“Thomas! Stop! No! Please!” All of this quickly from Marilena, who had fought past the pain of a broken collarbone and gotten to her feet. I could see her in my peripheral vision as she came to me as fast as she could, her face pale with pain, shouting panicked words. Her voice though, was barely registering, a distant and failed intervention.
I squeezed Montgomery’s head between my hands and told my arms to twist her head, to twist it until her neck snapped! At exactly that moment, Marilena stumbled on top of me, her body hitting mine, and her right arm encircling me as she slid to the floor. Her remaining usable hand found one of mine still holding Montgomery’s head; her left arm dangled uselessly from her shoulder. Her touch, her right hand on mine, somehow stopped me. Amazingly, my arms and hands failed to follow my brain’s orders. I let go and sat back. Marilena gripped me tighter and looked into my eyes.
She spoke softly and held my gaze. “You are not a murderer. You are not her. Remember Ron. Just do what’s right. Let the world work out the rest.”
Her words, Ron’s words, hit me like a physical blow. I pulled us away from Montgomery, away from evil, and held Marilena in both arms dropping to the floor so I could better support her left arm and protect her. She clenched her teeth, containing her pain.
I had killed many times in the line of duty, I had killed to defend my friends while in battle, but she was right. Marilena was right. She had stopped me just in time. I did not want to be a murderer.
Looking around the room, I made eye contact with April who looked like she hadn’t breathed since Treece pulled the gun. She fainted.
QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM
The days immediately following Montgomery’s failed attempt to kill us were difficult. I called for emergency services from the house, pleasantly surprised to see that 911 worked in Barbados but not so happy about the response time of the EMTs. Surprisingly, Montgomery survived. I later found out that the poker had passed between major organs and had only damaged some parts of her small intestine. I didn’t volunteer to do the gut surgery to repair the damage. She no longer mattered. I didn’t care if she lived or died. My second call was to Jim O’Dale. I didn’t have a clue who to turn to in Barbados given that I had just killed two people and the count could rise to three. I got him on his cell and gave him the short version. He told me to keep the faith and hung up. Finally, I heard sirens in the background.
My focus was on Marilena and, to a slightly lesser extent, April. I supervised, again without being requested to do so, the emergency room docs in evaluation and treatment of Marilena’s broken clavicle. Not sure of April’s state and not wanting her to wander off, I kept her close by. Very rarely is surgery required to fix a broken collarbone and, in Marilena’s case like most, it wasn’t. The sling that the hospital finally provided was not much of an improvement on the one I had improvised at the villa. Her recovery would take as much as twelve weeks during which her left arm would be immobilized as much as possible. I knew that I would be pressed into becoming a personal assistant for my temporarily, one-armed girlfriend. April was bouncing back pretty quickly. I co-opted her as assistant’s assistant. I didn’t think that she had gotten used to the violence that had recently become a part of her life because of the Briggs brothers, but being able to focus on helping Marilena gave her something else to think about.
Barbados was considerably more laid back than the U.S., where I would have been hauled off to a jail pending charge. The police escorted us to the hospital, and after we arrived, we were closely watched by four uniformed officers. Their lieutenant departed with our passports. We had been instructed not to leave the island, and I assured the authorities that we wouldn’t. I made reservations at a resort hotel on the southwest coast and passed that along to the uniforms. I was very relieved when, less than ten hours after calling him, Jim O’Dale walked into the emergency room just as we were about to sign Marilena out. He had been accompanied by two FBI people and an assistant district attorney for the State of New York. They interviewed each of us and headed back out to confer with their Barbadian counterparts. I had tried to pin O’Dale down about our prospects as foreigners in the Barbados court system. All I got back was a grin and instructions to sit tight and try not to kill anyone else.
