by Edwin Dasso
“Don’t worry about money—I’ve got plenty to support both of you. Wes’s techie friend found the accounts from a…slave camp we uncovered. It was all ill-gotten funds, so he transferred it all into an account Wes and I control.” He rested his hand on the door knob. “We normally use it to assist homeless veterans, but I asked if we could use some for you and Sasha. Wes is fine with that. Thought it was a good idea.”
Sara set Sasha on the floor and pointed her at the bedroom. “Go wait for Mommy in the other room.” Sasha shuffled into the other room, stopping to wave at Jack before she closed the door. Sara turned back to Jack. “Wh-what are you talking about?”
“Sara! C’mon. These people are killers—that’s what I’m talking about! And now, I’m worried they think you’re involved with me somehow.” He turned and put his hands on her shoulders, staring into her eyes. “They’ll kill you and think nothing more of it than they would if they stepped on a bug on the sidewalk. You and Sasha need to lie low for a while…with some protection, of course.”
She shook her head slowly. “I-I don’t know…”
“I’ve already asked Hank to watch over the two of you until all of this is over. Amanda will be there with you, too.”
Suddenly, Sara hopped up, her arms wrapping around Jack’s neck. Jack tried to step back, but she held him tightly, her lips soon finding his. She kissed him hungrily. Jack resisted, pushing at her before eventually giving in, savoring the feeling of her warm, moist lips on his, her soft tongue ensnaring his. His body abruptly stiffened, and he pushed her away.
“No! I can’t, Sara. I’ve lost every woman I’ve ever loved, and I couldn’t bear a loss like that again.” He held her face in his hands, gazing intently into her eyes. “I just can’t put anyone else in the shadow of my black cloud.”
Sara’s shoulders heaved as she sobbed into his chest.
“I’m afraid my destiny seems to be to live my life without love…”
“Please stay…” she mumbled.
“I’m sorry, but…I-I just can’t.” He pried himself from her arms and twisted away. He opened the door partially and stopped. “You remember Hank—he’s just outside your room. He’ll help you get packed and take you to a safe place.” He turned his head slightly toward her. “Please, Sara. Do this for me.”
He stepped through the doorway, pulling it firmly closed behind him. Hank stepped in front of the door, his back to it, and stood at parade rest. Jack turned to face him.
“You know the plan—call me when you’re there.”
Hank just nodded once in response. Jack turned and shuffled down the hallway, stopping when Hank called out.
“Jack…I wish you’d let me help protect you, too.”
“You’re doing enough already. You’re keeping Amanda, Sara, and Sasha safe. There’s nothing more important to me than that.” Jack turned slowly to face Hank then smiled weakly. “That’s why I’ve asked you to do it. I know they’ll be in good hands.”
Jack turned away and strode toward the lobby.
“Looks like it’s gonna be the lonely life for you, Bass,” he mumbled, wiping away the single tear running down his cheek.
Chapter 44
Later that Evening
Jack stumbled into his bedroom and plopped onto the edge of the bed, extracting the Colt .45 from his waistband. Light reflected from the highly polished surface, making him blink as he glanced fleetingly at it. The heft and smooth, cool metal gave him a sense of security, but in the end, he knew the gun was an instrument of death. He tossed it onto the mattress next to him and looked at it in disgust.
“Shit! You assholes have me reduced to carrying this thing.”
The gun always caused conflicting feelings for him. On the one hand, it reminded him of Lori and his love for her, on the other, he hated that he might be forced to use it to hurt…or kill.
He blew out a long breath as he looked around his room. His gaze fell upon the pictures of Amanda and Janice then upon Lori’s picture, which was sitting on his dresser. He stared at it for a few seconds then stood, trudging over to pick it up. He smiled sadly down at the picture. It was from when they were both recovering in San Antonio, Texas from gunshot wounds they’d received during the Panama conflict. Panama was where Jack had fallen in love with her.
Jack wiped dust from the frame as he again settled onto the bed. When the pistol slid across the mattress and bumped against his leg, he snatched it up, glaring at it a few seconds before dropping it on the floor. He rested his head in his hands.
