My eyes absorbed the view overlooking the East China Sea. We had, with considerable reluctance on my part, approached the cliff that conspired to take my life. My heart rate recalled that moment two weeks prior. The cops hadn’t discovered Sledge’s body in the rocky shoreline. I wasn’t sure they'd tell me if they did.
“You actually threw that muscle head over the edge?” Garboski leaned his large frame into the space beyond the precipice.
I resisted the urge to reach for his ugly Hawaiian shirt and yank him back.
“Lucky.” I glanced eastward until the fluttering royal blue and pineapple-gold polyester no longer flagged his precarious curiosity.
A few tourists wandered around the rim, chattering in Japanese.
“Still, Dude. Superhero.” The changing position of his voice suggested he had made the mandatory correction toward safety.
My breath came a little easier.
A light cloud cover promised a glorious sunset. Mild gusts of wind kept more prudent visitors off the craggy ledge.
“This was a good idea,” Garboski said.
I watched a pair of young Okinawan parents chase a two-year-old. They tried to grab the boy before he scrambled into the relentless dragon’s teeth. The scene warmed me with images of my own urchins. Nansi and I had spent many hours preventing their certain destruction.
My remembrance drifted further back. Had my father taken time to protect me and my sister, Renée, with the same fervor? My mother? I couldn’t imagine them chasing me across these jagged rocks. It was a loss that wrenched loose an emotion now caught in my throat.
“Right, Pierce?” G asked. “Face fear. Knock it in the head. Dump it in the ocean.” He laughed into the wind.
I barely heard the hollow whomp that toppled him. A tiny whistle followed, low and quick beneath the sound of sea air caressing my hair. A crack of searing pain buckled my left knee. Nothing could keep me from slamming into those angry stone teeth.
Before the first could bite into my flesh, a military boot hooked my chin and spun my body like a kabob at a birthday party.
As I twirled, I glimpsed the mangled face of Takashi Eberhart Sledge. His name had stuck in my head trying to forget his last psychotic attack.
A ragged scar curved the length of his face from beneath unkempt locks of straggling hair covering his forehead and one eyebrow before terminating in a bulbous lump near the point of his chin. One eye gawked with milky white blindness while the other flared with rage.
I sunk into the stone teeth, wedged between a grouping miraculously designed for the shape of my body.
Sledge’s steel toed weapon glanced off one of those igneous guardians. His momentum swung him backwards, turning his elegantly sculpted anatomy into an out-of-control pendulum seeking equilibrium.
As his weaponized leg went high, I shoved out of my miniature bastion and reached for his ankle. Fate once again honored my boldness. My hand latched around his bootlaces with precision. I forced his kick through the completion of its natural arc. The leverage gained broke his other foot loose.
Sledge levitated for a fraction of a second. His injured face pointed skyward with astonishment at Hachiman authorizing a second defeat to this inferior combatant. Body weight and the momentum of my fortuitous countermove demanded inertia and gravity exact their fee. The loud crack as his back landed squarely against an unusually tall protrusion disappeared under the scream of anguish that launched heavenward from his confounded lips.
Shock rushed up my own spine and sent a cry of despair chasing after his. Strength abandoned my legs and upper body. I collapsed into that faultless cove of stony safekeeping and allowed its comfort to soothe my despair and confusion.
Prolonged minutes of utter silence washed over the three of us. Somewhere into the orange brush strokes of sunset I detected Garboski complaining of a terrible headache.
“Damn, C-man. That guy is like a ninja warrior.”
The cleansing sounds of the ocean collected his words and swished them into the scene.
“Something like that,” I managed.
By the time police and rescue lights sloshed over G’s clumsy efforts to help me up, the tears shed for Sledge’s physical and psychological wounds had dried into my skin.
Sea brine leaped the high cliff wall to spit on the efforts of men.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SWEAT POOLED BENEATH my collar despite the temperature drop that accompanies the onset of an Okinawan winter.
By the marvel of red tape and Air Force pecking order, Garboski and I were off the hook for eluding the cops during a murder investigation.
My growling stomach coerced a rumination on bento boxes. With half my mind on pre-flight items, I sorted through the wish list for lunchtime. A nice little box filled with breaded pork loin sautéed in sesame oil, nesting on a bed of lily white rice. A side of fried vegetables and miracle tofu. My saliva glands ached with anticipation. Nobody but an Okinawa chef could whip out a tofu dish that rivaled the ice cream sundae.
G interrupted my growing excitement with his elation over not returning to jail. He begged for a celebratory night of strippers.
“You’re getting a pass on that plan, G. One stupid idea per concussion.” I finished Mushmouth’s pre-flight checklist while Garboski leaned against the bulkhead and watched. “If your head hurts too much to crawl into the tail section, you sure as hell shouldn’t be dancing.”
“I’m n-n-not d-d-dancing,” he said in a newly acquired stutter.
I snickered.
“D-d-dammit, C-C-man,” he continued when his plodding brain comprehended the joke. “You shouldn’t poke fun at cr-cr-cripples.”
That set me off. I hee-hawed until I was sucking air. Garboski caught my humor on the third gasp. We laughed until it laid us out in the cargo bay, huffing for breath.
“You’ve still got it, G-meister.”
Garboski grabbed his brain box. “Yeah. But it hurts like a club to the cranium.”
That set off a second burst of asphyxiating delight.
“Sorry, dude,” I said, crawling to a bench seat. “Listen, Eugene.” The name meant to secure his attention. “Nanse has a Christmas party planned for Saturday after your shift. It’s supposed to be a big surprise for her hero, freshly minted Sergeant Garboski. Somehow she thinks you did all the heavy lifting when you took that wallop to the skull.”
“Surprise? Why are you spilling it then, d-d-dumbass?”
“Because I don’t want you effing it up with another bump to the noggin or a scraped knuckle. They’d haul you back to your dorm on a stretcher and I’d be in the hoosegow for a month of Sunday brunches.”
Garboski slugged me in the shoulder. “I’ll be there, C-man.”
“Damn right. And you’ll be surprised,” I said. “Try to smell nice. In fact, take a shower before you come by.”
He slugged me again.
I grinned into the fuselage, happy with my skills of misdirection.
* * *
The bing-bong of our doorbell interrupted the festive notes of Noel.
“G!” I hollered over the heads of fifteen elves and Santa’s helpers crowding our living room. “It’s your turn as doorman.” My deft hands cracked another walnut. I stuffed a half between my lips.
His dumbfounded gape nearly derailed the plan.
“Get the door?” I pointed with the nutcracker. “I’m tending guests.” My wrinkled brow imitated the annoyed expression of our flight line slave driver, Senior Master Sergeant Falkney.
The trick registered in Garboski’s brain as a j-j-joyful and open grin.
Falkney stood off center from the direct line of sight. He scratched the nose of his Grinch mask with a vulgar middle finger.
I juggled the utensil to tug on a wing of Nansi’s fairy costume.
She gathered in, and we watched the big man’s astonishment together.
“Wow, Connor! You invited a stripper to your party?”
Ambient chatter and the squeals of the chi
ldren hit the tile like a chunk of coral cement.
Natsuko slapped Garboski’s cheek.
“Shit,” I said to the floor.
“Great idea, Connor-the-genius Pierce,” Nansi whispered. “If you screw this—”
Natsuko’s less than demure voice interrupted my wife’s threat. “I’m you date, stupid GI. Me no bing-bang for American dollar. Me respectable girl.” She wove her arm into Garboski’s elbow and walked him to the punch bowl.
Nansi beamed. “Good plan, Husband.”
“Wasn’t it your idea to give her a pre-flight walk-around so only one of them would be lost in total confusion?”
Nansi offered one of her enigmatic smiles. “Just don’t visualize her naked, Cowboy.”
She left me flushed and stammering, “Hon, Hon, Honey! I’m done with strippers.”
Falkney laughed in unison with his newest wife.