During the next three days, Jim and his hastily assembled team traveled back and forth to the resort, sometimes with local law enforcement types, sometimes alone. At the end of the third day, he appeared by himself and announced that we could leave the island. The Barbadians had been convinced that a trial would be expensive, and more importantly, would damage the tourist trade. No Caribbean island wanted press like that in Aruba over the Holloway disappearance. Basically, it was a matter for the New York district attorney’s office representatives who were conveniently here to escort us back to the U.S. I invited Jim and his friends to accompany us back home on the Hawker. He assured me that by doing so I had reduced the probability of our arrest back in New York. The assistant district attorney had also worked out Montgomery’s return at a later date when it would become safe for her to travel. The local police promised not to let her out of their sight until she was fit to leave. I didn’t volunteer to send a jet for her.
*
Four months had passed since Barbados. Four months that continued to bring changes to my life, changes that had been set in motion since the day Alison Montgomery murdered my only brother.
The Marine Corps extended my leave of absence and the FBI did the same for Marilena. We needed the time to get our legal problems, problems that had transplanted themselves from Barbados to New York resolved, to help the CID Society with an unplanned transition in the light of very bad publicity, and most importantly to me, for Marilena to heal.
The three of us stayed once again at the condo in New York. It was the first time that I had thought of it as just the condo, and not Ron’s condo. I promised both ladies a return to the Caribbean under better circumstances. We visited April’s university and with some help from the FBI, who had written April a “Letter of Appreciation,” got them to waive the last two weeks of school that she had missed. She took her finals and graduated. Helping her study during the evenings gave us something to do after long days working with the police and FBI wrapping up the Montgomery affair.
The CID Society had taken a serious hit due to the press about Alison Montgomery, Margaret Townsend, Sylvia Canfield, Mark Wilson, Caitlin Montgomery, and Jonathan Treece. I met with the board, and we acted to get things turned around. Marilena and I had a quiet conversation with Chubby Woody about how awkward it would be for his romantic feelings about Alison to become widely known and come to the attention of the FBI. We assured him that if we wanted to, we could have the district attorney make their relationship a part of his examination of Montgomery while on the stand. The court reporters would find that juicy grist for the mill — his wife would probably not understand. He quietly resigned as board chair. Probably the first time he had ever done anything quietly. A replacement was selected, and the board moved quickly to install Omar Sayyaf as the new President and Barry Ledderman as the new Chief Operating Officer. I was asked to join the board as Vice Chair. Omar had a private conversation with a former subordinate of Ron’s, the one who had a gambling problem. He resigned as well.
Caroline Little had validated Ron’s work and was in close contact with two pharmaceutical companies that were involved with clinical trials and testing for a new CID therapy. Both companies called me repeatedly, pleading with me to control the “Wild Woman at the Marklin.” I told them they were on their own. Omar, Barry, and I put a new face on the CID Society. We launched a major publicity campaign positioning the society as the enabler of the now discovered cure. Omar restructured the CID Society in preparation for this, and there were many personnel and program changes. As a team, we twisted some arms and with seed money from the Briggs family; a trust was established to make the cure available for free to anyone with CID. Caroline Little, true to Ron’s memory, produced a documentary
about how the cure for CID had been discovered. The show aired repeatedly on educational cable channels. She sent me a very kind note and a copy of the show on DVD along with copies of her letters to the scientific community maximizing Ron’s involvement while minimizing hers. The woman is still an enigma to me. She kidded me about how I would have to go to Stockholm to get the Nobel Prize on Ron’s behalf. I told her we would go together. For a second time, I heard her struggle with her emotions. She told me again how she wished that Ron were alive so that she could yell at him some more.
Alison Montgomery returned four weeks after us to face trial for Ron’s murder and a multitude of other crimes. The FBI task force was fighting the New York district attorney’s office over jurisdiction. No matter, we had been told that irrespective of who got it, the case against her was rock solid. I hoped so. Jurisprudence in America seems to me to be anything but predictable and often not just.
