37

 

The door stood open. Wes knocked and eased into Tony’s room. “Anyone home?”

Tony gingerly glanced up from his plate and what looked to be common fare for patients this morning: an omelet. He smiled. “Hey, Wes, Cole.” He held up his fork in salute. He had on a gray hoodie fitted with a zipper. No wonder about the hoodie because his head looked like a mummy with unfinished wrappings.

A sharp pang of guilt twisted Wes’s stomach. “Man, Tony, how are you?”

“Twenty-two stitches and a headache.”

The bathroom door opened and FBI Special Agent Stacy Collins stepped out. Wes almost didn’t recognize her. He had to think about the name of the pants—capris—in red, a yellow blouse, flip-flops, and a beautiful head of golden hair that hung to the middle of her back. The look and the attire didn’t fit his idea of an agent’s dress code, but maybe for a techie.

“Good morning, Wes.” She glanced at Cole. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Stacy.”

Cole nodded. “Cole Blackwell. My pleasure. Tony, I hate to barge in on your meal, but I wanted to shake your hand. I promise I won’t shake hard.” He reached across the bed and they clasped hands for a brief moment. “Good job. Great to see you’re still with the breathing. I have to excuse myself. Business calls. Stacy, again, my pleasure. Wes, I’ll be waiting for your call.” He nodded again and stepped out.

Stacy walked around Wes and stood next to Tony.

Wes scanned the room for Tony’s ever-present computer but didn’t see it. “Sorry, I guess I should have asked. Did we interrupt official business, Stacy?”

She sat on the edge of the bed and took Tony’s hand. “Oh, no. I’m off.” She smiled.

Tony grinned so big it must have pulled at the stitches because his face quickly morphed into a grimace. Wes hoped his expression didn’t show his shock. No wonder Trent had said Wes would have to see it for himself. Crazy.

Must have been love at first byte. He had to control the urge to laugh. He’d tell Tony that one later.

Good for them.

For now. “Tony, I don’t know how to apologize.”

“Then don’t. You didn’t shoot me. That nut did. Tell me you got him.”

“I wish I could. They haven’t found his body, if there’s one to find. We had a little boating accident, but I didn’t wait around to check for survivors. Tell me about your head.”

“The round grazed the right side, just above my ear, and laid open the skin, like a scalpel passed through. I never saw the guy. Just a buzz, like a big bumblebee zipped by, and I was down. I heard you scream my name…and the gunshots afterward. I thought he killed you. I was a bit more cautious sticking my head up the second time. I saw you two walking along the edge of the levee in the distance.” He took a deep breath. “Then I realized I was bleeding to death and tied my hoodie around my head. I tried to drive myself to the hospital. Big dumb. I barely remember calling 9-1-1. Cole’s rental car is a mess. It’s still parked along the highway.”

Stacy raised her hand then let it fall back onto her lap. “I’m going to take care of that this morning.”

The rapid squeak, squeak, squeak of rubber-soled shoes on the tile floor outside the room fit someone on a mission. The squeak stopped and Jess peeked around the doorjamb. “Ah!” She glanced back down the hall. “Bubba, he’s in here.”

Jess walked up to Wes and stood shoulder to shoulder with him, her hands by her side. Her smile was beautiful. Her blouse matched her blue eyes. She gave Tony and Stacy a quick wave. “Good morning, everybody.” After a second, she glanced up at Wes and held up her fist for him to bump with his. He did. Her eyes sparkled then seemed to dim. She reached up and caressed his bruised cheek.

Bubba lumbered in dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and a yellow and red tie. “Good gracious, what a sight,” he said. “You need to borrow some of the gauze wrapped around Tony’s head and cover that beat-up face. How are you?” Bubba squeezed and yanked on his right hand so hard Wes felt it in his left shoulder. “You scared us. Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Bubba. I’m glad you’re not wearing that fancy get up to a funeral.”

Bubba hesitated and his voice lost its energy. “Me too, bro. Me too.”

Wes had tried to make light of the events, but the attempt only served to dampen the mood.

None of it made sense. Tony had been shot in the head, shoulder surgery looked like a strong possibility for Wes, and everyone in the room was happy. All things being relative, everyone knew the outcome could have been much worse.

Bubba’s cell rang. “Excuse me a minute,” he said and stepped into the hall.

Jess put her left elbow against Wes’s ribs then bumped her left fist with the palm of her right hand. She had just elbowed him without actually elbowing him. His comment about Bubba wearing his suit to Wes’s funeral hit her harder than he had thought. He smiled at her.

“That was not funny,” she whispered.

