by Quinn, Jack
“Which means I can’t breathe.”
No one spoke until Sammy said, “Maybe that’s enough for today.”
Andrea pulled her arm from his grip. “I want the whole, rotten story now, so I know what to expect. First, this is terminal, correct? No cure, drugs on the horizon? Chemo treatments? Anything?”
Lawton gave her a reluctant shake of his head. “I’m afraid not, Andrea.”
“We can prescribe drugs that could slow the process,” Clausen said, “but like most medications, there are side effects you might find unacceptable.”
Dr. Rizzo looked up from the ballpoint pen he had been holding in both hands, scrutinizing. “The best route for assistance, information and counsel on how to live with this is the ALS Association.”
Andy cocked her head at them. “You mean you guys are off the clock?”
“Not at all,” Lawton said. “I want to see you on a regular basis, monitor your condition....”
“The symptoms exacerbate muscular deterioration,” Claussen began....
Andrea interrupted. “Precisely what can I expect?”
Dr. Ng’s voice was choked. “You are a strong woman.”
“I’ll bawl my guts out when I get home.”
“Which brings us to the topic of ‘care giver’s,” Dr. Rizzo said.
Sammy entwined his fingers in Andrea’s. “We’ve got that covered.”
None of the physicians seemed convinced.
“I’ll give you the number of the local ALS Chapter before you leave,” Claussen told him.
Andrea repeated her question. “Prognosis, doctors?”
Lawton shifted in his chair. “Your legs are pretty weak now. They’ll get weaker. I understand you have ordered a motorized wheelchair, but be prepared for the need for a succession of different chairs to accommodate the advanced symptoms. Your motor nerves will cease to communicate with the muscles in your fingers, hands and arms. For all intent and purpose, you’ll be paralyzed. At that point, you’ll be confined to bed. When your ability to speak begins to go, there are computer generated systems that....”
“How do I use that, if my fingers can’t punch a keyboard?”
“That should be a long way down the road,” Dr. Claussen answered. “They have voice-synthesized devices that mimic speech now. Computers activated by a stylus held in your teeth. By the time you get to that stage, there should be even more sophisticated technical advances along those lines.”
“The clock started ticking for me almost two years ago, so there’s no guarantee I’ll be on the long side of the average, right?”
Dr. Lawton ordered the papers in his buff folder and closed it preparatory to adjourning the meeting. “Let’s not think about that yet.”
“I have to think about it! I’m in the middle of the biggest news story of my life that I’m damned well going to finish before this friggin’ disease cuts my wind off.”
“Your primary concern,” Claussen said, “must be the prolongation of your health and comfort.”
“Am I going to be in pain?”
“Not a bit,” Lawton assured her.
“Lose my mind, become a goddamned vegetable?”
Dr. Rizzo almost smiled at the second gram of positive news that would come out of their meeting. “You will retain every bit of your mental faculties.”
Dr. Ng added, “Even the ability to engage in sex.”
“Big deal,” Andrea scoffed. “Who’d want to screw a damned corpse?”
No one attempted to answer her obviously rhetorical question, so Andrea referred to their previous topic. “Then my priority, if you’ll pardon the contradiction, doctors, will be my Iraq artifact story. If I’m going to buy the farm in a couple of months anyway, I might as well go out on the only shooting star I’ve ridden in my entire career.”
“What’s the point?” Sammy asked her. “It sounds like you won’t be able to run around the country like we have been. We don’t have a news org behind us to pick up the slack. By the time you’re ready to go on the air....”
Lawton frowned, interrupting Sammy’s argument. “If I understand the kind of work load and stress you’re contemplating, you could not only precipitate a rapid advance of the deterioration, but shorten your potential lifespan.”
Andrea’s laugh was forced. “So what? I’m going to die anyway. I should sit around contemplating my navel, sipping chicken soup, waiting for my last gasp, instead of scoring a mark for myself that few people on this entire planet have a shot at? Doing it your way, I’d make no more of a scratch on history than if I died at birth. Disease or no disease, I have a chance to do myself, and maybe the entire country a good turn. I’ll be damned if I’m going to pass it up.”
