The Last Contract

UPS knocked on Room 1021 at precisely 8:30 on a cold Monday morning on Dodge Street, in Omaha, Nebraska.

The door opened slightly at first, then a bit wider as Stan, nearing sixty, and balding, with deep-set cat’s eyes, and a physical build that belied his years. Stared at the package a not so unattractive brunette held, along with an electric light pen to sign the standard receipt form.

Not giving another thought, Stan scribbled a signature other than his own, closed the door not hearing her thank you, and immediately sat on one of the twin beds, carefully opening the package.

It was always the same way. Finish a job, maybe have a week, sometimes a month’s worth of free time before he was contacted, told where to go and simply wait for instructions. Stan was used to all the cloak and dagger shit by now. This wasn’t exactly his first dance with madness.

“Let me look at who I’m being paid half-a mil for. Must be one important sonuvabitch.”

Inside the package was a cream-colored folder with one photograph and a full-page bio on the individual.

James Oliver, 34, married, one child, 6’3”, 180. Brown hair, green eyes, lives in Arlington, works in Dallas. Former marine, currently Assistant Federal Prosecuting Attorney, three years.

Tell me something I don’t already know, Stan thought.

“Something ain’t right about this. This can’t be right. I’ve been doing this crap over thirty years, and now I’m expected to drop everything like this was nothing!”

Stan slammed the folder to the floor, the picture of James Oliver staring back up at him.

“Dammit, when the courier dropped this off, I figured it was going to be just another hit. But this? This is fucking crazy. I need to call the man on this one. No way can I do this.”

Stan pulled his cell phone from his suit jacket that hung on a corner of a chair next to the bed he was sitting on and hit speed dial for a 215-area code. The phone rang twice before a young voice answered. Behind the voice, Stan could hear more voices, laughter, and live music. Awful damn early for a party, he thought. Lucky bastard. His money. Me? I’m stuck in a Motel 6 in Omaha, with a view of a shopping mall and traffic.

“Mr. Amayia, please. Tell him Stan Oliver is calling.”

Two minutes later, Amayia answered.

“Mr. Oliver, how nice to hear from you. I do want to congratulate you on the fine work you recently performed. My client was most pleased with how things turned out. That’s why, if you noticed, the added bonus placed into your account. Very well done.

“I take it you received the information sent you?”

Smooth talking sucker, Stan mused to himself.

“That’s why I’m calling. I don’t know if you know this or not, but I can’t do this contract. At least not this one. No way can I hit my own kid.”

There was a terse moment of silence on both sides before Amayia spoke.

“Ah, but Mr. Oliver, you can, and you will. You have already received an advance for this assignment and you know how much it displeases me when any contract is broken because of personal reasons, or people telling me what they will or won’t do.

“You must understand it creates an aura of negative diplomacy between I, and of those clients who come to me in search of a way to have their; shall we say, needs taken care of. Neither does it bode well to have dissension among the rank and file.

“Besides, my understanding is that the both of you have been essentially estranged for a number of years. Mr. Oliver, regrettable as this may or may not sound, even though he is your son, the first rule of my rules always apply: work comes first, family comes second. You always do the former before the latter.

“This shouldn’t be an issue. The two of you had a serious falling out years ago. There hasn’t been any correspondence, no phone calls, not so much as a text message, birthday or holiday card sent; not even one visit since your son married. To me, he is more a stranger than blood.

“And you wouldn’t want me to engage someone else to do this, now would you.” That came out more statement than question.

“I shall expect the assignment carried out as is stated in the instructions for tomorrow evening,” Amayia paused. “Oh, one last thing, Mr. Oliver; don’t do anything foolish. Fail, and you know what will happen. You have been in my employ a number of years. I would hate to lose you. But, then again, that is why I chose you. You never fail to deliver.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am in the middle of preparations for guests this evening and I must make certain that things here are in order. These parties can be such a bore but in order to make my clients happy, I must play the gracious host. Goodbye, Mr. Oliver.”

Stan held onto his cell phone for a full minute, listening to a long since dead span of silence. He couldn’t believe this. Amayia acted as if family didn’t take precedent over anything. If it were his boy, I bet his ass would be singing another tune.

The message was clear. Take out my kid or get hit myself; and he’d still find someone to do the job.