“I know. Sorry.”

Bubba stepped back into the room. “Tony, turn on the television. You yahoos made the news.”

Tony reached for the controls. “What channel?”

“Try the local, Fox 8.”

Wes, Jess, and Bubba moved around to the head of the bed. Tony scrolled through the channels. The television flashed to a live shot from a helicopter as the camera zoomed in on a capsized boat floating on muddy water. The white hull and the outboard’s lower-end and prop were exposed to the morning sun. Two small craft floated nearby. An inset picture of Wes in desert camouflage holding his M4 occupied the upper right corner of the screen.

He looked like a kid back then. He had been a kid.

The scene took Wes back to the previous night. Viewed on television, the tall green grass, tan switch cane, and water looked less menacing. He scanned the north side of the island for where he’d crawled out of the dense growth into the water. There was no telling how much he’d accidentally ingested during his swim. It hadn’t tasted as muddy as it looked now.

Despite the beating the storm delivered, the marsh appeared to be untouched.

His peripheral vision suddenly came to life again with the pair of bluebonnet eyes locked on him. Wes knew why the camera captured Lane Woodard smiling, standing next to the black-haired beauty with her eyes locked on him. Pride and hope for a future with the woman he loved.

Wes had a few things he wanted to say to Jess.

A lady’s voice broke in and the picture changed to a typical news broadcast desk and a serious looking, dark-haired lady holding up a piece of paper to read. “Sorry. We’re having audio difficulties. We’ll go to our D.C. affiliate, Fox 5. On the ground is our own Anne Greenway. Anne, are you there?”

“Great, we missed it,” Tony said.

“Maybe not,” Stacy responded and patted his leg.

The screen changed again to what looked like a cool morning in Washington. The reporter turned her head away and let the wind blow the blond strands of hair out of her face then looked into the camera. “I am here Courtney. We’re waiting for a statement from the Secretary of Homeland Security, J.S. Berger.”

“Anne, give us a feel for what authorities believe this alleged terrorist had planned.”

Everyone in the hospital room exchanged glances.

“Well, they have the scoop, and they’re running with it,” Tony said.

“Yeah,” Bubba said. “More like a scoop of manure. The guy is already a terrorist.”

The camera panned to the front of a business. It looked like the secretary and his wife leaving a downtown restaurant. The redhead had her arm in the crook of his elbow. Public figures were never safe from the press.

“Well…” The reporter glanced at the door. “One moment, Courtney.” She approached him on the sidewalk, holding out the mic. “Mr. Berger, a second of your time. Please!”

The camera zoomed in on the swarthy figure in a black trench coat, loosely belted at the waist. He took the woman’s hand from his elbow, held up one finger, mouthed “one minute” and faced the camera. He blinked and took a deep breath.

She jerked the mic back to her lips. “Mr. Berger, what can you tell us about events unfolding in Louisiana this morning? Has your department been in touch with Mr. Hansen in New Orleans? Our sources tell us he’s being treated for injuries. Has Elgin Fairchild, the man who called himself Meshach, been captured? What’s being done to secure our oil supply? There’s speculation the price of a barrel of oil could jump five dollars today. Any comments?” She held out the mic again.

“Anne, this is still a developing situation. The FBI and Coast Guard are on the scene. I’d be remiss in commenting until all the facts have been gathered and assessed.”

The mic returned. “Again, has DHS or another agency spoken to Wes Hansen about further threats? Our sources tell Fox 5 that this terrorist planned to ram a drilling platform that would have resulted in a spill to make the BP incident look mild in comparison.” She poked the mic back in his face.

“Again, I will not comment on these islands or platforms or rigs or whether they were part of the suspect’s plans. My source puts Mr. Hansen in the Venice area, so as soon as he’s available, the proper authorities will follow up with pertinent questions.” He nodded at the reporter and held up his hand. “I’m sorry, but…”

The television went mute. Tony tossed the remote onto his lap. “Did you guys hear what I did?”

“Yes,” Jess nodded. “He said island. Who calls them that? That’s like the president calling the Navy guy a corpse-man instead of a corpsman.”

Wes walked to the foot of the bed and turned to face the group.

Bubba glanced at Tony, Jess, then at Wes. “Bro, what did I just miss?”

“Bubba, first, one of Lamech’s posts read your isle of choice. Second, and I don’t think anyone else caught this, the reporter said I was in New Orleans being treated for injuries. Here I stand. Berger said I was still in Venice, according to his source. My cell phone is still in Venice. I lost it yesterday morning when Meshach and I went at it. It’s laying in the grass next to that brown trailer house.”