“I’m tired, Lori. Tired of evil people. Tired of the misery they cause. Tired of good people dying at the hands of evil…” He shot a quick glance at the Colt. “And I’ve grown to hate guns even more than I used to. No—not guns—just what they do in the hands of horrible people.” He stared at Lori’s picture. “And I’m sorry to use your Colt as a possible tool of death—I know you never thought of it that way. It already has too much blood on it…because of me.” His lip trembled. “But…I’ve already lost you, and I just can’t risk losing Amanda, too.” He closed his eyes and hung his head. “Every time I look at her my heart breaks. I think back to what I let happen to you—I’m starting to remember some of it, you know. Enough to know I’m to blame for Amanda not having a mother. I’m so sorry I failed you—just like I failed my mother. And you both died as a result.”
A shiver ran down his arm, as if someone had stroked him gently. Jack swore her picture smiled at him, her eyes glinting, just like the glimmer he’d seen so many times when she was alive. His fingers grazed his arm where he’d felt the shiver, then he smiled sadly. He stood and replaced the picture in its usual spot.
“I think you can understand why I can’t just stand around and let something like that happen again—not to Amanda. She’s all I’ve got, and if I have to, I’ll gladly die in order to protect her.”
He gently set the picture on his dresser.
“I sure do miss you,” he mumbled then turned and shuffled from the room.
Chapter 45
“I really don’t give a shit, Carvin. I’m not getting involved!” the Secretary of Veterans Affairs, Randall Horton, bellowed as he contemplated Schanlon. He cast a quick, embarrassed glance around the bustling lunch crowd in the trendy D.C. restaurant then leaned in closer to his dining partners.
“I know we may all come from the pharma industry, but things are different now. Harry and I are in the public spotlight,” Horton said in a lower voice. “We can’t just intervene—not without being publicly scrutinized.” He stabbed a bun with his butter knife. “Goddam fake news is on us like white on snow!”
The third man, Secretary of the US Department of Health and Human Services, frowned, remaining silent as he sipped at his drink. Horton jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the HHS leader.
“Hell, Harry and I were officers at the same drug company for over ten years before the president appointed us to these positions.” He smiled wryly as he turned his face to Harry, cackling softly. “And we made shitloads of money when we were there.”
Harry smiled and nodded then took another sip of his martini.
“We get it. But we can’t risk getting sucked into this—we’ve got our own plans in the works.” The VA secretary smirked. “After all, we’re not going to be in these roles forever. We’ve got to make sure it’s a productive time for us…for after we leave these positions.”
Schanlon gave them both his best politician’s smile. “But, guys, it’s just to keep things going with the VA-sponsored studies until I can get Bass off my back—”
“Save your bullshit and that little smirk for somebody else, Carvin!” Horton growled. He peered nervously around the dining room then leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table, bending close to Schanlon. “You’re lucky we’re talking to you at all after that shooting at that VA hospital. That was just fucking stupid!”
Schanlon held his arms out, feigning innocence. “What? What’re you talking about—”
Harr
y now leaned in close, too. “You know goddam good and well what we’re talking about!” he said. “So, save the bullshit for somebody else.” He plucked the olive from his drink and flipped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. “Jesus, Carvin, I can’t believe you pulled a stunt like that. We’d have never resorted to something like that in your position.” His set his empty martini glass on the table in front of him. “That’s ballsy…even for you.”
“But, guys, you wouldn’t believe the profit opportunity here. It’s fucking unbelievable!”
Horton wrung his hands like Scrooge counting his money. Harry licked his lips several times then frowned and slowly shook his head.
“No! We can’t get involved,” Harry said flatly. “Maybe if we were still on the business side…”
Schanlon flopped back in his chair, scrutinizing his two colleagues through narrowed eyelids. “So…you won’t help?”
Both of the federal government employees shook their heads.
“No—we just can’t,” Horton mumbled, disappointed. “If we helped and there was ever any connection made between Pharmadosh and that VA shooting, we’d be at risk for investigation, too.” He shook his head. “Nope…you’re on your own.”