It wouldn’t be the first time a job has been turned down by a shooter. Stan had personally taken out two men in the last three years. One, who let drugs and booze overrule his mind and body, while the other one just couldn’t stomach the work any longer. Just like a regular contract, only with a little less pay; you make it quick and as painless as possible.

There was only one possible way out. Live to be a ripe old age and if you’re lucky, no one will walk up behind you and blow out the back of your head. Lights out.

Stan hadn’t seen James in over fifteen years, not since his son found out what he did for a living. He couldn’t blame James. Stan though, had used a portion of his income to put James through college; watched from afar as his military career took off until an explosion curtailed him in Iraq. He lost his left arm, but he never lost his will to succeed.

James returned home, honorably discharged, hailed the quiet hero, went back to school, and eventually passed the bar exam (where he met and later married his wife, Kellie), to become a hard-driven attorney until he was lured into a bigger title, more money and prestige within the federal government. Special Prosecuting Attorney.

The title alone turned heads. Other men and women representing their clients in the same courtroom as James, were never fully prepared for him no matter what they did. He was tenacious. His record spoke volumes about his accomplishments. Sixty-six cases.

Sixty-six convictions. Before he was persuaded to join the feds as an Assistant D.A., he had posted eighty of eighty-one convictions. The one he lost was due to a physical condition. The defendant suffered a stroke and died two days before James would have made his final deliberation to a jury.

According to the file in front of Stan, in two weeks, James is prosecuting Donald Jerriossi on criminal charges of conspiracy, extortion, Interstate transportation and possession of both high-tech weapons, ammunition and explosives, and over nine-hundred kilos of cocaine. And, to top off the charges, five counts of murder. Murders that were ordered by Jerriossi.

Jerriossi is currently out on a one-million-dollar bond. The only witness for the prosecution is to be eliminated by another shooter before the government goes to trial, but with James out of the picture, the witness silenced, all the charges would be dropped, and at best, any evidence would become circumstantial. In turn it would create delays, resulting in several years of legal strangling before Jerriossi would be inside a courtroom again.

Lately, the press hadn’t been good for Jerriossi, and he hates bad press. It’s bad for biddness, Stan’s colleagues would say, but these days, bad press was everywhere.

But his son? It all comes down to this, he thought.

Stan called the airlines and booked a flight to Dallas. Looking through his contact numbers, he hit speed dial on the one number he thought he would never call. But he had it there just in case of an emergency. This was an emergency.

“Hello.”

“Hello, James?”

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

Nervously, Stan cleared his throat and said, “Hello, son.”

“Oh, it’s you. Great way to start a conversation. I wish you hadn’t called me, especially at home. What do you want?”

“Such a warm welcome. It’s good to hear your voice, too. I called to let you know I’m flying into Dallas tomorrow. We need to talk. It’s urgent.”

“I don’t believe we have anything to discuss. Not for about the last fifteen years. I’m sure the, ah, business you’re in keeps rather busy. I’m surprised you actually found time in your busy schedule to even make this one phone call. Or is business a little slow these days.”

“Cut the crap, James. This is important. It’s about you and Jerriossi.”

“What about him? Why the all of a sudden concern for my welfare?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. My plane’s due in tomorrow at 12:18. Meet me in the airport lounge. Just be there. I’ll explain things to you then.”

James held his breath a moment before saying anything.

“I shouldn’t, but I will meet you long enough to hear whatever it is you have to say. But I’m telling you right now, whatever it is, isn’t going to change my mind about Jerriossi. It’s my job and I intend to put that piece of slime away for as many years as I can squeeze out of the legal system.”

“Nice to know you haven’t changed. Still as stubborn and one-sided as ever. I can’t fault you for that. Just listen to what I have to say, face-to-face.”

“Too bad you didn’t try that years ago.”

“James, that isn’t fair.”

“Not fair! After what you put mom and me through, and you say it isn’t fair?” James inhaled, slowed his breathing, willing himself to regain control of his voice. “Never mind. We’ll talk tomorrow.” James hung up the phone.

Once again, Stan listened to dead silence. Getting up from his chair, he placed his cell phone back inside his suit jacket, walked to the closet, pulled down a black briefcase, laid it on the bed, turned three tumblers on the locked, flipped the latches and stared at the components of his Smith & Wesson .44, with an extended long barrel, complete with a compressor silencer and three loaded magazines with hollow point shells.

