by Phil Swann
“Close the door,” Sarah ordered, going to a cabinet and taking out some alcohol, gauze, and tape. “Sit down, this is going to sting.” Ben flinched when Sarah dabbed the alcohol on his forearm. She wrapped the gauze around the wound and taped it up.
“Thank you,” Ben said, rolling his sleeve down over the bandage.
“What the hell, Ben!” Sarah replied just under a full-throated shout.
“I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do, I had to bring him here.”
“Who is that? Why is he shot? Did you shoot him?”
“No, of course I didn’t shoot him. You know me better than that.”
“Do I? I haven’t heard a word from you since Tom’s death, and you just show up out of nowhere like this? God, what am I supposed to think?”
“I know, Sarah. It’s just—”
“He needs to be in a hospital, Ben. The clinic’s not equipped for this kind of thing.”
“He can’t go to a hospital.”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
“He could die, Ben. He could be bleeding internally. He could be lying in there right now contracting an infection or a hundred other things I can’t do anything about. He needs to be in a hospital. You know I have to inform the police about this, right?”
“No, Sarah, you can’t. Please just—”
“It’s the law, Ben. I could lose my license. Who is he anyway?”
Ben let out a sigh. “His name is Timon Baros. He was a friend of—”
“That’s Timon Baros?”
“You know him?”
“Tom did. Why is Timon Baros in my examination room with a gunshot wound? Ben, what the hell’s going on?”
Ben realized he had no choice, he had to tell her something, and at this point, the truth was as good as anything. He told her how he met Timon Baros and how Baros said he was a longtime family friend. He even told her about the secret organization Baros claimed to have started with his father. Then he told her about Tom’s supposed involvement with the old man and how Baros believed it was because of their organization’s work that Tom was killed. But he also told her what Stevie said about Baros; how he was a delusional old clown who he and Tom were only leading on so he wouldn’t cause trouble for the campaign. He told her everything, nearly everything, he left out one detail, but he told her everything else leading up to the shooting at Percy Priest Lake. Ben waited for Sarah’s reaction.
“Do you believe him?” she asked. “About this secret organization stuff?”
“I didn’t, then I did, then I didn’t again…up until about an hour ago when someone started shooting at us. Now I don’t know what to believe.”
Ben knew Sarah was working hard at retaining her famous Sarah-esque composure. But he could see in her eyes she was reliving every emotion from the nightmare of eighteen months ago all over again. “Sarah, I know I have to call the police—and I will. I just need to get some things straight before I do. You don’t know what I’ve been through with the police. Hell, they think I got away with killing Tom. Now this? I just need time to figure some things out before I call them—like could that old man’s story in there be true. Because if it is, then…” Ben stopped and waited for Sarah to say something. She didn’t. He continued. “But look, I don’t want to get you into trouble. I understand I’m asking a lot, so if you really can’t—”
“Okay,” Sarah said.
“Okay?”
“I’ll call Tubs,” Sarah said, picking up her cell. “He’s in the neighborhood and has a van. I use him when I need to transfer a patient to the hospital and they can’t afford an ambulance. We’ll take Mr. Baros to my house…for now.”
“What about the girls?”
“They’ve already gone away to school. I’m the only one in the house.”
“Can I stay too?” Ben blurted, lacking any finesse.
Ben wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Sarah crack a smile. “Yes, you can stay too.”
“Thank you.”
Sarah stood and headed for the door. “We need to get Mr. Baros out of here, the night shift will be here soon.” Sarah stopped and looked at Ben for a long moment. “You should have called us, Ben. You should have been there. Me and the girls, we’re family.”
Ben let out a long breath. “I know. I just didn’t know what to—”
“You should have been there anyway.” Sarah quickly changed gears. “Come on, we don’t have much time, we need to prepare the patient for transport.”
Chapter Twenty
The sun was going down, so Ben kept his eyes locked on the taillights of the black van that was following Sarah’s green Audi. As they turned off the main road and proceeded down a private tree-lined drive, Ben remembered why Tom had earned the dubious distinction as being one of the least affluent candidates to ever win the presidency. The Lambros family home, though very nice, was still modest by most ex-presidential standards. It did, however, sit in the middle of three secluded acres of Tennessee white pines, affording the family ample privacy. I can’t even remember the last time I was out here, Ben thought, coming around a tight corner and seeing the black van as well as Sarah’s Audi parked in front of a small two-story colonial.
The man Sarah called Tubs was already out of his van with the rear cargo door open by the time Ben was out of his car. He couldn’t imagine what story Sarah had told the ironically named wire-thin African-American about why the patient was being taken to her house, but he acted as if it was nothing unusual. Ben helped Tubs lift the gurney out of the van. They wheeled Baros up a flagstone walkway to the front porch where Sarah was waiting with the front door opened. She led them into the house and down a hallway into a spacious guest bedroom.
“Ben, you hold the IV bag. Tubs and I will lift him off the gurney.” Ben did as instructed, and on the count of three, Sarah and Tubs hoisted the old man into bed. Baros remained unconscious. “Make sure the IV is secure, Ben. I’ll check his sutures and redress the wounds. Tubs, please get my medical bag, I left it in my car.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tubs replied.
