The Devil_s Workshop

Chapter 56

Clancy Black arrived in Washington, D. C., at five P. M. It was raining, and an electrical storm was flashing thunderbolts down on the Capitol.

Earlier that day, Cris had called Clancy from Walter Reed Hospital and asked him to come without telling him why. "The Black Attack" had gone directly upstairs at the mission to throw a few things in a bag. CNN was on in his small, cluttered room and the story was already breaking. There were pictures of Cris and Stacy.

"It appears from early reports that the nation's capital has narrowly escaped a horrendous biological weapons attack," the news anchor said.

Now, as Clancy walked through Dulles Airport in Washington, he could see the expanding story on every gift-shop TV screen. There were shots of the shootout on the rooftop of the F. A. A. building caught by a local news helicopter, and shots of the Bell Jet Ranger burning on the top level of the parking garage. The TV coverage of the government assault on the remaining F. T. R. A. S seemed to Clancy to be faintly reminiscent of Waco, as flak-vested FBI agents jumped out of choppers and rained death down on the members of the Choir. The news reports said all of the militant survivalists died on the rooftop.

There was a great deal of coverage on ex-UCLA quarterback and Silver Star winner Cris Cunningham, along with the USC microbiology post-grad Stacy Richardson. The story speculated that they had probably saved millions of lives by thwarting the White supremacists who were attempting to blow up a Pentagon train carrying biological and chemical weapons inside the Beltway.

Clancy moved on, stopping only once in the door of an airport gift shop to look at shots of the strange-looking White Train, and to listen to Major Adrian Flynn's vague on-the-scene statement.

Then he moved out of the airport terminal into the rain-wet night, where he hailed a waiting cab. "Walter Reed Hospital," he said to the Arab cab driver, who punched the meter and pulled away.

The hospital was a mob scene. There were satellite uplinks and news vans everywhere. Spectators and cops clogged the streets under a mushroom field of umbrellas. The sky had finally opened, and a heavy rain pelted the crowd. Clancy paid the driver, then picked his way through the throng. He was soaking wet when he got to the main door of the hospital, where he was stopped by security.

"Sorry, can't go in there without a pass," the cop said.

"I'm on your list, I hope. Clancy Black, Cris Cunningham's counselor."

The cop looked at the list, and found his name. "Go on up. It's the top floor," he said, and stepped aside, letting Clancy track rainwater into the huge marble-and-stone entry.

On the top floor of the hospital there was more confusion. Reporters crowded the corridor; TV lighting cables spaghettied on the linoleum floor.

Clancy picked his way through the news crews and stepped nimbly over the cables until he finally arrived at a door guarded by another cop.

"Clancy Black," he said. "I'm on the sheet."

"Yeah. Okay," the cop said, looking at a clipboard, then motioning him inside.

Cris was in the hospital bed at the far end of the VIP Room. Clancy could see that his whole right side was wrapped in tape. There were IV drips and drainage tubes hanging off him like river leeches.

The wall-bracketed TV was on low. Cris turned and waved weakly as Clancy moved toward him.

"From what I'm seein' on TV, you did good," Clancy said softly. "Not bad for one a' my ear-bang Nickel graduates."

"I wanna get outta here, Clancy. I wanna see Stacy. It says on the news she's in the Washington Burn Center. They say she's lost a hand, and that she's critical. She can't die, man… she's got to make it."

"Well, from what I'm seein', you ain't going nowhere. Not for a while, at least. You've got enough tubes on ya here to plumb a fuckin' duplex."

Now on TV were videotape shots of Cris playing quarterback in the Rose Bowl against Ohio State. Clancy paused to watch, as Cris faked a pitch on an option and went wide crossing the goal line. "You were pretty good, Hoss." There were also some still shots of him being awarded the Silver Star. The TV switched to his father, who was being interviewed by Peter Jennings.

"I understand that the President intends to award the Freedom Medal to your son. It's the highest civilian honor our country can bestow."

Richard Cunningham's voice was barely audible. "My son is a hero; he was always one, on the football field and in the Gulf. So it's no surprise to me that he would risk his life to save others."

Cris turned his head away from the screen, and Clancy could see that there were tears in his friend's eyes.

"What's wrong, man? Why you crying?"

"I can't do this again, Clance. I'll be back on the Nickel, drinking 49 out of a bag."

Clancy was no psychologist, but psychology was his beat. He knew how to read men in crisis, knew how to listen. Clancy had always suspected something wasn't right in Cris's relationship with his father. He knew that Cris's mother had died when he was young and that his father had been an All-American end at Michigan. Beyond that, Cris had said very little. When Cris had landed at the mission, he seemed to not want to talk about his father. He always got edgy and changed the subject whenever it came up. Clancy also suspected Cris's alcoholism was caused by something more deep-rooted than the tragic death of his daughter; that Kennidi's death had been just the trigger. Clancy hesitated for a moment, then went on.

" 'Member when you wandered in and puked on my floor in the lobby? I gave you a bed, and told you we cared what happened to you. You remember what you said?"

Cris didn't respond.

"You said nobody ever wanted you, nobody cared."

"I was drunk," Cris said, but the tears were still in his eyes. He found the TV control and angrily turned down the volume, cutting off his father's glowing memories of him. The conversation continued in silence on the screen. Under his father's talking head it said: