His hand was on the doorknob, starting to turn, when he heard it. A single gunshot followed by the sound of a large body dropping to the floor.
Durmo shivered as he imagined what the colonel had done. The final betrayal. Now the fingers of blame would shift. Now they would point straight at him.
The desert floor was ablaze with color. Golden poppies, pink and blue lupine, primrose, and cactus flowers. Just days before, the desert had seemed dead and barren. After months of dry weather, the sand was baked as dense as concrete. All signs of life lay dormant. But then, a spring rainstorm passed through, drenching the earth. The heavy rain pounded the hard-packed ground. The rain came in a deluge, fast and strong. The water couldn’t sink in and it had no path to run. Flash floods raced through, then fanned out and paused as the rains stopped. Soon the ground was again baked dry. But the water did its trick. Springtime had come to the desert.
The Jeep kicked up a cloud of dust as it moved across the sand. Lena rolled her window farther down. The musky scent of creosote bush filled the air. She breathed it in deeply. She knew she’d remember the smell later when she thought back on this day.
She glanced over the console to the passenger seat. Ramon leaned back, relaxed, a smile on his face. It was a wonder he was alive. The bullet had ripped through his intestines, leaving a gaping hole. The ambulance picked him up quickly and rushed him to Johns Hopkins, where they operated on him for over six hours. The surgeons had to cut out yards of his intestines as they pieced him back together. After they were finished, it still looked grim. He’d lost a lot of blood and the risk of infection was high. It was touch and go for nearly a month. But Ramon was a survivor. He’d pulled through.
Ramon caught her glance and reached over to take her hand. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes," she said. "It is.”
Ramon squeezed her hand tightly as she drove. It felt so good to be outside and on their own. At the Capitol, after Ramon was shot and Tanner surrendered, Lena was handcuffed and taken to a holding cell at the senate police complex. They fingerprinted her and took her mug shot. But she was there less than an hour before being released to the FBI. Over the next three days, a full team of agents interrogated her. They grilled her on everything from how they managed to hide out for so long, to what she really knew about the Johnson Installation. They wouldn’t tell her what had happened to Ramon, or what they intended to do with her. It was emotionally draining.
Eventually, they turned her over to an agent named Jacobs, a senior administrator from Washington.
“From all the evidence we’ve obtained, it’s apparent that you are completely innocent. The charges have all been lifted,” he told her. “The official line is that this entire situation was a bizarre case of mistaken identity. We’ve worked some angles so that the press has bought the story.”
“So I’m free to go?”
“Technically. But we’re in a ticklish situation,” he explained. “We have a problem. This story is too explosive. We can’t let the public find out what really happened. It’s a case of national security. If people find out about this, they’ll question everything. We need citizens to have faith in the government if it’s to survive. We’re still trying to figure out how to treat the two of you. The last thing we need is for you to cause a fuss by writing some story about all this.”
“So what are you saying? I can’t write the story?”
“I’m not saying anything of the sort. I’m appealing to you as a citizen and a patriot. You don’t realize how dangerous this information is.”
“Well, even if I don’t say anything, the press will never go for that. They won’t buy some made-up story.”
Jacobs smiled. “Ms. Dryer, you are being naïve. The press—the media— is nothing more than a group of corporate interests. They rely on us for assistance in a myriad of ways. It’s all about profits. If they make it difficult for us, we can make it very difficult for them. It’s not a matter of if they will cooperate—they already have.”
Lena thought for a moment before replying, “And what if I go with it anyway?”
Jacobs smiled and paused for effect. “I guarantee you don’t want us for enemies.”
So in the end, it really wasn’t a matter of choice. The first week, Lena granted scores of interviews and went on all the news shows, telling a sanitized version of the events. It didn’t take long for the frenzy to die down. She was offered positions at Newsworld and several other news organizations. But she declined. Her career didn’t seem so important anymore. When Ramon was well enough to be released, he joined her.
And now they were out. As free as they could be. They held hands as she drove, both lost in their own thoughts. They didn’t talk but enjoyed a comfortable silence. They were in the desert west of Brownsville, miles from any town. Lena crested a rise and the topography changed. It was hilly now, gently sloping upward.
“Just a little farther. We’re almost there,” Ramon said.
The elevation increased. A mile further, it began to peak. “This is good,” Ramon said.
Lena pulled the Jeep to a stop and set the brakes. They both climbed out and walked around to the front. A light breeze blew through, rustling Lena’s hair. The sun was straight up in the sky, shining bright and strong. The only sound was the whistle of the wind. Down below, the river curled like a ribbon, the water reflecting back diamonds.
Ramon reached over and took her hand. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I need to do some thinking, let it all sort out and figure out my options. I can’t write about what happened to us—everything would have to go through the censors. But this exposed a lot of other issues. Somehow, I have to make things change.” She flicked her hair back, “I’m hoping something good will come out of this.”
“It’ll work out. I know you. You’re going to make something happen. Something good.”
