“Ground clearance good to go.”
There was a terrific rattle emitting from the oil pan, so she drove slowly across the Navajo nation toward Gallup. They did not speak. His mind darted, holding a thought was difficult.
Lights came into view. Left on Route 66, to downtown Gallup. They clattered to a stop at a railroad crossing. A shrill whistle of the locomotive. Yellow barriers crashed into place. More than one hundred cars rhythmically thundered on the way to the west coast. Mesmerizing steel wheels sparked the tracks.
In the reflection of flashing red lights, Jack glanced at her. There were tears welling in her eyes. He kept quiet.
At the outskirts of Gallup, the sky lightened to a soft grey. Slight hints of pink warmed clouds to the west. The SUV slowed way down.
“What’s wrong? A problem?” he asked.
“Not with the Scout,” Lori said, barely audible.
He heard the quiver in her voice. Added to the tears, he was damned worried. Helpless.
He remembered feeling the same inconsolable sense of panic during a particularly difficult home delivery on the south side of Chicago. Fourth year med student at Northwestern. A black bag filled with standard delivery instruments and supplies. A student nurse for backup. Very young mother, labor long, no progress. The unborn baby was in a breach presentation. The baby was born alive. Jack and the student nurse left alive, too. Unnoticed, un-thanked.
Lori pulled onto a rough, narrow shoulder, turned off the engine, head down, hands on the steering wheel. The noise from the dented oil pan ceased. Jack started to open the door, worried about a possible oil leak. She reached for his left arm. Grabbed it with surprising strength. “Don’t get out.” The quiver was there. “I have to tell you something. Jack...I have to tell you something terrible.”
She shifted, looking directly at him. In the pale light, she could see his exhausted eyes, the tension in his face.
Jack braced for whatever she was going to say, feeling not one ounce of the confidence his M.D. gave him.
Holding his forearm tightly, Lori began, “Days ago, in Chicago...”
19
M r. K sat behind his large barrister desk listening to Mike, his bodyguard. A copper-shaded lamp cast light over the desktop and oriental carpet in the otherwise dark paneled room. The lamp had an engraved plaque on the marble base: To Anthony Knapp with Great Appreciation — From the Chicago Symphony Orchestra & the Ravinia Festival. The outline of a figure could be made out seated in one of three wingback chairs.
Mike completed his weekly report. During the fifteen-minute update, Knapp nodded twice.
When he did speak, it was a monotone. “So our man inside the FBI said Mario was killed by a bear?” His voice rose slightly. “A goddamned fucking bear—I’m supposed to believe that? And someone sent his pistol by special delivery for tests, and it had been fired once. Was it the pistol I gave him?”
“My informant didn’t say. But D’Amico is still alive.”
Knapp stood abruptly, knocking over a brass wastebasket. He kicked the trash can across the rug toward the seated individual. “I can’t believe it—Mario blew it. From what you told me, that’s not like him.”
“We’ll get him, sir, I’ll do it personally,” said the bodyguard.
“No. I need you here. Keep the pressure on your guy downtown.”
The man in the wingback rose, intending to leave with Mike. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” hissed Mr. K. “Sit your ass down. The last thing I told you was to hide the new trucks. But, no, all of them are in plain view at the construction site—a government project! Any idiot inspector is going to question ten new rigs. You’re just inviting the regulators to check things out.”
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry; I know how to keep them off my back.”
“You’re damn right you will. You’re also going to take care of Jack D’Amico yourself. You recommended Mario. Now you do the
There was a terrific rattle emitting from the oil pan, so she drove slowly across the Navajo nation toward Gallup. They did not speak. His mind darted, holding a thought was difficult.
Lights came into view. Left on Route 66, to downtown Gallup. They clattered to a stop at a railroad crossing. A shrill whistle of the locomotive. Yellow barriers crashed into place. More than one hundred cars rhythmically thundered on the way to the west coast. Mesmerizing steel wheels sparked the tracks.
In the reflection of flashing red lights, Jack glanced at her. There were tears welling in her eyes. He kept quiet.
At the outskirts of Gallup, the sky lightened to a soft grey. Slight hints of pink warmed clouds to the west. The SUV slowed way down.
“What’s wrong? A problem?” he asked.
“Not with the Scout,” Lori said, barely audible.
He heard the quiver in her voice. Added to the tears, he was damned worried. Helpless.
He remembered feeling the same inconsolable sense of panic during a particularly difficult home delivery on the south side of Chicago. Fourth year med student at Northwestern. A black bag filled with standard delivery instruments and supplies. A student nurse for backup. Very young mother, labor long, no progress. The unborn baby was in a breach presentation. The baby was born alive. Jack and the student nurse left alive, too. Unnoticed, un-thanked.
Lori pulled onto a rough, narrow shoulder, turned off the engine, head down, hands on the steering wheel. The noise from the dented oil pan ceased. Jack started to open the door, worried about a possible oil leak. She reached for his left arm. Grabbed it with surprising strength. “Don’t get out.” The quiver was there. “I have to tell you something. Jack...I have to tell you something terrible.”
She shifted, looking directly at him. In the pale light, she could see his exhausted eyes, the tension in his face.
Jack braced for whatever she was going to say, feeling not one ounce of the confidence his M.D. gave him.
Holding his forearm tightly, Lori began, “Days ago, in Chicago...”
19
M r. K sat behind his large barrister desk listening to Mike, his bodyguard. A copper-shaded lamp cast light over the desktop and oriental carpet in the otherwise dark paneled room. The lamp had an engraved plaque on the marble base: To Anthony Knapp with Great Appreciation — From the Chicago Symphony Orchestra & the Ravinia Festival. The outline of a figure could be made out seated in one of three wingback chairs.
Mike completed his weekly report. During the fifteen-minute update, Knapp nodded twice.
When he did speak, it was a monotone. “So our man inside the FBI said Mario was killed by a bear?” His voice rose slightly. “A goddamned fucking bear—I’m supposed to believe that? And someone sent his pistol by special delivery for tests, and it had been fired once. Was it the pistol I gave him?”
“My informant didn’t say. But D’Amico is still alive.”
Knapp stood abruptly, knocking over a brass wastebasket. He kicked the trash can across the rug toward the seated individual. “I can’t believe it—Mario blew it. From what you told me, that’s not like him.”
“We’ll get him, sir, I’ll do it personally,” said the bodyguard.
“No. I need you here. Keep the pressure on your guy downtown.”
The man in the wingback rose, intending to leave with Mike. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” hissed Mr. K. “Sit your ass down. The last thing I told you was to hide the new trucks. But, no, all of them are in plain view at the construction site—a government project! Any idiot inspector is going to question ten new rigs. You’re just inviting the regulators to check things out.”
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry; I know how to keep them off my back.”
“You’re damn right you will. You’re also going to take care of Jack D’Amico yourself. You recommended Mario. Now you do the
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