You Remember---Panama?

a/n This is a crossover of JE and Randy Wayne White's Doc Ford series. Doc Ford is a PhD marine biologist working in the Gulf of Mexico, Sanibel Island/ Captiva, Florida.... who moonlights now and then as a government hitman. His pal/sidekick is mystic millionaire, aging hippie Tomlinson. Both men are, by now, in their late 40's.

This is based on an actual book/plot of White's, spun as if R and A became involved. Standard fanfic disclaimers apply.



Doc Ford's stilt house, Sanibel Island FL

 

You Remember---Panama?


Part One ~ Another day, another op

Concha Key, Florida ~ soon after the Scrog fiasco

Doc Ford pov

We all turned to the window at the low roar of a powerful engine. Black Ferrari Testarossa, pulling into the chopped shell drive, big Pirelli tires crunching noisily. We were at a little cabin near the marina, huddled in an uncomfortable dispute. Tomlinson had volunteered me for a job with his new best buddy former President James Shephard, a man who wasn't accustomed to hearing the words no, I won't do it. But I held my ground, repeated myself as necessary. My name is Ford---people tend to call me Doc. Maybe because I have a PhD in marine science. Or maybe it's because I fix things.

Now I took in the black sports car and turned on Tomlinson and said, "You called…."

He interrupted, saying, "We need help with this gig, Doc. This is beyond our powers."

Shephard looked sharply at us then back outside.

Two young men were getting out of the black sports car. Muscular builds, expensive golf attire, mirrored shades. Rolex watches and diamond ear studs. Their favorite Florida cover look---"cover" in more ways than one, being both very GQ and very non-SWAT.

And, as always, they were armed and dangerous.

They knocked once and let themselves in, flipping up their black mirrored sunglasses in the dim living room. Tiny chin tilts to me, very faint martial arts-style bows to Tomlinson. The litle rented cottage suddenly teemed with blackbelts, earned on esoteric battlefields.

Carlos Manoso and Anthony Stewart, large as life, scary as the devil. Manoso’s arm was in a sling, and he looked pale and drawn, obviously injured.

Finally Manoso said, "You rang." A hint of sarcasm in the toneless words.

Tomlinson said to Shephard, "Sir, this is---

Manoso cut his eyes sharply to Tomlinson, who faltered, "Uuh---so, guys, this is our Uncle---Sam?"

Ranger looked like he might laugh. He said, "Yeah, I know how that is…."

His friend nodded at Shephard and actually gave his name, saying, "I’m Anthony Stewart."

Neither offered to shake hands. Ranger’s right arm was in the sling but that wasn’t the reason. Badass dudes only shake hands with their homies. Or whatever the current street slang is.

Both had obviously recognized the former President despite Tomlinson's cutesy alias. And they did not look impressed. Stewart was looking at Shephard as if gauging whether the former president recognized his name. But Shephard was looking arrogant and clueless.

I said, "What happened to you?"

Ranger said, "Bad takedown."

Shephard butted in saying, "I don’t need anyone who has bad takedowns, I won’t be needing you, mister. I’ll use this guy if he fits our needs."

He motioned to Anthony.

I swear both Tomlinson and I took a step back. Ranger might be injured but he could still kill you in a heartbeat.

Stewart said, "Up to el jefe. You gotta talk to the man."

He tilted his head towards Ranger. Now that was interesting. I never got the feeling that Ranger was Anthony’s boss, they seemed like a team. Anthony was playin’.

Shephard drew himself up and said, "You’ll talk to me, mister, I’m the chief here!" His scathing "mister" made him sound like the ex-naval officer he was, many years, many lifetimes ago. It was sarcastic, annoying. Arrogant.

Ranger conveyed a sigh without actually doing something so mundane as really sighing. He moved so fast it wasn’t perceptible, instantly getting in Shephard’s face.

Ranger said in his soft, uninflected voice, "That’s where you’re wrong, old man. There’s only one boss on an op and that’ll be me. Mister."

