Overkill(98)

“I’ll be fine.”

“Good. That’s good.” His voice had thickened, and he seemed at a loss as to what to say next. He heaved a deep breath. “I spoiled Eban rotten. I also refused to acknowledge his all too apparent predisposition for cruelty, his tendency toward violence. Consequently, I must assume responsibility for the destruction he caused, in particular your former wife’s unspeakable tragedy, Mr. Bridger. You also suffered greatly from that. An apology is insufficient. In your place, I would rebuke it. But I am sorry. If ever there’s anything I can do for you, I—”

“Actually, there is,” Zach said, surprising them all, especially Sid Clarke himself.

He looked at Zach with a ray of hopefulness. “Name it.”

“You have a jet. Rebecca Pratt is in crisis. I have a duty to her. I need to get to New Orleans.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sid Clarke pressed the down button on the elevator. “I’ll make the calls. Meet me in the entrance lobby in ten minutes.”

Once he left them, Bing rounded on Zach. “Why the hell would you ask a favor of him?”

“He’s not doing me a favor, Bing. I’m doing him one.”





Later, Zach recalled only snatches of the hours between leaving the county hospital in North Carolina and arriving in New Orleans.

Bing had excused himself on some pretext, allowing him and Kate to have a private goodbye, which had been abbreviated but emotional. “I’m leaving you here to face this mess by yourself when it was my house, my property, my mountain,” he’d told her. “I won’t be here to help you fend off the media jackals.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“You’ve proved your mettle.” He chucked her under her chin. “Jumper of chasms. When you jumped it without warning, I nearly had a heart attack.”

“You lied about how deep it was.”

“It was the only way to get you across it.”

They’d smiled at each other, but their smiles had been bittersweet because of the reason for his rushed departure. She’d said, “Without Eban as a factor, there’s no longer any pressure on you to make a decision about Rebecca.”

“No legal pressure, Kate, but pressure of a different kind.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“I swear I don’t. I’m hoping that once I get there, I’ll have some clarity.” After a long, lingering kiss, he’d left her under Bing’s watch.

He’d expected Sid Clarke to drive him back to Atlanta, but they only had to travel one county over to a private airfield that had a landing strip long enough to accommodate Clarke’s jet.

While they’d waited for its arrival from Atlanta, which was barely a half-hour flight, Zach had availed himself of the FBO’s shower room to clean himself up and change into clothes packed in the duffel bag he’d retrieved from Kate’s car.

By the time he’d emerged, the jet had landed and was waiting for him on the tarmac. Clarke had walked him out to the plane. “Thanks for this,” Zach said.

Sid, still looking humbled, said, “It’s the very least I could do. I’ll send it down for your return.”

“That’s unnecessary. Besides, I don’t know when that will be.”

“I only need a couple hours’ notification.”

Realizing that Clarke’s generosity was his way of trying to make recompense, Zach had left it alone and graciously accepted. They’d shaken hands; Zach had climbed aboard.

The flight attendant had served him a hot breakfast, which he’d eaten ravenously, then he’d reclined his seat and slept. He hadn’t awakened until the attendant had tapped him on the shoulder and politely asked him to fasten his seat belt for landing. A chauffeur-driven car arranged by Sid had been waiting to transport him directly to the special care facility.

Now, here he was.

He stood on the sidewalk looking at the facade of the building, reconciling himself to the obligation that Rebecca had taxed him with, bolstering himself for the inevitable turmoil that awaited him.

This morning, people were waking up to the news about Eban Clarke’s death and the bizarre circumstances of it. Whatever Zach did in the next few hours would create a national groundswell of interest. What should be an intensely private resolution to his soul-searing dilemma would once again become a public debate.

The only way to get through it was to get through it.





Dr. Gilbreath was waiting for him in her office. She’d been fully apprised of last night’s events. As he sat down across the desk from her, she said, “I’m glad you and Ms. Lennon escaped unharmed. This situation with Rebecca couldn’t have come at a worse time for you.”

“I don’t know, Dr, Gilbreath. In a way, with Clarke’s death, it seems that everything has come full circle. There’s a weird symmetry. Karma. Cosmic intersection. Something.”

She nodded with understanding and then began explaining Rebecca’s condition, not in medical terms, but in layman’s language. She kept it factual. She didn’t editorialize, proselytize, or advise.

When she finished, he said, “What you’re telling me is that Rebecca could stave off this infection, but the aftereffects of both it and the medications might weaken any or all her systems and leave her susceptible to further complications.”