by Randall Wood
Senator Harper changed his phony smile to a look of thoughtful contemplation. Most people bought it but Charlie knew better. Harper had heard that line before, and he now attempted to switch the focus of the debate.
“I cannot get behind anything that will cost this nation and my district alone hundreds of thousands of jobs. You’re talking a lot of votes that I can’t afford to lose. Not to mention a loss of millions in taxes. How’s the President going to explain that?”
Charlie looked at his aide. The aide quickly opened a file and started reading aloud. “Our current numbers show an annual cost of four billion dollars to cover immediate medical care of gunshot wounds. This was last year; up twelve-percent from the year before. Lifetime follow-up care and economic loss due to gunshot injuries is estimated at twenty billion per year. None of this cost is subsidized by the gun’s manufacturers. Pistols and revolvers account for over eighty-percent of these injuries.” The aide looked up and smiled at the senator.
John Harper did not return his smile. Having the Deputy Chief of Staff lecture him was one thing, having this kid do it was another. He shifted his gaze to Mr. Parker. The two of them had done battle on many occasions, but they at least had a mutual respect for one another. The senator had won more battles than he had lost, but these were before the last election. The Democrats had picked up more seats in the House this term, so defeating the bill this time would be harder than before. He was still kicking himself for falling for the last bill offering. The ruse had sucked him and his followers in and made them look bad compared with the President, the result being a loss of the majority in both the House and the Senate. Fortunately, there were still a lot of people on the fence regarding the bill, and he and Charlie Parker both knew that the last headcount was still in his favor. This meeting was nothing but a fishing expedition. Charlie needed to know if there was room to negotiate, or if it was just plain war.
He was not going to like the senator’s answer.
The state of Connecticut holds 19,846 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 13,296 are repeat offenders.
—SEVEN—
Danny broke the yolks on his triplet of over-easy eggs and spread them around. Susan watched with some degree of amusement. For some reason, he was excited, and she had a pretty good idea of what it was about. She blew on her cup of coffee, and waited for the explosion of words that were just a few bites away. Breakfast with Danny was a rare offer, but it was usually in conjunction with a request for information. It was also something of a spectacle to watch. Danny was the second youngest of eight, and he always ate like someone was going to come along and snatch his plate away. Slice of toast in one hand to shovel the fork full of eggs, bacon, pancakes, sausage, or a combination of all four—interrupted only by quick trips to the coffee mug, which somehow remained upright. She was careful not to sit too close; she didn’t wish to be stabbed with the fork. She just worked on her bagel and coffee and waited.
The fork finally hit the plate, and the last of the toast was used to sop up the remaining egg yolk. A quick swipe of the napkin, and Danny was off.
“So, have you heard anything interesting around the office?” He grinned.
She couldn’t help but grin back at him; he wasn’t even going to try to hide it. “About what?” she replied innocently.
“About what? The dead lawyer. What else is there?”
“I haven’t heard anything—not even in the break room. For some reason, the boys aren’t yakking it up as usual over this one. Even Donna is in the dark. If she doesn’t know anything, I sure as hell don’t.”
Danny was disappointed, but the answer was not entirely unexpected. Obviously, the FBI had put a lid on the case, and had told everyone to keep their mouths shut. Donna was the Chief’s secretary, and she and Susan had often had lunch together—another fringe benefit of his relation with Susan. He thought about this for a moment. The envelope contained something—something worthy of the FBI’s attention, and worthy enough for them to send one of their top investigators: an investigator that worked directly for Mark Deacon, the Deputy Director of the FBI. The case was no doubt big, or had big implications. He needed to know what was in the envelope. He looked at Susan. She did not look too happy with him right now. This was going to take some finessing on his part.
“Are you free for dinner, tonight?”
• • •
Paul waited as long as he could before he headed upstairs to wake up Sam. He needed all the sleep he could get. The appointment was for one o’clock, and they had about an hour to get there. Today would not be bad; it was the next few that would be the hard ones.
