to anyone.”
Behind Joshua Raden, the medical technician glanced over his shoulder. “Doc, we’re on final approach.. The ambulance is waiting.”
When the copter landed, Raden personally supervised Ellie’s transference. Once she was in the ambulance, Raden waved Steven inside.
Because of an accident between a truck and several cars, the traffic was heavier than anticipated; and the trip took an hour. Once at Georgetown University Hospital, Jeremy Raden handed Steven over to an orderly while he accompanied Ellie through the intake procedure.
The floor was five times the size of Greyton’s Neurology unit. And, walking down the long illuminated hallway, lined with endless doors and a multitude of nurses and white frocked doctors, Steven wondered if Ellie would be lost here.
“In here, sir,” the orderly said, reaching the end of the hall and opening a door marked Doctors’ Lounge. The orderly pointed out the coffee machine, a sandwich vending machine, and a microwave unit, before leaving Steven alone.
He spent an uneasy hour waiting for word on Ellie. When Raden reappeared, it was almost eight. The young doctor’s face was hopeful as Steven rose to greet him.
“We’ve just finished examining Miss Rogers. The surgeon who performed the operation did an excellent job. I thought you should know. And,” Raden added with a smile, “if she continues to maintain her stable condition, we’ll be able to start the first series of tests tomorrow afternoon.”
“When can I see her?”
“Now. But only for a few minutes,” Raden cautioned, leading Steven back down the hallway. “We’re keeping her in our observation unit,” he added, pushing through a double doorway and into a large central area surrounded by windowed rooms.
Entering Ellie’s new room, Steven accepted the now familiar churning of his stomach, caused by the sight of her expressionless face. There were less bandages on her head, leaving more of her cheeks and all of her chin visible.
Her bed was different from the one in Greyton. It was thicker and wider. The low hum of the bed’s pneumatic pump was a steady counterpoint to the room’s silence. The nurses’ station observation window was larger than the one in Greyton.
“We use the air bed to balance the pressure on the skin,” Raden explained. “It cuts down on bedsores, and it makes it easier to maneuver the patient into different positions.”
Steven went to the bed and trailed his fingertips over Ellie’s hand. Her skin was cool. He gazed at her for several minutes before brushing his lips across hers. They were as cool as her hands.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he whispered to her.
Joshua Raden walked with him to the elevator and punched the call button. “I’ll watch out for her,” Raden said, “but you look out on your feet. I think you could use some sleep.”
“Yes, I could,” he admitted with a wry grin. It had been a long time since he’d gone with as little sleep as he’d gotten these past few days.
Raden handed him a white business card with black printing. “Call whenever you feel the need. My home number is on the back.”
“Thank you, Joshua.”
Raden smiled warmly. “Thank me when Miss Rogers is out of the coma.”
Steven liked the way Raden said when, not if. “You’ll let me know what the tests show? The long-term damage?”
“I won’t hold anything back once we’ve made our determination. If Doctor Skolnick’s diagnosis is correct, then we’ll just have to work from that point forward. If she’s lost her memory, there’s nothing more we can do; however, once she’s out of the coma, she’ll need all the help she can get, and probably a hell of a lot more.”
“I’ll be there,” Steven promised.
The cab dropped him off shortly after nine. He stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the renovated townhouse he’d bought eight years before. He’d spent all his free weekends, and a lot of nights restoring the interior of the house to its original elegance.
A sudden sense of despondency overcame him. Within its relentless grip, he understood what he had not yet allowed himself to consider.
With Ellie in Georgetown University Hospital, and himself standing at the steps of his house, he had to accept the possibility he may have lost her, or at least the woman he knew. The likelihood she would not know who he was seemed to be growing stronger.
Brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, and trying to cast off the dark demons, he climbed the five stone steps. His legs were like two bars of lead. The ache behind his eyes returned with a vengeance. He fumbled clumsily with his keys, and dropped them.
As he bent to pick the keys up, someone started a car across the street. He straightened, holding the keys in his left hand, and saw a car pull out from the curb just as another car turned the corner.
In the brief instant the oncoming headlights washed across the other car’s windshield, Steven thought he recognized the driver, who looked like the FBI agent who had tried to arrest him in Greyton.
The car pulled away a second later, leaving Steven to wonder if it was Blayne, or if his paranoia was growing.
Shrugging it off as something his tired mind had dreamed up, Steven extricated the door key and let himself inside. He closed the door, locked it, and breathed a sigh of relief at being home.
He turned on the hall light and shrugged out of his coat. The house had a damp and uncomfortable chill, which he decided to rectify immediately.
He went into the living room. The thermostat was next to the light switch. He flipped on the lights and peered at the electronic thermostat. The digital readout was set for fifty-five, just as he’d left it.
He lifted the outer casing and reset the temperature to seventy. As he was about to close the cover, he heard a click behind him.
“If you so much as breathe heavy, I’ll put a bullet through your goddamn head.”
Chapter Nine
“Put your hands on your shoulders. Turn around slowly.”
&nb
sp; Adrenaline burst into his bloodstream. Fear made his heart pound hard and his breathing shallow.
Crossing his arms and putting his hands on his shoulders, he turned.
She was sitting on the couch, pointing a black automatic at his midsection, her face partially hidden in the shadows cast from the lamps by the couch. From what he could see, dark hair framed a strong feminine face. He’d never seen her before.
“You’re making a mistake.” Steven took a step forward.
Her eyes narrowed. The pistol rose, centering on his face. “There’s no mistake, Morrisy. Don’t move.”
Steven stared at her, his muscles knotting with the need for action. The anger of having a gun pointed at him took away his logic. “I don’t know who the hell you are, or what you’re doing in my house. But I’m going to give you one chance to put the gun down and get out.”
“My name is Carla Rogers.”
The name caught him off guard. “Ellie’s sister?”
“Very good, Morrisy. You see, I’m here to do to you what you’ve done to Ellie.”
Glaring at the shadowed face of Carla Rogers, he dropped his hands and took another step toward her. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done to Ellie. But if it’s anything other than love her, you’re wrong.”
“Don’t!” she warned, her voice going shrill.
Her eyes flickered, and her hand tightened on the pistol’s grip. His anger gave him the strength to ignore the pistol. He moved closer.
“I’ll kill you if you take another step,” she shouted, her voice going high.
“Then kill me. And after you’ve killed me, you can go out and kill the next person whom you think hurt Ellie. But lady, don’t threaten me. Either pull the trigger or put the gun down. I’m too tired for all this melodramatic shit.”
The gun didn’t waver. “You’re good, Morrisy. Ellie said you were cool and collected no matter what. Convince me why I shouldn’t kill you.”
“If you’ve already made up your mind, I won’t be able to convince you of anything. So you just go ahead and do whatever you decide is necessary.” Her eyes widened, and he knew, instinctively, she wasn’t going to pull the trigger. A moment later his instincts proved right when she lowered the weapon to her lap. “How did you know I wouldn’t shoot you?”
