The Good Soldier (30 page)

"Tell me they don't have my name," I said.

"Someone unmute this TV," Frank said.

A man dressed the same as Sarah, minus the ponytail and other enticing parts, jogged over and fiddled with the TV until the sound came on.

My ears still rang from the gunfire earlier in the night, so I took a few steps closer to the TV to hear. The room started to spin and my vision closed in on me from the outside in. Eventually, everything went black. The third sign something was wrong with me.

I didn't recall hitting the floor or being taken away from the fire station and placed in the back of a van and driven away.

When I opened my eyes and saw Sarah standing over me, I thought we were still back at the firehouse. But there was something familiar about the surroundings.

"Welcome back." She forced a smile, but it did little to hide the concern in her eyes.

"What happened?" I said.

"You passed out. I think I misdiagnosed your concussion. It's more severe than I thought."

I felt the IV lines in my arm and realized we weren't at the fire station anymore.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"I'm bound to you, legally," she said. The corners of her lips turned up a bit. "At least until someone more qualified can take over."

"Why are you still here?"

"I thought we were going to the hospital, and instead we came here. Like I said, I was your first responder. I had to stay with you." She straightened up and looked around the room, then over her shoulder at the lobby past the window. "What is this place?"

I lifted my head and glanced around. We were in the SIS infirmary. "Somewhere you shouldn't be. Has Doc seen me?"

She nodded. Said nothing.

"What did he say?"

"That you have a concussion."

"Thanks, that was helpful."

"That's what I said." She smiled, then went back to checking my vitals.

I wondered how she managed to get in the van in the first place, much less convince Frank to take her back to SIS headquarters. I must have taken a nasty fall for him to be that concerned.

Frank stepped into the room. Smiled at Sarah and nodded at me. "Gave us a scare, Jack. Doc says you're going to be fine." He turned his attention to Sarah. "Miss, I'll need to debrief you. We'll need to give you a statement and have you sign some papers. Basic stuff, really. In a nutshell, you'll never be able to say you saw this place."

"Don't you mean I have to give a statement?" she said.

Frank shook his head and held out his hand toward her.

Sarah smiled as she glanced between Frank and me. The smile faded, and I assumed she figured out that Frank hadn't been joking. The concern I had seen in her eyes moments ago turned to fear.

"What if I refuse to sign?" she said.

Frank's expression remained stoic. "You won't do that. No point in talking about hypothetical situations. At least not if you want to leave." He wrapped his hand around her elbow and led her to the door and out of the room.

She stopped a few feet into the lobby and pulled away from Frank. Turned around and made eye contact with me. The look on her face was one-third quizzical, one-third scared, and the rest, excited. Her lips were parted, but she didn't say anything. Frank grabbed her elbow again, and guided her across the lobby toward his office.

I watched until she was out of sight. "See you around," I said softly, wondering if it was the truth.

The concussion turned out to be severe, and Doc insisted I be kept in the infirmary for four days. He watched over me during the day and a nurse came in at night. She'd been coming around as long as I'd been in the SIS, and I figured we had an arrangement with her, too.

Doc let me leave headquarters on Christmas Eve. I spent the next two days alone. Me and a few bottles of whiskey. Against doctor's orders, or course. Christmas came and went and I barely noticed. My parents called a couple times. Mom, presumably. I didn't answer. I hardly talked to my brother Sean anymore. He was two years my elder, but once he turned sixteen it seemed we were much farther apart than that. I dialed his number a couple times, but never hit send. What was the point? There was no other family to speak of.

I received a call on Christmas day from my old partner, Riley Logan. He didn't go by Riley though, or Logan for that matter. I'd always called him Bear. And perhaps a few other choice words when we were rivals in Marine Recruit Training. We talked for an hour or so. He caught me up on his adventures in the Marines, working with the CIA. A lot of time spent in Africa, he said. That life seemed so distant to me now. I found it hard to remember what it was like to be tied to a contract with the Marines where I was a servant to the CIA. He said he was getting out soon and thought the two of us could go into business together. He had a few connections in New York who could help us get started. Offer us a contract or two. I wondered if the two additional years he'd spent in the military would clash against the two years I'd been out. I told him I'd think about it. For now, my gig in the SIS paid well and kept me busy. Plus, I didn't have to travel far from the mid-Atlantic. We ended the call after a bit of banter. My mind wandered from Bear to the people we knew and the experiences we had together.