Schanlon drained his scotch and glared at his colleagues. “Well, at least let me buy this meal for you—as thanks for being so helpful,” he said sarcastically.
The secretaries exchanged a quick glance.
“No. We’ll pay for our own.” Harry pointed at a man sitting at a table on the fringe of the room. “See that guy over there?” he asked Schanlon.
Schanlon turned and gawked at the man then slowly turned back. “You mean the guy who must buy his suits at Sears?”
“Yep—I guess the Post doesn’t pay that well. Anyway, you know who he is?”
Schanlon’s shrugged quickly. “Hell, if I know.”
“He’s a political reporter with the Post. Can you guess why he’s here?”
“No clue.”
“Because he’s watching us! His antennae are up. He knows our backgrounds—knows who you are. Knows about that fucking shooting at the VA hospital!”
Schanlon glanced over his shoulder at the reporter, who stared blatantly back at him.
“How do you know that?”
“Because he’s already called my office, asking about all of it! Asked me what I thought about the supracentyl study stuff that asshole, Bass, has been splashing all over every fucking healthcare blog in the country! It doesn’t take a genius to start putting the pieces together, Carvin. He’s a good reporter…and he smells blood.”
Schanlon shrugged again. “So? What’s your point?”
“My point is, stay the fuck away from us! And don’t pull any more stupid moves like that shooting. Jeez! Can’t you use a little finesse, at least?” He jabbed a finger at Schanlon. “You’re not sucking us into any quagmire—you do something that stupid again, and I’ll personally sic the FBI on you!”
“Fine!” Schanlon hissed. He jumped from his chair, throwing his napkin onto the table. “Thanks for nothing!” He leaned down closer to the two men. “Fuck both of you! I know you’ve done things to protect your profits, too, when you were in my boots. Just don’t forget what I know!” He stood, spun, and stormed toward the exit, flipping off the reporter when he passed the man’s table.
Chapter 46
Monday, 9:00 a.m.
“Thanks, Martha,” Smithson said as he waved at the VA pharmacist who’d just filled his prescription. “It sucks getting old. I wish I didn’t need this stuff…but I know I have to practice what I always preached as a physician.”
Martha smiled at him and giggled. “Maybe something will change so you won’t need it anymore, General Smithson.”
He stared silently at her for a few seconds. “Yeah…maybe… Tell Henrietta I said hello when she gets back from sick leave.”
“I will.”
* * *
Monday, 10:30 a.m.
Jack sat at the nurse’s station at the hospice, writing some orders in a patient chart. He huffed and rolled his eyes when his phone dinged, signifying a new text message.
“Jesus, I hate technology sometimes.” He finished writing then handed the chart to a nurse. “Here ya go, Greta. I think this will get Mrs. Pearch feeling better again.”
The nurse smiled and took the chart. “Thanks, Jack. I know she’s glad you’re here for her.”
Jack smiled at Greta then spun back to the desk, snatching up his phone. One eyebrow arched slowly as he gawked at the text. His thumb was poised over the delete button, but something made him pause.
“Dyingalone.com?” he mumbled. “What the hell is that?” He remembered Amanda’s warning that he should never click on any link unless he knew who it was from, but curiosity gnawed at his mind. “Might be something related to hospice care…” He pressed his finger to activate the link, waiting several seconds as he was transferred to the site.
“What the—?”
He watched the low-quality video, becoming rigid in his chair when he recognized the outside of his house.
“You sonsofbitches!” He quickly glanced around the nurse’s station, smiling clumsily when he noticed several people staring at him. “Sorry—my bank is screwing up again.”
He jumped up and ducked around the nearest corner in the hallway, his eyes now glued to the screen of his phone. The video was showing the outside of his house as someone walked around the exterior. Whoever was filming it stopped at Smithson’s bedroom window. Jack tensed as the camera was held up over the edge of the windowsill, showing the inside of the room. He saw Smithson convulsing violently on the floor, foamy saliva at the corners of his mouth obvious even in the grainy film.