True to her word, Marilena involved herself in my life in a big way. She became the de-facto head of the Briggs’s compound in Boston much to my relief and that of my staff who had all joined her fan club — the Boston Chapter. She remodeled the New York condo combining Ron’s bedroom with one of the guest rooms and rearranging enough of it so that we could sleep in what was his old room. I didn’t question her excuses for the remodel. We needed more room and a bigger bathroom, but we both knew the real reason for the floor plan upheaval. We cleaned up the den, and it became, once again, just a den. Given the time that we would spend in New York, it made sense to keep the place. Marilena stopped her lease on her one-bedroom apartment in Washington, D.C., near Cleveland Park. We selected a large condo just around the corner from the George Washington University, and she furnished it. I read about it in the monthly financial statement. She had exercised little restraint.
She moved April to Boston, and we helped her enroll in law school. April would live at the compound and commute to school. Jason Inch offered her a part time job in their law library after a visit from Marilena. Gus, with Maryanne’s help, was keeping an eye on her and promised me that he would chase off any guys who showed up to date her if they didn’t pass muster. April thought that was cute. Where was he when she was working at Playoffs?
Marilena and I would divide our time between D.C. and Boston with an occasional trip for me to my seldom-visited office in Tampa Bay. I purchased a fractional share arrangement to make frequent use of private jets for the interstate commuting. Marilena added the concierge number for fractional jet provider to her speed dial on her office, cell, and home phones. Of all the perks that came with putting up with me, this one would make up for all of my less desirable traits. She never did give me my Marine Corps t-shirt back although it did periodically reappear, animation included.
As for me, I reflected on my efforts as a detective and decided that I shouldn’t give up my day job. I had bluffed and blundered my way through the entire affair. If it had been left to Marilena and others like her, I believe that the truth would have been eventually discovered and the bad guys caught. The only difference would have been fewer bodies littering the landscape. Marilena was kind enough not to agree with me.
*
It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in Boston. Summer was just weeks away, and the weather guessers said it would be a hot one. Considering this, and knowing that much of the next few months would be in the great air conditioned indoors, I asked Marilena if she would go out with me.
“Of course. Thomas, where are we going?”
“Humor me. I need you and Gus to help me with something.”
Gus met us outside and held the rear door of the BMW open for Marilena. She smiled at him but didn’t ask anything knowing by our conspiratorial behavior that he wouldn’t tell. She settled patiently into row two.
We drove to a park by the water that Ron and Gus had taken me to shortly after our parents had died. On that day, we had flown a kite and tossed a football back and forth — the formation of a new family
I helped her out of the car. Gus went to the trunk and opened it. I reached in and pulled out the radio control helicopter that had held the USB stick, the green and white one with “Cascade Fire Fighters” on the tail boom. The same one that April had kept for Ron. Marilena’s eyes opened wide.
“Is it the same one?” Marilena asked.
“Yeah. I had Antonio ship it back.”
“Are you going to fly it?”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Do you want to be alone?” she asked quietly.
“No. I want you and Gus with me. We have something important to do.”
I had discussed my plan with Gus, and he had been all for it. We had prepped the model a week before checking out the motor and all the systems. I had even made a short flight in the backyard while Marilena and April had been out of the house. Gus removed a small plastic bottle from a case in the trunk. The bottle was small, holding only two or three of ounces of ash. Gus helped me turn the bird upside down. I moved the lever on the control box and opened the water bomb-bay doors and then carefully poured the ash into the compartment, protecting it from the wind with a cupped hand. I moved the lever again and closed the doors.
“Thomas. Are those Ron’s ashes?” Marilena asked, knowing it was a redundant question.
“A little from the urn at the house. Not all, but enough.”
Gus helped me start up the helicopter. We backed away and I picked up the control box. I manipulated the controls and the model lifted off of the ground. For the next several minutes, I flew the toy, a toy that had brought a lot of good times for two grown up brothers, back and forth in front of us, sweeping turns over the ocean and then back to land. I then positioned the helicopter further away, over the water and hovered about twenty-five feet in the air. I knew that I had to finish this soon as for some reason it was getting difficult to see clearly. Must have been some salt spray from the ocean blowing in my eyes. I looked over at the man who had been our surrogate father and the woman who now meant so much to me.