To his surprise, he heard the shower running: Sam was up. Paul went to the bedroom to check on the laundry situation; time to do some towels. He stopped to scrutinize the bed. The pillows were still on it. Not the regular ones, but the decorative ones that his sister had bought. Sam always left them on the chair when he made the bed. Paul picked up the laundry basket and moved down the hall. The door to Katie’s room was open. Everything was still in place, but Sam’s shoes were lying on the floor next to the bed. Paul turned and went downstairs. He loaded the laundry into the washer and added the appropriate powders. He’d have to remember to transfer it into the dryer when they got back. He was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee when Sam walked in.
“We have any milk?” Sam asked as he looked in the fridge. He unconsciously rubbed his stomach as he looked.
Paul watched his brother-in-law as he walked across the room to get a glass. He still looked like a million bucks—except for the fresh scar. He had the long lean look of a runner, a man who took care of his body. Well, I guess today was another form of that.
Sam sat down and poured a tall glass of Vitamin-D. No food this morning; just the milk—and plenty of it. It would make the day easier.
“Well, don’t you want to hear it?” He grinned at Paul.
Paul laughed. “Hell yes. I almost woke you up early,” he lied.
Sam drained one glass and poured another. “Went off perfect: he was right on time and pulled up to the number one spot, no wind, just a kid in an SUV behind him. He even turned his head a little for me. I stuck it right in his ear and he just coasted through the intersection. The windshield shattered for some reason I couldn’t figure out; the bullet should have stayed in the car. Anyway, exit plan worked like a charm. If the fire did its job, there should be nothing left for the feds. Hated to destroy the Remington, but I couldn’t really carry it out. I ditched the shoes in the hotel dumpster, then dived in the pool for a few minutes before I went up to the room, so there should be nothing from the scene in the room. The car is the only loose end. May have some fibers and soil in it, but it’s probably been cleaned in and out and is on its way to Epcot with a family of four right this minute. I saw some press as I was waiting in the airport. Car-jacking?”
“Yeah, I recorded some of it for you. You can watch it when we get back,” Paul replied. “We need to get a move on or you’ll be late.”
“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t want to miss this.” Sam got up to retrieve a shirt.
“I’ll warm up the car.”
• • •
Paul backed the car out, and with Sam riding shotgun with his glass of milk, headed east toward downtown Kalamazoo. A mid-sized town, Kalamazoo was positioned exactly halfway between Detroit and Chicago. The city was once a major manufacturing center with producers of paper, plastics, car body panels and drugs. Despite the closure of the General Motors Fisher Body plant, and the purchase of the Upjohn Pharmaceutical Corporation by its bigger rival Pfizer, the city had made an effort to save its dying downtown area. Once proud to boast the nation’s first outdoor pedestrian mall, the downtown area had received a major facelift. The mall was once again a paved one-way street. One of many that crisscrossed the area, confusing the hell out of both locals and visitors combined. The renovation included exposing an underground stream, and the restoration of many of the older buildings aroun
d the central square. An outdoor festival area had been added. The major downtown hotel had just finished a multi-million-dollar restoration. Several new bars and restaurants had opened. All it really needed now was a traffic engineer; the one currently in office couldn’t even time the traffic lights.
The other big industry in Kalamazoo was healthcare. The town was home to two major hospitals. Despite the fact that they were only three miles apart, they both boasted Level 1 trauma facilities. Between the two was a burn center, a pediatric care center, a birth clinic, a major heart center, a psychiatric care floor, intensive care units, a teaching program for new doctors, surgical units of all types, and a critical care helicopter service. Both hospitals were listed in the top one hundred in the nation. Both had surgical talent that was recognized around the world. Both often diverted patients elsewhere due to a lack of available beds.
Among the newly renovated buildings on the west side of the downtown area was the West Michigan Cancer Center.
Sam was a popular patient as he always tried to put on a good show of “positive attitude” for the staff. The truth was, he hated the place. When he first had visited, he was shocked at the amount of traffic: patient after patient rotating through the doors, CT scans, ultrasound, MRI, blood-work, radiation treatments, and of course, chemotherapy. It was a constant parade of the sick and dying. Victories were few, and Sam hated every minute.
