Shelter From the Storm

by Peter Sexton

  “No!” Miranda yelled. She ignored Anderson as she knelt down next to Lawrence and took his hand into both of her own. “What did you do?”

  “Randi,” Lawrence managed to say, his voice thin and raspy. “You all right?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Miranda said. She had Lawrence Blackwell’s head in her hands now, wiping perspiration from his forehead with her bare hand.

  Lawrence repeated, “Are you all right?”

  Trying not to allow her emotions to cripple her and render her motionless, Miranda spoke to the man who had just jumped between her and certain death. He had taken all the bullets that had been intended for her.

  “You’re gonna be all right,” Miranda repeated over and over. “You’re gonna be all right.”

  Lawrence tried to smile. Reached up and took her hand into his own and tried to squeeze it.

  “You saved my life,” Miranda said.

  Lawrence grunted, shifted his weight. He gasped for air, coughed. His eyes glazed over.

  “Help me!” Miranda called out. “Hurry!”

  Sarah had just reached the open doorway. When she saw Lawrence, she said, “Oh, Jesus! What did he do?”

  Miranda could only shake her head. “We need to stop his bleeding now! Get me something. Towels, sheets...anything.”

  Sarah looked toward Anderson and Trammel, both sitting with their guns pointed at each other, seemingly in a stand-off. “What about him?” Mean- ing Anderson.

  Anderson stared at his handgun, then let it down to his side, but kept it in his hand. “Go ahead and help her,” he said.

  Trammel kept his gun pointed at Anderson. He nodded.

  Sarah left the room for hardly a moment and returned with a stack of large, white bath towels. She handed them to Miranda. Miranda pressed the first towel to Lawrence’s chest and removed it almost immediately, saturated with his blood. She replaced it with a fresh one. And then another.

  She looked up at Anderson then. “He might die,” she cried. “You happy now?”

  Anderson said nothing. He seemed incapable of pulling his eyes from Miranda’s accusatory stare. Miranda replaced yet another towel.

  “We need to get him some help,” Miranda said. “We need to call 911.”

  “No calls,” Anderson said.

  Miranda flipped the towel over. She lowered her mouth to Lawrence’s ear, and said, “You’ve got to hang in there, Larry. We’re gonna get you some help.”

  The harsh, coppery scent of blood assaulted Miranda’s nostrils. She could almost taste it. She was about to say something to Anderson when Lawrence stirred. She looked down as he spoke.

  “I’m just...just glad you’re not...you’re not hurt.” He barely managed to get the words out.

  “You have to let us get him some help,” she said to Anderson. “He’s gonna die.”

  Without taking his eyes from Anderson or lowering his weapon, Trammel pulled his car keys from his left pocket and tossed them to Miranda. “There’s a red canvas bag in my trunk,” he said. “Get it. Hurry!”

  Miranda hesitated. Stared at Anderson, anxious to move.

  Anderson nodded toward the door. “Go.”

  Lawrence had lost consciousness by the time she returned with the bag.

  Steven Trammel said, “There’s a package in there called QuikClot. Get it out. Tear open his shirt and pour the contents directly onto his wounds. It’ll stop the bleeding.”

  Miranda found the product and did as she had been instructed. Lawrence convulsed at the touch of the grainy substance, and uttered a loud groan. He opened his watery eyes then. They had a faraway look about them. He reached up and grabbed Miranda’s arm, then closed his eyes again.

  Miranda looked directly at Anderson. “Thank you.”

  Anderson said nothing.

  “Where’s my mother?” Miranda asked.

  “Where are my documents?”

  “The documents can’t help you anymore,” Miranda said. “Don’t you understand that? It’s all over.”

  “Give me everything you took from my office and your mother doesn’t have to die.”

  Miranda laughed. It was a sudden and uncon- trolled laughter. Sarah glanced at her, a look of utter shock on her face. For the moment Miranda didn’t think she was going to be able to stop laughing.