Ranger’s Mister had all the venom of the old navy officer's and a hell of a lot more: Punk thug ghetto killer gang banger badass spiked with years of Special Forces Black Ops command and a current army rank that far outdid the ex-president’s former naval rank. Of course Ranger has not yet gotten himself elected President---I don't think he's old enough, actually. Isn't there a minimum age---35?---so he did his obnoxious Master of the Universe persona instead. And he does it really, really well.

Shephard blustered, "Do you know who  I am, young man?"

Ranger smiled, Halleluiah. We all basked in his fabulous smile. The media doesn’t call it his million dollar smile for nothing. At our silence, the smile got even wider and he said, "Yeah I do. And you're just a civilian now, Mister. And I never worked for you. You were  a has-been before I finished college."

Shephard regrouped and said, "Street thugs go to college?"

"Yes. And better than your shitty NC State, man."

Now he and Stewart both smiled. Their credentials were first rate, Stanford, Harvard. Plus Stewart went to MIT. MBAs and PhDs.

Then the military---Officers Candidates School. Rangers School. Military Intel. And <whispers> Delta Force/Black Ops. With a side of NSA/ CIA/ and Covert Renditions training. They were the finest operators that the real Uncle Sam could train or buy.

Ranger added, "More to the point---do you know who I am?"

Shephard just glared at him.

There was a silence. Finally I said, "I need backup, guys. I need a shooter."

Ranger said,  "See what he wants." And walked out. I guessed he was talking to Stewart who narrowed his eyes at Ranger’s departing back.

Shephard gestured towards Anthony and said, "I’ll speak to him alone, give us some privacy."

I debated about asking Anthony for his weapons before I left him alone with Shephard. But then, why bother? Anthony could snap the old guy’s neck in two seconds. Maybe less. Probably one-handed. I’d just hope for the best….

Tomlinson and I went out on the porch, sat down on the steps by Ranger.

Ranger said, "How come there’s no beach chairs."

…………

President Shephard's rented "cracker" house
on Concha Key

 After awhile I asked Ranger again, "What happened?"

He explained in his terse way about his daughter’s kidnapping, the rescue of his child and his lover. I've known him for years, never knew he had a daughter. Or a woman he loves.

He said, "Julie was awesome, man, she shot the guy. Never hesitated. Saved my life. And she is just so freakin’ beautiful, you can’t imagine."

We both looked at him, wondering if his daughter looks like him.

After a too-long silence, Tomlinson asked, "How old is she?"

"Ten."

"That’s a terrible burden for a child. Bad karma."

Ranger said, "She’s a hero. It's not always easy being the hero."

I said, "You should know."

He shrugged a little, left shoulder only, said, "And I don't give a crap about bad karma."

Tomlinson: "Just sayin', buddy. Just saying."

"Don't."

…………………………………………………….

Stewart appeared behind us, leaving the house and Shephard. He sat on the step right by Ranger and put his head in his hands. He said, "I almost shot that asshole, Doc, are you crazy?"

Ranger said,

?

"He tried to bribe me! Me! A bribe! As if! Then when that didn't work he tried to blackmail me! Offered me a freakin’ pardon."

?

"I said I don’t need no steenkin’ pardon, man, I’m with the unit. I have, like, immunity. And I don’t take bribes. Geez."

His usually deadpan delivery actually carried a hint of disbelief and hurt and his voice was a little louder than usual for him. Anthony was really upset. More hurt than angry, I deduced, but still.

I silently cursed Shephard.

Finally I said, "You are a mercenary."

"So, okay like I get paid, but I don’t take bribes, man. And I only do US government hits, through you know, like, Delta or Omega---or the agencies, I don’t need this shit. A pardon. I don’t need a pardon. And there’s not enough money in the world to like bribe me, man. Fuck me. Shit."

Ranger patted his shoulder, like there, there.

Shephard came out onto the porch. Behind him the old screen door creaked, then slammed softly.

I said again, "I need help here."

Ranger said, "No. We don’t owe him any favors and there’s nothing he can give us that we need." He got up. He moved beautifully despite the injuries.

I said, "Please."

Shephard said, "Please. If I  was wrong, if Doc says we need you, then I am asking too."

Ranger turned and stared at the older man. "We don’t need your bribes or your pardons or your favors. You don’t have enough money to pay me or Antonio for what we do. And I don’t like you. Since you can’t buy me or coerce me, you’ll have to---interest---me."

Anthony said, his voice still muffled by his hands, "The guy killed his wife, he loved her. El Incendiario killed his wife….That’s the guy that tried to kill Doc's boy. He's a psycho, the guy wants him hit. Dude is in, like, Panama. Name's Garcia, Alonzo Garcia."

?

"And he uh needs---wants---more than a shooter. He got Sid here because he wants a psychic....no, a medium."

Ranger stepped back and looked at Tomlinson. They both called Tomlinson Sid, a short version of his Zen name.

"You’re a psychic now? Talk to the departed, crystal ball shit?" asked Ranger.

"Not me, but you----"

Ranger said, "Don’t even begin to go there."

He plopped his fine ass back down by Stewart and they kind of leaned into each other, eyes behind the black sunglasses unreadable. They were conferring. I know they do it, just never understand how it really works.

Anthony lifted his face from his hands and knees, staring straight ahead. The aura around them intensified subtly, something protective, something worrisome was discussed and discarded as insignificant. How did I know this? No clue---body language?

The silence went on and on. Even Shephard respected it.

Finally Ranger said, "No."

Stewart: ?

Ranger: mini-negative, chin jerk, like 5 centimeters to the side.

Anthony said, "I don’t do that."

"Me neither."

Anthony clarfied,  "No talking to the departed shit, no way."

Tomlinson said, "It’s 5 o’clock somewhere, guys, let’s celebrate this with a drink! And i got some primo reefer, you gotta try a toke."

The two young mercenaries smiled at him but said nothing.

At long last Ranger said to Anthony, "If we're going to Panama you gotta fix your hair."

"Bummer."

Stewart had beautiful pale blond hair, usually in dreadlocks but today it was loose and expensively cut, long on the top, buzzed sides. I assumed that he’d color it dark for the op. Except for the hair he looked Latino and I knew from experience that both he and Ranger could shed their upper class Havana accents at will and pass for natives of any Spanish-speaking country as needed.

Hell, I’d seen Ranger pass for an Arab in Iraq, as Mossad in Israel, as Lebanese  in Beirut. He’d been an Argentine polo player once and a Brazilian banker, as I recalled. I’ve seen him play an undercover foreign agent, playing another foreign agent---like he was Israeli Mossad undercover as a PLO operative, or a DEA agent playing a Colombian drug cartel boss, or….geez, even I get confused. Being a Panamanian was child’s play to these men.

Shephard said, "Does that mean you are in?"

Ranger said without getting up or turning. "Ok but don’t fuck this up. Remember: I outrank you. I’m the boss, Mr. President. Not you. Not Doc. Me."

Shephard opened his mouth to argue and both Tomlinson and I grasped an arm and pulled him back into the house.

Shephard said, "Is this guy worth it? Are they? He's just a kid! Does he really outrank me? I was---"

"Yes. To everything, sir."

"Can he speak to my wife?"

I said, "No. "

Tomlinson said, "Yes."

Shephard looked exhausted. I knew how he felt, Manoso and company were stressful. But they were the very best.

Shephard said, "Were they Delta Force?"

Ranger said from the doorway, "Don’t ask. Don’t tell."

................

Part Two ~ Lady in Red

Panamanian jungle clearing, a few days later

Anthony

Me and Ranger---we both said No, but somehow we ended up doing it anyway...the medium shit, I mean. Why is it, like medium, what if the passed-over dude was an extra-large? Just tell me that, okay? Ranger says I'm a sucker for a sob story---what does that make him? Huh?

