Damascus Road (7 page)

“James,” I said shaking his hand. Danforth was kind in his
face, wise around his eyes with salt and pepper hair.

“Let’s walk this way,” he said. Fateful words. I knew the
routine. I’d had family, friends. The dire news. The waiting in the lounges
with the other families, drinking coffee and inhaling that filtered hospital
air.

What I knew was that Ellis was a bull of a man. Strong in
heart and mind. He took care of himself. He’d pull through this. I had gotten
to him in time.

Dr. Danforth led me to a smaller waiting room. It was
unoccupied, quiet. I didn’t bother to sit.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Your father had an acute myocardial infarction,” Danforth
said. “A heart attack.”

I opened my mouth to ask him a question, but nothing came
out. I let him continue.

“We did everything in our capability to revive him, but our
efforts were unsuccessful,” Danforth continued. “I’m afraid he died.”

He died.

General Ellis Marlowe died.

Senator Marlowe died.

Dad…died.

I grabbed Danforth by his scrubs and slammed him back into
the wall. Breath rushed from his lungs.

“What do you mean?” I roared. My voice boomed in my own
ears. “What are you talking about? You’re lying! You’re a liar!”

“Mr. Marlowe, please…” Dr. Danforth managed in a wheeze. My
hand was wrapped around his throat.

“Mr. Marlowe is my father!” I screamed.

My fist was cocked back. I wanted to bloody his nose. Smash
his face. Knock his teeth down his throat and choke the words out of his mouth.
How dare he say that my father was dead?

A second before I beat the doctor to a pulp, I realized the
sick reality of the situation. My shoulders slumped. My face that had been
scrunched into a mask of rage went slack.

My hands trembled and I tried to smooth the doc’s scrubs. He
flinched at my touch. I recoiled, breath heavy in my ears. I backed away,
distancing myself for his good as well as mine.

“James… James…” I heard Danforth’s voice in my ears as I
covered my head with my hands, stumbling backwards to sit down hard on the
couch. “I’m sure that your father is in a better—“

“He is NOT in a better place!” I screamed. “You people…you
tell us that the people we love are in a better place when you don’t know. You
didn’t know Ellis Marlowe, man.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Danforth said. “Can I call a
counselor for you? A chaplain?”

I realized then that he had delivered this news before, had
seen reactions before. And more than anything, he was working from a script.
His words were planned, calculated. I had managed to evade the call to security
so far, but it was a short step away. There was too much to be done, without
being detained.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s…a shock.”

The smile came back to the doctor’s face, kind and patient.

“Take me to him,” I said.

“What?” His smile was gone again.

“I need to see him,” I said, stepping closer. “Now.”

Danforth didn’t say another word to me. He led the way, and
I followed him down the hall, turning when he turned, void of thought and
direction. He led me into a trauma room.

Ellis Marlowe was on the table, a sheet draped over him. A
nurse was cleaning up. She turned, surprised that I was there. Danforth calmed
her with a gesture, and she nodded and slipped out.

I walked to the side of the table and pulled the sheet back.
Ellis lay there, pale and tranquil. He had been intubated. I reached for it.

“No, you can’t…” Danforth said, approaching.

“Get away from me,” I said.

I roughly pushed him away from me with one hand without
turning to face him. He was hardly a threat to me. He stumbled back, considered
his options. His footsteps stopped, then retreated slowly as I pulled the tape
from Ellis’ face and extracted the tube from his throat.

When Danforth was gone, I began to cry over my father’s
body. The sobbing wracked my body and my legs gave out. I fell to my knees at
his side and cursed myself and cursed God.

A sickening cocktail of doubt and anger poured into my gut.
My eyes blinked away the tears, and I knew what I would do next. Right or
wrong, the path was there before me.

The static of the security guard’s radio jolted me back to
the present. I kissed my father’s forehead and threw the sheet back over him. I
pushed through a side door and disappeared into the bowels of the hospital.

I ran my hands through my hair and blew out a deep sigh as I
walked. I needed to move quickly. I checked a hospital directory. I found
orthopedics and headed in that general direction.