The staff was always kind and professional. The four doctors who ran the center were picky about whom they hired, and it showed. They all knew how Sam had come to be here, and went out of their way to make his visits as quick and painless as possible. Nevertheless, Sam occasionally heard a whispered comment. “Poor guy. What a way to find out.” Or “Such a tragedy. How does he stay so positive?”
Sam automatically moved to the chair on the end. It was the first one he had used, and he preferred it over the others. He didn’t like the idle chit-chat that his fellow patients engaged in. He smiled for Kristen’s benefit as she approached with the IV kit. First the pills: 4 milligrams of Zofran. They would hold back the vomiting for about four hours. 20 milligrams of Decadron. This was a corticosteroid that was supposed to help with any side effects. When he first read this drug’s package insert, he was surprised by the list of possible side effects: upset stomach, ulcers, water retention, heart failure, potassium loss, slow healing, bruising, sweating, rash, itching, convulsions, dizziness, headache, adrenal gland suppression, diabetes, blood clots, insomnia, weight gain, nausea, vomiting, euphoria, mood swings, personality changes, depression, and his personal favorite, feeling unwell. “Why am I taking this again?” he had asked. He answered Kristen’s small talk as she deftly inserted a 20-gauge catheter in his arm. She hung the bags of fluids and checked the catheter site for infiltration. With no signs showing, she taped everything in place and adjusted the drip rate.
“Does that feel okay, Sam?” she always asked.
“Fine,” he always lied. He could already feel the slight burning sensation as the poison entered his arm.
“I’ll see you in an hour.” Kristin smiled, and handed him a glass of ice cubes to chew on.
“I’ll be right here,” he answered; his standard joke. She smiled and went to meet the next patient. Little Miss Efficiency. Sam glanced up at the bag. 1080 milligrams of F5U with 1080 of Levcovorin on a piggyback: his usual. They had to give it to him slowly, or the poison would eat his arm at the IV site. Good to know. Sam took his first ice cube in his mouth, settled back and closed his eyes.
“You’re not very tan. Staying out of the sun like I told ya?” Sam opened his eyes to see Dr. Maher looking down with a smile.
“I tried my best. It was very tempting.” Sam stuck out a hand. Dr. Maher had been there from the start. He had even encouraged Sam’s desire to travel as long as he made his visits on time.
“I can only imagine. The wife and I have never made it to Mexico. Did you bring back any pictures?” The doc flopped down in the chair next to him.
“Some. Didn’t bring them with me, though.” Sam looked at the chart the doc had brought with him. “Any news?”
Dr. Maher grabbed the chart like it was burning him and flipped it open. “Well, your last bloodwork was inconclusive. We checked your carcinoembryonic levels before your surgery, and they were high. But I would expect that. After the surgery, they normally drop as yours have done. What we look for is a change in the levels once they drop. Yours haven’t yet. If it stays this way, it usually means we got it all. Unfortunately, Sam, you have it in not one area, but three. So, we need to re-evaluate before we can go in after the rest of it. I’d like to stick with the chemo until you heal a little more, then add some radiation treatments. Your white count is okay for now. Your red count is down, so I’m gonna add some Procrit to your regimen today—just a subcutaneous shot in the arm. Tough soldier like you handle that okay?” Dr. Maher was ex-army: same as Sam. One of the reasons they got along so well.
“From a Leg like you, I’ll try not to scream,” Sam said. The doc had not been a paratrooper as Sam had, something Sam was fond of reminding him.
“Good. I’m gonna schedule you for another CT scan in a couple weeks, so we can see what’s going on. Sorry, Sam, no real good news, but no bad news either. Sometimes it’s all I can offer. Where are you off to next?”
“Not sure. Maybe Alaska,” Sam replied.
“Not Hawaii?”
“Seen the beach. Thought I might try some mountains next.”
