by Phil Swann
“Now what?” Ben asked.
“Well, tell me, Lambros, what do you think is going to happen next?”
“I think you’re going to kill us,” Ben answered.
Buchanan chuckled and moved back to the statue. “Lambros, more than anything in the world I would like to take your life, slowly and painfully. Seeing you suffer and beg for mercy would be the greatest gift this miserable, unjust world could offer me. And God knows, I deserve it. But that’s not the deal I made, and I always honor my agreements. So, I’ll have to take pleasure in knowing your death, though at the hands of another, will still cause you incalculable pain.” Buchanan turned and looked to the side. “He’s all yours.”
The figure in the hooded white robe reappeared from behind the column. He removed his hands from inside the robe and pulled back the hood. All the air filling Ben’s lungs left him.
Steve Donnellson stood at attention, expressionless, eyes cold, and saying nothing.
“Stevie?” Ben moaned, barely over a whisper. “No, no, no, no…”
Donnellson reached inside his robe, removed a gun, and pointed it at Ben.
“Stevie. God, no. Why? Stevie…”
Donnellson didn’t reply.
“He loved you!” Ben screamed, tears filling his eyes. “He loved you like a brother. Damn it, Stevie, I love you! Tell me why? Make me understand! Why?”
“This does my heart so much good,” Buchanan said, walking over to the others. “Come on, we have a plane to catch. Let’s give these old friends some alone time.”
The explosion rattled the entire Parthenon. Donnellson lowered the gun.
“Those idiots!” Buchanan grabbed the iPad from Leggett’s hands and looked at the screen. It was blank. Not a single image from any of the outside cameras was being transmitted. “I warned you!” he shouted, reaching into his robe and taking out a small metal device. He opened the cover, flipped a switch on top, and then pressed the red button. He looked up and waited to hear the result. There was none. “No!” he yelled, pushing the button repeatedly.
The second explosion was deafening and felt like it was under their feet. Ben was hurled out of his chair and onto the floor. From then on, from Ben’s perspective, it was as if everything happened at once. Buchanan screamed, “Kill him!” Ben looked at Stevie. He was aiming the gun at him again, but now a red dot was affixed to his old friend’s forehead. The dot moved down Donnellson’s face and stopped at his chest. He collapsed to the floor without Ben hearing the shot. Ellie! Ben looked over to where she was seated—her chair was empty. He scanned the area and saw Andrew and Leggett both on the ground; half their skulls were missing. He heard a wail and followed the sound across the chamber. Sheila was on the floor by an Elgin Marble, her knife sticking out of her chest. Ellie was sitting next to her, shaking uncontrollably, her hands soaked in blood. Someone grabbed his arm and jerked him around. It was Timon. “The gun” was all he said. Ben crawled over to where Donnellson lay on the ground and grabbed the gun. He was getting to his knees when he felt the first bullet explode through his body. It was like fire! The pain was so excruciating he never felt the second shot, even though its force propelled him back into the statue of Athena.
Ben glanced down at his chest; it was caked in dark red ooze. He looked up and saw a bloodied Earl Buchanan standing in front of him, taking aim at his head.
“Thank you, goddess!” Buchanan yelled. “Thank you for this gift!”
Without thinking, Ben raised Donnellson’s gun and pulled the trigger. The shot caught Buchanan in the crotch and the fat man doubled over. Ben fired again, this time taking off his left ear. Before Ben could get off another shot, a barrage of bullets peppered Buchanan from behind, causing him to fall forward, blood gushing from the obese man’s mouth.
Ben dropped the gun and let his head fall back onto Athena. I’m so tired, he thought. When was the last time I slept? If I could just shut my eyes for a moment…I’m so tired. As the light dimmed around him and all sound faded off into the distance, Ben closed his eyes and drifted away, his last thought a happy one: Earl Buchanan was dead.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The hill was a twenty-yard drop down a narrow dirt path depositing into a ravine filled with rocks and thorny bushes. Ben sat cross-legged at the top of the hill, throwing rocks into the gully.
