Bobby Akart - Whiteout

“I’m getting the same vibe,” said Jessica. “He tells me one thing about his recollection of that night, but it’s different than what he’s told Sonny or Phoebe.”

“He doesn’t tell me anything,” said Mike.

“Sit down, Mike. Please,” said Hank, urging his brother to stop pacing. The detective slid into his Adirondack chair and listened as Hank relayed his thoughts. “He seems capable of speaking freely with everyone but you and me. He won’t respond to you at all, feigning amnesia or some such. When he talks to me and the subject comes up, he acts like he’s on his last dying breath and needs rest. Yet Jimmy tells me that Patrick turns into some kind of Chatty Cathy when he’s around.”

“Like I said, squirrely,” said Mike.

“What do we do?” asked Jessica.

“Let’s work on easing him out,” replied Hank. “He’s become more mobile, even finding his way onto the porch of his bungalow. I’m gonna get Sonny and Phoebe on board with helping him build up his strength with the ultimate goal of sending him to his own house.”

Mike added, “I don’t like the thought of him wandering around the inn. Nobody has seen our resources.”

Hank added, “Even Lindsey, whose view was obscured by palm trees and plants.”

“We’ll keep tabs on Patrick,” said Jessica.

Hank closed out the Patrick topic. “The other thing that concerns me about him being here is if word gets back to Lindsey. She’ll counter my refusal to feed all of Marathon with an alternative.”

“Like what?” asked Jessica.

Hank frowned as he made eye contact with the others. “Like moving the displaced and homeless into the inn.”

Sunday, November 3

Motel Jesup

Jesup, Georgia

Out of nowhere, two men came racing from behind the motel’s office, screaming like banshees. One was waving a tire iron over his head while the other pointed toward Greyhound with an aluminum baseball bat. The attack caught Mr. Uber and his son off guard. The two men closed on them in a matter of seconds, and the initial blows sustained were near fatal.

The man with the tire iron did the most damage. He embedded the hooked end into the back of Mr. Uber, who immediately crashed to the asphalt pavement. Greyhound tried to shield his body from the vicious swing taken by the man with the aluminum baseball bat. From inside the motel room, Peter could hear the bones in his forearm shatter over the cries of pain.

The other man slammed a foot on Mr. Uber’s back and tried to wrestle the tire iron free. He pushed it forward and back, then side to side until it came loose along with bone, tissue and blood. He released an evil laugh and reached back for another blow. Only one was necessary, but multiple were dealt. Like a deranged lunatic, the man pummeled Mr. Uber’s neck and the back of his head until it was unrecognizable. It was a gruesome, gory display of anger and horror.

Inspired by his accomplice’s acts, the second man took another swing at Greyhound with the aluminum bat, striking the defenseless man’s ribs. The audible crack caused chills to run through Peter’s body. Chills that forced him into action.

He’d been frozen in place by the display of murderous brutality. Somehow, the beatdown administered by the two men was barbaric compared to the more humane method of a bullet to the skull that Peter had planned for them. Nonetheless, he had to act as he observed the tire-iron killer retrieve the cargo truck’s keys from Mr. Uber’s pockets. Now he had to defend his group’s greatest asset, the truck.

Peter ran out of the motel room with his gun pointed at the men, who were now rushing toward the cargo truck. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

It was a phrase that came to mind, and one he immediately regretted saying. It only served to warn the men, who rushed around the back side of the truck for safety. The sound of the driver’s side door creaking gave Peter a new sense of urgency.

Rafael emerged from his room, and he ran toward the truck with his weapon drawn. He was forty feet away when shots rang out. Bullets skipped along the pavement, splitting the distance between Peter and Rafael. One of the men had retrieved a weapon from inside the truck and was now firing bullets toward them from underneath.

Rafael peeled off to the left to encircle the back of the truck. Peter didn’t know what to do, so he moved to the right and then immediately back to the left to avoid being a stationary target. He fired a couple of rounds under the truck chassis in an attempt to distract the shooter or at least provide Rafael some cover.

Then a barrage of gunfire filled the air. Rafael had reached the back of the cargo truck and was firing at the shooter. Peter added a couple of rounds of his own, which ripped up the asphalt underneath the truck.

Without warning, the passenger-side door flung open, and Peter suddenly found himself exposed. Several shots were fired by the second gunman, which ricocheted off the pavement at Peter’s feet. He danced to the left and fired two rounds into the door, which easily repelled them.

Rafael fired again and hit his target. The man groaned in pain, and Peter saw his body hit the ground at the truck’s left front fender. A single gunshot rang out as Rafael confirmed the kill.

The truck’s engine started, blowing a thick puff of black smoke out of the exhaust.

“Hell no!” shouted Peter as he ran toward the passenger side.

The truck lurched forward as the driver popped the clutch too quickly. Peter closed the gap and was about to grab the door handle when another shot was fired. Blood and brain matter sprayed throughout the cab, coating the passenger window.

Peter was startled by the sudden appearance of the attacker’s brain matter on the glass and fell backwards onto the asphalt. He groaned as his tailbone struck the parking lot.

“You okay?” Rafael shouted his question.

Peter sat upright and rested his elbows on his knees as he caught his breath. His handgun lay on the ground in front of him. “Um, yeah! Are they dead?”

“Two KIA,” he replied as he shut off the motor.

Seconds later, the second attacker fell to the pavement with a thud, joining his partner’s dead body. Peter stared at the two bloodied corpses for a moment before turning his attention to the battered bodies of Mr. Uber and his son. He tried to recall the massacre he’d experienced in Abu Dhabi. He closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. It was all so senseless. But then, so was everything that had happened since Tehran nuked Israel. That had triggered a series of events that led him to committing murder. He looked to the sky and then glanced toward the south. He wondered what he’d encounter between there and home.

Sunday, November 3

La Junta, Colorado

The night before, Lacey had been given a sedative to force her to rest. She was terribly distraught over losing the love of her life. She and Tucker comforted one another, and eventually the medical staff tried to step in to get Lacey to rest. The thought of being apart agitated them both, something Dr. Brady was trying to avoid. After Lacey had been returned to her room, a leather recliner used by many a father-to-be in the birthing suites of the ob-gyn department was brought in for Tucker.

He’d rejected the offer of medications to relieve his anxiety and help him rest. That night he fought sleep out of fear that he’d never awaken. Eventually, his mental exhaustion won the battle, and he slept soundly next to his mother’s bed until morning, when the ICU nurses began to make their rounds.

Lacey was the first to wake. She quietly eased out of bed and made her way to the bathroom without the assistance of the wheelchair or the walker the nurses had provided her. As she sat on the toilet, emptying her bladder, she buried her face in her hands as the realization of Owen’s death continued to soak into her.