  “You planning to let me in on the joke?” Anderson asked. “I’d really love to hear it.”

  “She’s already dead,” Miranda announced confi- dently. “Right? You’re bargaining with her life but you must have already killed her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m just finally being realistic. Sorry, but you don’t impress me as a considerate, forgive-and-forget type of man.” She looked down at Lawrence, as if confirming her statement. “I’m still trying to figure out why you let me help Larry. Or why you haven’t shot the rest of us yet.”

  “I didn’t kill your mother,” Anderson said. “I was planning to, just as I was planning to kill you.”

  “Killing me won’t keep what you’re planning to do with the MREs from becoming public know- ledge.” The look on Anderson’s face told Miranda that Sarah had been dead-on accurate with her discoveries and conclusions. Someone was poisoning the MREs, and Anderson must know the specific players involved. “I’ve made copies of everything and put them in the mail to several of the national newspapers, as well as Newsweek and Time maga- zines. In a matter of time—hours maybe—the world will know what you’re involved in.” Her adrenaline hardly allowed her to take a breath. “So you see? Killing me won’t save you. Killing all of us won’t save you. It’s over.”

  Anderson said nothing, simply stared at her. Miranda didn’t think he would kill her, but the reason had nothing to do with the conspiracy she was privy to.

  She said, “I know the truth.”

  “The truth? What truth?”

  “The truth about you and my mother.”

  The look on Anderson’s face told her she had stunned him.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “She told you about our affair.” It seemed to come out reluctantly, as though Anderson feared he might be inadvertently confessing to the infidelity.

  “That’s a start,” Miranda said. “Keep going.” She was surprised by the bravado she heard in her own voice.

  “What do you mean keep going? That’s all there is. We were young, we were stupid. We had an affair.”

  Remembering the details from the letter her father had written her, it occurred to Miranda that Anderson might not actually know the truth. It was certainly possible. She decided not to hold anything back.

  “You didn’t know my father was sterile, did you? He was ashamed. It tore him apart to know how badly my mother wanted a child, and that he couldn’t give her one. He could never bring himself to tell her the truth. Just kept acting like he was genuinely trying to get her pregnant. Then one day he comes home from work and she has a special dinner all prepared. When he asked her what the occasion was, she told him it was a surprise. She wanted to tell him after they had eaten.”

  More skepticism on Anderson’s face, as though he already knew where Miranda was going with this, as though he was already preparing to refute it.

  “After they finished their dinner, my mother gave my father a gift. He opened it to find a leather baby album. That’s when she told him it was for their baby, that she had finally become pregnant.”

  Realization enveloped Anderson’s face. He tried to speak several times, but no words came.

  No one else in the room spoke.

  Then Miranda announced, simply and without inflection, “You’re my biological father.”

  Anderson’s attempt to refute Miranda’s claim came instantly. “You don’t actually expect me to believe that, do you?”

  “It’s the truth. Why would I lie to you about something like that, especially now?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you believe you’ll uncove
r some hidden well of compassion, some goodness of spirit.” He paused. “Don’t waste your energy. No such well exists.”

  After a moment, Miranda said, “It’s a little ironic, don’t you think?”

  “Ironic?”

  “How things work out, how everything seems to happen for a reason. How small the world is. How our lives can change in an instant.” She glanced down at Trammel, stared at him for a long time before continuing. “My mother’s life the instant she became pregnant. My father’s life the day he learned of her pregnancy. And again when you figured out a new use for his research.”

  “I still don’t believe you,” Anderson said.

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it? It doesn’t change anything. The man who I will always think of as my father is dead, killed by you or people who work for you.” She looked down at Lawrence again, her mother’s husband. “Maren. And, like I said, I figure my mother’s dead, too.”

