The Unsung Hero Read Free Page B

airport to his final location. He would make sure he was dropped downtown, he’d wander a few blocks, then pick up another cab. He’d do this several times until he was certain he wasn’t being followed, that his path couldn’t be traced.
    On the other side of the overhang, the shuttle to the T was pulling up.
    “Paranoia” played a little bit louder until Tom shook his head, pushing away both it and the dizziness that still seemed to intervene whenever he stood up for too long.
    Yes, it was going to sound frigging crazy when he tried to explain. “Hi, I think I just saw the international terrorist that I spent four months tracking in ’96 taking a cab out of LoganAirport. Yeah, that’s in Boston, Massachusetts, that teeming hotbed of international intrigue. . . .”
    Yeah, right.
    Tom got on the shuttle.
    He would call. Crazy as it all sounded, he had to call someone. He’d call Admiral Crowley—a man who’d trusted Tom’s crazy instincts before. But Tom would make the call from the comfort and privacy of his uncle Joe’s cottage in Baldwin’s Bridge.
    He jammed his bag beneath his feet and sat near the window, putting his head back and closing his eyes. Rest and relaxation.
    He could assume the position, but he couldn’t keep his mind from racing.
    Tom had no clue—no clue—what he was going to do if Tucker got what he wanted and kicked him out of the Navy.

    The tile was cold against his cheek.
    It actually felt rather nice, but Charles Ashton didn’t want to die, like Elvis, on the bathroom floor, with his pajama bottoms down around his ankles.
    Where was the dignity in that?
    “Come on, God,” he said, struggling to pull his pants up his legs. “Give a guy a break.”
    He’d been on a first-name basis with God ever since that day Joe Paoletti had driven him to Dr. Grant’s and the much too young physician had used the words you and have and terminal and cancer in the very same sentence. Charles had figured his and God’s relationship was going to become far more personal and hands on in the very near future, so he might as well get friendly with the guy.
    Death.
    It wasn’t a very fun or happy word, with any particularly appealing images attached. Charles preferred the more euphemistic expressions. Kicking the bucket. Belly-up—that was a particularly bouncy, friendly-sounding one. And then there was the perennial favorite: shitting the bed.
    No, strike that. He preferred the bare bones dying over that most unpleasant image.
    The doctor had estimated that Charles had about four months before he’d pass on. Pass on—that was a stupid one. It made him think of passing gas, like dying was one giant, last-blast fart.
    Of course, the precocious youngster with the medical degree had warned, he could be wrong and the moment of truth could be far sooner than four months.
    Like maybe this morning.
    Charles wasn’t afraid to die. Not anymore. Well, wait, strike that, too. He was afraid to die—on the bathroom floor. A thing like that would stay with a guy damn near forever.
    “Remember Charles Ashton?” someone would say. “Yeah, right, Ashton,” would be the reply. “He died in his bathroom with his big bare ass hanging out of his pants.”
    Forget about all the money he’d given to charity, all his philanthropic works. Forget the branch of the Baldwin’s Bridge hospital dedicated to children’s medicine, given in honor of both his own son who died from a ruptured appendix in 1947 as well as a little French boy killed by the Nazis, a little boy he’d never actually met. Forget about the war he’d helped to win. Forget about the trust funds he’d set up so that each year three promising young students from Baldwin’s Bridge could attend the colleges of their choice.
    Forget about everything but his big bare ass, dead as a doornail on the bathroom floor.
    Dead.
    It was a cold word.
    Charles had suspected the news was coming when he’d first met the doctor, even before he’d had the full