The Labyrinth Key

by Christopher Cartwright

  “Well, you’re probably right about that.”

  Silence reigned again. Ethan glanced at him and reopened his knife, lounging on Sam’s bedroll. Sam noticed he kept his boots carefully off the blanket. “We got out okay and no one else seemed to think there was anything weird about it. Hell. I don’t know if they noticed anything at all. But I kept thinking about it. Christ. Don’t know what possessed me to put it in the report. If I hadn’t, this all would have…”

  They looked at each other.

  Ethan hunched his shoulders and stuck out his chin, “That’s all I know. Promise.”

  Sam picked up a stone and played with it. “You did the right thing, putting it in there. Neither of us are who we were fifteen years ago. And if there’s a chance we can close this once and for all, we should take it.”

  Ethan seemed surprised by the steel in his voice. Sam wasn’t. He’d been thinking of these men and what they'd done to his life for the past decade. He tossed his stone away and picked up his water bottle. “Thanks, Ethan. I can take it from here. But you seem like a good man to have in a fight.” He grinned.

  He couldn’t help but notice the spark of pride in Ethan’s eyes. The young man appeared to reach some sort of decision and said, in a rush of trust, “You know… I never told anyone about… what happened.”

  Sam unscrewed the water bottle cap, feeling the ridges in his thumbs like fingerprints. “I know.”

  “You believe me?” Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that I didn’t tell anyone?”

  Sam grinned around the certainty in the pit of his stomach and drained his water. It felt like the same temperature as his blood. “Because if you had, you and I would already be dead.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The sun was still high in the sky but sinking toward slumber. Ethan walked, making his way along the tree-lined avenue, barely noticing the smooth sandstone beneath his feet. Broken and misaligned sections here and there required his attention; bumps in the road were inevitable or, as his Dad used to say ‘shit happens’, and damn. Shit was happening.

  The sounds and scents of summer swarmed around him. Nighthawks coasted on the thermals high above. Ethan had walked these streets countless summer evenings, just like this.

  But, this time? This time was not the same. This time, Ethan walked the streets in a daze; the kind exclusive and born of first-hand experience and almost impossible to believe even happened in the first place—first time you’ve been in a fight, a particularly bad bike accident, a car accident—personalized discoveries that never needed to happen. During and after those moments? They jolt us closer yet further from ourselves and they keep the world at a distance while we move through it with a thousand-yard-stare. Like ghosts.

  He shuffled along, scuffing through the grass. It was cool on his feet and brought him back to himself as the cars swooshed by on the old streets.

  He saw it again and again in his mind: the knife on the back of the man’s throat; the shimmer of heat rising from the pavement.

  Ethan jolted awake with a shout.

  He lay there rigid, panting, in the sweaty dark.

  He’d never forgotten that afternoon. Never forgotten it, but he hadn’t dreamt about it in years. It was seeing Sam that brought it back, he thought.

  Ethan stared at the ceiling as the quiet sounds of bugs and camp stirring told him it was between three and four in the morning. Too late to sleep again, and too hot. Ethan put his arms behind his head and lay back. Instead of the ceiling, he saw memories. He remembered, as vividly as he had dozens of times previously, that fateful day that he’d met Sam Reilly.

  He’d reached his house, the one with the peeling white paint exposing the cheap siding underneath. The trash reeked. He had to remember to take it out. He stood there with his key in his hand, hearing the television already on, blaring The Price Is Right reruns through the torn screen windows already attracting bugs. The creak of the ancient fridge, the clunk of the handle—home.

  In this hot, trembling night where anything seemed possible, Ethan wildly considered the possibility of running away. Away from all of this and the men in black and the clunking empty fridge and the sweaty, hard hands.

  His father heaved himself out of the nubby couch, hacking and coughing. “Aww, you dumb shit. Could have told you not to bet it all…”

  Ethan’s thin shoulders shook in a moment of cowardice… or courage. He never could figure out which.