The Council delegates were gathered in the central parlor of the lavish hunting lodge located deep in the northwest forest bordering the jutting buttes and barren valleys of Roosevelt National Park in the North Dakota Badlands. They had flown in from various cities around the world at separate times, the final leg of their journey to the remote location by a helicopter provided by the same corporation that owned the rambling retreat, whose outer walls were sheathed in wide, raw planks weathered to gray by the harsh summer sun and winter blizzards.
Reddish-yellow flames reached into the cavernous chimney from the stout logs in the huge fireplace, flickering light and shadow on the five men seated at the rough-hewn table with pristine surface burnished to a tan gloss in the otherwise darkened room, whose long drapes had been drawn against the broad windows and snowy night beyond.
They seemed as awkward in one another’s company as they were uncomfortable in their new woodsmen’s shirts, flannel trousers and hiking boots, gathered around the table in silence as the housekeeper/cook cleared the remnants of their dinner. When she had left the room, a dark haired, sharp-featured man in his forties with a carefully-trimmed Vandyke beard and alert demeanor addressed his associates.
“We all know why we are here and the nature of the problem that our superiors have instructed us to resolve. There is no need to dissemble or speak in obscure terms. The cook is a deaf mute, and our corporate benefactor is sworn to the patronage and secrecy of this meeting. Not a word spoken in this room will ever leave it, because we are not required to report our decision or its resultant action to anyone.”
A ruddy-cheeked ascetic septuagenarian ran a hand over his thick, white mane, speaking in the haughty clipped tone of the British gentry. “People are beginning to gravitate toward her convoluted reasoning. Not our most devout, but lethargic, occasional churchgoers, the vast majority we have always striven to bring into the core fold.”
“At best, she will carve a good number from every congregation,” added the youngest of the gathering, distinguished from his elders by sandy crew cut and Scandinavian inflection. “We all lose, and she sets hundreds of thousands of amoral heretics loose around the globe.”
“We’re agreed on the problem,” an Hispanic man told them. “What shall we do about her?”
The rotund man in his sixties with a bald head, dark skin surrounding close-set eyes spoke with confidence and finality. “She must be stopped.”
“We have all explored legal avenues,” the dark haired man said.
“The American Constitution protects her.”
“As do the brawny thugs around her,” the fat man observed, “ambivalent police, their clandestine movements.”
“She could just disappear,” the white-haired man suggested.
“To take her by force would be difficult,” the blond man ventured. “She is always in a public place or sequestered.”
“Take her where?”
“Her message is evil, a travesty against the sanctity of all means of worship.”
The Hispanic man slapped a palm on the table. “And our merciful God! Let us stop beating the bushes!”
All five men uttered their concurrence.
“We will allow the good Lord to assign responsibility in this sacred undertaking,” the dark haired man s
aid. He produced a pewter chalice containing five slips of paper folded twice; four were marked with a “0,” one with an “+.” He passed the cup around to his fellow conspirators. “The person who draws the cross will devise the means of executing his task within the next five days. Only the chosen one will know he has been blessed with this holy mission.”
They were silent on the taxi ride back to her condo. Once Sammy had settled her in on the wide sofa with a bottle of vodka, tumbler and ice, she insisted that he leave her alone, which he did with obvious hesitation. He was only partially reassured at her contention that she could use the bathroom from the wheelchair, wincing at her promise not to slit her wrists in the tub until they had said a proper goodbye.
Sammy returned that evening with a brightly gift-wrapped box and brown paper bag emitting the tantalizing smell of Chinese food. She had been sitting in the dark in the same position he had left her. When he turned on the table lamp, he saw that her eyes were red and the liquor bottle nearly empty beside an ashtray overflowing with unfiltered cigarette butts. He placed the package in her lap on his way to taking the debris to the kitchen, ignoring her mute reception and unconcealed distress. He transferred a Chinese meal from the warm white cartons to dinner plates, then arranged the food and place settings on the cocktail table in front of the couch.