It did not take me long to find an abandoned nurses’
station. I heard voices around the corner discussing what was outdated in the
break room refrigerator and could Brenda please stop leaving her yogurts in the
door every time she went on a diet.

I spotted a white doctor’s coat slung over the back of a
chair and picked it up. Casting a glance up and down the hall, I slipped it on.
From my pocket, I produced the security badge of Dr. Danforth. He had not
noticed that I had taken it when I pushed him. Probably would not realize his
mistake for an hour or so, and that was all I needed.

The venture into Ortho was a little more dangerous, and I
was prepared to either bolt or fake mental illness. Not much a stretch to be
honest.

It took some rummaging but I found a cast saw. I did not
hesitate, although perhaps I should have shown more caution. But I did not. I
went to work. I cut through the plaster until I could crack it open and free my
hand. I brushed away the dust and looked at my forearm. The skin was pale and
itchy, covered in dead skin. I scratched it, rubbed it, massaged. Finally
decided that it felt good. As good as I could expect.

 I heard footsteps and ducked into a supply closet. I lifted
a pair of latex gloves and pocketed them. The footsteps receded. I waited, then
slipped out and headed for the stairs.

I found an exit and slipped out the door, out onto the
streets. Outside, I tried to clear my head. Now was not the time to examine my
motives. I wasn’t about to let myself be bogged down with second-guessing.

I was going to get the truth from Blake Harrison. I ran down
the alley, planned my next move as I went, feet pounding the pavement. Heaven
or Hell… angel or demon… I would have my answers.

On the streets, my heart hammered in my chest. I blew out a
ragged breath and slowed my pace.

Instinct was to run, to cut through traffic and burst
through the front door of the convention center. I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed,
my mouth dry, throat thick. I murdered my gut reaction without remorse and
brought myself down to a walk.

There was no sense in running. Blake Harrison wasn’t going
anywhere. Time was on my side. He wasn’t expecting me. I had nothing left. Nothing
to lose.

I saw a clothing store across the street. Ducking between
cars, I made my way across. Twenty minutes later, I emerged in a dark suit and
tie.  Off the rack, it wasn’t tailored to me, but close enough for my purposes.
The shoes were Italian and comfortable even new as they were. I could hardly
walk in to Harrison’s event in blue jeans and boots, but I carried my old
clothes in the store bag while I walked. Two blocks later, I dropped the bag in
a trash can and kept moving.

On the next block, I saw the conference center. It was
overflowing with partygoers, men in suits and ties, respectable in their day
jobs, contributors to a cause, but in the end, ridiculous dancers and incapable
of holding their liquor without making fools of themselves. The women were more
restrained in their own way, but still laughed too loud, gyrated too much to
the music, but mostly spent their time fending off the men.

It turned my stomach, but I waded into their midst, smiling
like a fool, laughing with a huddle of men at a thinly veiled off-color joke as
I passed and slipped into the entrance. It wasn’t the first time that I had
adapted to a hostile environment. My father had taken me to enough parties at
the Officer’s Club, the country club, and fundraisers that I knew how to
chameleon my way through the event. That’s what I called it. Becoming faceless
and blending in. Neither noteworthy, nor interesting. I was wallpaper, just
something in the background.

I moved through the crowd, like a shark, never stopping,
never slowing. Moving on and on, past the young and the old, searching for my
prey. And then I saw him.

Blake Harrison was a handsome man, I realized begrudgingly.
His face was lean and tanned, his smile white and even. His graying hair was
perfectly coifed. He was working the crowd, pausing occasionally to respond to
a question, or to make a comment. I expected him to be a trite, petty man, but
he seemed to take genuine interest in those who followed him.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. No sense in letting my
focus become clouded. I had to find a way to get to him. I could feel my face
flush at the thought. I needed a minute.

The men’s room was not far from the convention hall, and I
weaved my way to it. Pushing open the door, I headed for the sink, turned on
the tap, cupped a handful of the cold water and ran it over my face.  The
splash of coldness startled me, providing clarity and clearing my head.