Doc Ford pov

"This is where my wife died," said Shephard.

We looked at the burned-out skeleton of the plane, on a scraggly jungle plateau in Panama. We had gotten here fast, safe and in comfort. Another good thing about an op run by Ranger personally---he---and Stewart too---were so rich they just bought whatever they wanted or needed, just waved their magic golden dollars. It was like being in the military with a patina of unfathomable luxury. I knew they were both very successful businessmen, but they both could be intentionally unconcerned about expenses, casually handing their AmEx Black cards to the Porsche dealer for an SUV and picking up the new BellJet helicopter. I don’t think either guy ever heard of Hertz or charter air flights, and god forbid they’d ever fly commercial.

The reason Stewart had looked to see if the president recognized his name was that he was a software billionaire, as well as the heir to a huge international banking fortune that he shared with Ranger and the rest of their oddball family. With Ranger, people said he was like a film star---only better; Stewart—like Bill Gates, only hotter. A lot hotter. So of course neither one took bribes, they have more money than god. Governments come to them for loans! No wonder Stewart was offended by Shephard’s attitude.

Ranger was maybe 30, all dark Latino good looks and perfect body. He had long dark hair, intense black eyes and the warm brown skin of a racially mixed heritage. Ranger is startlingly, exotically, unusually beautiful. How he has been so successful at undercover work is a mystery to me. He came from old money, Cuban banking. And American Italian mob. Stewart looked almost exactly like Ranger—they are half-brothers---but his mother had passed him the genes for his blond hair and fairer skin. But he still had the warm dark complexion and black Spanish eyes.

Or, now, as they stood staring at the wreckage their eyes took on a deeper, scarier aspect. The eyes of ancient Mayan priests or Toltec shamans. Mystics and marauders, wizards, conquistadors, and kings. Their eyes held ancient knowledge that defied logic and time.

Or perhaps what I saw in those black eyes was something entirely otherworldly, heaven or hell or some other planet, who the hell knows.  My thoughts were absurd, unscientific. I knew that but nevertheless---I felt the chill, the fear of the un-explainable, the inexplicable.

My skin crawled despite my affection and respect for the two beautiful young men.

One time when I first got to know Ranger I had asked him about DNA, some random thought--- I am, after all, a research biologist--- about the survival of the fittest, of the most attractive, the smartest. He looked me in the eye and said, "If we have the ability to survive in your world and make our appearance attractive to you all, surely we can make our DNA read 100% homo sapiens. Think about it, Doc."

At  the time I wrote it off as Ranger humor, dry and mystifying. And dismissed his words from my thoughts.

Now here we are in the jungle. At the wreck site. The place where El Incendiario slaughtered the survivors of the small plane he so cruelly shot down. Diana Shephard had been touring the poverty-stricken areas of this poor country, a humanitarian effort to create women's cooperatives, to bring medicine and safety to these people. Alonzo Garcia shot down the Cessna with a Vietnam War era rocket launcher. Then he killed Diana Shephard and everyone else who made it through the crash landing. Perhaps we would never know why, the man was an insane killing machine.

Tomlinson was pacing and chanting and Ranger tipped his head, the sideways motion that meant, what the fuck.

He actually said, "Sid. Shut up. Please."

Then,  "You too," as Shephard was opening his mouth to comment or question.

Time passed. An hour? A minute, an eternity.

Stewart sat down suddenly on the hot earth and folded his legs like Tomlinson, though he didn’t bother with a full lotus in jungle boots. He put his head in his hands and finally his hands over his ears and his face on his ankles, as if to shut out something only he---and Ranger---could hear.

Despite the heat he was shivering. He controlled it ruthlessly but the fine tremors wracked his narrow back and broad shoulders.

