Page 136 of Deadline

“Fucking twisted mind, Jeremy.”

“Tell her that I’m sorry.”

“I doubt she’ll believe that.”

“Probably not. Not after everything I’ve put her through.” His gaze turned introspective. “My boys will be ashamed of who their daddy was, won’t they?”

The answer was so obvious that Dawson didn’t need to state it.

“I was jealous of you for playing with them on the beach,” Jeremy continued. “I watched from the boat. Where’d you get the football?”

“Found a bag of beach toys in the rental house.”

“Grant’s got a good right arm for a kid his age.”

“For a kid of any age.”

“Hunter’s better at soccer.”

“He’s got some moves.”

“They’re good boys, right?”

“They’re great boys.”

“Do they ever talk about me?”

This man didn’t deserve his pity, his compassion, not even one of those magnanimous white lies. But to tell the harsh truth to a dying man…“All the time,” he heard himself say. “They’re proud of your service to your country.”

Jeremy knew he was being lied to, and looked at Dawson in a way that silently thanked him for the mercy. Then he closed his eyes and Dawson feared that he’d lost consciousness or soon would. He shook his shoulder. “Don’t pass out yet. Tell me where Carl went.”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“He left me here to die. You think I give a shit about where he went?” Again tears filled his eyes.

Dawson did in fact believe him when he said he didn’t know his father’s whereabouts. A man who would abandon his dying son wouldn’t bother to tell him where he was going. He battled another onslaught of pity. “Jeremy, where’s Flora?”

His eyes jerked into focus on Dawson’s face, then he made a raw, sobbing sound. “Don’t ask me—”

“Where is she, Jeremy? Is your mother still alive?”

Another harsh sound erupted from him. “Leave me alone. I’m dying.”

Dawson gripped his hand more tightly. “Tell me, damn you.”

“I—”

“Tell me!”

Just then they heard the clatter of a helicopter approaching. Dawson ran to the door and looked out. The trash can was emitting a thin ribbon of smoke, and it had worked as a signal. The helicopter appeared, hovering barely above the treetops. He stepped out of the cabin and waved his arms over his head, then went back inside and knelt beside the sofa.

Jeremy’s head had lolled to one side. “No!” Dawson worked his arm beneath Jeremy’s head and, supporting his limp nape in the crook of his elbow, lifted it off the cushion. “Don’t die on me. Come on, wake up!” He jostled his head.

Jeremy groaned. His eyes fluttered open.

“Help’s here, man. Hang on.”