Reginald Cook - Veil

Fiona’s servants milled around, heads low, faces miserable. Robert, couched in front of the television, shut his eyes, but couldn’t sleep.

“What time is he going to speak?” asked his mother.

“In about ten minutes,” answered Robert, changing the channel to CNN.

President Claymore would address the nation that night in an attempt to make sense of the past week’s turmoil.

A search of Andre’s locker uncovered a note ranting and raving about the death of his brother and the usual “hatred of the U.S.” diatribe. The note said Fiona’s death was his final message, a warning that America was not all-powerful, and that he was the beginning of many to follow after him.

Thanks to a profile on America’s Most Wanted, the police found and searched the Russian’s apartment, where they found information linking Andre to Agent Sams, and the body of his neighbor, Gloria Parsons, an apparent moth too close to the flame.

Robert poured himself a drink, Jack Daniels on the rocks. He thought about the evidence, which he knew they’d never find. He and Thorne went back to Parklawn and searched, but couldn’t find a clue.

NBC broke Edward’s story. Found shot to death at his ranch home, reports called him the victim of a home invasion robbery gone awry.

His son, Charleston, dropped out of the presidential race and offered a million dollars to anyone with knowledge of his father’s death. Robert watched as the world mourned a man they deemed a great leader, even calling him a global pioneer.

Robert knew one person who could put things all together. Vernon Campbell. Unfortunately, or conveniently, the CIA Director died in a hunting accident stalking deer in Pennsylvania. An agent who accompanied him on the hunt tripped over a tree stump and blew the Director’s head clean off.

“It’s starting,” said Robert. Thorne and his mother left their game and sat beside him.

Two doors at the White House opened, and President Claymore walked down a long red carpet, stopping at the podium.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. These last few weeks have been trying for our nation. We have suffered indignities and hatefulness.

Diseased efforts designed to eat away at our very soul. A madman sought to take away our pride and sense of well-being by taking the lives of those servants sworn to keep the law and the Constitution sacred.

Madmen even sought to take my life, but it is not my life they wished to take. It is not my body they wished to destroy. They wish to take away your way of life, the freedoms of good Americans and good people all over the world. Evil tried, good conquered.”

“Now it’s time to move forward from this place, this place of hurt and pain. It’s time to heal and move on into the future, a future bright and promising. We have been wounded, not killed. Stepped on, not crushed.

Beat down, not beaten. So let’s move forward with the determination to make changes. Positive changes our world cries for, uplifting changes we have the power to make. I have only a short time left in office, but during this time we will energize our country, and take back that which belongs to us all. The right to live free, safe, and secure, in the home of the free, land of the brave. Thank you, and God Bless America.” The room exploded into a frenzy of applause, questions, and camera flashes.

“Well, partner, we’re back in business,” said a smiling Thorne. “I’ll start searching for a new office first thing tomorrow, maybe something in Georgetown. That is, if the government’s check clears.”

“I’m surprised they paid us,” said Robert.

“Hey, we caught him didn’t we?” Thorne jumped off the couch, and headed for the kitchen. Dr. Albert Anthony walked in the den.

“Hello doctor,” his mother said. “How’s the patient?”

“She’s doing just fine. She wants to see Mr. Veil.” Robert ran up the long winding staircase, and inside Fiona’s room. A short stout nurse smiled when he rushed inside.

“Hello, Mr. Veil. She’s awake. Come right in.” The nurse closed the door behind her.

He stood next to the bed smiling, thankful Fiona made it through alive. She opened her eyes and smiled. “You really must get some rest, Mr. Veil. You look tired.”

He kissed her on the forehead, and sat down in the chair next to the bed. The knife nicked her heart and she lost a lot of blood, but it did no permanent damage. The doctors said she’d be able to return to the bench in a month or so, when her strength returned.

“You look well,” he told her. “Good thing, too. I think your staff’s going crazy without you.” He leaned in close. “And so am I.” She returned his gaze and her smile widened. “You saved my life.

Thank you. I owe you everything.”

“Don’t talk,” said Robert. “You need to rest. Jessica will be back later today, and I suspect you’ll need all the strength you can get.” Tears streamed down Fiona’s cheeks. “If not for you she’d be… I’d be…”

“I know,” he said, wiping her face with tissue. “Now rest.” He stroked her hair. “I love you, Fiona.”

“Oh, Robert, I love you too.”

They kissed, long and passionate. Robert held her hand until she fell asleep. He watched for a moment, then closed his eyes, and joined her in a rest welcome and peaceful.

On a sticky, humid, Washington afternoon, a dark green taxicab pulled off Lincoln Road N.E. into the nicely kept Glenwood Cemetery and made its way through the calm sea of permanent guests bedded down in eternal sleep. The expansive park of the now long forgotten held an eerie calmness that was curiously inviting for a place most wanted to avoid.

The cab made a left and slowly climbed the semi-steep pavement, stopping at its passenger’s request. The cab driver hopped out and pulled his fare’s “spare set of wheels” from the trunk. With the precision of a gymnast, Popeye lifted himself out of the cab and lowered his legless torso down into his wheelchair. “I’ll only be a minute,” he told the driver, rolling past several impressive, custom-made vaults. He stopped at a gothic tomb with the name C.R. Peace engraved across the top.

Popeye lowered his head, too dizzy and tired to pray, moaning in memory of battles lost and friends long passed away. Charlie kept several tombs around the city and asked Popeye to make sure the casket with the Kennedy assassination evidence got moved if something happened to him. He also instructed him to give Robert Veil this information, but Popeye had waited.

Now, with Edward Rothschild dead, the homeless amputee didn’t see the point. Why put the country through more agony when it wouldn’t help her heal? Popeye wiped his eyes, pulled a half full bottle of Southern Comfort from under his blanket and took a long full swig.

Ten minutes later, bottle empty and back under the blanket, Popeye made his way home. The doctors at Crossroads gave him six months at the most. Fine with him. He’d done his country one final service and, near death, that’s all a patriot could ask.