Epilogue

Jim Gibbons breathlessly ran up the steps to the entrance of the Walter Reed Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. It was the first of August, and the humidity was even worse than on the Gulf coast. He was out of breath because he had run all the way from the parking lot; there wasn't parking close to the entrance. Jim didn't slow down, because he was afraid that he would lose his nerve, if he didn't carry through with his mission now.

His eyes were drawn to a Marine Sergeant exiting through the automatic doors, and he called out, "Sergeant Frost?"

The Marine stopped, and looked at the man rushing towards him with narrowed, ice-blue eyes. The man was heavy-set, some would say chubby, and his brown hair was thinning. Cody didn't feel that he was in any danger from the man.

"Not Sergeant, anymore," Cody said by way of greeting. He raised the folder holding his papers and announced, "It's Mister Frost now. I have been discharged."

"I'm glad I caught you," the man panted as he stopped in front of the tall, trim man in a Marine uniform with Sergeant's chevrons.

"Do I know you?" Cody curiously.

"No, Sir," Jim replied. "My name is Jim Gibbons, and I think I have something for you."

Cody frowned angrily as he spat, "I told the other spook that I'm not interested. I will not work for the government in any way, shape, or form! To our politicians we're just targets that allow them to beat their chests over the injustice of it all. I will not be associated with their lies again."

Jim was confused, and he asked, "Are you talking about the Democrats, or the Republicans?"

"Is there a difference?" Cody asked, sarcasm dripping from his words.

"Um ... Probably not," Jim said after a moment, "But I'm from Texas, and I'm not a politician. I figure anything associated with this town is a lie." He took another gasping breath and said again, "I think I have something for you."

"That's the second time you said that you think you have something for me. What do you mean by that?" Cody asked guardedly.

"Ah ... Could we find someplace quiet and sit down? Preferably someplace cool, and with something cold to drink," Jim replied. "I'm dying here," he said shaking his shirt collar to get some air inside his sweat soaked shirt.

"This is the coolest that you're going to find, this side of the grave," Cody replied angrily. "Tell me what you need to tell me, and then leave me alone."

Cody reprimanded himself. He had been lectured on the effects of PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He knew that he had to watch for signs of sudden anger, until he acclimated back into civilian life, and this incident was a classic example of a sudden flare of anger.

"Sorry," Cody said, not waiting for the stranger to recover from his startled gape. "My temper gets away from me sometime, since I got back from Afghanistan. Look ... um ... Mr. Gibbons. I don't know you, and I'm not going to go anyplace with you without a reason. Give me a reason, and I'll consider it."

Cody thought that his recovery from his anger was pretty good, until he saw the man look around, futilely looking for an answer.

"Relax, Mr. Gibbons," Cody said, trying to sooth the man. "Why do you want to talk to me? Why do you think that you have something for me?"

Jim did relax, slightly. However, he still didn't know how to tell a perfect stranger that he may be the catalyst that kills two and a half billion people, so he answered with a question.

"Was your eleventh birthday party in a private room, at a restaurant, in Manhattan?" Jim asked.

Cody nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed again. He tested this chubby stranger, again, but still didn't feel in any danger from him.

"Were the windows of the room facing the World Trade Center?" Jim asked.

Cody only nodded again.

"You were wounded in Afghanistan, a bullet through the calf of your left leg. Is that right?" Jim pressed.

Cody nodded again, his slowly developing frown growing deeper. He didn't like anyone knowing so much about him.

The man moved closer to Cody, and asked in a soft voice, "Is the reason the ... um ... spooks wanted you because of your ability to get information from prisoners?"

Cody grabbed the man's arm, his fingers digging into the man's muscles. He pulled the man closer, until their noses were nearly touching, and hissed, "Who are you?"

Jim could feel the need to answer the question in the way it was intended, so he knew that he had the right man. He fought the need, realizing this couldn't be explained on the steps of a hospital.

"My name is Jim Gibbons," Jim said again, feeling much calmer. "I come from Dallas, Texas, and my house blew up about a month ago. I think it's your fault, and I want to talk to you about it. I would prefer to do it someplace where I can breathe. This humidity is worse than East Texas."