She smiled at him. He touched her neck and pulled her close. They kissed, long and tenderly. Lena held him close, trying to feel the rhythm of his heart. It felt so natural to hold him, to touch him. Being with him, she’d felt the desert bloom inside. But there was no way they could stay together. Ramon wanted a simpler life. He wanted to go somewhere and blend in, disappear. Lena wasn’t sure where her life would lead, but there were still things she needed to accomplish. She gently pushed him away.
“You better get going.”
Ramon smiled. “I’ll always remember you.”
He picked up his backpack and canteen, slung them over his shoulder, and started down the hill toward the Rio Grande. Part way down the hill, he turned, looked back and waved to her for the last time.
Lena smiled. He’d always be with her. Ramon descended the hill, made his way to the river and crossed over.
Epilogue
The Metropolitan Hotel anchored the corner of Providence and Western, down the block from Morrie’s Cut Rate Liquor and St Mary’s Catholic Church. In its glory days, it was a working man’s hotel, offering bare bones lodging at reasonable prices. The clientele then was a mix of immigrants and displaced country boys, new to the city. But its glory days were long past. The hotel, like the neighborhood, had fallen on hard times. The taped-over marquee sign advertised rooms available at weekly and monthly rates.
From across the street, the man studied the hotel. His clothes were dirty and his shirt soaked with sweat, his body lean and hard muscled from months of heavy labor. He rubbed his glasses on the cleanest section of his sleeve as he took in the scene. The teenage gangbanger stood watch at his post against the streetlamp. Two bums leaned against the building, clutching their bottles in paper bags. An old Hispanic woman waited at the bus stop. The scene was normal. Nothing out of the ordinary to set off his radar. He glanced both ways as he set off across the street and kept his eyes down, avoiding contact as he climbed the steps to the hotel.
The lobby smelled stale, a mix of dirty laundry, damp wood, and bug spray. The man wrinkled his nose in dista
ste as he moved through. He’d almost crossed over to the stairs, when the clerk behind the counter yelled out.
“Hey, O’Brien.”
The man turned back and slowly walked to the counter. He gave the fat-faced clerk a hard look. “Yeah?”
“Your week’s up tomorrow. You staying on longer?”
“No. I’ll be gone tomorrow.” He turned and headed back toward the stairs.
“I’ll need that key back,” the clerk called after him. “And if you’re here past twelve, you gotta’ pay for another night.”
The man ignored him as he ran up the stairs. He stopped at the second floor landing. He waited in the shadows for a moment to make sure the hall was clear. The hallway was dimly lit with peeling green paint and greyish-brown carpet, shredded by wear. Pairs of doors fed off on each side, with a door at the end for the shared bathroom. Here, the smell of bug spray was more intense, but it wasn’t enough to overpower the stench of urine and soaked-in beer. As he walked down the hall, he listened to the sounds of TVs, radios, and an old man coughing.
He used his key to open his room and quickly went inside. The room was small and dingy. The bare light bulb sent a harsh glow on the dresser and unmade bed. He pulled his backpack from beneath the bed, and took out a towel, some soap, and a fresh set of clothes. He left the room, locking the door behind him, and went down the hall to the communal bathroom. He was in luck tonight. It was empty.
He locked the door behind him, stripped down, and stepped into the shower. The water didn’t get more than lukewarm, but it still felt good to get his body wet and rinse off the grime. As he rubbed the soap over his head, he could tell his hair had grown out some. It was probably time to shave again.
He’d only been in the shower for a minute, when someone banged on the door. He finished up and took his time getting dressed. The freshly washed clothes were a luxury. He wrapped his soiled clothes in the wet towel and opened the door.
“Whatcha’ hoggin’ the bathroom for, man?” It was a short Mexican with tattoos on both arms.
The man felt a momentary surge of panic. He felt like flapping his arms and moving away. Instead, he kept his gaze straight. He didn’t say a word as he coolly walked past. He dropped the old clothes in the room, went down the stairs, and out the hotel. On the street, he headed east. Walking at a leisurely pace, he scanned the faces of those going by, watching for danger. He passed bodegas and taco stands, taverns and graffiti-sprayed buildings. A few blocks down, he turned onto a cross street. This block was residential. The houses were large brown brick boxes with wide porches. Some of them were gutted and abandoned, with plywood sheets where the windows should be. Others had well-tended lawns and showed pride of ownership. It was early spring and the neighborhood was alive. People sat on their steps and yelled out to their neighbors. Some people stared at the man as he passed, but he kept his eyes forward and didn’t stop.
Two blocks down, the area began to change. The houses here were the same construction but had been recently rehabbed. The brick was sandblasted clean and there were ornamental steel bars on all the windows. No one sat on the steps here, and the cars parked in front were all newer imports.
Another block down, he came to a commercial street. He paused for a moment, then turned down it. The stores here were newer with colorful awnings and tasteful signs. He passed a Starbucks, a copy center, and several small ethnic restaurants. Halfway down the block, he went into a storefront with a sign marked The Cyber Café.
