Saint Mary’s Hospital

Henry Lee paced the hallway, unclenching his fists only long enough to drag nervous fingers over his bristled head and rub the disbelief from his eyes. At sixty-eight he was still vain enough to take pride in his compact, fit and trim physique. He was strong and healthy and unlike his father and grandfather Henry had done everything in his control to prevent hereditary heart disease from shortening his golden years. Everything, that is, except to make sure that his wife, his sweetheart, his Hannah, had also stayed healthy. It was simply inconceivable to him that she was in surgery right here, right now undergoing the emergency triple bypass that Henry thought for certain he had dodged.

He couldn’t help wondering if this was some cruel punishment from God though he thought he had given up on the foolishness of His existence years ago. No God Henry could believe in would take away a daughter as murderously as his own had been taken. Hannah was always the one, the believer, the healer, wanting to make sense out of madness. She was Henry’s lifeline, his common sense, his sanity. He couldn’t bear to lose her. And then to find out that he almost lost his grandson on the very same day. If God did exist He was, indeed, cruel and vindictive.

Henry looked for the boy, again, checking the waiting room and glancing around the corner. Earlier Dixon had come to the hospital when summoned, physically distraught about his grandmother, his eyes red-rimmed, his fingernails bitten to the quick. When he said he had just come from the mall Henry thought his own heart had stopped, realizing what could have happened had he not called the boy.

While the first reports came in about a possible terrorist attack at the mall, the boy remained quiet. The two of them watched the wall-mounted TV while sitting silently side by side in the surgery waiting room. No one else was there, except for a few staff members wandering in and out. No surgeries were planned the day after Thanksgiving other than emergency ones. It took several reports before Dixon—in between gnawing at his poor thumbnail—confessed and explained about his friends and how they had convinced Dixon to help them. The whole time Henry felt the blood drain from his face.

“We were told we were carrying electronic jamming devices,” Dixon told him, his eyes darting around, teeth nipping at another fingernail. “I think it might have been something else.”

“That’s impossible,” Henry said but he knew it to be quite the opposite. “I told you to stay away from those two.”

“We’ve been friends since third grade.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re trouble.”

“I’ve got to find out if they’re okay,” Dixon told him.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

The boy was so distraught Henry handed over his smartphone without hesitating. It was better he make his own calls from the hospital’s public phones. They were less likely to be traced. He certainly didn’t want the calls immortalized on his monthly statement.

He dialed the second number, this one from memory instead of a crumpled piece of paper, his fingers still shaking from the first call.

“Hello?”

“Allan, it’s Henry. We need to have a meeting.”

“For what reason?”

“We need to reconsider.”

“Reconsider?”

“Yes. We need to stop this.”

Henry expected anger. He was prepared for it. He wasn’t prepared, however, for laughter.

He held the phone away from his ear and closed his eyes tight against the sudden pain of his clenched jaw muscles, an involuntary reaction from his early days as a boxer preparing for an upper left. This was worse than any punch. When the laughter silenced he brought the phone back to his ear.

“There’s no stopping this now. Go home, Henry. Get some sleep.”

A dial tone erupted in Henry’s ear before he could respond.