Her attitude softened as he sat cross-legged on the rug at the end of the low table, but she continued to glare at him in silence, far less inebriated than she should have been, his gift unopened where she had thrown it on the cushion beside her.
“Timmy called,” Sammy told her. “He got the names of seven experts he’s pretty sure are working to authenticate the artifact items.”
Her words were aggressive, but her tone listless. “Good job, Sam. Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
“I’ll call them first to see if I can verify the item they’re supposed to be examining, feel them out on vulnerability to disclose more if I go to see them.”
“This could be the break, Sam. You did great.”
Sammy handed her a plate of moo goo gai pan, studiously ignoring her displeasure. “Let’s wait ‘til we get some real answers before passing out the kudos.”
“I feel so helpless sitting in that frigging wheel-buggy, letting you carry my whole load.”
“Dig in, Princess. You’re gonna need all the energy you can muster helping me track down that treasure chest.”
She continued staring at him for several moments longer, forcing him to hold the plate extended over her knees until she leaned forward to accept it, reached for the utensils and began to eat.
“Not interested in your present?” Sammy asked.
“A going away present?
Sammy put his fork down. “Am I going to have to listen to a crock of self-pity for the rest of your life?”
“I’m not in the mood, Sam.”
“So, what was that speech about in Lawton’s office? ‘Screw the disease, I’m going to finish the job.’”
“And you call me a pain in the ass.”
“Open your frigging present.”
Andrea burst out with a little laugh in spite of herself. She tore the colorful paper off the box and extracted a devastating Victoria Secret flaming red peignoir, emitting a gasp of delight as she held it up to her shoulders. “I sleep in the buff or a tee shirt, Sam.”
“First time for everything.”
She crushed the gown to her breasts. “Oh, there’s so much I haven’t done.” Tears brimmed her eyes, appealing to him in abject futility. “I don’t want to die, Sam. Not so soon.”
His contrived bravado crumbled as he leaned over to bury his face in her lap, his shoulders heaving in concert with inaudible sobs.
At that moment, Andrea’s door buzzed and the condominium doorman handed Sam a package from Macy’s he told them had been delivered by courier.
“I didn’t order anything,” Andrea said as Sammy set the foot square box on the low table before her.
“Maybe an apology gift from Duncan,” Sam said in jest, as he slit the box open and placed it on the cushion beside her so she could extract the contents more easily. Andrea bent the cardboard flaps of the box fully open and began to lift out a heavy item wrapped in tissue paper and a thick plastic bag. When the outer paper fell away from the inner plastic, Andrea screamed as though she’d been skewered with a hot iron, gave a violent thrust with both hands to the plastic encased object that rolled off her lap onto the table where it bounced onto the floor, shedding its cover, coming to a stop against the base of a floor lamp, revealing the blood-caked, severed head of Lieutenant George B. Mitchell.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Georgetown, DC
November 2004
He had been almost as shaken as Andy by the package containing the severed head of George Mitchell. Sammy had notified the Georgetown police immediately, who had grilled them for almost three hours before concluding that the grisly delivery was probably designed to frighten her into divulging information regarding the artifact theft during subsequent contact. Sergeants Leonard and Kruger had offered police protection, which Andy refused, believing it would hamper their efforts to locate Callaghan now that they had decided to focus on him. She hoped that their search might soon be productive. She did agree to allow the detectives to place their own wiretap on her phone, and was as surprised as the police when the communications tech informed them that her phone was already bugged with not one, but two remote listening devices. Although Sammy felt more anger than invasion of privacy, he realized Andy was greatly disturbed by the unsettling violation of her personal space, and the realization that someone, probably Iraqi terrorists, had invaded her home. He reassured her that he would pack a bag and stay in her condo with her from then on, despite the police car that would be parked in front of her building until further notice.