The father instinct said to not bring it along, but the professional in him, said ye. The airport wouldn’t detect the gun as the case held two different compartments. The outside lining would show a few papers, pens, a cell phone, and a calculator; all the things a businessman would carry. The inner lining was treated with a thin tri-steel composite which would conceal his weapon from the airport’s x-ray scanning system used. Since 911, modern technology has come a long way.

Just more cloak and dagger shit.

Stan didn’t sleep well that night. He didn’t want to do this. Not at all.

Airport Lounge – 12:31 p.m.

“What was so important you had to leave Omaha that you couldn’t tell me on the phone?”

They sat opposite from one another at a small cocktail table in a far corner dimly lit. Stan had a whiskey-sour in front of him. James had a martini. Neither man smiled.

“No sense beating around the bush. You’ve known about me and what I do for a helluva long time and never said a word. I respect you for that. I know I’ve never been the father you hoped for, and maybe this might make up for things a little, though I’m not yet sure of that.

“This case you plan to go to court with; this Jerriossi thing.”

“What about it?”

“James, son—I have been given a contract to kill you.”

James stopped his right arm in mid-air as he was about to sip his martini and looked directly into Stan’s eyes.

“You are joking, right? This is some sort of sleazy threat to stop me from prosecuting Jerriossi. Whoever it was that hired you figured I would back off and that would be the end of it, right? Send daddy. I listen. You can go back where you came from, call or tell them to their face it didn’t work.”

“You don’t seem to get the big picture here, James. I don’t want to do this, but it’s what I’ve been hired to do, I haven’t a choice in this unless you back off.

“You mean, paid to do,” shot back James.

“Fine. I know I can stop this contract if you dismantle everything you have on Jerriossi, and just toss it in the trash. Just bring up some kind of legal whatever you use words to have it quashed. Just walk away from this one.

“Do you really believe; can you honestly sit there and expect me to simply throw away over three years of solid investigation work, and make any type of compromise with you or any other thing for that matter? This conversation has gone too far. If you’ll excuse me, I have to be getting home. Unlike some of us, I have a family waiting for me.”

Stan ignored the heavy dig.

“James, please, for God’s sake; say you won’t go through with this. Dammit, boy, let me off the hook for once!”

A few people sitting at various tables in the lounge looked up. Stan hadn’t meant to raise his voice. Last thing he needed was unnecessary attention.

“Hook? You’ve been on the hook all your life. When you went to prison, my mother had to live with the shame of what you did for almost two years before she decided we had to move out of the neighborhood. Shame that you brought on by lying to her, deceiving her. And yet, she couldn’t bear the fact you were in prison. She still came to see you every chance she could, and it was eating her up inside because she promised herself and to me, to never let you back into our lives again because your word couldn’t be trusted.

“Mother died worrying about you long after the divorce. Deep down, even in death, she was still in love with you. You never knew that did you? I lost a father because of a hook. A father I thought I knew and trusted, only to find out it was a father with a second life far more important than the first one. My daughter only knows one grandfather instead of two because of your hook. Hook? One more time isn’t going to hurt you.

“The only upside to this if there is one, is all the money you put into my savings account. I wasn’t going to touch it at first. After the military, I was actually planning on giving it away. But then I decided why not use your dirty money for something good. I won’t thank you, but at least I am in a position to make a difference.

“So you do what you have to do because I am. I have to go. I wish I could say this has been a fun reunion, but I would be lying. Goodbye.”

Stan watched as his son stood away from the table and walked out of the lounge and in moments was lost in the crowd of people walking around the airport. Raising the last of his drink to his lips, he knew deep down, James would stay true to his convictions. His mother raised him right.

He ordered another whiskey-sour.

When the twenty-something waitress brought his drink, he took a long pull, then mentally conjured up his wife; his ex-wife, Lizzie.

Why she fell in love with him is anyone’s guess. She was barely five-foot, and soaking wet, maybe a hundred pounds. She had shoulder-length curly brown hair, and deep-set brown eyes that could penetrate your very soul.

Back then, Stan was first running numbers and doing a few neighborhood collections for Mr. Jacobi until he died. By then, Stan and Lizzie were married and expecting their first child. Their only child.