“What are you doing here, Ben?” Tom said, walking up and sitting next to him.
“It sure is deep,” Ben said.
“Yup. A person would have to be crazy to try and jump it.”
Ben turned and smiled. “Yeah, that’s what Mom said.”
“Wise woman, our mother.”
Ben tossed a rock. “I miss her.”
“I know. Me too.”
Ben looked at Tom with a raised eyebrow.
“What? You don’t think I did?”
“It just always seemed like you and Dad were the…you know?”
“Well, you were wrong,” Tom said.
Ben nodded. “Seems like I was wrong about a lot of things.”
Tom picked up a rock and threw it down the hill. “We all are from time to time.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
They sat quiet for a moment, both throwing rocks into the ravine.
“What are you doing here, Ben?”
“Throwing rocks.”
“No. What are you doing here?”
“I got shot.”
“Hurts, don’t it?”
“Yeah, it does. I’m sorry about that, by the way.”
“Wasn’t your fault.”
“Felt like it was.”
“What are you doing here, Ben?”
“I got shot.”
“Yeah, you said that already.”
Ben threw a rock.
Then Tom threw one, this time hitting a rusty tire rim at the bottom of the ditch.
“First one to five?” Ben asked, picking up a rock. “That one didn’t count, though.”
“Why not?”
“We hadn’t started the game yet.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “What do I get if I win?”
“What do you want?”
“You’ll tell me why you’re here.”
“And if I win?” Ben came back.
“I’ll tell you why you’re really here. Now throw.”
Ben hurled a rock down the hill. Clang!
“Good toss,” Tom said, throwing a rock and hitting the rim as well.
“You ever think how easily life could have turned out differently, Tom?”
“What do you mean?”
Ben threw another rock. Clang! “What would have happened if you hadn’t married Sarah? If I hadn’t gone off to England? If you hadn’t run for president? If I hadn’t become a songwriter? You ever think how different things would’ve been? And not just in our own lives but in the lives of everyone around us—even people we don’t know. You ever consider how everything is connected? How intertwined we all are? You ever think maybe our lives are nothing more than the decisions other people make? That we’re all just at the mercy of the whims of complete strangers? There are people out there right now affecting other people’s lives based on whether or not they go out to dinner tonight. Or go to a movie or not. Or stay at home and watch TV or not. Or turn left, turn right, or not turn at all. You ever think about that, Tom?”
“No,” Tom answered, throwing a rock and hitting the rim dead center.
Ben chuckled. “No, of course you wouldn’t.”
“Now is that nice?”
“Sorry,” Ben said. “Old habit, I guess.” Ben threw a rock and cocked his shoulder as it bounced off a drainpipe before hitting the rim.
“Lucky shot,” Tom said. “Isn’t there a name for that?”
“It’s called the butterfly effect. A butterfly flaps its wings in Africa, and next thing you know you’ve got a hurricane in Florida.”
“There you go, it’s the butterfly’s fault,” Tom replied, throwing a rock. Clang!
“You thin
k it’s true?” Clang!
“What do I know, you’re the smart one. I call it, shit happens.” Clang!
Ben threw a rock, but this time missed the rim by a foot.
Tom smiled. “Oh, little brother, I think I gotcha.”
Tom brought back his arm and hurled the stone down the hill, hitting the rusty tire rim on its edge. “Five. I win. What are you doing here, Ben?”
“I don’t know,” Ben answered, a lump filling his throat.
“Yes, you do,” Tom replied.
“I do?”
“Yes.”
“I got shot.”
“Yes, you did.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“You’re supposed to tell me. That’s the rules of the game.”
“Forget about the game. What am I doing here?”
“You really don’t know?”
“No. Please, tell me, Tom. Why am I here?”
Tom stood, dusted off his pants, and kissed his brother on top of the head. “You’re still trying to jump over this ravine, little bro.”
Tears rolled down Ben’s face as he watched Tom turn and walk away.