Watching Sarah in action was like watching General Patton at Normandy; she was succinct, direct, and without doubt. No wonder Tom had fallen for her; she was beautiful, yes, but Sarah was more than that, she was a force. He wasn’t surprised how calmly she took in the story he told her about Baros. It was classic Sarah, she was a rock. It’s probably what made her such a good doctor. It’s also what used to irritate the shit out of him about her. Over the years he’d done and said scores of outlandish things for the sole purpose of trying to get a rise out of the woman. He never could, but that didn’t stop him from trying over and over again. He recalled reading an interview with Tom once where he called Sarah the perfect political spouse. He said, when everyone else’s head in the campaign was exploding, Sarah would remain unruffled. Then, with the pragmatism of a scientist, she would figure out a logical way forward. Ben had no doubt that was true. He also had little doubt that had she been given the chance, Sarah would have become one of the most effective first ladies the country had ever seen—but not necessarily the most beloved.
“Where would you like it, ma’am?” Tubs asked, returning with the bag.
“I’ll take it, thank you,” Sarah answered, taking the bag from Tubs.
“Anything else, ma’am?”
Sarah looked around the room. “No, that’s it. Here,” Sarah said, handing the man a large wad of money. “This is your fee plus quite a bit more. Remember, if anyone ever asks, my brother-in-law called you, and you brought him and this man directly to my house because it was closer than the hospital or the clinic. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tubs answered.
Sarah nodded. “Okay, you’re done. Thank you, Tubs.”
Like a good soldier, Tubs left without saying anything else or needing further directive from his commander. Sarah retrieved a stethoscope from the bag.
“Can you trust him?” Ben asked, immediately w
ishing he hadn’t.
Sarah looked at Ben with a fair amount of disdain. “More than I can you, I think.”
Sarah examined her patient, checking his blood pressure, listening to his lungs, and inspecting the sutures yet again. She pulled the stethoscope from around her neck. “His pressure is up some, pulse is steady, and his lungs sound clear.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Miraculous, actually. But Ben, if he starts going south again, he’s going to a hospital. Am I clear? And then you’ll have to call the—”
“I know. I will, I promise,” Ben said.
“Okay,” Sarah replied, softening some. “Come on, he’s going to be out for a while, and I need to eat something. You look like you do too. But first,” Sarah added, opening a closet door, “for Pete’s sake, clean up. Jesus, Ben, you look like a hobo. Here, put this on.” She threw a white button-down at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall.”
Ben caught the shirt—which he was sure was one of Tom’s—and did as ordered.
It wasn’t until he tried taking off his own shirt Ben realized just how battered every inch in his body felt. He always thought of himself as being in decent shape, but doing wind sprints on command and rolling around in the woods was definitely not something his body was prepared for. Everything hurt, and not just the gash on his arm. It also didn’t help matters he was operating on no sleep from the night before. He splashed water on his face and gazed into the mirror. Sarah was being kind; he looked like hell.
Ben emerged from the bathroom looking cleaned, combed, and far better than when he went in. As he walked through the formal living room, it occurred to him how the house was just as he remembered it. Like something out of Better Homes and Gardens magazine, nothing was out of place and everything had a place. On the mantle above the fireplace, he noticed a folded American flag in a wooden display case surrounded by dozens of pictures of Tom. He stopped and looked at the shrine. Three pictures stood out: an 8x10 of Tom as a marine, Tom waving to a crowd on the campaign trail, and the largest, Tom being sworn in as president.
“I have left over pasta and left over pasta,” Sarah yelled from the kitchen.
“I’ll go with the pasta,” Ben answered, following the voice. He walked into the kitchen and saw Sarah pulling containers of Tupperware from the refrigerator.
“How did you know I was working at the clinic?” Sarah asked.
“I read about it a few months ago. I stopped by once.”
“You did? Was I not there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t go in.”
Sarah only nodded and tossed the pasta from the containers into a pan of olive oil.
Ben took a seat on a stool at the breakfast bar. This was the part he’d been dreading. He’d always found casual chitchat with Sarah challenging under the best of circumstances. Sarah Lambros didn’t do casual chitchat, and this was far from the best of circumstances. He decided to give it whirl anyway. “So what made you start a clinic in the hood?”
“I wanted to work. And I needed to do something that mattered. So…”
This time it was Ben’s turn to reply with only a nod.
“You saw Steve,” Sarah said, crushing a clove of garlic with a knife.
“Yeah, I did.”
“How did that go?”
“Better than I expected. He’s really been through some tough times.”
“Yes, he has. I see Julia from time to time,” she said, tossing the garlic in the pan. “We have coffee every now and then, sometimes dinner.”
“Really? What do you think, any chance for the two of them?”
“I think she just needs some time alone. It’s been tough on all of us.”
Ben said nothing for a long moment. “How are the girls doing?”
“Annie’s doing better than Lily—she still has some anger issues. But they’re both back at Linden Hall this year. I wasn’t sure about sending them, but their therapist said if they wanted to go, I should let them. He said the normalcy of being back with their friends and classmates would be good for them both. He didn’t say anything about how it would be for me, though. It stinks, sucks, and is lonely as hell, in case you’re wondering. The house is so damned quiet. Red or white?” Sarah asked, holding up two bottles of wine.