I turned a goofy simper on them, pointing toward my bedroom with the nut-cracking tool. “Refinishing a bureau her grandfather gave us at the wedding. Guess it sounded like something else,” I said with a good old boy slap to Falkney’s shoulder. A blast of jet fuel ignited under my armpit. I winced.
“Glad to see you’re on the mend,” Falkney said.
“Are you okay?” Wife Number Four asked.
As quickly as it flared, the pain dissipated. My grin returned to salesman grade. “Old war wound kicking up.”
“War of the numskulls,” Falkney tossed back.
Before a retort could pass my teeth, I glimpsed Sharon parading into the throng with her dashing OSI husband.
The room stopped breathing to take in their Christmas regalia. Logan wore shimmering red lapels on a trim Santa Suit. The curve in his oversized cap brushed the arch of our tiny foyer. Sharon glimmered in an open shoulder lamé gown that hugged her seductive figure with more discipline than a driving glove. Snow white trim wrapped her neck and forearms with fur.
The stirring fire in my hackneyed elf pants rose faster than my hackles.
Sharon’s lustful, lazy wink caught me ogling.
In the split second realization that my bride stood within clubbing distance, fear grabbed my pecker and slapped my heart in the kisser. I ducked my eyes to review Falkney’s belt line. Trying to repress memories of Sharon’s touch was more challenging than fighting with Sledge on an ocean precipice.
Nansi materialized, pressing into my good side.
My startle response set off another explosion in my torso, this time under a kidney. I shuddered. The creases of my forehead convulsed.
“Connor?” Nansi asked, placing a cool hand on the nape of my neck. “Do we need to shut this down?”
“No, no.” I straightened my shoulders. My face tightened into a robotic smile. “I can manhandle this. Let’s not ruin the kids’ adventure.”
“They’ll survive, soldier.” Her motherly scolding corralled the phrase. She grabbed the nutcrackers out of my hand. “We have a hundred parties ahead of us.” Her voice strained as if wishing to make it so.
“You’re right,” I said, dancing my fingers in the space between us. “But I’m fine. Just have to keep my ticklers below sea level.”
She scooped a couple of hazelnuts and snapped one open with excess force. Bits of the kernel formed a miniature Montana snowstorm.
I bit down on a grimace.
She smirked. “Anyway. You’d better greet your friends.” She nodded in Sharon’s direction.
“I don’t know why they’re here.” My deflection had too much energy.
“Looks like they came to the wrong party.”
My brain wrestled for a disarming and evasive comment.
Nansi disappeared and reappeared on the opposite side of the room to help the neighbor wrangle children.
I let Sharon and Logan Pasfield revel in their moment without interference. Instead, I prayed a force field around my body with special emphasis on my genitals.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TWO UMBRELLAS TUCKED next to the back door pulled my attention toward the expected climax of our party. We intended to gather the crowd beneath the massive Banyan tree and pop them open. Bats hidden within the branches always scattered in a flood of terror, while kids and adults alike shrieked with fright. The plan prompted a smile, but it didn't quell the foreboding kindled by Logan Pasfield’s sudden appearance at my front door.
In my periphery, someone tipped the punch bowl into a wobble. Four or five guests recoiled to avoid staining their costumes. The commotion ignited a giggle fest.
Logan Pasfield used that moment to ambush me.
“Staff Sergeant Pierce,” he said next to my ear.
I felt my backbone slipping out of my ass and onto the floor.
Pasfield’s face held that law enforcement sternness that even his garish costume couldn’t soften. I braced my spineless self for a confrontation that was doomed to end in fisticuffs. My mind raced through every variation of I-will-destroy-you-for-screwing-my-wife before Logan Pasfield’s left hand rested fully on my shoulder.
He held his right hand between us, expecting a handshake.
I stared at it for ten seconds before the words he spoke registered against my eardrum where they were gathering to sing disturbing Christmas carols.
“I wanted to thank you, Pierce, Staff Sergeant Pierce, for the effort you put into finding the murderer.”
“J-j-just helping my friend.” I forced my head high, staring into his keen eyes. It was my best attempt at recovering from the stammer.
