Ghost Warrior III - Sins of the Father Ch 12 partial

 

Chapter 12

The cold, damp morning followed them through the glass doors as Tucker, Walker, and Luis Delgado stepped into the lobby of the Atoka County Medical Examiner’s Office. The warmth inside was subtle, humming from ceiling vents, carrying faint hints of antiseptic and paper and something else—quiet, clinical, practiced neutrality. The walls were a soft beige, the chairs along the far wall empty, the polished linoleum reflecting slivers of gray light coming in from outside.

They walked together to the counter: Tucker first, shoulders squared and expression unreadable; Walker next, jaw set, eyes shadowed from a long night; Delgado last, hands in the pockets of his jacket, scanning the room out of habit more than necessity.

Behind the check-in glass sat a young receptionist—maybe mid-twenties, blonde hair braided neatly over one shoulder, a thin cardigan pulled around her against the lingering cold from the door. She lifted her eyes as they approached, recognized the grief in their posture before they even spoke, and softened immediately.

“Good morning,” she said gently. “How can I help you?”

Tucker stepped forward, voice low but steady. “I’m here about my father. John Nashoba. We’re here to see Dr. Harper.”

Her face shifted into quiet sympathy. “Of course. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She stood and gestured for them to follow. “Right this way.”

The hallway she led them down was narrow and long, lit by evenly spaced fluorescent fixtures that hummed faintly overhead. Doors lined both sides—some marked with plaques, others unmarked, each closed in a way that told stories no one wanted to hear.

At the third door from the end, she stopped. She rapped lightly with her knuckles.  A gruff voice barked from the other side, “Come in!”

She cracked the door, poking her head inside. “Dr. Harper, Tucker Nash and two other gentlemen are here to see you.”

There was a sound of a chair pushing back, then the shuffling of papers. “Send them in,” Dr. Harper said, voice steady, older, authoritative.  The receptionist opened the door fully and stepped aside.

Dr. Robert Harper stood behind a desk cluttered with files, medical charts, a half-empty cup of coffee gone cold, and a small brass lamp whose shade leaned slightly askew. Harper was in his early sixties, stooped but strong, with close-cropped silver hair, thick glasses, and the tired eyes of a man who had spent a lifetime cataloging death. He wore a white coat over a dark sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a stethoscope draped loosely around his neck despite not needing one here.

“Come in, come in,” Harper said, waving them toward the three chairs clustered around his desk. “Sorry for the small office. They don’t exactly give MEs the corner suites.”

Walker snorted. “We’re not here for the décor, Doc.”

Harper gave him a brief nod. “Lieutenant,” he said. “How are you holding up today?”

Walker shrugged, the motion tight. “Working. That’s about all I got for you.”

Harper accepted that, then looked to the third man—Luis Delgado—whose presence stood out sharply here. Delgado stepped forward, extending his hand.

“Luis Delgado, DEA. Oklahoma City,” he said.

Harper shook his hand firmly. “We haven’t met before,” the ME said. “But I’ve read your name on enough reports.”

Delgado gave a faint, grim smile. “Probably not the good ones.”

Finally, Harper turned toward Tucker.

“Tucker Nash,” Harper said softly. “It’s good to see you again, son. Though I’m sorry beyond words that it’s under these circumstances.”

Tucker nodded once, jaw tight, eyes calm in that hard, quiet way that came from years of mastering the storm rather than outrunning it.

They all sat—Tucker closest to the desk, Walker to his right, Delgado in the last chair by the wall, his posture half-alert even while sitting.

Harper lowered himself into his own chair, hands folding on the desk.

“All right,” Harper began, voice steady. “Tell me what you need from me today.”

Tucker didn’t hesitate. “I already know what happened. Walker and Delgado briefed me. I’ve seen scenes like it. I don’t need a medical rundown on the injuries.” His voice didn’t waver. “What I need to know is when I can take my father’s body. I want to bury him out with Minko, my mother, and my grandfather.”

Harper’s eyes softened. “I understand.” He took a slow breath, nodding. “I can release him today. Certainly by this afternoon. If you prefer first thing tomorrow morning, that can be arranged. It’s entirely your call.”