But two wiretaps? Was that purposeful redundancy by the Iraqis, or had they been under communications surveillance by more than one entity? The miniature devices were different, one in the phone, the other attached to her cable communications connection, but that didn’t mean anything.
Since none of them knew who or where Mitchell’s murderers were, the two homicide detectives had left with the grisly warning, apparently relieved that the killing and decapitation had, in all probability, taken place in New Mexico. They would confer with the FBI, Albuquerque and state police there.
After sleeping late the following morning, Sammy tried to contact Callaghan and Geoff at Fort Bragg. The base operator said that both men were unavailable and told him that neither Callaghan’s battalion clerk or Geoff’s office were answering their phones. After their initial encouragement at finally learning something concrete about the artifact treasure, they were discouraged at their inability to use it.
At 12:30, Sam offered to make lunch, to which Andrea’s response was a disinterested shrug as she turned up the volume on the muted television set on which an intense Shepard Smith was speaking urgently to the camera. “Looks like a special news bulletin,” she observed.
“....just minutes ago,” Smith was saying, “on the outskirts of Winnemucca, Nevada, before a crowd of an estimated 1,000 people. The single, long-range rifle shot seems to have come from a low hillock behind her audience, entering the Preacher’s chest, causing massive bleeding. She is reportedly in critical condition at Humboldt General Hospital. Stay tuned for updates on this tragic incident as we learn more concerning the medical condition and prognosis of the self-styled
religious minister known as the “Preacher Lady.”
Sam and Andy were mesmerized, uttering astonished exclamations, their eyes riveted on the video as Smith continued speaking on the left half of a split screen that began re-running the prelude to the assassination on the right half. The FOX camera in Nevada had established the scene with a wide-angle focus that panned across a background of cars, pickups and RVs parked behind a crowd of screeching protesters waving fists and placards, held back by sheriffs’ deputies, pausing briefly
as it moved across rapt assemblage bundled in warm jackets, hats and gloves against the cold sunny day. The cameraman lingered briefly on the people seated in camp chairs or standing in the shallow depression before closing in tight on Preacher Lady Hannah Ogie atop her white van, speaking calmly into her handheld microphone.
“The only news tape in history of this kind of horrendous event,” Smith intoned, “is the infamous Zapruder film depicting the assassination of President John F. Kennedy in 1963.”
The right side of the split screen went to slow motion as Hannah’s body jolted from the impact of the bullet that struck her, coursed through her body, leaving a Rorschach splash of maroon staining the front of her white parka before she crumpled heavily to the roof of the van, rolling off the edge, onto the ground.
The video cut to full screen as Smith began questioning their visibly shaken and teary-eyed female reporter on the scene, relating that deputy sheriffs had corralled the hundred-or-so aggressive protesters within a circumference of yellow tape for questioning, and were searching the surrounding brush-covered hills on foot. She was forced to raise her voice to compete with the brash, stuttering noise of the two helicopters swooping over the area at tree-level, the police aircraft searching for the shooter, an NBC chopper recording video to supplement the on-site images of the cameras below.
Andrea was shocked and subdued as Sammy surfed around the network channels to pick up
whatever additional information on the attempted murder, evidently committed by some religious fanatic. NNC was rerunning her interview with Hannah Ogie less than a month ago, as the reporter recalled the logic and sincerity of the holy woman’s persona with sadness and an amalgam of other conflicting emotions. Andrea slumped into a feeling of gloom and ennui at the murder of an apparently sincere, well-meaning woman with whom she had spent almost two hours, which came on the heels of the equally senseless killing of a disturbed army officer whose mind had apparently blocked out any memory of the disputed encounter with Nomads in the Syrian Desert almost two years ago. Andrea asked Sammy to lift her into bed and close the door, acknowledging with little enthusiasm his intention to continue their attempts to contact General Callaghan.