Time expanded relentlessly. We stood frozen for what felt like eons. But perhaps was only a few minutes. Or hours. The sun crawled slowly across the white hot sky.

Ranger turned away from the site. As he passed Anthony he brushed his hand gently over the other man’s newly short dark hair. Said, "Let's go we're done here."

That’s how he talks, no punctuation, no question marks, no inflection. But his love for the other man was obvious and unhidden.

He again shut everyone up with a cold glance. No questions were allowed. Not then.

Anthony rose in a single fluid motion, no hands. I felt a pang of envy despite the situation’s gravity, so young, so perfect! He and Ranger walked off to the chopper, communicating without words as usual.

………………

By the time we got there they had the cooler open and were drinking designer water and arguing amiably about who should fly the heli. Usually Stewart flew, but Ranger of course knew how.

Finally Anthony said, "Dude I’m okay. And, like, I hate to be the downer here but you can’t fly the chopper with your shoulder injury."

"Oh."

I had deduced that Ranger’s arm was injured, not just broken. And Stewart had told me that there were pins and screws holding Ranger’s shoulder joint in place while the bones healed. It sounded excruciating and I felt a rush of gratitude that Ranger had left the hospital and come when Tomlinson called them. No wonder he had had zero patience for Shephard’s posturing.

We got on the chopper. Stewart flew.

………………………….

Panama house

Later that evening Shephard sat by me on the deck as we watched the sun set. We were staying at a fabulous villa on the Pacific Ocean outside Panama City. I had no clue who it belonged to, Ranger had simply said it was available---and had a heli pad. For all I knew he or Stewart owned it or just bought it for this op.

The ex-president said, "They told me what they felt, what they saw at the wreck site. How he killed her, killed them all. How she died."

"Was it bad?"

"It was hard to hear. I can’t imagine what it is like to ---feel? see? things like that. In that way…."

I couldn’t answer. I don’t believe in ESP or psychic ability. But as Ranger likes to say, "Yet here we are."

………………………………………

When we went back inside, we could hear laughter and music. We followed the sounds to the expansive great room that overlooked the ocean. The big doors stood open, just the screens pulled, and the soft evening sea breeze wafted in.

The room smelled of tropical flowers and salt air and Tomlinson’s ganja. Neither Ranger nor Stewart appeared to smoke dope, though they tolerated it when Tomlinson lit up. And they drank only water. Despite the apparent camaraderie of a shot of rum or tequila, I noticed they accepted the alcohol but didn’t drink.

Now Tomlinson was sprawled on the sofa being entertained by Ranger and Anthony. They were seated side by side at the big black grand piano and they were plunking out old tunes and laughing, no sign of any lingering unease from the wreck site experience.

When we walked in they were playing Blue Moon, each playing with one hand.

When we’d embarked on this jungle trip they had changed from their golf clothes into lovingly faded jungle cargo pants, painted-on olive drab t-shirts, and jungle hiking boots. They wore their diamond earrings and platinum Rolex watches and what appeared to be traditional military dog tag IDs. And now, tonight, they looked like a couple of young GIs, far from home, having some fun before the next battle.  They plunked out---

Blue Mooooon

I saw you standing alooone

Without a dream in your heart

Without a love of your own.

Blue moon

I knew just what you were there for

you heard me saying a prayer for

Someone I really could care for

Blue Moon

Now I’m no longer aloooone

Without a dream in my heart

Without a love of my own…..                                                       

["Blue Moon"/ early rock classic]

The choruses were marked by laughing arguments about the lyrics but they played the simple melody with ease and their voices wove in surprising harmony. I realized they were both playing because Ranger’s right hand and arm had less than its normal range of motion due to his injury and the sling.

