Free Jayhawk Down by Sharon Calvin

of his pants pocket.
    His mother answered on the first ring. “Hilary told me about the operation,” he said by way of greeting.
    “I’m sorry. She had no business involving you.” Her words were sharp and icy.
    “Why, didn’t you send her down here to tell me? To get me to come back to New York when your calls didn’t?” Stillman yanked his keys out of the ignition and shoved them in his pocket.
    “No, of course not. You should have visited because your father asked to see you, not because of guilt. Regardless, it’s too late.”
    Fear stole his breath and threatened to collapse his lungs. “What happened? Heart attack?” He straightened, reviewing a mental checklist of emergency cardiac scenarios associated with Ebstein’s anomaly. His father was seventy-two. Active, never overweight, maybe a little indulgent with his aged single malt Scotch but—
    “No, nothing so melodramatic.” She sounded as stilted and unemotional as ever, but something else was wrong—something she wasn’t sharing.
    “He retired. Monday.” Her voice caught. “He turned the practice over to his partners. When he recovers from surgery he’ll go on with his aid work for children’s services, but except for his board position, he won’t take an active part in the business.”
    Her words sank in and suddenly the inside of the truck felt hot and claustrophobic. “Wait, back up.” He popped open the door and slid out into the equally hot and humid night. “He’s retiring?” Stillman had been badgering his father to do that for the past five years. “Why don’t you sound happier about this? What are you not telling me?” A vicious ache moved in behind his eyes and unpacked.
    Had his mother been the one pushing for the family dynasty? Had it been her dream all along? Queasy suspicion mixed with acid in his gut.
    “I have to go. Your father’s calling. I—I’ll let you know how the surgery turns—”
    On his way to his apartment his stride faltered. “Like hell. I’ll be there. I can catch a flight out with Hilary tomorrow.” He’d leave a message with the answering service. Call one of the partners in the morning.
    “No. I forbid it.”
    He froze on the concrete steps of the entryway. “You
what
? I’m not a child you can order—”
    “Stillman, I—I’m asking you to respect my wishes. Dr. Holmann doesn’t want any disturbances. Your father and I are taking some time off together.”
    She made a muffled sound and he realized she was crying.
    He stepped into the foyer. Ice-cold air washed over him and he rubbed his forehead before passing a hand over his hair and down tightly bunched muscles in his neck. He’d never heard his mother cry. It made him feel...helpless.
    “Don’t. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”
    They compromised. He would see his father before he was wheeled into surgery—presumably then the sufficiently sedated elder Stillman wouldn’t be “disturbed” by his son’s unexpected appearance.
    The dark apartment had never felt emptier. And Stillman hadn’t felt this alone since Hilary walked out on him two years ago. By then, whatever love he’d had for her had faded, but the loss of the
potential
had cut much deeper than he’d anticipated. He’d always thought he’d have a couple of kids, a house and a wife who shared more than his name.
    The moving boxes scattered around the room mocked him. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Hell, he’d failed miserably on all counts.
    Tampa, FL, Wednesday,
21 September, 1700 hours
    Scott Munson opened the email attachment with suppressed excitement. He knew better than to anticipate too much. Valerie Pappas Wooten could be as crazy as that woman who’d “intercepted” a terrorist call in Miami. She’d turned out to be loonier than the man she’d allegedly overheard. At least that guy’s hallucinations were alcohol induced.
    But this was Harp’s assessment. And Harp wouldn’t take a crackpot seriously, no matter how convincing