“We’ll be together soon, my Hawk.”
She waited.
Nothing happened.
Doubt formed on her face.
“Come on Hawk,” her voice a pathetic quiver.
“Hawk!”
“Hawk, please!”
Erika’s scream was the scream of a soul being condemned to an eternity of loneliness.
Chapter Fifteen
At first Connors refused to believe his eyes. In the distance it appeared as if Master Hawk had shot himself. He dashed forward as rapidly as his creaky legs could move. Kneeling to the master he discovered a nasty head wound. A faint pulse harbored hope, but the young lad would need medical assistance fast.
He found a linen handkerchief in his back pocket. Fortunately it was a long one and in a moment’s time he had a sufficient bandage over the wound in hopes of staunching the flow of blood.
He heard sobbing. A quick glance about showed him no one. He called out. “Is anyone there?” The sobbing came again. “Is anyone there? I’m in need of assistance. Do show yourself.”
Nobody came. He picked up Master Hawk. There was no time to waste. The lad would either bleed to death or die from shock and in a very short time if he did not receive medical assistance in a few vital minutes.
The irony of the whole business suddenly struck Connors and shucked away his many years. Gone was the present world from his mind to be replaced by World War II and the evacuation of Dunkirk, the man made hell of death and destruction. The never silent big guns fired shells making the night bright as day for all to see the hellish torn land and watch as good men and friends met grinning skull death. Connors had walked away from it all packing the good Sergeant Farthingham.
“Don’t be a blasted idiot Private Connors,” Farthingham had protested. “Put me down. I’m for it, you know, got a nasty one in my chest. Put me down and live to do for Jerry some other day.”
Fear had gripped his soul that terrible night as it gripped him now. He had answered the good sergeant quite in a way to make him mad enough to stay alive. “Dash it all, Sergeant Farthingham, I do believe you’re attempting to bag out on the lemon squash laced with rum you owe me at the nearest pub.”
Farthingham had roared in protest. “How dare you accuse me of four flushing?”
“I know you for what you are Sergeant Farthingham, a person who enjoys his drink without forfeiting his money.”
“The unmitigated gall of what you are saying, Private Connors. When we have safely returned to England you shall have your lemon squash laced with rum in the first pub we come to. Then afterwards I shall give you a thorough thrashing behind that pub. Now get on with it. Pack me out of this mess.”
Pack the good sergeant he did. Straight north all through the night to where he thought was medical aid and the evacuation.
He stumbled. Master Hawk was becoming heavier. Well, not really. It was his strength. He wasn’t the lad of twenty anymore.
Lord, so long ago. And now this blasted pain in my chest. Keep moving. No failure this time. No matter what happens.
This time I must not fail.
Miraculously Sergeant Farthingham was still alive the next day. But he had to rest. Did he really see the seashore and the evacuation up ahead perhaps just a few miles away?
Can’t tell for certain, blasted heat waves create mirages, also distort distances.
He stumbled, dropped the sergeant to the sand and fell on him. Farthingham screamed. There were a few drops of water remaining in the canteen. He lifted the sergeant’s head and put the canteen to his mouth until it was empty.
He had rested about an hour to regain a little of his spent strength. Then once again he managed to put the sergeant on his shoulders to walk onward through the searing heat and the endless sand.
He reached the seashore and medical assistance was at hand. But the good Sergeant Michael Farthingham, career soldier in her Majesty’s Army had answered his last call to duty. As he was being examined by the doctors he offered one final salute, and passed on to the brave soldier’s haven. “Sorry, lad,” remarked the doctor. “Another few minutes and we may have been able to save him.”
He had never forgiven himself for not saving the good sergeant.
Master Hawk’s weight was close to tearing his arms loose from their sockets. The pain in his chest was excruciating. It was like an ever tightening band drawing into him deeper and deeper, threatening to bend him double. A cold sweat bathed him. His left arm throbbed with the pain from his chest. Nausea threatened. The symptoms were evident. A heart attack was imminent if not already happening.
Just give me another minute or two. The mansion’s in sight.
He saw Jack working on the grounds and called to him. “Jack, get help at once and then assist me.”
Seconds later four people ran toward him. One was Matilda.
Now, now I can put Master Hawk down.
He removed his butler’s coat, put it under Hawk’s head for a pillow and collapsed next to his young master.
As Connors regained consciousness he saw Matilda kneeling beside him. She smiled at him and began smoothing his shaggy hair. “Master Hawk?” he whispered.
“He’s still alive,” assured Matilda. She was white faced worried to numbness.
“That’s good, Matilda, very good. Perhaps I didn’t fail this time.” He looked at his wife. She was just as lovely as the day he first met her at the enlisted man’s canteen where she was serving doughnuts and coffee. “I expect you’ll have to go the rest of the distance by yourself, old girl.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense. Why, anybody would think you were a quitter. Well, I’ll just up and tell the world my man doesn’t quit anything. You hear me, world?”
Connors didn’t hear her boast. Matilda knew why. She patted the old butler’s white hair while talking to him. “Well, love, all your life you’ve lived to serve others. You were right good at it, too. None better. I expect the Good Lord will find a proper place for you. Why, he’s most likely in dire need of a cracking good butler such as you.”
Matilda looked up at the bright blue, cloudless sky. She sobbed. “Please Lord. Don’t force me to stay alive without my man by my side. Please don’t.”
When the Paramedics arrived Connors and Matilda were holding hands and smiling. Death had taken them and Hawk was dying.
Chapter Sixteen
Livid with rage Terrence Hawkins Archibald O’Brien listened to the voice informing him about Hawk.
“I don’t give a good goddamn how it happened. Tell me how he is.”
“The doctors say he’ll pull through.”
