Hawke

Hawke smiled and reached across the table to squeeze Vicky’s hand. Seeing her here where she’d had so many cheerful hours with her father was wonderful.

Hawke signaled the bartender and ordered her drink.

“I’m very happy to be here with you tonight,” he said, putting his hand to her cheek and caressing it.

“Fu

“Who shall we toast?” Vicky asked.

“Let’s see. How about Tom, Huck, and Vicky? Or was it Becky?”

“You are a total and complete piece of work, you know that, Hawke?” Vicky said, laughing. She clinked her glass against his, and said, “Cheers. I need this.”

“A brutal day at the office, Doc? Anything you can talk about?”

“A new patient,” Vicky said, swirling her olive around in the vodka. “Poor guy. He’s suffering from an addiction. Incurable.”

“Really? Odd. I should think you could cure anyone of anything. I read in The Washingtonian, the magazine so prominently displayed all over your reception room, that you are considered one of the best doctors in town.”

“Some addictions are best left untreated. Let me borrow your pen, honey.”

Hawke pulled a slim gold pen from his inside pocket.

“Thanks,” Vicky said, and began scribbling all over the menu. Female behavior at times was mystifying, as he’d told Stokely on the way in from the airport. But then again, as a woman, he supposed she was entitled.

“Monsieur Hawke,” the obsequious little maоtre d’ said, “your table is ready.”

He followed Vicky into the small dining room, unable to take his eyes off the movement of her body under the swishing red silk skirt. Pleats. What was it about pleats?

When they’d been seated, the waiter arrived. He was an ancient white-haired gentleman wearing white gloves.

“Why, good evening, Mr. Hawke! You too, Miz Vicky,” he said. “Lord, I haven’t seen you since you was a little thing. Look at you! You grown into a beautiful woman.”

“Herbert! I can’t believe you’re still here.”

“I can’t either, Miz Vicky. I just turned ninety-two years old today and still going strong.”

“Happy Birthday! Alex, Herbert was a great friend of Daddy’s and always took care of me when I came here.”

“I imagine he did,” Hawke said, rising to shake the old fellow’s hand. “He’s certainly taken good care of me. Happy Birthday, Herbert.”

“Thank you, suh. You know, Miz Vicky,” Herbert said, “this old place ain’t ever been the same since your daddy left town. I still remember him playing the piano and telling his jokes. Have everybody in the place laughing.”

“And you used to let me slide across the parquet dance floor in my socks. It was just like ice skating.”

“Lord, we had us a good time, didn’t we?” Herbert said, a smile lighting up his soft brown eyes. “Can I bring you all something more to drink?”

“That would be great, Herbert,” Vicky said. “Two Ketel One martinis straight up, please.”

After the elderly waiter left, there was a long silence in which Hawke simply sat there staring at her. Vicky was not one easily embarrassed by silences at the table, but the intensity of his stare finally got to her. She noticed that he still had his right hand stuffed into the pocket of his di

“Gun in your pocket, big boy? Or, you all just happy to see me?” she asked, unable to think of anything more original.

“No gun,” he said. “Just this.” He pulled a small black velvet box out of his pocket and placed it on the table. He saw the look in her eyes, and said, “Don’t worry, Doc, it won’t bite. Open it.”

She reached for the velvet box. “Oh, Alex, I—”

“Miz Vicky?” The waiter had somehow reappeared at their table.

“Yes?” Vicky said. “What is it, Herbert?”

“My apologies for disturbing you all,” Herbert said, “but there is a telephone call for Dr. Sweet. The gentleman said it was urgent.”

She looked at Alex. “Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry. I have to take it. It could be one of my patients, an emergency.”

“Of course you should take it,” Alex said, standing up as she pushed her chair back. “I understand completely.”

“Order me something yummy, will you? Whatever you’re having.”

Alex picked up the menu she’d been scribbling on at the bar. For a moment he couldn’t figure out what she’d been writing and then he saw it. She’d been correcting all the French errors. There was a note at the bottom, in French, addressed to the maоtre d’. It suggested that he take a crash course at the nearest Berlitz school before handing out any more mangled menus.

Alex smiled. He’d taken an instant dislike to this new chap they’d put at the gate. Disliked him despite the fact that Hawke was quite sure he wasn’t remotely French.

“That was quick,” he said, standing when Vicky returned and took her seat. She picked up the little black box she’d left on her empty serving plate.

“Hmm,” she said, looking from the box to Alex and back to the velvet box.

“Yes, hmm,” Alex replied.

“Weird. There was no one there, Alex,” she said, smiling and brushing a wing of auburn hair away from her eyes.

“No one there?”

“No.”

“Well, they’d hung up, then?” Hawke asked, lines of worry suddenly furrowing his brow. “Been disco

“I don’t think so, Alex,” Vicky said. “I could hear breathing at the other end. It’s so strange. I was thinking, none of my patients would have any idea of how to reach me here. I’ve got my cell phone, but of course you can’t have it on in here.”

“I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

“It didn’t sound like a mistake, Alex,” Vicky said. “It sounded horribly deliberate. Almost like—”

She never finished her sentence.

A brutal explosion rocked the room. The sound and force of the shock wave hit instantaneously. Watches and docks stood still. Time itself stopped and was exploded into countless pieces of flying glass, masonry, and human agony.

Alex found that he was no longer seated at a small, round table talking to Vicky. He seemed to be on his back, staring up into a roiling white fog. A fog that smelled more like harsh, choking smoke. There were cries and moans coming from all around him. He was aware of a jabbing pain in his shoulder and tried to roll away from it.

It got worse. He seemed to be lying on a bed of broken glass and cutlery. He held his hands up before his face and saw that they were sticky and bright red. He felt it might be a good thing to get out of there. He just wasn’t sure where he was. He heard a woman’s voice nearby, whimpering. He recognized it. It was Vicky.

“Doc?” he said, but there was no reply.

The acrid smoke was so thick now, he couldn’t see where any of the cries were coming from. He couldn’t see anything at all.

He got to his hands and knees and started crawling over the glass in the direction he thought her voice came from.

“Vicky,” he shouted. “Vicky!” That’s when he heard her.

“Alex, it hurts,” the voice said. “I’m cold. Where’s Daddy? Where’s my daddy?”

And then the voice stopped.