The door opened behind me, but I paid it no mind. I pulled
out some paper towel to dry my face when I first heard his voice.

“Enjoying the party?”

I looked up, surprised to find that Blake Harrison had
actually followed me into the rest room. He stepped to the urinal, then looked
up at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for my answer.

“Not really,” I said, shaking my head. “I secretly hate
these events.”

“I know how you feel,” he laughed.

My hand was in my coat pocket, fingering the balisong knife.
I took a step toward Harrison when the bathroom door opened, and I froze.

“Sir, you really need to let us know where you’re going,”
said the Secret Service agent as he came in the door. He was headed for
Harrison when he saw me. He stopped and locked me into his sights.

“Oh, take it easy, Agent Walters,” Harrison said with a
grin. His teeth actually shone bone white in the light of the bathroom. He
moved to the sink to wash up. “We’re just a couple of men talking here.”

Agent Walters wasn’t listening though. He was sizing me up,
ready to throw me out on my ear, but weighing how much of an effort he wanted
to make.

“Sorry, sir, you need to step out,” Agent Walters said.

He might not have been able to push Senator Harrison around,
but I was another matter. He was more than willing to kick me around. I needed
to come up with a plan fast.

I jammed both hands into my pants pockets and nodded, buying
myself a moment. The thought of attacking the agent occurred to me, but I
quickly dismissed it. I couldn’t take on his security detail.

My hand touched the ID from the hospital in my pocket. I
didn’t want to leave it behind and shoved it into my pocket out of reflex. A
plan developed quickly.

“Senator Harrison,” I said, ignoring the agent. “I’m sorry
I’m not having a good time, sir. I’ve got some bad news for you. It’s about
Senator Marlowe.”

Harrison’s brow furrowed, and I pulled the hospital ID from
my pocket, careful to cover the picture with my finger.

“I’m  Dr. Danforth,” I said. “May I have a moment of your
time, sir?”

Harrison considered the request and nodded.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Agent Walters. “I’m afraid it’s
confidential.”

Walters murmured something under his breath and stepped back
out the door. Once we were alone, I pocketed the ID.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Senator Ellis Marlowe is dead,” I said.

Harrison looked as if he’d been shot. His face blanched, jaw
slackened. I didn’t buy it for a moment.

“What? How did it happen?” he asked.

I completely lost all interest in maintaining the charade
and had no intention of describing the details of his death.

The balisong knife was in my hand.

I let it fall open lazily in a slow cartwheel.

“He was my father,” I said. “My name isn’t Danforth. It’s
James Marlowe.”

Harrison’s eyes flicked to the door. I reached over and
snapped the deadbolt shut, shaking my head.

“You killed my father,” I said.

“No, I didn’t,” he pleaded. “Please don’t do this.”

“Who is Gibson Pollack?”

“Gibson?” he sputtered. “Gibson’s my nephew.”

“Gone now, yes?” I said, advancing on him. “Died in Baghdad?
Qatar? During the Surge?”

Harrison nodded.

“Died under the leadership of Colonel Ellis Marlowe,” I
said. “That must have gotten to you a bit, eh? One of those misfortunes of war
that really sticks it in and breaks it off, am I right?”

The blade was restless in my hand. I snapped it open in a
stainless steel blur and let him watch as the blade whirled, open, closed, back
open, reversed my grip, back forward, closed it and made it dance over my fingers
from index to middle to ring and back again.

“Bothered you so much that you decided to take your revenge
on Ellis Marlowe?” I asked. “Kidnap, left him for dead?”

Harrison was shaking his head vigorously, all signs of his
stellar smile gone now. His face was slack with fear. Blood drained from his
cheeks despite his country club tan.

I lunged for his throat with my open hand, shoving him back
into the tiled wall. His head collided with a sickly satisfying sound, his eyes
popped wide as I lifted the blade to strike. My arm was coiled, waiting to be
unleashed. The ferocity of my attack, the not-so-righteous indignation, the
barrage of facts that hit so close to home, Harrison was frozen in place.

“Was that you?” I growled.

“What?” he blurted. The question took him off-guard.