Overbrook Farms

by Neal Goldstein

  Benson hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath and exhaled. “I’m the one who should be asking you that.”

  She squeezed his hand and shifted her eyes to Haley and said. “We’re holding up.”

  An hour later one of the surgical residents came in holding an evidence bag. He handed it to Loman, “Here’s what’s left of the slug.”

  “Can you tell us anything?” Loman asked.

  “The patient lost a lot of blood. It’s a good thing it wasn’t a center mass wound,” he paused, looked over at Lena and Haley and said, “The team is doing everything possible.”

  Benson and his colleagues looked at the remains of the bullet that had been removed by the surgeons. From the fragments in the plastic bag they knew Hunter had been shot with a hollow point bullet. Not good news. The hollow point is designed to mushroom once it enters the target, spreading tiny bullet fragments in every direction, causing horrific damage in its wake.

  Three hours later the surgeon entered the waiting room. Haley was asleep with her head in Lena’s lap. Lena slowly stood, trying not to disturb the girl, and gently placed Haley’s head on the seat. She followed the surgeon into the hall. Benson joined them.

  “Is my husband going to live?”

  “Mrs. Carson, he sustained very severe trauma to his abdomen and intestines. He’s resting in recovery now.” He locked eyes with her and continued,

  “The bullet fragments perforated several arteries and organs. We had to remove Mr. Carson’s spleen; we think we were able to get all the foreign bodies and stop the bleeding,” he paused. “The next 24 to 48 hours are critical.”

  “Can I see him?” Lena asked.

  “Of course. He’s under heavy sedation.”

  “If Haley wakes up, tell her I’ll be right back,” she told Benson.

  Haley jerked awake when Benson walked back in. She looked around the room. “Where’s Lena?”

  “She’s with the surgeon,” Ophelia replied.

  Haley shifted her eyes from Ophelia to Loman and finally to Benson.

  “Is Hunter dead?”

  “No honey. But he was seriously injured,” Benson answered.

  “I want to see him.”

  “I know. Lena will be right back and let us know how he’s doing.”

  Haley paced back and forth as they waited. When Lena arrived, the girl ran to her. “How is he?”

  Lena embraced her, “He’s sleeping. The doctor said he needs to rest.”

  “Did he say anything?” Haley asked.

  Lena shook her head, “No. He’s on a ventilator. Haley, there’s nothing more we can do now. We should go home. The doctor said he’d call if there’s any change.”

  “No, I want to stay here,” Haley said.

  Lena took her in her arms, “We need to rest,” she turned and looked at her friends. “All of us.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” Ophelia said. “If they call, I’ll bring you back.”

  Benson escorted Lena and Haley to Ophelia’s car and Loman followed them home.

  It was 4 am when Benson headed for his car. When he got to the hospital earlier that evening, the only parking space available was in the last lane of the rear lot. Now his car was the only one left. He was so drained and exhausted that he paid no attention to the absence of overhead lights at the empty lot. He also didn’t give any thought to the fact that his car’s courtesy lights did not go on when he opened the door and got in.

  As he reached for his seatbelt, he felt the cold barrel of the weapon press against his neck. The adrenaline rush that pulsed through his body instantly flushed away the fatigue.

  “Don’t, be stupid,” Qwon Du-Pak said when Benson tensed. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have shot you before you got to the car.”

  “If you’re not going to kill me, what do you want?” He replied, as his mind raced through his options to get out of this alive.

  “Just to talk.”

  Benson turned slightly and locked eyes with the assassin, “If that’s all you want, then put down the gun.”

  Qwon hesitated for a beat before removing the weapon from his neck, but she continued to hold it in her hand.

  “So, talk” Benson said.

  “I didn’t shoot your friend.”

  “I know. The preliminary report from forensics was that the bullets that killed Ran didn’t match the weapon we found at the scene,” he shifted his eyes to the 9mm Glock in Qwon’s hand and said, “I assume you shot him with that.”

  She nodded.

  “Why did you kill Ran?” Benson asked.

  “He was a double agent. He worked for Kim Jun Un’s uncle, Jang. Un’s uncle was planning a coup. He wanted to murder his nephew and stop the summit. But the Dear Leader found out, and struck first.”

  Benson tried to wrap his mind around what he had just been told.

  She continued, “I couldn’t let Ran kill the child or your friend.”

  “But what about the minerals? Doesn’t Un still need them?”

  Qwon shrugged and said, “It seems the Republic has found another source.”

  Benson gave her a questioning look.

  “The Russians.”

  “So, are you telling me they’ll be no further attempts by the RGB on Haley and her grandfather?”

  She nodded. “Is your friend going to survive?”