“Sounds good. I gotta go. You call if you need something, Sam. Don’t worry about time zones or anything, okay?”
“Okay, doc.”
Dr. Maher scribbled Procrit-40k units SQ on the chart, gave Sam a punch in the leg, and moved off in the direction of his office.
Sam settled back in the recliner. Forty minutes left.
The state of Delaware holds 6,784 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 4,545 are repeat offenders.
—EIGHT—
Las Vegas, Nevada. With a population of one-million and eight-hundred-thousand, and growing by a double-digit percentage every year, it was one of the fastest growing cities in the United States. It was America’s other playground; Disneyworld for assenting adults. It had hundreds of hotels and even more casinos. All as busy at 3 a.m. as they were at 3 p.m. Everyone from senior citizens spending their kids’ inheritance, to professional gamblers hoping to beat the house at their own game. Millions of tourists a year coming and going, day and night, with entertainment offered to all tastes. Strip bars, Elvis impersonators, medieval jousting, animal acts, magic, and some of the most popular singers in the world.
It was also a home to championship boxing.
The current favorite for boxing among the hotels was the MGM Grand, the largest hotel in the world. With thousands of rooms, multiple casinos, pools, spas, shopping, convention facilities, and its spacious auditorium, it was the current king on the Las Vegas strip. Most title fights in the last four years had taken place under MGM Grand’s roof, and in two days it would host a rematch for the heavyweight championship of the world. A rematch that had the amateur gamblers in a frenzy.
The professionals knew better. For years, the world of boxing had been as corrupt as possible. The main promoter had been investigated several times for racketeering and fraud, but nothing had been able to stick. Those involved with him were becoming rich and were reluctant to talk. Even the fighters were involved, and with a purse in the fifty-million mark per fight, who wouldn’t want to do it twice? This weekend’s match was a repeat of one held ten months prior, one fighter, a reigning champ who was at the end of his career, and the other, a young challenger from England who had clearly won the previous match. Clear to everyone but the judges, who had miraculously kept the title with the ageing champion. This guaranteed a rematch down the road—which translated into more money for everyone. The fighters would break even on their earnings with a win and a loss apiece. The champion would retire a very wealthy man. The casinos,
which had totally opposing odds from the first match, would clean up once again. The promoter would collect a hefty check from the pay-per-view audience, as well as the people who would come to see it in person. The city of Vegas would have a slightly larger population for the weekend, which translated into more revenue for its many businesses. Even the airlines would see some profit from all the out-of-town fight fans flocking to the desert city. And yet, there were people who thought boxing was a bad thing.
• • •
One of the most popular flights to Vegas was Southwest Airlines’ flight 2809 from Chicago’s Midway airport. A “red-eye,” as it was known, leaving at 9 p.m. and arriving in Vegas four hours later. The flight and arrival time had been carefully picked weeks ago. The plane was dark, as most passengers were asleep, their empty bags of peanuts next to their half-finished drinks. The flight attendants were quietly talking in the small galley at the front of the plane. With a plane of sleeping passengers, they had little to do. Most passengers were asleep before the takeoff and safety briefing.
Settled comfortably in seat 26D was Sam. His hair was darker now, and the glasses he had perched on his nose did nothing for his 20/20 vision. They did however change his face. Sam had thought the need for a disguise to be unnecessary, but Paul had talked him into it. As much as Vegas was sin city, it was also very safe—at least as long as you were in a casino. Casinos meant large sums of money. Large sums of money required security. Security meant cameras—everywhere. Since Sam could expect to be on camera for most of his time in Vegas, he’d relented to Paul’s wisdom, and altered his appearance. With his dark hair, glasses, and a little scruff on his face, he certainly did not look as he normally did. Some Super Glue to his fingers would keep the prints to a minimum. If he did everything right, he shouldn’t have any problems. Plus, as Paul had pointed out, “It’s Vegas; you’ll probably run into somebody you know!” Sam had kept an eye out for just such a person, but so far all were strangers. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. They had an hour to go, and he should try to get some sleep and blend in with his fellow passengers.