I ran out of alcohol late in the evening on the twenty-sixth and passed out before ten p.m. Woke up early in the afternoon on the twenty-seventh. I'd been staring out the window the night before and left the blinds open. The sun bore down on me, its rays cutting through my retinas like a knife through warm butter. I shut my eyelids tight and rolled away from the window. A loud rap at the front door echoed off the hardwood floors and walls of the narrow hallway that led to my bedroom. I rolled over one more time and swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up too fast. Blood took its time reaching my brain, leaving me feeling out of sorts. Another series of knocks reverberated off the floors and walls. I reached for my nightstand and pulled open a drawer and grabbed my Beretta.

I took my time walking to the front door. Whoever was out there rapped on it again. They had to have busted their knuckles by this point. I cracked the door with one hand, and held my gun in the other, shielding it with my hip.

"You look like shit, Jack," Frank said.

Hung over and still feeling the effects of a concussion, I found myself in no mood for his jokes. I let my arm drop to the side, aiming the gun at the floor. It swung three inches forward, six inches back. Over and over, like a pendulum. "Thanks," I said. "Come on in."

Frank pushed past me and walked toward the couch and said, "Better put that thing away before your shoot your big toe off." He sat down and crossed his legs and folded his arms over his chest. He shook his head side to side as his eyes followed me around the room.

"What do you want?" I said.

"You need to get cleaned up. Shower and shave. Got a nice suit?"

"Why?"

"They're honoring us tonight."

"Who?"

"Some politicians, and who knows who else." He held out his hands. A large grin crossed his face. "Maybe the President."

"For what?"

"The kids. Turns out
you know who
saw your picture on TV."

"Carrying the boy?"

"You got it. He thought it might be a good idea to throw us a celebration."

"Ah, Christ." I poured orange juice into a cup and tipped the bottle to Frank. He shook his head. "They can't invite many people then. Our agency doesn't exist. What the hell is he thinking?"

"Supposedly they've worked up some cover story. Either we're feebs or some special unit in the police. Not sure, exactly. They won't tell anyone who we are."

Sure they wouldn't. In my ten plus years of government service, I'd learned the hard way not to trust a politician or superior with a secret. They looked out for themselves first. Hell, they only looked out for themselves. Screw their constituents and screw their employees and screw the people who protected their asses.

"I'm not going," I said.

Frank smiled. "The hell you aren't. The kids' parents will be there and they'll want to thank us. Go get a shower and shave. And don't come back out here without a suit on."

I started toward the hallway. Looked over my shoulder at the smirking Frank, and said, "Screw you."

We sat behind a row of seven tables, butted together end to end and covered with black and white paisley tablecloths. Overhead can lights were aimed in our direction, casting a haze over the crowd gathered to honor us. The attendees sat together in bunches of four or five or six. Their tables were round, each with a single vase in the middle containing an arrangement of flowers that were yellow and red and white and unidentifiable by me.

Three tables lined up to form the first row. Sixteen white and brown faces smiled at us. Their eyes scanned left to right and back again, like they were at county lockup, trying to identify the man who'd mugged them on a dark street. If not for the smiles, that is. Beyond the first row, I had trouble making out the features on faces. And the row behind that might as well not even have been there, because I couldn't see the people at all, only the dull outlines of the tables.

Sweat formed on my brow. Was everyone having the same trouble as me? Was this a side effect of the concussion? Or maybe from too much drinking?

The lights were bright and hot and hit me like tiny bits of molten metal. Then a panicked thought crossed my mind. What if the concussion was gone and something else remained, bleeding in my brain? That was a real thing, I thought. I tried recall everything I'd ever read on head trauma and its after effects. My efforts drew a blank. By this point, my hands began to tremble. My heart pounded against the wall of my chest. I counted the beats for ten seconds and then extrapolated it out. One hundred and forty beats a minute. I reached for the tall glass of water that had been placed in the middle of the table. The outside of the glass was sweating, and the thin layer of condensation coated my palm. Cold and wet, my hand shot back. A reflex I had no control over.

What the hell is wrong with me?

"Christ, these lights," Frank said, leaning into my shoulder. "Can't see a damn thing after the first row."

I turned my head a few inches to the left. Frank's smile pushed up into his cheeks.

"They better cut those lights when food is served," he said.

My heart rate decreased. The thoughts of panic that clouded my mind dispersed the way steam from a kettle does when it reaches a foot or two above the stove and heads back to the atmosphere. Never gone, only a change of state until ready to be called upon again.

"No kidding," I said. "One of those assholes could be out there right now, waiting to mow us down."

Frank nodded. "Same thought's crossed my mind, too."

A man in the front row stood. He was dressed in a dark suit and wore a conservative red and blue striped necktie. His face was clean-shaven. So was the top of his head. He used his index finger to shove his gold-rimmed glasses up his skinny nose. He approached us. A toothy grin spread across his face. When he reached a spot two feet in front of my table, he spun and faced the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Let's stand and give a round of applause to the men sitting behind me."

The crowd rose and began clapping. I felt Frank's hand pulling on my elbow. I looked to the left, then the right and saw the other agents pushing their seats back and standing up to accept the acclaim the audience was heaping upon us.

Reluctantly, I rose to my feet. I felt more exposed than a few minutes earlier.

The man extended his arms to the side and motioned for everyone to sit. Once the crowd obliged, he said, "These men risked their lives." He paused a beat, and I wondered what his facial expression looked like at that moment. Jovial with a smile? Or serious with drawn lips? "In fact, two of them lost their lives. They did this to rescue your children. And when a fire broke out, they didn't cut rope and try to save themselves. No, they made sure every child was safe, to the point of leaving their fallen comrades behind."

Another round of applause swept through the audience. I found it a tad inappropriate. After all, the man had admitted that our operation was a failure because we left our men behind. That had never been acceptable and sure as hell wasn't now. No matter what other outcomes prevailed.

Once the crowd died down, the man continued, "Due to the nature of their work, we can't congratulate them individually by name."

I glanced sideways at Frank. He pretended to ignore me.

"But we can stand once more," the man said, "and offer our sincerest thanks and gratitude for what they have done for us all."

Again the crowd stood, and again they applauded us. A blond haired boy appeared through the haze of the lights and approached the table. I recognized him not by memory, but by the photos of me carrying him outside. He stopped in front of me and smiled. His two front teeth were missing. One on top, one on the bottom. The light wrapped around his head. His blue eyes stood out like pools of crystal water on a rocky landscape.

"My mom wants to thank you," he said in a voice slightly louder than a whisper.

Frank placed his forearm on the table and leaned over. "After we eat, son."

I held out my hand, palm toward Frank. "It's OK. I'll meet her now."

The little boy smiled and took three steps back. I got up and walked behind three tables. The little boy mirrored my movements and met me at the end of the row. He held out his hand. I took it, and he led me to the back of the room. Once past the lights, I studied the faces in the room as much as I kept an eye on where the boy was taking me. Nothing seemed out of place. I didn't know anyone in the room, aside from a few politicians. None of them screamed terrorist or killer or asshole. Well, maybe a couple guys had asshole written across their faces, but that was a given anywhere you went.

A woman got up from her table and walked toward us. She looked nothing like her son. Dark hair, light brown eyes and an olive complexion. She wore a blue form-fitting dress. I thought it agreed with her quite well. It stretched down past mid-thigh, coming to a stop above her knees. Her hands grabbed for the hem and pulled down. My eyes had lingered too long. An after effect of the concussion, I'm sure. I looked up and grinned and apologized. She shook her head and smiled and looked away.