Inside, the shop had bare wood floors and bold colors on the wall. Computers were stationed throughout the space, some on long curving counters, others in more recessed cubes. A coffee bar was off to the side. A menu board hung above it, presenting prices for computer time and assorted coffee drinks. The girl behind the counter had short red hair and a ring in her nose. She smiled as he came up to the counter.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” He pulled some cash out of his jeans and handed it over. “I guess I’ll need about three hours.”
“Want anything to drink tonight?”
“Maybe later. I’ll be over there.” He motioned to a cube in the corner.
“Sure. See you then.” She smiled again as he walked away.
The man sat down at the monitor, and connected to the Internet. The connection was fast and it came up quickly. He keyed in the address for the site and waited as the connection was made. Then he took a deep breath, logged on as True Believer and began to type.
It was time to tell the truth.
Author’s note
Author’s note
Thank you for reading Living Proof, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. An author doesn’t have many opportunities to talk directly to their readers, so I’ d like to take a moment to tell you a little about how I came to write this novel, and what you can expect from me in the future.
I’ve always been a reader and loved books of all sorts since I was a kid, but I didn’t start writing until I was in my thirties. I can trace my love of writing to a specific event and a specific day. It started when I was out with my three brothers and my youngest brother, Dan, announced that he was going to write a kid’s book. He already had the title picked out, he was going to call it, A Monkey for Cousin Larry. That sounded like a funny title, so we asked what it was going to be about. He hadn’t gotten that far, Dan said, but he thought it would have something to do with a monkey being up in a tree, and maybe throwing bananas, or something like that. A few months later, we were at a family gathering and one of us asked Dan how his book was going. He hadn’t started yet, but again, it was a great title, and he thought it was a real funny idea. After a few more times of hearing about this, my brother Greg and I decided we would “help” Dan (it’s a brother thing), by coming up with our own versions of the book. So, we started writing stories, each titled A Monkey for Cousin Larry, and sending them to Dan. We came up with a couple of dozen stories all together. One was a kid’s story, but we also wrote mystery, horror, a poem, a romance and one that read pretty much like Google directions. Dan didn’t really appreciate our help, and he never got around to writing the story. But we had a great time with this inside joke, and I realized that I really enjoyed writing, and people liked what I wrote.
I’ve written a lot of things over the years, screenplays, short stories and novels, and have written in genres as different as comedies and children’s science fiction. But what I read most and enjoy writing the most, is thrillers. I love how thrillers get you into the heads of different people in impossible situations, the escalating suspense, the twists and turns, the heroes and the villains. For me, there are few things better than a well told thriller. As a boy, I read everything by Alistair Mclean, and Ian Fleming (James Bond), and graduated to Robert Ludlum, John LeCarre and Fredrick Forsythe. Lee Child, Daniel Silva and Brad Thor are some current favorites. But movies have influenced me as much as any novels, and I especially love the old 70s thrillers. Marathon Man, Three Days of the Condor and The Parallax View, stand out as stories that combined action, ideas and a sense of menace, with characters and stories that stayed with me for a long time. When I write my thrillers, I see them playing out like movies in the big screen of my imagination.
The idea for Living Proof came from an item I saw in the news. It was about a killer who had been sentenced to death after a drug related murder, but had been born again in prison, and was an entirely different person than the one they had convicted. This was a complex moral situation, but I found the idea mutating in my mind, and eventually popping back out as a new question – What would happen if the government really didn’t kill death row inmates, but was running experiments on them? All the characters, action and plot emerged from that thought. Writing Living Proof was a blast. The characters became real to me, and the story practically wrote itself.
If you have enjoyed reading this novel, I would be extremely grateful if you could do me a couple of big favors:
First, readers find new
authors primarily based on word of mouth—whether this is in person or online. One of the ways this happens is through reviews. If you enjoyed this story, please leave a brief review—it really does help. Here is the Amazon review link: https://amzn.to/2B0ik4F
If you would like to receive information on future thrillers (I have 2 more novels ready to be released soon, and I’m starting a new series, with some characters you might find familiar), please join my Readers List. I will give you advance notice any time I have a new release, as well as freebies and specials only available for those on the list. I promise, I won’t waste your time and will never spam you. http://authorpeterthompson.com/contact/
Thank you!
Please keep reading for a sneak pre-view of my next novel, The Runaway. Like Living Proof, it is a big novel with lots of characters, suspense and plenty of action. It will be available for sale on January 26, and I hope you’re going to love it.
Thank you so much. If you have any questions, comments or suggestions, please follow me on Amazon or contact me through my website, www.authorpeterthompson.com.
Thank you again and I really appreciate your support.
Peter J. Thompson
December, 2018
Excerpt from The Runaway
Excerpt from The Runaway - An exciting new thriller to be released January 24th
Link to pre-order
Day 1
Friday, October 21
25
Jack. That was what they called him. Jack Freaking Sullivan. Close enough to his real name, Zach Monaghan, so he’d remember it, but every time someone called him Jack he felt like a phony, a fraud. The worst thing was, he had to answer by the name at home too. He’d lived as Zach all his life, and now even his mom was calling him Jack. When she remembered, anyway. It pissed him off.
Living Proof Page 31