Lizzie was an X-Ray technician at St. Vincent’s Hospital. As far as she knew, Stan dealt in real estate, and according to their bank account, things were doing just fine.

When James was two, Johnny Ashe, who was put in place of Mr. Jacobi, was taken out by a higher order which came from Amayia. Johnny had been skimming off the top once too many times. Stupid man. Amayia made Stan an offer. Twenty-grand. Make it clean. Pull the trigger. Walk away. Np regrets. It was easy.

From that point, things went even better for Stan. He would take Lizzie and James to various vacation resorts all over the world. Real Estate was booming, he would say.

The marriage was rock solid. He and Lizzie attended all of James’ baseball and hockey games (when Stan wasn’t attending to real estate deals). Stan would make other arrangements if it got in the way of birthdays, holidays, and his wedding anniversary. He would just push things up by one day. Back then, Amayia didn’t care as long as the deal got done. Yes, life was grand.

Until Sarasota, Florida.

For the first and only time, Stan was seen doing a hit in a parking garage. A Congressman and his wife. Simple.

The witness was in another car, speed-dialing 911 on her cell phone. Within a few minutes the parking garage was sealed off. Stan barely escaped but the witness gave an accurate description and a police sketch artist drew Stan on paper as if he grew up with him.

As Stan was driving away from the scene, he felt something had gone terribly wrong. He went back to his motel room, cleaned things out, destroyed other things, drove the rental back to the agency, and hailed a cab for the airport.

Car rental agencies, the bus and train terminals and airport were all covered. As careful as he played it, Stan was picked up as he was walking through the airport, arrested, and taken downtown, and booked for murder.

Stan had one phone call. Amayia. In twenty minutes, a lawyer showed up. In ten minutes, Stan was a free man. They had no weapon. No fingerprints at the scene.

It was Stan’s word against an obviously frightened woman who confused his looks with that of the real killer. After all, the lighting in the parking garage isn’t exactly screaming with daylight. Stan was a free man until a court date would be set. The lead D.A. on the case would press for a conviction.

It hit the news locally as well as nationally. Bits and pieces of Stan’s real life crept to the surface. Allegations were made but nothing confirmed. His wife, Lizzie confronted him with the truth, and in the scheme of things, it was the truth that destroyed his marriage and his relationship with his son.

The State of Florida built an imposing case and try as much as Stan could, he was found guilty and received fifteen years, but for second-degree murder. He was out in seven and off paper in three. In between all that time came a very quiet divorce.

Amayia told him to lay low for a year and let things die down.

Losing his family was as low as Stan would ever get.

No one knew he was in the crowd on a slightly rainy Saturday afternoon. Stan got to see her one more time before the casket lid was closed. She was a beautiful woman once; and on the day she was buried, she was every bit as beautiful then.

James was right.

He had killed Lizzie as if he had used his own gun and pulled the trigger himself. It was all those years in the middle that aged her, broke her spirit, her heart, and eventually her life spilled out of her like an open wound.

Blinking away the mental image, he tilted his head back, draining the last of his drink, set the empty glass on the table, fished in his pocket, and threw a twenty next to the glass for the twenty-something waitress, and reached down for his briefcase and left the lounge.

Walking outside into an already hot Texas afternoon, Stan walked over to where a row of cabs sat waiting to take on passengers for any destination. Stan slid into the backseat of a black and white cab and said flatly, “Best Western off Haney in Arlington.”

“Ya, sure,” said a somewhat young looking Greek. “That is like a forty-mile drive. About eighty bucks, mister.”

“If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

The look from the backseat told the driver to keep his mouth shut and just start the meter and go.

Fifty-three minutes and seventy-nine dollars later, along with a twenty-dollar tip, Stan checked into his room under the name, Louis Grover, a salesman for a textile firm.

The first thing he did was open his briefcase, extracted part of his weapon; first cleaning each part carefully. When Stan finished, he put each piece together in a knowing but fluid motion, then slammed the clip in place, placing the silent compressor on the barrel end with a slight twist to the right. Then he tucked it smartly in his holster sleeve under his left shoulder coat jacket.

Stan picked up the in-room phone, pressed eight for the restaurant, and ordered a cheeseburger, fries and three beers.

It was 2:27.