  “You know what your mother told me?” Anderson said. “She told me she was sorry anything had ever happened between us. She said that she was young, and that she’d made a mistake. She said she wished she could go back and undo the whole mess.” Anderson contemplated the gun in his hand, as if he was confused by its presence. “She said that if I didn’t leave you alone, she would have her lawyer take the evidence your father sent her and give it to the media. And if that wasn’t enough to make me go away, she’d track me down and kill me herself.”

  “So she’s really still alive?” Miranda asked. “You weren’t lying to me?”

  “She was when I last saw her.”

  Anderson appeared to have nothing more to say.

  Miranda removed her cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” Anderson asked.

  “Getting Larry some help.” She punched in 911 and was about to press SEND. “And then I have an appointment with a reporter.”

  Anderson shook his head. “It’s too late for him,” he said, indicating Lawrence. Cold. Unfeeling. “It’s too late for everything.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sarah asked.

  Miranda had almost forgotten her friend was in the room, until she heard her voice.

  “What young Miranda said about it being over.” Anderson shook his head. “It’s not over. The oper- ation is proceeding according to plan. And I’m afraid it’s too late for anyone to do anything now to stop it.”

  Sixty-Seven

  “He’s trying to scare you,” Steven Trammel said, as he kept his weapon trained on Anderson.

  Miranda could see the pain on Trammel’s face, the effort he had to exert in order to keep the heavy revolver up and pointed at Anderson. She wondered how much longer he would be able to hold up.

  “Don’t be naïve, Steven. You know I’m telling the truth. Why lie to her now?” Anderson paused. “You could shoot me and it wouldn’t stop what’s going to happen.” He shifted his gaze from Trammel to Miranda. “No amount of evidence you think you have will do you—will do anyone—any good.”

  “It’s over for you,” Miranda said then. “At the very least, you’re gonna be spending a lot of time in federal prison.”

  Anderson laughed.

  “You don’t believe me? I will link you to my father’s murder, as well as what happened to Sarah’s house in Nevada.” Miranda thought about what Trammel had told them earlier this evening, about the underground railroad, about the possibility of using it to transport the tainted MREs across the country. She decided to play a little gamble. “We know about the tainted MREs and all the soldiers that have been targeted. We know about the Top Secret underground military railroad you’re gonna use to transport the product across the country so it can be shipped overseas. And once we talk with the media about your plans and they televise it, the whole world will know what you’ve done, what you were planning to do.”

  The look on Anderson’s face told Miranda that she was on the right track. She kept going with it.

  “Give it up. You’re finished. Even if we can’t see where the train is headed because it’s underground, the whole world will be watching for it to resurface.”

  Anderson said nothing. He appeared to be running his options through his head. Finally, he turned back to Trammel.

  “This is so much bigger than me. I couldn’t stop it now if I wanted to.”

  “Who’s calling the shots?” Trammel asked. “Tell us that much.”

  Anderson didn’t answer his question. Maybe he couldn’t; maybe he truly didn’t know. Instead, he said, “No one from the media will believe you. And once the trucks get to Arizona and go below ground, you’ll never be able to find them. I don’t even know where they’ll be coming out at the other end. It could be any number of places. So even if people are watch- ing, they won’t know what they’re looking for until it’s too late. So you see, by the time you do get anyone to listen to your story—if you do—the product will be headed overseas.”

  Trammel: “Jesus, Robert, don’t let this hap- pen.”

  “I told you, it’s out of my hands.”

  “You can still help us stop this.”

  Anderson shook his head. Miranda noticed that he was slowly lifting his weapon.

  He said, “Or maybe I might still be able to get out of this.”

  Miranda heard a scream, as Sarah pushed her to the ground. She saw Trammel pull the trigger on his empty gun. Shots exploded once again in the small room. Ears ringing, amazed to still be alive, Miranda looked up from where she had landed under Sarah to find Anderson lying in a rapidly growing pool of blood. She immediately turned to Trammel, and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “My gun was empty,” he told her, shock and disbelief on his face. “My gun was empty.”