When the two mercenaries worked together usually they used an unusual formation, with Stewart always on Ranger’s left instead of the usual right side/ one step behind that is a more usual combat stance. I figured it was because Stewart was left-handed and this let them keep their gun hands free. But with Ranger’s injury he had essentially become (very capably) left-handed, so Stewart had moved to the right hand cover position. They did this kind of thing through some instinct, a result of endless years of military training. And I'm sure they did not have to discuss or plan it. But tonight I listened to their carefree give and take, apparently their piano playing was more complex. Whoever would have imagined that they could play like this?

They segued into the Beatles much to Tomlinson’s delight, at one point singing a cappella:

Blackbird singing’ in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting

For this moment to arise…

Blackbird, fly!

Into the light of the dark black sky…..                              

["Blackbird"/The Beatles}

The harmony made them both smile, and they paused, playing something familiar and classical, very beautiful, as they conferred with their eyes, deciding on their next song.

I felt Shephard tense up beside me, but was distracted by the next song…oh geez, Grateful Dead, early stuff….

Tomlinson said, "This is like so far out, man, like Summer of Love shit, Woodstock days and nights. Far fucking out. Groovy."

They used the piano to cover Jerry Garcia’s guitar riff, though Anthony rolled his eyes, said, "Woodstock? Mud?"

Well the first days are the hardest days

Don't you worry anymore

‘Cos when life looks like easy street

There is danger at your door…

Come hear Uncle John's Band playing to the stars

Come on along or go alone

I’ve come to take your children home…..                                

["Uncle John's Band"/ Grateful Dead]

Ranger’s dark eyes held mine, saying---something, maybe something important. But I had no clue what the message was.

It’s just a box of rain…..

And a phrase from the iconic Ripple---

There is a road, (there is a road)
 no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go (and if you go)
 no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

And he who leads, must someday follow...                       

["Box of Rain" and "Ripple" /Grateful Dead]

Then, really showcasing their beautiful voices---who would have ever imagined, these two with their deadpan speech patterns?---Joan Baez:

Well I’ll be damned

Here comes your ghost again

But that’s not unusual

It's just that the moon was full

And you happened to call….

And here I sit
Hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I'd known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

Where are you calling from?
A booth in the Midwest
Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks (You bought me some cufflinks)
You brought me something   (I brought you something….)
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust

Now I see you standing
With brown leaves falling around
And snow in your hair
Now you're smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel
Over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there

         Anthony smiled softly at some of the lyrics, as if snowy Washington Square* held a special meaning for him. And I wondered.

Now you're telling me
You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague
Because I need some of that vagueness now
It's all come back too clearly
Yes I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid

Yeah,

We both know what memories can bring.                             
They bring diamonds and rust.

["Diamonds and Rust"/ Joan Baez]

*precognition, Jane's Dilemma

I’m no musician, but even I know that Baez songs are difficult. During the bridge sequence, the Washington Square stanza, they watched each other, eyes locked, voices flexible, harmony twining perfectly.

But at the end, their black eyes watching us all, no longer smiling.

I had the notion—no, the sureness of knowledge-–that their songs had a shamanistic meaning beyond the obvious. These were not the random amusements of amateur players. The songs were old, from my era, Tomlinson’s era. Not their own. Ranger was perhaps thirty at the most, Anthony even younger. These were songs from long before they were born, chosen for a reason. But the meaning eluded me. I wondered idly if Tomlinson’s pot smoke had gone to my head, the room, so bright and fresh, seemed filled with ghosts and hidden stories. I blinked, tried to refocus.

Finally only Ranger was playing, Anthony sitting still beside him, shoulders touching---Chopin’s Nocturnes, one handed, but still lovely. Then they went back to the earliest classical piece, both playing in some complex duet, obviously something they knew well and played together often. What was that?

Oh---Claire de Lune. Debussy, right?

Shephard stood up, gasping out over the piano, "How did you know?"

Ranger did the head tilt. God, he’s annoying.

?

"That was our song. I taught her how to play that song."

?

"It is her theme. How could you possibly know? How! How did you know…?" His voice was anguished.