4:45

Stan went over everything once more in detail as to what he had to do, none of course to his liking. Satisfied, he called a cab. Within twenty minutes, he gave the driver James’ address in Arlington.

The thirteen-minute drive was spent in silence. A tearful look came over Stan, which any other time, were steely, without emotion.

He wished there could be another way.

8:03

Stan sat on a park bench across from his son’s home, watching whatever activity he could from his vantage point through partially opened windows. Earlier, the park had been filled with quite a few people, but now it was practically a desolate place. A lonely place.

In the last thirty minutes all he had seen were two middle-aged women heading in the same direction, each walking their dog, and on the far side of the park; two kids were just finishing throwing a Frisbee around and took off running. Stan didn’t think kids still did that kind of stuff.

Less than four hours from midnight. Four hours in which he must kill his own son.

Amayia wouldn’t have it any other way.

8:25

Stan pulled his coat flap back, looked ate the walnut grained handle of his Smith and Wesson, sighing, he let the coat flap fall back into place, and stood, stretching for a few seconds, and started walking toward the house.

“I have to try one more time.”

Walking up to a set of oak wood doors, Stan pressed the buzzer. Before he could exhale the nervousness out of himself, one door swung open from the inside and a small child, perhaps five, stood in the open doorway.

“Yes sir? You want to see my mommy or daddy? My name is Jessica, and I’m this many.”

She raised both hands, holding up three tiny fingers on one hand while the other was bunched together in a fist with only her thumb raised proudly in the air.

Close, thought Stan.

“What’s your name, mister?”

“Jessica? Who is at the door, honey?” came James voice. Stan could only stare at his granddaughter for the first time in his life. He couldn’t help but let a small smile escape his lips.

“I don’t know, Daddy. It’s a man and he wants to talk with you.”

Jessica ran from the door, giggling and skipping away at the same time.

James came to the door.

“What are you doing here? I thought our conversation was finished.”

“Not quite. First, let me say you have a fine looking little girl and she’s very polite. It’s the first time I’ve seen my granddaughter.”

“You didn’t come here to see Jessica. Say what you came here to say and just go away.”

Stan lifted his coat flap back, exposing the walnut grained handle of his Smith and Wesson.

“It isn’t talk any longer, James. It’s business.”

James backed up a step but there wasn’t fear in his eyes like so many others Stan had terminated over the years.

“It’s finally come to this.”

“I’m sorry, son. You don’t leave ne any other choice. If I don’t do this, someone else will. As much as I hate to say this, I’d rather be the one.”

Still holding his coat flap open with his left hand, Stan reached for the .44, silencer intact with his right hand and pointed the barrel at James, chest high, and cocked the hammer back in deathly silence.

“I often wondered if you would ever kill one of your own. Tonight, you’ll prove my belief. Family doesn’t matter to you at all. It didn’t matter years ago when mom died of a broken heart. It doesn’t matter now that you’ll leave my wife, Kellie, and Jessica, without a husband and a father. In a sense, killing me gets rid of the past for you once and for all. You’re nothing more than a killing machine. A mechanical being whose buttons, once pushed, set off your program for destruction.

“While you’re at it, when you finish with me; why don’t you just come inside the house and kill my family while you’re at it? Go ahead, pull the damn trigger! Just remember, when your time comes, I will see that you end up in hell along with the rest of your kind.”

Stan raised the gun a little more, barrel level with the point above James left eye. Sweat burst out across Stan’s heavily furrowed brow.

“Last chance, James. Tell me you’ll drop the charges against Jerriossi, and I walk away. Tell me you’ll do it.” The Smith and Wesson quivered slightly in his hand.

“I can’t, and you know I can’t. In one small way we are both alike.” We are both dedicated to our professions. In a way, we are both locked in.”

The .44 stopped quivering. Stan slowly pressed his index finger against the trigger and started to squeeze it back. Back. Back.

“Daddy! Daddy! Come back in the house and finish playing the game with me and Mommy! You promised! Remember? Please!”

Jessica came running right up to the front door tugging at James hand. In that brief instant, Stan let up on the trigger and quickly concealed his gun from Jessica’s sight.

“Honey, daddy will be there in just a few minutes. Just go back and keep your mother company.”

“Okay, Daddy.” Jessica turned and bolted off leaving the two men alone again.