  He reached for the handle and pushed the dirty button on the screen door. It screeched open as it always did and slammed closed with a whine.

  His shoes stuck to the dirty linoleum in the heat when he came through the kitchen. His father had shouted from the living room, made a villain by the flashing light of the television.

  The burly arms under the fat, the beer bottle, the clench of fear in the pit of his stomach…

  He remembered the shout, as it had been shouted many times before. “ETHAN!”

  Ethan squared his skinny shoulders and prepared himself. He stepped forward into the living room. He kept his chin down. Better not to make eye contact. He’d learned that, at least.

  Unfortunately, this line of sight brought what his father held into his vision. Ethan gulped. The gun rested in his father’s palm like it was made to fit between those callouses.

  He remembered how his father had held the pistol out. His voice had been quiet, the way it was before the particularly bad wailings and Ethan knew he was in for it. Split decision- lie or not?

  Deep down, though, he knew it was no decision at all. His father always knew when he lied. And it was always, always worse.

  “Boy. What do you know about this?”

  Ethan looked away. “I- I don’t know anything about guns. Or your gun.”

  He flashed again on the dead cats, the scene in the desert… irrationally hot tears sprouted behind his eyes. He couldn’t blink or he’d make them fall, and he didn’t have the courage to wipe them away. The scene blurred.

  His father hefted the pistol in his hand and Ethan remembered the weight in his own. He wondered if his father would shoot him. Wondered if it were loaded. Sweet Jesus, what had he done? He slanted a glance around the room, trying to see how many empty bottles littered the furniture and the floor.

  His father turned the gun in his hand. “Well ain’t that the truth. Don’t even know how to clean it properly. Stupid boy.” Ethan kept his eyes on the floor. His father hawked and spat. “Did you shoot it?”

  Ethan shook his head.

  “Don’t you fucking lie to me boy.” His father’s voice shook with rage, with some emotion that made Ethan think there must be quite a lot of liquor in him already, which was weird, because he hadn’t seen that many bottles. Maybe he’d had a lot at the bar…?

  “Don’t you fucking lie to me! And look at me! LOOK AT ME when I’m talking to you!”

  Ethan raised his eyes with all the courage he had. His father’s eyes were red and blood shot and his face splotchy in the heat. He brandished the gun with a glare. Ethan shook his head, trying not to sound desperate. Trying not to sound weak.

  “No… no… Josh did. I just took it. And the bullets.”

  They stared at each other. He shook and his father shook. He knew he was going to die.

  His father pointed the gun at him, and Ethan started to cry. Snotty tears, hot and helpless. He couldn’t stop. His father stared at him, shaking, brandishing the gun steady on his son’s gleaming face.

  Then he turned the barrel toward his own face and stared at it. His finger tensed on the trigger, just the tiniest bit.

  Ethan could only watch him and sob, the snot slick and sweet on his lips. The birds and sprinklers sang outside. He didn’t know what he hoped for.

  Then his father threw the gun away and held out his hands.

  Ethan didn’t know what he wanted. When his dad reached out for him, he flinched back. He couldn’t help it.

  He watched his father’s face crumple in unbearable pai
n. He put his meaty palm over his drunkard’s face with the veiny nose. His shoulders shook. Ethan thought he was crying.

  Ethan shuffled.

  This time when he reached out, his hands empty, his arms limp, Ethan edged forward, tentatively.

  The big hand cupped his neck. Ethan tried to keep the tears in, tried to be a man, but he couldn’t. Didn’t want to. He slid his small arms around his father’s thick, strong waist and together they sat there on that gray nubby couch, so worn the stuffing shone through the way it had when Ethan was little, while the TV blared some game show and the evening light slanted on toward night.

  The next shock came the morning after, when Ethan had turned on the TV as his father sat surly and stubborn at the breakfast table, rummaging the kitchen counters like a bear in a cabin. “Coffee in here somewhere,” he’d growled. “Got to be…”

  Ethan flicked the TV to the morning cartoons, feeling hopeful. Maybe he could get a glimpse while his father was distracted. He didn’t trust this fragile peace. Didn’t trust this new world of hope.