Tucker nodded once. “Today is better.”

Harper hesitated then, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk—an unconscious rhythm, like he was weighing whether to speak.

“There is one thing I wanted to mention,” Harper said. “Something I found during the exam. Not related to his death.” He paused. “But something that might give you some measure of comfort. Or at least understanding.”

Tucker didn’t move, but his eyes lifted, watching the ME carefully. “Go ahead.”

Harper leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under him. “Your father was already dying, Tucker. And I mean that in the medical sense. He was living on borrowed time.”

Tucker’s brows drew together. “Explain.”

Harper nodded, slipping into the clinical precision of his profession, though his tone remained gentle, respectful.

“During the autopsy, I examined his liver closely,” Harper began. “Externally, it was firm, nodular, and had the mottled appearance you see with chronic disease. When I sectioned it, the architecture was near completely replaced.”

Delgado shifted slightly, listening with the intent of a man who had seen too much violence but not this kind of slow death.

Harper continued.

“Your father had advanced hepatic carcinoma,” he said. “Stage IV. The tumors in the liver were widespread—multiple masses, some several centimeters in diameter. The tissue between them was cirrhotic, fibrotic. The kind of structural damage that takes years to develop.”

Tucker’s breath stilled, but he didn’t look away.

Harper went on, hands gesturing slowly as he spoke, as if mapping the pathology in the air.

“And it didn’t stay in the liver,” he said. “It metastasized. I found involvement in the vertebral column—specifically the lower lumbar vertebrae. The bone there was softened, eroded in patches. A pathologic fracture was likely not far off.”

Walker exhaled through his nose, shaking his head once.

Harper’s voice softened further.

“And there was spread to the brain. A few small lesions—metastatic deposits—in the parietal region. Probably only a few millimeters, but enough to start causing neurologic symptoms within months, maybe sooner. Headaches, dizziness, cognitive lapses.”

Tucker stared at the desk, jaw tightening. The room felt smaller. The air felt heavier.

Harper folded his hands again.

“I do not know if he was aware,” he said. “Some patients never sense the full severity. But given the findings, he would not have survived another year. In truth, he probably would have begun declining significantly within six months. Perhaps less.”

Silence filled the office.  Not dead, empty silence—but a silence that held weight, that let the truth settle into place like stones being laid onto wet earth.

It was Walker who broke it, voice low.  “So he was fighting on borrowed time.”  Harper nodded. “Borrowed time indeed.”

Delgado rubbed a hand across his mouth, absorbing it in his own way. “So the cancer alone would’ve taken him.”

“Yes,” Harper said. “Without question. It was systemic, aggressive, and far past treatment.”

Tucker swallowed slowly, throat working. He didn’t speak for a long moment.  Harper didn’t push.

Finally, Tucker lifted his head.  His voice was quiet, steady, but weighted with something deep. “Thank you,” he said. “It… helps to know. In a way.”

Harper nodded once, solemn.

Tucker continued, more to himself than the room. “He wasn’t running from this. He wasn’t hiding. He came to find me. Even knowing…” He drew in a slow breath. “Even knowing he was on his way out.”

Walker put a hand briefly on the arm of Tucker’s chair—a small gesture, but grounding.

Harper reached for the folder on the corner of his desk. “I’ll finalize the paperwork. You’ll be able to collect your father’s body within the hour. If you need help coordinating with the funeral home, the tribal office, or cemetery logistics, I can make those calls.”

Tucker shook his head. “I’ll handle it.”

Harper nodded again. “Of course.” The ME closed the folder and set it aside.

“If there’s anything else you need,” he added quietly, “my office is open.”

Tucker stood slowly, the other two rising with him. Harper rose as well, shaking his hand carefully, respectfully, then doing the same for Walker and Delgado.

As they stepped back into the hallway, the receptionist glanced up from her computer, eyes soft with sympathy as they passed. Tucker gave her a small nod.

Outside, the morning was still gray, still cold, but something in Tucker’s expression had changed. The grief wasn’t lighter—it never would be—but its shape was clearer.

His father hadn’t been taken in the middle of life.  He’d made his last stand at the end of it.  And he’d gone out on his feet.