The Aftermath

30

Tom woke with a start to the sound of his phone ringing. He was confused and disoriented for a moment, unable to place where he was. Once realization asserted itself, he picked up the phone, checking the caller and the time. It was Kemp Simmons, and it was 7:30am. Tom pressed the answer icon and brought the cell phone to his ear, "Hey Kemp." He murmured, discovering his voice was not quite working.

"Morning. I'm in the lobby, what room are you in?" Kemp asked.

Tom searched his memory and found the information he was seeking, "505, to the right off the elevator."

"I'll be up in a minute." Kemp told him.

"Fine, I'll order some coffee." Tom decided.

"Naw. Just get yourself dressed and we'll hit one of the restaurants." Kemp told him.

"Not sure they are open yet." Tom told him.

"I know one that is, that first one beside the hotel passage. It is always open." Kemp told him.

Tom shrugged. He rarely ate anywhere but the poker room or the food court. "If you say so. I'll be ready."

Tom crawled out of bed, and found his pants, shoes, and dug a fresh shirt from the dresser. He gathered the remnants of last night's chicken and onion rings and tossed them in the trash can. Then he got dressed. Just as he was buckling his belt, a knock hit the door.

Tom picked up his 9mm and walked to the door. His gut was tight. Only after hearing Kemp's voice on the other side did he opened the door, and then walked back into the room, placing the 9mm back on the TV table. Kemp walked in the room and gave a nod of approval to the weapon. "Probably don't want to leave that out for housekeeping to find."

Tom nodded and put it in his overnight bag, "Ready?"

"Always doc, always." Kemp smiled.

Tom watched Kemp walk. He noticed the slight limp in the left leg, but only because he was looking for anomalies. Kemp had most of that leg injured by a nearby RPG strike during an ambush. The rocket came out of nowhere and hit the clay-brick wall they were moving past. Rock smashed into Kemp's left femur, snapping the bone and blowing a chuck of flesh into a flap of muscle. He could have lost the leg. Kemp was more in danger of being shot than anything else. He was out in the open, sprawled across a rubble pile.

Tom ran out to Kemp, wrapped the leg so that Kemp could be hauled back to shelter, and then pulled him across the rubble and dirt into the structure for cover. There he wrapped the leg as tight as he dared, keeping the bone from moving around. The femoral artery wasn't severed. Kemp was lucky there, but his thigh was destroyed. Kemp swore to him in a letter that the doctors at the evac told him if Tom hadn't worked on his leg right away, he would have lost it completely. Tom was never sure what they might have been referring to, if that was what was said. People have a way of hearing what they want.

They both went home that month.

In the restaurant, Tom ordered a light breakfast of an egg white omelette and a cup of coffee. Kemp was more serious about the issue and ordered pancakes, eggs, sausage, toast, coffee and a large glass of orange juice.

"So what did you get?" Kemp asked, as the waitress left with their order.

"Not much." Tom said, handing him the folded pictures from his pocket. "Stewart left in a mini-van, not an F150."

Kemp nodded and leafed through the pages, "I would have been surprised if he was our shooter."

"Why is that?"