  But the morning cartoons weren’t on. It was some talking head on the news. Ethan flicked the channel. The next one had been replaced, too.

  By the fourth station that had been replaced by somber news anchors Ethan stopped switching and listened.

  A man who looked vaguely familiar in a slick suit that looked hurriedly put on, with too greasy hair that had been rumpled by hands, was speaking. His eyes were red, and his voice shook. Ethan didn’t recognize him.

  “Dad,” he said. His father grunted at him. Ethan twisted in his seat to see. “Dad. Who’s-”

  “The Vice President, Ethan. Shut up.” The coffee pot gurgled. His father looked sick. His shoulders dropped. “Christ, I’m sorry boy. Just- I want to hear.”

  Ethan stared. He’d never seen his father give a damn about the news. Now here he was, no longer rummaging, and listening. Leaning on the counter, clutching his cup of steaming coffee.

  The talking head stared into the camera, shuffling his notes in shock. Ethan remembered the open carton of milk on the table had smelled just the little bit off. Ethan filled his cup anyway and sniffed. Still drinkable. He drank, keeping his eyes on the tiny grainy television set wedged between the empty bread box and the microwave with the crust of spaghetti sauce on the handle.

  “The President of the United States has been killed. His plane was hijacked by a man who as yet remains unknown. Security footage from Air Force One shows…”

  A man in black.

  “The president’s face was gouged with this symbol…”

  Ethan spilled his milk.

  Now, as Ethan lay there in the dark surrounded by the sounds of the rising camp, remembering back to that fateful day in the desert all those years ago, it occurred to him, not for the first time, that perhaps Sam Reilly hadn’t been entirely truthful with him.

  Men shouted outside. It would be dawn soon. Dawn came early in the desert. He had a busy day ahead. He had decisions to make.

  Sam had looked good. Healthy, happy, whole. He looked like a man pleased with his life. He didn’t look like a killer.

  But if there was one thing that Ethan had learned serving his tours in the military it was that killers didn’t necessarily look like killers. The ones that didn’t were always the most dangerous. The ones that didn’t, were smart.

  In any case, Ethan recognized the signs of a man who was questing for something, always searching. A man who couldn’t stop until he found it. A man who could feel victory, but rarely satisfaction. Fanaticism had many faces. Ethan had seen a few of those while serving here, too. He wondered how Sam Reilly had spent the past fifteen years. If he’d flown any planes in that time.

  Ethan took the key he’d taken from that tunnel from beneath his shirt. He’d kept it hidden at the last minute during his meeting with Sam, tucked away safe. Now he felt the contours in the dark, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Ancient City of Palmyra – Syria

  As Sam approached through the camp, he saw the team waiting at the end of a dusty path. He saw Ethan shake his head at the offer of a cigarette and take a healthy swig from the canteen on his hip instead. The boys all ribbed him for it, and he took their teasing in his stride, dishing back as good as he got.

  Sam grinned. Had they not been in state-of-the-art military gear, Sam would’ve thought of them as any other group of friends. Their manner was so friendly and colloquial that he wouldn’t have even thought they were the world’s top-tier killing machines if they weren’t holding their M16’s. And even still, the looks they shared reminded Sam of the bond he had with Tom, unbreakable to the end.

  However, there was a hardness to them that Sam couldn’t quite put his finger on. Sam looked more closely. They stood in a way that made it perfectly clear that they trusted each other with their lives. He remembered that feeling.

  For an unexpected moment, Sam had the rare advantage of seeing them before they saw him. He sized them up in that moment and decided to trust them.

  Then they looked at him.

  Their shoulders went back, their hands went to their weapons and their stares bored into Sam. Sam suddenly felt very small.

  Ethan walked up to Sam. “Mr. Reilly.” His eyes were friendly but guarded. “Sam. Why are you back?” His lip quirked and his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer. “Did you lose something?”

