The Artifact by Jack Quinn Read Free Book Online

peripheral site, military-dot-com with twenty million records.”
    “What?” Andrea’s response was not quite a shout. “That soldier- administered site looked like our best bet!”
    “It can wait. I downloaded Bravo troopers from the Association website to an FTP as soon as I found it last summer.”
    “Oh.”
    “Certainly, Andy,” Sammy crooned over the phone, “I accept your gracious apology.”
    “Yeah, yeah. I should know by now not to question our brilliant MIS Manager.”
    “What’s next?” Sammy asked.
    “Print a couple of pages of the Association site and trot those tight buns up here so we can figure out how to use it.”
    Andrea broke the connection before he could reply.
     
    By the time Sammy walked into her office, a used linen napkin had been tossed over the dirty dishes on the breakfast tray on the floor. Andrea was sprawled on the sofa smoking, reviewing the notes she had scribbled the previous night. He stopped in mid-stride with hands on hips, wrinkling his nose.
    “An-dree-ah...,” he admonished.
    “OK, OK!” She sat up straight, reaching out to stub out her half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray containing several other bent butts.
    “Shut the door.”
    Sammy Simkowski was a six-foot-three, broad-shouldered bodybuilder with biceps bulging out of the short sleeves of his Aloha shirt tucked inside stonewashed khaki trousers and wide leather belt cinched around his narrow waist. His blond hair was styled in a wet look, combed straight back from his forehead, and gathered in a short ponytail at the back of his neck. Round glasses the size of quarters lent an aura of academia to his rugged persona, modified by the wide bridge of nose resulting from an apparent break, a subtle raffish accent to his handsome features.
    She moved the cane that had been leaning against the cushion beside her and Sammy sat down, placing a printout on the low table before them.
    “Any word on the leg?” he asked.
    “They want to run more tests.”
    “When?”
    “A couple of weeks ago.” Andrea picked up the printout, a look of annoyance on her face.
    Sammy reached out and tugged the pages from her hand. “Don’t get angry with me because you’re an idiot about your health.”
    “I’ve been busy?” Andrea said. “Every quack I go to sends me to some other duck who conjures up more tests that tell me zip.”
    “Specialists?”
    “Round and round the mulberry bush. Neurologists, neurosurgeons, second, triple, quadruple opinions. They even had me checked out by Desert Storm Syndrome experts because I was there in ‘92. Nothing.”
    “But this started less than a year ago, right?”
    “About then, yeah,” she lied.
    “So, now what?”
    Andrea turned to look in Sammy’s eyes, placing the tips of her fingers on his hairy arm. “I really do appreciate your concern, Sam, but I don’t have time right now.”
    “What’s the latest prognosis, diagnosis, whatever?”
    Andrea sighed in defeat. “So far there is none.”
    “What a simpleton!”
    “Thank you. Now back to business, OK?”
    “Not until you pick up that telephone and make an appointment.”
    “Simkowski, I will not let you or anyone else run my life!”
    “Fine,” Sammy said, standing up. “I’ll just tell T.P. I refuse to consort with moronic females. I’m sure he can find some other project for me to work on.”
    Andrea stared up at the man for several moments as her eyes filled. “Sam....”
    He sat down again and put an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll go in with you. Everything’s gonna be fine. You gotta do this, Andy.”
    She sniffed, produced a tissue from a box on the end table and blew her nose. “First thing tomorrow.”
    Sammy rose from the couch, walked to her desk and brought back the cordless phone. “Now,” he said.
    After she made an appointment with her primary neurologist, Andrea picked up several pages of the Airborne Association printout from the table where Sammy had dropped them.
    “Name and rank,”