They both nodded, not trusting their voices. I focused on the older man, my standin father and said, “I want you to help me with this. He became your son as much as he was my brother.” Marilena’s face lit up and she enthusiastically added, “Gus, yes! Ron was your family too!”
Gus looked at me and said, “Pal, I may have helped raise you when you were little, but since you’ve grown up, you needed Ronny more than me. Hell, I’m terrified every time you’re out of my sight. You still need someone keeping you in line and she’s right here!” He looked over at Marilena. His face had left behind its serious demeanor, and a big smile had spread across it while he spoke.
I motioned her to me with a small movement of my head. She looked from him to me, her look one of total surprise. My girlfriend, usually a lightning quick study, was for once the one behind the curve.
“Thomas, are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She moved over to me, lifted her hand to the control box and moved her index finger to the lever she had seen me use. Then she hesitated, looked up at me, and then over to Gus, “No. I can’t do this without some help. Gus. Please?”
I noticed that the big Greek, the older man who never aged, never changed, had been studying his shoes. He looked up hearing her ask for him, his earlier smile slowly returning. Gus walked up and with that, he took her hand and guided her finger back to the same lever. He didn’t let go of her hand. “It’s this one,” he said softly, knowing she didn’t need his direction.
“Now?” she asked, worried that she might make a mistake, no matter how small.
“Now is good,” I answered.
Together, they moved the switch that opened the bomb bay doors and the gray and white ash exploded out into the vortex of air under the bird, settling onto the ocean swells below. Goodbye big brother.
As I brought the helicopter back and set it down, Gus wrapped Marilena up in a hug. He towered over her, like I did. He kissed her on the top of her head. She h
ugged him back tighter when he did. She knew she was family.
EPILOGUE
Her name was Betsy McClure, or as she was currently known, Federal Corrections Employee No. 427734. She found her badge number comforting. The last four digits, 7734, had been the last four digits of her daughter Rebecca’s social security number. Betsy often ran her fingers over these special numbers, her only remaining physical connection to Becca. She had refused to bring any pictures of her to the prison, to decorate her locker, to look back at her when she put on her uniform. A beautiful child’s image did not belong in such a hate-filled place. Betsy’s arrival had added to the hate.
She thought about Becca all the time. Her daughter was the most loving and kind child Betsy had ever known, that anyone in Four Points County, Texas, had ever known. She was a friend to everyone, and all the neighbor ladies in their rural community said that she had a “heart bigger than all outdoors!” But Becca was gone now, struck down while working to help others. Stolen from her single mom while Becca undertook an act of selflessness.
Becca had a friend at school with a terrible disease; a poor little child named Connie. Connie had CID, and it caused her nerves not to work the way they were supposed to. Becca didn’t know why, but others did. Connie’s mom had taken Connie to New York to see a special doctor who knew about CID.
After returning home from New York, their school had received a DVD with a call to help from a wonderful lady named Alison Montgomery. Ms. Montgomery led an amazing organization in New York City dedicated to ending CID. The doctor who diagnosed Connie worked for these people. Ms. Montgomery was going to beat CID, but to do so she needed everyone’s help. Watching the DVD, Becca thought that Ms. Montgomery was looking right at her! A brave and beautiful angel who could help Connie! So, when the school sponsored a bike riding team to raise money for the fight against CID, a fight that would be won by that wonderful Ms. Montgomery, Becca was committed to do her part. She scoured the economically depressed county getting just about everyone to sponsor her bike ride. Ten cents, twenty-five cents, sometimes even fifty cents a mile, people made their pledge and wished Becca well. Becca would not let Connie down. She would not let Ms. Montgomery down. She would raise a lot of money for Ms. Montgomery! For Connie!
Death of a Cure Page 31