His eyes locked onto his son’s.

“Maybe it’s better I don’t do this. I wouldn’t want you on my conscience, not like your mother’s has always been. That, and having the little one grow up hating me the rest of my life. Having you hate me is bad enough.

“James, you know they will send someone else after you. Might be in a day or a week. You won’t be safe, and neither will your family.”

Stan pulled the gun from behind his back, and slowly released the hammer of his Smith and Wesson and slipped it back into his shoulder holster.

“I can be safe if you are willing to give me a name, or names.”

“I’ve never snitched on anyone. But there’s always a first time for everything I guess. Since I’ve signed my own death certificate tonight.

“The man’s name is Kirsten Amayia. He heads up the Boston to D.C., drug market among other things. He holds connections with just about every mainline dealer on the East Coast. You nail him, you’ll take a big chunk of the drugs off the street. He also sets up about eighty percent of the contract hits, from Chicago down to Miami.”

Stan decided against telling him about the state’s major witness being set up for a hit. It was probably too late anyway. The guy was due to be hit the same times James was. Stan gave him other information as in Amayia’s address, cell number and other points of contact.

“Thanks for the information. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an anxious four-year old waiting for me. As far as Amayia is concerned, I’ll make a call tonight and have him picked up tonight or tomorrow morning. By then, there will be a hundred Fibbies up his ass with nowhere to go. There will be plenty of warrants served to keep him and his lawyers busy for a long time to come.

“He won’t be able to touch you, so rest easy. If you like, I can arrange to have police protection for you until this is all over, but somehow, I have a feeling that that doesn’t appeal to you.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t. Look, it really was good to see you again and seeing Jessica, too. Just sorry it had to be this way. James, take care of yourself.” Stan extended his hand. James looked down for a moment, then placed his own within Stan’s grasp.

“Thanks … Dad.”

Stan looked into his son’s eyes and in the faint light of the moon’s glow, silver tears formed in his own. Another smile creased his features as he nodded his head, turned, and walked away.

“One other thing,” called out James. “I never hated you. I was just disappointed. I’m not any longer.”

Stan heard the words but kept on walking, only he walked a little taller and straighter as the shadows of the night swallowed him away.

James stood in the doorway watching as Stan disappeared with Jessica returning, pulling at his shirtsleeve. His wife, Kellie, came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his stomach.

“Who was here to see you?”

“Someone from out of my past. My father. I’ll explain it all to you later.”

Breaking his own misty mood, he turned to Jessica, swooping her up in his arms, exclaiming, “It’s starting to get chilly! Let’s close this door and get back to our game. But before I forget, I have to make a quick call, and I promise I won’t be long. Then it’s game on.”

As James was closing the door, he was hard pressed to see Stan anywhere.

11:56

The Swede found Stan sitting in a darkened area of the park. The Swede was hired to watch Stan’s movements. The Swede was hired for something else as well.

“What took you so long, Swede?”

“How’d you know it was me, Oliver?”

“It’s your after shave. I can smell that crap three states away. You can step out from those bushes anytime now.”

Swede stepped out and was every bit as big as Stan. Only three differences: he’s younger by ten years and bald with coal black eyes.

“Couldn’t waste him, could you?”

“If it was your boy, could you have done it?”

“I don’t have kids. Too much of a liability.”

Stan saw the motion the Swede made.

“Oliver, you know this is business. I have to take you down.”

Stan stood tell, hands at his side.

“I know.”

The Swede pulled out a Krueger .45 semi-automatic, silencer attached and cocked the hammer back.

“Got anything you want me to tell Amayia when I get back?”

“You aren’t going to make it back.”

That made Swede’s eyes blink long enough for Stan to reach for his Smith and Wesson, and have it cocked and aimed at Swede’s heart.

“But if you do, tell him I said he could go straight to hell. I’ll meet him at the door when he shows up.”

Stan could feel the barrel of Swede’s .45 pointing straight for the spot between his eyes.

He stopped shivering and that nervous feeling he had when he faced his son earlier, was gone.

As both men squeezed their triggers, as guns roared silently, Stan watched as the Swede sailed backward.

Although Stan wasn’t aware of just how fast a second could pass, there was that one second before the bullet from Swede’s gun slammed home into his brain when Stan whispered his last words.

“He called me, dad.”