Ranger lifted his hands. The treble part of the tune played on, then Anthony too stopped.

The sudden silence dragged on. And on.

Anthony, one handed, idly picked out the beginning phrases of the Baez song----”Well I'll be damned, here comes your ghost again. But that's not unusual, it's just that the moon was full and……”

Trailing off again. More silence.

Finally Ranger got up and in his frightening, fast catlike way confronted Shephard. His voice was his speaking voice, flat, soft. New York with a hint of Ivy League.

He said, "Either you believe."

Pause….

"Or you don’t."

He briefly gestured, his hand sketching the form of someone only he, and perhaps Anthony, could see. A woman standing by the piano, smiling. No……. My skin crawled atavistically. We all looked at the emptiness that he had indicated. I smelled her perfume, I saw her smile. Her red dress as she turned towards Shephard, held out her hands.

A strangled sound from Shephard, a laugh or a sob? His whispered, "Diana."

The large room darkened somehow, seemed smoke-filled--or foggy? Yet sparkling with energy and brilliance, not of the eyes but of our hearts. Or souls?

Ranger turned away and walked out through the French doors, on into the night. After a few moments, Anthony riffled the keys again. Oh no---Led Zeppelin? But he only played. Apparently he didn’t do a solo singing act. But the song was Stairway to Heaven.

Tomlinson relit his joint, inhaled. Expelled a big cloud of sweet smoke. Said, "Far fucking out. Far. Fucking. Out."

Shephard looked shell-shocked. His mouth trembled.

Anthony smiled. And he did sing the final line---

And she’s buying the stairway to heaven…..

He followed Ranger out into the darkness. I polished my eyeglasses on my t-shirt hem and poured us all another round of tequila.

[a/n Probably you can look the songs up on YouTube if you're not into hippie rock.]

Part Three ~ Til It's Over

Doc POV

That night I couldn’t sleep. The hocus pocus nonsense I’d seen earlier had shaken me. It was in direct conflict with everything I as a scientist believed.

My busy mind found no explanation. The two men had no monetary reason to con Shephard. And it seemed impossible that they’d act out such a charade because they felt sorry for him. And just for that one moment, the former First Lady’s presence in that room had seemed palpable, real. Did I see her? No. Not really. But I felt---something.

I got up and silently went down the hall, then down the stairs, hoping to find a snack or drink to calm myself. I was surprised to see the lower floor still lit, a voice coming from the open door to the library.  I crept over and peeked in, wishing I’d brought my gun.

Anthony Stewart was awake and pacing, talking on a Bluetooth wireless earpiece, referring back and forth to an open laptop on the library desk. He was speaking quietly and very fast, not English, not Spanish. I listened and decided it was French with a smattering of German. Stewart was---implausible though it always seems---an investment banker. I decided that he was speaking to someone in Switzerland, speaking the dialect of  Zurich or Geneva.

 After the day we---he ---had had, the guy was still attending to business, totally focused, alert.

I peeked again. He was wearing his metal rimmed reading glasses, he said his eyes were bothered by long hours staring at a computer screen. I was amused that he and I, the official shooters here, both wore glasses. And a little dubious: Spec Ops snipers don't get out their reading glasses to see the dials on their rifle scopes. 

Anthony was wearing ratty old khaki shorts and a white undershirt, flipflops. The shorts were baggy and hung low and the undershirt short and shrunken exposing his tanned stomach with an elaborate tribal tattoo around his belly button and a diamond navel stud.  When he turned I could see more tattooing on his lower back and some fearsome long red scars, newly healed severe injuries. He looked like a kid, a teenager. But his voice was hard and definite. This was a man whose mere word moved millions, maybe billions, of euros or dollars. He didn’t affect the look but he had the voice, the mannerisms.

I backed away, not wanting to interrupt his work. And I backed right into a cold metal circle pressed against my neck. Ranger and his gun.

He said, "Doc."

I thought it was a question. I answered, "Yeah."

