Brock Winthrop walked gingerly down the hospital corridor, his buttocks still sore from riding horse with his boss, Senator James Halsey. Jim knew he didn’t like those beasts. He was more inclined, like the French, to consider them a delicacy paired with a fine Bordeaux, a more exotic alternative to beef. But he would never mention that to Senator Halsey.
He had gotten a call from another Halsey client less than an hour ago. Actually, he had gotten a call from Buck Halsey’s private doctor at this exclusive hospital in Arlington, Virginia, where the senator had transferred his father nearly a year ago. Buck Halsey, eighty years old and failing physically, had been Brock’s client first. Right out of college. Although, he was sure, Jim had made that happen. Jim had gone back to Texas to help with the family business, and Brock had moved to Washington, trying his best to make his fortune off the rich and powerful. That was decades ago.
Brock hesitated outside the elder Halsey’s room, the waiting area resembling that of a high end Fortune 500 company and not a place for the elderly or the rich to pass to the next life—assuming there was something after all this.
Meeting him there was Doctor Plaunt, a professorial looking character with unkempt gray and black hair and beard, giving him the appearance of a mad scientist and not one of the best geriatric physicians on the eastern seaboard.
They shook hands as usual and Brock said, “Is everything all right?”
The doctor’s eyes drifted upward and then back to Brock. “He’s not doing well. But he wanted to see you before we call in the family.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I can only assume he wants to get his affairs in order.”
Brock thought about that. Buck Halsey had updated his will a year ago when he was first transferred from Texas to this facility. “Then I must ask you the obvious question. Is he mentally able to make this decision?”
The doctor pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his white lab coat. “This is a letter signed by myself and two other physicians on staff. We all concur that Mister Halsey is of sound mind. It’s his body that’s failing him.”
Brock opened the envelope and quickly read the simple letter that said what the doctor had just told him. Then he put the letter inside his suit and said, “All right. Looks good.”
He went into the room and saw the frail man that had once been almost identical in stature to his senator son when they had first met decades ago, and Brock felt a rush of nostalgia flush through his body. He turned and made sure the doctor had not followed him into the room. No, they were alone.
The old man’s eyes seemed dead already. A cloudy film made him look like a blind man without his sunglasses.
“What are you lookin’ at young man?” Buck Halsey said, his voice still a demanding growl.
“Sir, it’s Brock Winthrop.”
“I know who the hell you are. I had the doctor call you. Now get a little closer so I don’t have to yell.”
Truth be told, Buck Halsey had always scared the hell out of Brock. He had been told stories about how Buck had killed a man at age ten with a shotgun when an escaped prisoner broke into their house and was trying to assault his mother. God only knew how many Germans that man had killed in World War Two.
Brock cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanna get married. What the hell do you think I want from you? I’m damn near dead. I need you to draw up a new will for me.”
Swallowing hard, his mind reeling, Brock said, “Yes, sir. What would you like to do?”
“First of all, have you found Sara?”
Brock shook his head. “No, sir.” He didn’t want to tell him about the two failures. “But we have a good man looking for her in Europe now. A former Air Force intelligence officer and former CIA officer.”
“Really? You got a spook working for you?”
“Well, Jim found him. But I’ll be coordinating the effort.”
“Good, good. Jim has his hands full trying to keep those damn liberals in the senate from spending all our money.” Buck Halsey coughed for a moment now, his right hand barely strong enough to cover his mouth with a paper towel already spotted with blood.
Brock waited, helpless. Finally, the coughing over, he asked, “Are you okay? Do you want the doctor?”
“I wanna be forty again in bed with a thirty-year-old brunette. But that ain’t gonna happen. First order of business. Get me the hell out of here! I will not die in Virginia. The tax implications aside, you get me on a private jet to Texas by the morning. You understand?”
Nodding, Brock said, “Yes, sir. But what if the doctor says you’re not strong enough to travel.”
“Fuck the doctor. I’d rather die trying to get back to Texas than try to explain to St. Peter how the hell a Texan ended up dying near Washington, DC. Now you make that happen.”
“Jim isn’t going to be happy with this,” Brock muttered.
“A man can’t decide where they’re brought onto this planet, but we sure as hell gotta have something to say about where we leave it.”
Hard to argue with that. “Yes, sir. What else?”
“Draw up a new will and have it ready for me to sign in the morning before I roll out onto that plane. And here’s what I want you to change.”
Buck Halsey went on with great detail explaining everything he wanted done. The man was not only of sound mind, his faculties were much sharper than most men half his age. But now Brock was in a quandary. He had a fiduciary responsibility to his oldest client, but he also had to keep working with his good friend Jim Halsey. And what the elder had just told him was not necessarily in the best interest of the senator. He would have to walk a tightrope on this one, he knew.