»»•««
“You’re going to be okay, Ben.”
Ben recognized the voice but couldn’t remember whose it was.
“Just take it easy, sweetheart.”
He spoke her name though he knew no sound came out of his mouth. “Sarah?”
The darkness gave way to a long tunnel of thick fog, and then he saw a small sliver of light miles away. He heard the voice again, this time more as an echo.
“Get some rest, Ben. You’re going to be fine.”
Then there was nothing.
»»•««
“Don’t worry, Benny-boy, I got your back.”
Stevie leaned against his old car.
“I don’t understand, Stevie.”
“It’s weird, isn’t it?”
“Are you taking Tom to the airport?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back, then you and I will go do something.”
“You really don’t like me very much, do you, Stevie?”
“You’re the president’s brother.”
“Cut the protocol crap, Stevie, we’ve known each other too long.”
“You should have let him use your song, Ben.”
“He loved you, Stevie! I love you! Why? Make me understand.”
“Five minutes, that’s all Jackson gets. You can have the scrapbook.”
»»•««
The voice was clearer this time. “Ben. Ben. Wake up now. It’s okay.”
Ben opened his eyes, at least he thought he did, he wasn’t sure. Ellie and Timon were looking down at him. Both were smiling.
“There you are! Welcome back,” Ellie said.
“Hello, Benjamin,” Timon said. “I’m very proud of you. So very proud.”
Ben swallowed and tried to speak, but couldn’t.
“It’s okay, don’t try. We’ll be right here. We’re all fine. Get some rest.”
Ben saw Ellie put her head on Timon’s shoulder before everything went black.
»»•««
Ben sat on the piano bench next to his mother.
“I wish I could play like that.”
“You will, honey, that’s why we practice.”
“Mom, why is Dad angry all the time?”
“He’s not angry all the time, he’s just a serious man.”
“Doesn’t he like me?”
“Oh, honey, he loves you. He loves all of us. That’s why he is the way he is. He loves us so much he wants to make the world a better place for us to live.”
“Then I wish he didn’t love us so much.”
“Come on, play your scales.”
“Do I have to? Scales are boring. I want to play songs like you.”
“And you will. But first you have to know the scales.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Come on, off you go, you’ll thank me someday.”
»»•««
The smell of antiseptic flooded his nostrils. Ben opened his eyes and saw an IV bag hanging above him. A soft buzz and intermittent beep were coming from somewhere.
“I made sure you got the good stuff.”
Ben turned his head slightly to the right and saw Agent Grey Pryce standing over him. He closed his eyes and reopened them again.
“The doctor says you’re one lucky camper. You took one to the chest and one in the side. Amazingly, the bullets missed all the major arteries and organs.”
“How long have I been out?” Ben asked, his voice gravel.
“Almost two days.”
“I’m tired,” Ben whispered.
“You lost quite a bit of blood. Doctor says you’re going to pull through, though. Just take it easy, Ben. We’ll talk later.” Grey patted Ben on the shoulder and started to move away.
“Agent Pryce?”
“Yes, Ben?”
“Is it over?”
Grey paused before he spoke. “Almost. We’ll talk later. Get some rest.”
»»•««
There was a soft knock on the door. “Anybody home?” Paul Welker asked, sticking his head into the room.
Ben was sitting up in bed. Sarah, Ellie, and Timon were sitting by his side.
“Come on in, Paul. Everybody, this is my publisher, Paul Welker. Paul, this is Sarah Lambros, Ellie Scotes, and Timon Baros.”
“Pleasure to meet all of you,” Paul said.
“Well, I think there’s too many of us in here,” Sarah said, standing. “Why don’t we go grab some coffee and let these two catch up?”
Ellie and Timon stood without responding and followed Sarah toward the door. Sarah offered a small smile to Paul as she passed. Ellie and Timon didn’t look at him.
“That was weird,” Paul said, coming to Ben’s bedside.
“They’re just a bit over protective of me right now.”
“I get it. Sounds like you dodged a bullet? Oops, sorry, bad analogy.”