“That doesn’t tell me how he is, you asshole. Where is he?” His fingers trembled. He swore when he heard Hawk’s whereabouts.
“Okay. Make funeral arrangements for Connors and Matilda. See if they have relatives in England. If so, fly them in for the funeral, or send them the bodies, whichever one they prefer. I’ll handle everything else at this end.”
O’Brien pressed a button. Before the mansion’s secretary could answer he commanded, “Get the head man of the hospital my son is in on the phone.”
He lit a fresh Cuban.
The phone rang. Pressing a different button he said, “This is O’Brien.”
“Dr. Fitzsimmons, sir.”
“Dr. Fitzsimmons, you have just become a millionaire several times over and your hospital is about to receive a substantial contribution from an anonymous donor. Let’s say ten million to start with. Now listen carefully. You have to follow my orders to the letter. Step one. I want my son moved to O’Brien Hospital. He should have been taken there in the first place. And I’m sure as hell going to roll heads and kick asses all over this goddamn city because he wasn’t. Step two. I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck in hell how you accomplish this, but you are to close the mouth of everybody who knows my son has been shot. Do you understand me so far?”
“Yes, sir.”
Good, because if any information leaks out about my son, your career is ruined and so is everybody else’s who works in your hospital. Is that also clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get it done.”
“There is one thing sir.”
“Yes.”
“Your son should not be moved now. If we could wait, perhaps as short as a…”
“Do it now! And don’t let anything happen to him.”
O’Brien broke contact and buzzed his male secretary.
“Yes, sir.”
“Activate the scrambler. I’ll punch in the phone number.”
“The scrambler is on, sir.”
He punched in secret numbers.
A man answered. He was deep voiced and laconic.
“Yes?”
“I need you.”
“Name it.”
“My son has been shot. I want no publicity.”
“I see. It may be too late. Do you realize what you’re asking?”
“Of course I do. My son and I went through the horse shit for brains newspaper editors and the fucking asshole television reporters once and by God we won’t go through them again. Hawkins is being transferred to O’Brien Hospital. You handle the situation I know will arise there. Any amount of money you need and ask for will be transferred to any or all of the bank accounts you have.”
“Okay.”
O’Brien buzzed his secretary.
“Deactivate your scrambler. Get me Dr. Tyler.”
His cigar tasted sour. He snubbed it out and lit another. He was smoking too much. There was no finger trembling. Giving orders to people gave him control.
The phone buzzed.
“O’Brien.”
“Dr. Tyler, sir.”
“I ought to have your ass in a frying pan, you stupid butt faced bastard.”
There was no comment from Dr. Tyler. O’Brien noted this and continued talking.
“Has Hawkins been coming to you for his sessions?”
“No, he missed one.”
“Why in the hell wasn’t I informed?”
“I called your cell phone number last Saturday when he failed to show up and received no answer. It’s in my record.”
O’Brien made a mental note. Last Saturday he was having a card game with some people who thought they could take a bundle of money from him. They were wrong. “I’ll check your Saturday records to make sure, Dr. Tyler. For your sake, what you say had better be true.”
“May I ask what’s wrong?”
“Not necessary. Keep your mouth shut and listen. Hawkins has been shot. He’s being taken to my hospital. Get over there at once. I want you to find out what’s going on with him as soon as possible.”
“What if his condition is such I can’t ask him any questions?”
“Can’t isn’t in my vocabulary, Tyler. It had better not be in yours. Do it.”
Hanging up the phone, Terrence Hawkins Archibald O’Brien looked at his well-kept fingers. They didn’t tremble.
Chapter Seventeen
When Terrence Hawkins Archibald O’Brien charged into O’Brien Hospital, he needed no introduction. He marched straight to the main office. Dr. Juggson, the hospital’s head physician along with Dr. Tyler greeted him.
O’Brien lit a Cuban and stared at Dr. Juggson. “State my son’s condition, briefly, with no medical terms.”
“At the moment your son is sedated into unconsciousness, out of danger, and his condition is stable.”
“Was it attempted murder or attempted suicide?”
“I can’t say one way or the other as to attempted murder. Attempted suicide, there were powder burns on his forehead. He’s one lucky boy. Bullet grazed his right temple. A little more to the left and he wouldn’t have made it.”
“Can you make him regain consciousness?”
“Yes. But I go on record as strongly advising against such action.”
“You’re in no position to advise me of anything, doctor.”
“True, as long as your name is on my paycheck. I don’t know whether you like your son or not, nor do I personally give a rat’s ass. When he regains consciousness he’ll have double vision, or possibly worse, maybe even be blind for a time. Being shot gave him one hell of a whack on the head. He may not have a headache at the moment because of the heavy sedation. The pain will come later. His speech will be impaired so you may not understand what he’s saying. What the hell’s the rush? What’s so important it can’t wait?”
“Why wait if he’s not in any danger? Make him conscious.”
Dr. Juggson left. O’Brien turned to Dr. Tyler. “Saturday’s report is like you said. You’re in the clear.”
Dr. Tyler nodded.
“When Hawkins is conscious you are to find out how he got shot and why he’s again playing with the doll named Erika.”
Surprise arched Dr. Tyler’s eyebrows. “Erika? I was beginning to assume she might be a delusion. Are you saying she’s only a doll? You’ve never told me you had knowledge of her.”
“I didn’t. I just found out a few days ago from Connors, my head butler.”
“I see. But at the moment I fail to understand how playing with a doll can cause Hawkins to have the psychological problems which have plagued him for so many years. Something far more serious must be involved.”
“When you tell me why Hawkins plays with a doll and what is causing all of his other problems you will be able to retire on the wealth you receive every month from me.”