  Benson exhaled heavily and said, “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Before she got out of the car, she handed Benson her weapon. “You can give this to your technicians. They can match the weapon to the bullets from Ran Kang-Dae’s body, and they can match the round the surgeons recovered from your friend to Ran’s weapon.”

  Benson stared at the woman in disbelief. “You’re giving up your weapon? Aren’t you worried I’ll shoot you?”

  She held his gaze, “No. You don’t strike me as someone who would shoot an unarmed woman.”

  “How can you be so sure of that?”

  “I’d bet my life on it,” she said, got out of the car and walked away.

  Epilogue

  Qwon Du Pak, put down the newspaper she had been reading beside her on the bench. She was sitting in the 30th Street Station waiting for the train to New York City. The article chronicled the events of the preceding night. According to the report, Hunter Carson remained in critical condition. His injuries delayed the opening of the exhibit of his works that had been scheduled to start at the Philadelphia Museum of Art in two weeks. A side bar article included photos of the man’s sculptures and drawings. She had no idea that Carson was so talented.

  She had never given any thought to how anyone could produce objects that could evoke such emotion and wonder. All of this was so foreign to her. She could not conceive of such beauty in the world in which she lived, and the horrible acts she had committed.

  She wondered if she could ever return to that life.

  She checked the schedule board that hung over the service desk in the center of the station, and watched as the disks with the train names, gates, and times whirled up and down the big board with a clickety-clack, as the information was relayed over the public address speakers.

  Qwon hadn’t paid attention to the schedule board, and to her recollection she had never seen a display like that before. She smiled in admiration of the ingenuity of the contraption.

  “Young lady,” a deep baritone voice brought her back to the moment. She turned and saw an old black man, with intelligent eyes and a shock of white hair that looked like cotton, sitting on the bench across from her.

  “I couldn’t help noticing you admiring the schedule board. Would you like to hear more about it?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “It’s a Solari Flipboard; the last one in service in train stations in the United States. All the rest were replaced with soulless digital screens,” he frowned. “The damn fools who run Amtrak are going to remove the Solari from here. They claim it’s too hard to maintain,” he shook his head. “It’s been h
ere for almost 50 years. Never been a problem. And they seem to be OK at railroad stations all over the world. Just plain lazy if you ask me.”

  “You appear to know a great deal about all of this,” Qwon said.

  The old man blushed, “Well, I should. I worked here for over 40 years. Started as a porter and retired as the Assistant Station Manager. Sorry about running off at the mouth. It just struck me you might find it of interest.”

  Qwon smiled, “You were right; the board’s fascinating. Thank you for the history lesson,” she paused and shifted her eyes back to the board. “Maybe they’ll change their mind about removing it.”

  He shrugged. “What train are you waiting for?”

  “The Keystone to Penn Station.”

  He made a face, “Penn Station’s a dump, looks like a subway station, and smells even worse. If you have time, I suggest you go over to Grand Central Terminal. It’s beautiful. Even grander than here; all it’s missing is a Solari.”

  She smiled and replied, “I think I will,” just as the flip board whirled and clickety-clacked, along with the public announcement of her train’s arrival and the departure gate.

  “Safe travels,” the old man said as she stood up.

  As she walked towards the gate, she felt the warmth of a simple exchange with a total stranger. It was something so different from the cold and lonely existence she had experienced for so long. Is this how normal people live? she wondered as she stepped on the escalator that descended to the train tracks.

  THE END

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Publishing a book as an independent author, requires the assistance and contributions of many individuals. I’m so lucky to have a core group with whom I can rely to help me with the myriad of issues that must be overcome to bring a novel from an idea to a finished work that, hopefully, will find an accepting audience among the reading public. If there are any errors of fact or procedure regarding any of the various subjects and institutions included in the story, they are the result of either my misunderstanding, or taking literary liberties to enhance the novel.

  First, I want to thank my assistant Margret McGrath for, once again, making sure I didn’t erase my manuscript, and for coming to my rescue to solve my never-ending crisis with the computer. And since I’m addressing technical issues, I also want to thank Meghan Lentine, who never once said, “OK Boomer,” when I needed input only a millennial could provide to someone like me – an old fart – who needs help turning my computer on and off.

  Special thanks to Lisa Kimbro, the guru of grammar and princess of punctuation, Joel Samitz, Carole Zatz, and Steve and Julia Farber, my beta readers, whose comments, suggestions and encouragement helped make the book a finished product.

  The invaluable contributions of my editor Heidi McKinley, whose insights, technical and thematic advice and suggestions were invaluable contributions.

  Thanks also to my sons Matt and Ben for the covers of my books, and for so much more. Love you guys!

  Last to my wife Marilyn, who is the glue that keeps me together.