  Sam shook Ethan’s offered hand, silently sighing in relief. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition?” Ethan glanced at his companions. “What- what are you talking about?” His gaze suggested he knew why Sam might be here and he wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with it.

  Sam shrugged, glancing around at the men, blatantly eavesdropping. “You gentlemen up for a mission?” He spread his hands. “You’d be helping out the secretary of defense quite a bit, actually.”

  Their brows rose and reassessed Sam’s importance. “Ethan. Who the he- who is this?”

  Sam looked straight at Ethan and made his case. “The key. We need to retrieve it.”

  “What’s he talking about, Ethan?” asked one of the SEALs.

  Sam clasped his hands behind his back and shifted his weight. He needed these men on his side. More importantly, he needed to get the key. But problems tend to be solved when you have trained military professionals at the ready to help. He nodded at them with a smile. “Ethan knows.”

  Ethan sighed and shrugged, as if humoring Sam, but his eyes showed some respect at Sam’s name drop, though his face suggested he wasn’t quite sure he believed it. “Remember that time we took fire back near Palmyra? In the dunes? When we had to break and head for the caves in the back?”

  The men nodded. Ethan spread his hands. “You remember how I fell through the floor?”

  Laughter, true affection. “Yeah, I remember how we had to haul your ass out after we done all the work.”

  Ethan grinned, letting them have their fun. “Yeah, you’re a bad ass, man. Bring it here, I’ll give it a kiss.” More laughter and Ethan turned serious. “Well, there was some passageway down there, some tunnel-like thing under the cave floor. Should probably make a note of where that was in case it ends up being a hideout, if it’s not already.” He shook off the thought. “When I was down there, I saw a drawing on the wall.” He gestured toward Sam. “This man came yesterday with a message from the U.S. Department of Defense. It turns out it might have been important. There might have been something I missed. An important artifact we need to retrieve from those caves. Something like a key, right?” He glanced over at Sam.

  Not bad, thought Sam. “Yeah. That’s right. It’s a key.”

  “But what I don’t get,” continued Ethan, “is the timing. You do know this is-”

  “Wait, what the hell? He wants us to go back?” A big man with a small goatee folded his arms, laughing.

  “Didn’t we just say we got our asses handed to us that d
ay?”

  “Maybe he likes it rough…”

  Sam knew it couldn’t have been that easy, but he was surprised by the tone of excitement that simmered amongst the men. Then, he reflected, maybe there wasn’t all that much action out here. Good to whet their appetites. “Yeah, I do, unfortunately. Want to go back, I mean. Not that I like it-” He felt himself reddening. Been a while since he’d been around a military sense of humor. He spread his hands. “Hell, it’s orders. I can’t mention much, except that it’s for national security reasons.”

  One of Ethan’s mates stepped forward and crossed his arms. “Hey, listen man. You can’t tell us what’s good for the country.”

  A gleaming black man adjusted his cap. “We’ve done more than you’ll ever know about for the - good of the country.” The SEAL made air quotes with his fingers.

  Ethan stepped forward but Sam spoke before he could.

  “Listen. I know that I’m a foreigner to you guys- an outsider. But I served my time in the Marines. In the 47th. I saw action in Afghanistan and I’ve served on soil back home, since. I know I look like I’ve gone soft around the middle- hell. I have gone soft around the middle.” Not too soft, though, Sam knew, or he wouldn’t have said it. And the way the SEALs eyed his civilian middle made him think they’d noticed, too. “But you have to trust me. The fact that I’m even here means I know that this is important.” Sam spoke with sincerity. He knew that he couldn’t find the key without a team. He also knew that this was his only chance for a competent one. “It’s already approved by the Pentagon. Black-label mission, everything off-book, yet still approved.”

  Sam saw the SEALs looking at each other. Their faces were expressionless. Sam knew that meant that thoughts whirred behind their eyes.