No one in the room was privy to the conversation Wes had with Cole from Las Vegas. Cole mentioned that he and the secretary went to school together. Looked like Cole was the one who needed to set up a long-time friend.

Wes would have to see what the initial S in the secretary’s name stood for too.

Stacy hopped up from the bed and grabbed her purse. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to call Trent.” She stepped into the hall.

Bubba held out his hands, palms up. “Is the guy that dumb? He’s not that dumb. Come on. The Secretary of the DHS is not involved with Meshach. He is, isn’t he? I need to go look in the mirror and slap myself.”

Jess stepped up beside Wes.

Bubba headed for the door. “Bro, shake my hand. Are you going to stop by before you leave? I’ll understand if you don’t, but Rae will be mad if you take this beauty here and run back to Colorado without saying good-bye.” He took Jess’s hand and kissed her on the forehead.

Wes glanced at Jess and raised an eyebrow. She raised one in return and put the ball back into his court. “We’ll have to talk about it,” he said, “but I don’t see why not.”

They shook hands again. “Love you both. I have to go put these duds to good use.” Bubba took his leave.

Stacy stood against the far wall in the hallway talking on her phone. She shook her head when she saw Wes looking at her.

Tony pushed up in the bed and motioned toward a pair of wooden clothes lockers in the corner of the room. “Jess, would you mind getting my computers out for me? There are two of them in the case in the left closet. Let’s look into this Berger guy and see if we can find Lamech’s identity through him. He’d make the Hansen team three, bad guys zero.”

“Sorry, Tony, I’d love to boot-up with you, but I don’t work for Wes anymore.”

Tony’s brows furrowed. “You don’t?”

“Wes fired me three days ago.”

Tony’s eyes darted to Wes then back to Jess. His voice went up two octaves. “Why?”

Wes slipped his right arm around Jess’s waist and turned her to him. “So I can do this.” She tilted her head up. He put his lips on hers and held them for a long moment. Not hungry, but a final guilt-cleansing softness he never thought he’d experience again. He let her lower lip go and whispered, “I’m glad you washed the sticky from the duct tape off your lips.”

She bit his lower lip, held it between her teeth, and whispered back like a ventriloquist, talking around his lip, “I’m never letting go.”

“Of my lip?”

“Or you.”

 

~*~

 

Meshach eyed the Snowy Egret standing stiff-legged in the marsh grass six feet away. The bird stared at the ground, its head cocked to one side. It had moved once in the past three hours to gobble up a big black grasshopper that made the mistake of landing within reach of the bird’s sharp beak.

If the egret was unaware of Meshach’s presence, the Feds in the helicopter flying an ever-changing grid pattern over the top of him wouldn’t see him either. They’d arrived at first light. That meant Wes had survived. Disappointing, but then, maybe not. Half submerged in water and covered in thick mud, he could lie unseen for hours. He had already. Too easy.

Earlier in the morning a second chopper had hovered high above the capsized boat. No doubt some fair-haired news reporter getting her fifteen minutes of fame bumping her gums about the who and why of it all. The authorities knew his identity now.

Whatever.

Local Mounties in a bay boat traversed the area around the wreckage. One man stood on the bow and one stood aft probing the muddy water with grapples for a body they’d never find. He had to give it to them. They were persistent.

The first grays of dusk finally covered the eastern skyline. Just a little longer and he’d slip into the marsh and disappear. The first order of business: a shower and change of clothes. Then, he’d secure transportation north to Denver and pay Wes’s daughter a visit. Have a chat. Yep, talk about her dad, Meshach’s oldest, dearest friend.

The helo flitted off into the sunset. The boat’s engine spooled up and roared away. Someone had pulled the plug on the search. Perfect. He would swim to shore before nighttime settled in. The egret took flight as he pushed into deeper water. Meshach found an easy rhythm and set out. Ten minutes later, his feet found bottom. He stood, waded ashore, and plodded up the slope through the deep weeds and brush.

Heavy trucks and passenger vehicles pounded the highway, traveling in both directions. Bumming a ride should be a snap.

Then he heard them erupt and knew he was in trouble. His mom had warned him. Next time, Honey, you might not survive. He’d stepped on them, somehow, somewhere. One, two, three stings on his neck and face. Then a hornet hit his lower lip and he slapped at it and the floodgate opened. They swarmed his face and upper body. He spun and ran for the safety of the water, but…like…the ground jumped up and slammed him in the face. Numb, he rolled onto his back. Darkness gathered, but this was different. Final. Eternal.