The gun moved away and I turned. Ranger was wearing black boxers and nothing else. His eyes in the dim hall were black pools. He jerked his chin, telling me to go on into the library. As I entered, Anthony turned fast, his own gun also pointed at me.

I held up my hands. "Sorry. I just wanted a drink."

Ranger said to Stewart, "You're supposed to be on watch."

Anthony held up one finger, wait a sec, then said into the little phone mic, "Ciao." He said to Ranger, "I knew he was there, he’s not a problem. And he doesn't speak French---or German."

One of their long annoying pauses ensued. Finally Ranger nodded, dropping his hand and lowering the gun. He had nowhere to put it, so he just held it casually.

I said stiffly, "I apologize. I didn't think about keeping watch, I can take a shift."

Ranger said, "Okay." And sat down kind of fast on the sofa.

I looked at him carefully, he was very drawn looking, the pain from his injuries now obvious. This was the first time I’d seen him without his shirt. Besides the gauze patch on his neck and the sling, he had extensively bandaged ribs, not just taped—there were surgical dressings indicating  entry wounds or surgery sites. And his shoulder was also not only bandaged but padded to protect the steel pins that held him together. It all looked painful, frightening.

 I said, "I'm really sorry, man, I had no idea you were hurt so bad."

The eye fuck stare.

Okay...we are ignoring that.

I went on, "What happened earlier tonight—it was---very strange…."

Stewart said, "Creepy."

"Well, yes. Uh---you couldn’t really see her, could you?"

"What do you think?"

"I think: no."

"Why ask us, if you can’t believe?" Anthony repeated Ranger's words from earlier.

"Why did you do it?" I  asked.

"She loved him, she wanted to see him just one more time. She's a good person. It was so sad. He’s an asshole but they have a bond. He was her hero. She loves him. She loves him." Their voices spoke together, one phrase, then another.

Silence.

Finally Anthony added, "She just wanted to tell him she’d always love him."

Ranger: "And that she’d see him on the other side. I guess the guy is dying, Shephard, I mean."

"Garcia---El Incendiario---too, bro."

"Yeah."

"But Shephard---like, cancer. Uh---pancreas?"

Ranger nodded a little.

How do they know that?

"She's happy now, like in a good place. And she knows she'll see him soon, dude."

More silence.

Ranger said, “ 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' Just because you don’t believe it doesn’t make it untrue."

I thought, I really don’t need Shakespeare-quoting mercenaries at 3 AM in a Third World country.

Ranger added, "And lying to yourself won't remove her image---in her red Balenciaga gown---from your mind's eye."

"I saw nothing."

?

I said, "What was really amazing is that you guys know the words and music to all those old songs…who’d ever imagine?"

Anthony  said, "Like, good old Grateful Dead."

They smiled. A little.

Anthony said, "Since you can’t sleep, you take Ranger’s guard shift."

They left. I didn’t want to be alone with the late night shadows filtering into my brain but their company was scarier. I sat and watched. I saw no one, nothing. Nothing happened.

Or should I say, Nothing else happened?

………………………………………………………………..

We were in Panama City. Sniper rifles, scopes. We knew our target.

Ranger and I were backup. We are both professionals---expert, excellent shooters, though it is not his specific specialty (don’t ask). And he was injured.

So Anthony was on deck because long range sharpshooting is his specialty.

And he said, "Now here’s the thing, dude."

And half a mile away Garcia’s head jerked as the high velocity round  struck him between the eyes.

Anthony added, "One shot…."

Ranger said, "Yeah, yeah….let's go home."

Doc's Sanibel house again

The end

To cross over : verb. To move from the world of the living to the world of the spirit.

shaman-somebody who acts as a go-between for the physical and spiritual realms, and who is said to have particular powers such as prophecy and healing

psychic or medium: from muse-net.com: " someone who is fully rooted in the physical dimension but who has the ability to perceive that which lies beyond."