“George!”
Jack shoved the phone into his pocket. Digging in his pants pocket for his car keys, he sprinted toward the exit.
“Dr. Bass, is something wrong?” one of the nurses called out as he flew past the nurse’s station.
Jack didn’t pause to answer.
Jack’s car lurched, the tires screeching as it skidded to a halt in the driveway of his home. He jumped out and raced to the front door, briefly holding his ear against it before he inserted the key and unlocked it. He pulled the Colt .45 from the waistband at the small of his back, quickly pulling the slide back to chamber a round and cock the gun. He nudged the door open, swiping sweat from his eyes as he crept inside. His mind battled between the desire to get to Smithson as rapidly as possible and not wanting to rush into a trap. He’d called 9-1-1 on the drive to the house but couldn’t force himself to wait for police and paramedics to arrive.
He paused at the hallway leading to the bedrooms, edging an eye around the corner. Seeing no one, he rushed down the hall, stopping at the door to George’s bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. He could see Smithson’s feet where he lay on the floor. Jack threw his shoulder against the door, smashing it into the wall, then he scrambled to check the adjoining bathroom. He found no one. He lowered the gun and dashed back into the bedroom, throwing the gun onto the bed as he dropped to his knees next to Smithson. He bent down, putting his ear next to Smithson’s mouth to listen and feel for breath.
“Shit!”
He hurriedly slid his ear down to Smithson’s chest to listen for a heartbeat.
“No!” Jack immediately started performing CPR. “Not you, George! Not after all we’ve been through…” Jack mashed repeatedly on Smithson’s chest, stopping occasionally to blow breaths into his mouth.
Someone touched him on the shoulder, and Jack jumped. He leaped to his feet, spinning toward the person, his fists balled, ready to rip somebody apart. The EMT stepped back, a fearful look on her face.
“W-we can take over now, s-sir.”
Jack nodded and waved his hand toward Smithson. “Please, hurry! Do everything you can.”
Jack paced as he watched for a few seconds.
“I’m going to get out of your way,” he mumbled.
Jack stumbled down the hallway
, standing aside as several more EMTs carried equipment toward Smithson’s room. For the first time, he noticed Amanda’s bedroom door was ajar. His heart started racing. She, like most teen girls, always kept her door closed. He felt for the pistol in his waistband but quickly remembered he’d left it on Smithson’s bed. He edged Amanda’s door open and peered inside. It was a mess—but not the usual mess. He opened the door all the way and stepped inside, his gaze running over every inch of the room. Obviously, someone had tossed the place—whether they were just being malicious or looking for something, Jack had no way of knowing.
“You fuckers are giving me no choice,” Jack snarled.
He straightened up the room as he listened to the bustle and voices coming from Smithson’s room. Jack was setting one of the last of the stuffed animals on Amanda’s bed when his attention was drawn to the EMTs wheeling a gurney by the open door. His gaze shot to the pile of equipment on the cart. Tears began to fill his eyes as realization set in.
“Wh-where are you going?” He bounded across the room.
The first-arrival EMT stopped in front of Jack. “There you are—we wondered what happened to you.” She turned her eyes down. “I-I’m sorry—we tried everything. H-he just didn’t respond.”
Jack rushed into Smithson’s room and kneeled next to his body. “I-I’m a doctor…maybe I can think of something else to try,” he called out.
The EMT followed him but just stood at the door then shrugged. “What do you have in mind?”
Jack was silent, his chin slumping to his chest after a few seconds. “Nothing…” he mumbled.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the EMT muttered from the doorway.
Jack just nodded silently, unable to tear his eyes away from Smithson’s lifeless body. He placed his hand gently on Smithson’s chest and stared down blankly at his friend of many years—the person who was the closest thing to a father Jack had ever had.
“The police are here so we’re packing up, sir. Please don’t move or touch anything.” the EMT said.
Jack nodded slowly, wiping at the tears cascading down his face and neck. His phone rang, and he jumped. Thinking it was the police, he hurriedly dug it out of his pocket.