Ben smiled. “Yeah, it was close. Of course, I don’t remember a thing so…”
“Nothing?”
“Not after I was shot, no.”
“What about before?”
“Not much, just that all hell broke loose.”
“Come on, you must know more than that? Tell me what happened. All I know is what’s been on the news—there was a gunfight at the Parthenon.”
“Sorry, Paul, it’s all a blur. One minute I’m sitting there behind the statue of Athena, Earl Buchanan’s got me and Ellie held captive, and the next thing I know everyone’s shooting at each other. It was pretty insane.”
“But…I hear Steve Donnellson was involved, and he was killed. Is that true?”
Ben stared at Paul for a long moment. “Where did you hear that, Pauly?”
“What?”
“I know for a fact Stevie’s name wasn’t released to the media.”
“I don’t know, I just heard it. You know what a gossip mill The Row is.”
Ben’s eyes never left Paul’s. He said nothing. He just looked at him.
Paul said, “Ben, what the hell’s wrong with—”
“It was you,” Ben said, adding no inflection to his voice.
“What are you talking about? What was me?”
“Everything. It was all you. You were behind all of it.”
Paul stepped back from the bed. “Are you out of your mind?”
The door opened and Grey entered, pushing Steven Donnellson in a wheelchair. He was pale and his chest was heavily bandaged, but his eyes were alert. “Hi, Ben,” Donnellson said.
“Hi, Stevie,” Ben replied. “How you feeling?”
“Shot up. You?”
“A bit ventilated myself.”
Donnellson smiled.
Paul went white. “What the hell’s going on?”
Ben said, “You know what I remembered today, Pauly? How I met Marci�
��or I should say Sheila. You introduced me to her. You’d never done that before—ever. You never once introduced me to one of your interns. Her, you did.”
Paul scoffed, “Jesus, I just thought you’d like her. Excuse me for being a pal. I think the drugs are twisting your—”
“You killed my brother, Paul. You killed D.J. At least, tell me why?”
Paul took a step toward Ben. Grey drew his gun. “That’s far enough, Welker.”
Paul Welker stopped and slowly moved back to the wall.
Grey said, “I gotta admit, Welker, recruiting Earl Buchanan to do your dirty work for you was brilliant. Earl Buchanan, real name, Richard Christie. Ex-special forces, veteran of the first Persian Gulf War, wife deceased, had one daughter named Betsy. She was sixteen years old when she died from a fatal overdose of ecstasy and Vicodin at a party a few years ago here in Nashville—a party Ben Lambros attended. What did you tell him, Welker? That Ben gave her the drugs? That Ben Lambros killed his daughter but you knew a way he could get vengeance?”
Paul didn’t respond.
“The others were easy. Sheila and Andrew Unger, career criminals, a regular brother and sister Bonnie and Clyde. Where’d you find them?”
“You’re insane,” Paul practically hissed. “You’ve got nothing on me.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I didn’t have anything on you, but I have this thing called a gut. And if it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to trust my gut.”
Grey walked around the opposite side of the bed and faced Paul head on. “It really started bothering me how everything kept coming back to you. You threw the party. You hired Andrew Unger to be the bartender. Who better than you could predict how Ben would react to every situation? When I learned Earl Buchanan’s real name was Richard Christie, and he was the father of the girl who died at the notorious party, my gut got even more vocal. But you know what really cinched it? It’s how easy it was for us to jam Christie’s remote detonator’s signal and simply turn off the Wi-Fi in the park he was using to control the cameras. After that, my gut started screaming, something wasn’t right. Then it hit me. You never intended for Christie to get out of the Parthenon alive. You wanted us to kill him. Along with Mr. Donnellson here. That way, it would all be wrapped up in one neat little package, the brains and the muscle, both dead, end of story. Luckily for Mr. Donnellson, Captain Ryder of Nashville SWAT is a very good shot. You see, I thought you might try the scopolamine gag again. Trust the gut, Welker.”