“We were looking at it wrong.” The gray-green color of Pasfield’s irises surprised me, as did the cool and comfortable tone of his voice. “Without your insistent defiance of authority, the investigation would have gone very badly.”
I searched his hairline for evidence of genuine approval. It sounded backhanded. “Did you find the pin?”
“Pin?”
“Lapel pin. Cops wear them. To parties like this.” I swept a hand toward the crowd. “Impresses the low-born,” I added with a salesman’s grin.
“We didn’t find a pin.”
“You might make another sweep of those strip club comfort rooms.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe run your crime scene techs through a remedial on gathering evidence.”
Pasfield’s intrigue folded into annoyance. “You’ve made the point.”
I pushed. “A bobble to add to the pile of filth against a dirty cop.”
“For the record, the locals handled the crime scene. But I’ll make a note.”
This disclosure chopped three inches from my rising arrogance. Cherry heat garnished my chin and cheekbones. “My mistake.” Mumbling only increased the temperature of my face.
Pasfield waved me off. “Takashi had us fooled.” Noticing the confusion clouding my brow line, he added, “Officer Sledge. He was a friend.” Logan’s eyes lost their deductive zeal for an instant before he continued. “His misdirection kept attention on your friend, Sergeant Garboski.” He pronounced a long o.
“Garbaa-ski,” I corrected. “Like a sheep.” My embarrassment surged, launching fireworks into my chest. Sparkling bits of burning sulfur bounced off my rib cage and cut off the oxygen to my brain.
“That’s funny,” Logan said without a hint of mirth.
“Besides,” I said, squinting to restart the blood flow in my dying brain. “I didn’t make the connection until I was bouncing around in the trunk of a Yakuza sedan.” My laugh came off half-cocked.
The OSI agent ignored my dwindling self-control. “Sledge was seeing the girl, making her promises. Said he’d pull her from the life, give her a real home. Sounds mad when I say it out loud. Thought I knew him.” He shook the grief off like excess water. The oversized hat flopped with sarcasm. “During his interrogation in the hospital, he confessed to taking advantage of the opportunity.”
“Oppor—”
“He was stalking you, Pierce. Claimed you had designs on my wife.”
We held the thought for
several seconds.
Pasfield continued. “Felt he needed to defend Sharon’s honor or some such gallantry.” A mournful shadow stole his fervor. “I don’t understand how I missed it.” Confusion looked less appealing on Agent Pasfield than the curlicue elf hat.
“That’s noble,” I said to yank the frosty investigator back while underselling my role in the Pasfield family saga.
“Sure.” His calcified interrogation face rippled to life in a blink. “When his girlfriend failed to lead you into a back room, Sledge improvised. He told her to get ahold of something incriminating.”
“Garboski’s necklace.”
Pasfield scanned the room for my friend. “He can stop by the office and pick that up in about a month,” he said once his scrutiny discovered Garboski.
“I’ll be sure he knows,” my mouth said while my brain shouted, You should be telling G your damn self after what you put him through!
Pasfield kept his gaze on my friend and the ex-stripper. “That girl—”
I cut him off. “Yes.”
He took the hint, turning back. “The necklace put us onto Garboski.”
“That, combined with his threatening nature.” I felt a scowl forming.
Pasfield disregarded it. “Sledge’s girl wasn’t keen on using sex to entrap the big guy. She tried to keep the necklace. He freaked out. Began to doubt her allegiance. Sledge had physical strength, but poor impulse control. Said he didn’t realize he held the knife. Killed her in two strikes. The rest of the plan was impromptu. Desperate.”
“Damn, man. Twisted.”
Pasfield bobbed his head. “Bad roots. Obsessed.”
“With your wife?”
“Said he needed to keep her pure.” He turned that penetrating gaze on me.
My eyes widened. Was he accusing me?
Before I could even decide if I should ask, Sharon turned up beside her husband. She intertwined her fingers with his. “Hi, honey,” she said, looking into my eyes.
I parted my lips to answer.
Logan tipped his head toward her. “Hey, Baby,” he said.
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