  That’s when Miranda saw her mother, standing silent and motionless near the front door, a handgun held conspicuously in the hand resting against her right leg.

  “Mother?” Miranda said. “What are you doing here?”

  Gillian was staring at her husband. She didn’t respond.

  “Mother!” Miranda repeated.

  Still no response. Miranda was frightened by the look on her mother’s face.

  “Mother,” she said for a third time. Gillian finally pulled her gaze from Lawrence and looked at Miranda.

  “Yes?” Soft. Gentle.

  “Where did you come from? How did you find us?”

  “I came to help you,” Gillian said. “I’ve been following you since you and Larry left the house. I figured Robert was on his way here to kill you.”

  Sarah, kneeling next to Trammel, picked up the cell phone that had fallen from Miranda’s hand when the second round of shooting started. She spoke into the phone, gave them the address. To Miranda, she said, “The operator heard the gunshots. Help’s al- ready on the way.”

  Miranda turned her attention back to her mother. “Are you all right? You gonna be okay?”

  Gillian didn’t respond.

  Sarah went to Gillian and tried to help her sit down, but the woman refused and jerked herself away. Then she moved around Sarah and knelt down next to her husband.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Gillian managed to tell Miranda.

  The room was silent for a very long time. Miranda rose and started out of the room.

  “Where are you going?” Sarah asked.

  “I need to find some blankets. Larry’s starting to shiver.”

  She turned and hurried from the room and returned moments later with a heavy comforter. “This is all I could find,” she said, as she wrapped it around Lawrence.

  “It’ll be...it’ll be all right,” Lawrence managed to say.

  Miranda stared at Lawrence, as she fought back tears. Then: “Once we get Steven and Larry to a hospital, we need to go see that reporter. That’s our only hope of stopping this.”

  Lawrence reached up and grabbed Miranda’s arm. Perspiration was running down his face and his breathing had been reduced to shallow gasps. He said, “Randi. No time. Get to...” He stopped, tried
to wipe his forehead, his mouth. “...the TV studio. The reporter.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Miranda said. “I’m not leaving Steven. Not until help arrives.”

  “I’m going with you,” Trammel announced. “I can wrap my arm and tape it up for now. You’re gonna need my help finding that abandoned military base.”

  Miranda was about to argue, but Trammel was already getting to his feet.

  “I’ll be all right,” he insisted. “I can go to the hospital when this is all over.”

  “What about Larry?” Miranda asked.

  “I’m here now,” Gillian said. “I’ll stay with him. But Larry’s right, you and Sarah have to get out of here, and you’re going to need Steven’s help. The police won’t let any of you leave once they get here. And I doubt they’ll believe you if you try to explain what’s going on.” She held Trammel with her eyes. Then she said, “You take care of my daughter.”

  “We will all get through this,” Trammel said. “I promise you.”

  “You’re gonna be all right,” Miranda said to Lawrence.

  She saw the tears in the man’s eyes as he took her arm and held it tight. He coughed against the back of his free hand, and when he pulled it away Miranda saw he was coughing up blood.

  “Go,” Lawrence said, after Gillian wiped the blood from his mouth, “see the reporter.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Miranda said.

  “Yes, you do,” Gillian told her. “Go stop this thing.”

  “Come on,” Sarah said. “Let’s do this.”

  Miranda looked at her mother, tried to find something on the woman’s face, though she didn’t quite know what. Then she turned back to Lawrence. She bent down and hugged his head to her chest and kissed his forehead. She tasted his salty perspiration on her lips, as she gently pulled away.

  “I would be lucky to have you for a father,” she said.

  Lawrence managed a slight smile, as tears filled his eyes.

  “We’ll be all right,” Gillian said. “Now go.”

  Miranda picked up the gun her mother had dropped on the floor and made sure it still had some bullets. She put it beside Gillian. “You might need this again,” she said.