Killer Countdown. Amelia Autin
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him to get his attention when the other man’s earphones prevented him from hearing Shane’s question. “What is it?” he asked after Mike removed the earphones.
“See for yourself,” Mike replied, handing both the laptop and the earphones to Shane.
He clicked to restart the news video. It only took a few seconds before he was swearing internally, although he had enough restraint not to curse aloud—he’d long since learned that wasn’t acceptable from a public figure in a public place.
“An assassination attempt at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix, Arizona, was foiled today by Colorado’s junior senator, retired Marine Lieutenant Colonel Shane Jones, in a scene reminiscent of his heroic rescue of a pregnant woman during a domestic terrorism incident five years ago,” Carly Edwards told the TV camera, a microphone in her hand.
Then a video began playing as Carly’s voice continued. “The alleged assassin escaped by running through a small park north of the clinic, to the parking lot, and from there to parts unknown via truck. The footage shown here was taken with a smartphone by this reporter, who just happened to be a bystander when the incident occurred. The Phoenix police warn that the suspect is armed and should be considered extremely dangerous—no one should attempt to approach or apprehend him. Anyone who recognizes the alleged shooter—described as a stocky white male of average height between the ages of forty-five and sixty—or the white getaway truck, is urged to call the Phoenix police or the FBI—” two phone numbers scrolled beneath the video “—or Crime Stoppers to report anonymously.” Another phone number came up.
Carly appeared on the screen again. “Once more, please note the suspect is armed and extremely dangerous—do not approach. Stay tuned to this station for updates on this developing situation. Back to you, Phil.”
“I thought the police would confiscate her smartphone,” Mike muttered to Shane when the video clip came to an end.
Shane’s smile was grim as he removed the earphones. “She’s a smart lady. She probably knew they would. I’ll bet you anything you want to name she emailed the video to herself or her news agency before they had the chance.”
“No bet.” Mike thought for a moment. “The reporters will be all over you, wanting a statement. We’d better have one ready.”
“Yeah. Want to work one up?”
“No problem,” Mike said. “But what are you going to tell them?”
Shane considered this. “Probably the best thing to say is the Phoenix police and the FBI have asked me not to discuss the details of the case—which is perfectly true.”
“Yes, but...” Mike trailed off.
“But why was I at the Mayo Clinic in the first place?” Shane finished for him.
Mike’s eyes met Shane’s. “You haven’t even told us. Well,” he amended, “you haven’t told me. I don’t know what you told everyone else. All I know is you were there for observation. Observation of what?”
Shane glanced across the aisle at his other three aides. They seemed completely oblivious. Two were watching the in-flight movie, and the third was dozing with his head propped against the window.
“No one knows any more than you,” he reassured Mike. “And I didn’t tell any of you because I didn’t want to put you in the position of lying to the press should any questions arise.”
“Cancer?”
Shane shook his head. “Worse. At least...in the perception of the general public.”
“What could be worse than cancer?”
He considered what if anything he should tell Mike and quickly reached the conclusion he’d been fooling himself thinking he could keep the diagnosis secret. He made a mental note to contact Carly regarding the promised exclusive—she’d kept her word, hadn’t mentioned his illness when she’d reported on the assassination attempt, so he needed to keep his word, too. Then he said, “Epilepsy. And it’s not curable.”
“Epilepsy?” Mike looked blown away. “But you don’t... I mean...you haven’t...”
“Yeah, my symptoms aren’t what most people think of when they think of it.”
“Jeez.” After a moment the younger man said, “What symptoms? You never said.”
Shane quickly recounted what he’d told Carly. “I’ve been having these episodes for about six months now. The first physician I consulted had no idea what was causing them. He thought maybe I was depressed and wanted to prescribe an antidepressant.” He snorted. “I knew I wasn’t depressed, so I insisted on seeing a specialist. A whole slew of specialists, in fact, an endocrinologist and a neurologist among them. Nobody could put a name to what was wrong with me. I was complaining to a doctor friend from my Marine Corps days that even with all the medical advances, there’s still a lot we don’t know, and he suggested the Mayo Clinic.”
“And that’s the diagnosis they came up with? Epilepsy?” Mike shook his head. “Maybe you should get a second opinion.”
Shane laughed, but the humor was lacking. “Don’t need one. And you wouldn’t suggest it if you read the literature they provided me with. What I have isn’t all that common, but it is a specialized form of epilepsy—the symptoms are unmistakable. And even if they weren’t, the tests they performed—”
“You mean all those electrodes?”
“Yeah. Those electrodes were for EEG tests. They were actually able to trigger two episodes with their stress tests. The nurses observed the goose bumps on my arms and legs—that’s the reason they wanted me to wear running shorts and a short-sleeved shirt in bed, by the way, so they could observe the physical manifestations—and they talked to me during each episode and recorded my responses. Just as I’d told them, each incident lasted about a half a minute then went away, and I never lost consciousness. But the EEG recorded what was happening in my brain each time. Sure enough, I was having tiny seizures.”
Mike didn’t respond for several minutes as he digested this. “And it’s not—you said it’s not curable? What are you going to do?”
“It’s controllable but not curable.” Shane reached into his pocket and pulled out a little pill bottle, the prescription he’d had filled before he left the hospital. “Twice a day, and it’s supposed to control the seizures.”
“And that’s what you want me to include in your statement to the press?”
Shane shook his head. “Not exactly. As I told you, first let’s just say I’ve been asked not to talk about the attack. I promised Carly Edwards—”
Mike pointed to his laptop screen. “Tiger Shark? Her?”
“Yeah.” He envisioned her in his hospital room...then in his fantasies. “I promised her an exclusive if and when I went public with this information. And I always keep my promises.”
* * *
Carly settled into her first-class airplane seat on the red-eye flight to DC with a tiny sigh of satisfaction. She declined the offer of an alcoholic beverage and instead requested a bottle of water, which was quickly forthcoming. She sipped at it, then closed her eyes. As the plane took off, she let her mind replay everything that had happened over the past two days. High on the list was the scoop she’d managed, even though the police had seized her smartphone and the video she’d taken as evidence in the assassination attempt on the senator.
But even higher on the list was Senator Jones himself. Shane Jones. She could still see him confronting her this afternoon, a seething, very-pissed-off male. She was on the tall side for a woman, but he towered over her. And she would have bet her next exclusive there was not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. A body that had sprawled protectively atop hers when the bullet had whizzed over them. At the time, she hadn’t focused on anything except her fortunate escape, but now she realized how good it had felt to be held in his strong