“Red.”
Sarah filled a glass and handed it to Ben, and then poured a glass of white for herself. “So, this story Mr. Baros told you, what do you really think?”
Ben squirmed on the stool. “Well…I want to believe him, but Stevie says it’s me just searching for a way to not be responsible for—”
“You’re not,” Sarah interrupted. “None of us believe you are. None of us blame you, Ben. I know you think we do, but we don’t, never did.”
“Come on, Sarah. You had to have blamed me—even if just a little. I was the one who set up the meeting between Tom and—”
“Please don’t say his name,” Sarah snapped. “I don’t ever want to hear that name again. Especially not in this house.”
“Sorry,” Ben replied.
Sarah pulled out two plates, filled them with the pasta from the pan, and set one plate in front of Ben. “Bon appétit.”
Ben raised his glass of wine, and Sarah clicked her glass to his. Ben waited until Sarah had taken a drink before continuing. “Sarah, I don’t know if what Baros is telling me is true, half true, or a complete fantasy. But after what happened today at the lake…look, I’m not delusional. Odds are it was just some redneck in the woods with a gun. He saw an opportunity to avenge President Lambros’ death, and he took it. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s threatened my life since Tom was killed, albeit not as…poignantly. My life has been threatened several times, which is exactly what the police are going to say this is all about—retaliation against the person who got the president killed. Then they’ll pretend to investigate, but ultimately do nothing. Trust me, I’ve been down this road before with them.”
“How so?” Sarah asked, picking at her plate.
“About a year ago I started getting calls in the middle of the night and death threats in the mail. So I went to the police. You know what the detective assigned to my case said to me? ‘Well, son, you give people a good enough reason to kill you, and someday, someone just might.’ Comforting, huh? Bottom line, Sarah, is my life is in shambles. I know it’s not like how it is for you and the girls, or even Stevie, but it’s still in shambles. You and Stevie might not blame me for Tom’s death, but a lot of other people do. So, yes, I want to believe Baros. Because if there’s even a chance what he’s telling me is true, then I need to get to the bottom of it.”
“What are you going to do?”
Ben took a drink of his wine before he spoke. “I’m going to …” He didn’t have a clue how to phrase his next sentence. “Baros thinks that Tom had information certain people—powerful people—didn’t want him to have. He says they killed him over it. He also says Tom gave that information to me.”
“Gave it to you? Why? When? I know for a fact you and Tom hadn’t spoken to each other in months before that day in the hotel room. How could he have given you anything?”
And there it was, the question Ben knew was coming. “Sarah, before Tom…” Ben stopped, unable to find the right words.
“What, Ben?”
Ben rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Sarah, before Tom died—right before he died—he said something to me.”
Sarah’s face went pale, and she dropped her fork on the plate. “He said something to you? Tom said something before he died? You heard Tom’s last words?”
“Yes.”
Sarah’s bottom lip began to tremble. Ben didn’t know if she was going to start crying or lay into him. “Why didn’t I know this?” she whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I haven’t told anyone, Sarah.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want history to record that President Lambros’ last words were nothing but meaningless gibberish, that’s why.”
“What did he say to you, Ben?”
“Just numbers, random numbers. Sarah, I didn’t think they meant anything at the time…and I’m still not sure they mean anything. But that’s why I didn’t tell anybody. I didn’t want that to be Tom’s legacy. Can you understand that?”
Sarah looked at Ben with a sad, heartbroken stare. He could see the argument going on inside her. Of course she understood. Sarah was as pragmatic as any person could be. He knew she understood and possibly even agreed with his reasoning. But he could also see the wife, and the wife was neither reasoned nor pragmatic. The wife wanted—needed—to know everything about the last moments of her husband’s life.
“What were the numbers?” Sarah asked.
“Fifteen, forty-five, fifty-five, eleven,” Ben answered, almost in a whisper.
“Fifteen, forty-five, fifty-five, eleven?” Sarah repeated.
“Yes. Do they mean anything to you?”
“Sure. That’s the combination to the safe here in the house.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Ben wanted to drag Sarah to the safe and make her open it immediately. He didn’t. Instead he calmly set down his fork and took another drink of his wine. But try as he might to stay composed, he couldn’t keep what was going on in his gut from coloring every word out of his mouth. “Sarah, we have to find out what’s in that safe.”
“Ben, I know what’s in the safe. Nothing special.”
“Where is it?”
“In Tom’s study, but Ben, I assure you there’s nothing earthshaking in there: marriage license, birth certificates, passports, copies of both mine and Tom’s will…that’s about it; things important to me and the girls but certainly no super-secret document like you’re talking about.”
“Maybe Tom put something in there without you knowing it.”
“I’ve been in the safe since Tom’s death, Ben. There’s nothing of value in there to anyone but our family.”
“But…Sarah, he gave me that combination for a reason. Can we at least look? Maybe there’s something you don’t think is important but actually is. Please, can I look in the safe?”
