Cover Your Tracks

by Daco Auffenorde

  “Give it a rest, Margo. I’m not an idiot. Don’t try to manipulate me. The more important question is how’s the baby? You haven’t mentioned anything today.”

  Had her head just spun three-sixty? Yes, he was angry, still manic, but what a time for him to ask about her baby’s welfare. Her heart skittered, and more fear inched up her spine.

  Don’t go there. Think positive. Be brave. Don’t let him see inside.

  “I think everything is fine,” she replied. “But I’m certain my blood pressure is up.”

  He exhaled, and the anger in his face drained. Turning, he walked over to the broken radio, squatted down, and gathered up the pieces.

  Was the episode over?

  “I think I’ll rest, if that’s okay with you,” she said. “Unless you need me to do anything, or want to talk, or …”

  “Yes, you do that. I’ll see what I can do to fix this radio. And then make us some soap.”

  She laid down on the bed and watched him take the radio to the table, where he sat down and fiddled with the pieces.

  After ten minutes, he shrugged and said, “No luck. I’ll work on it later.”

  He seemed almost back to normal—almost, but not quite, since his eyes had a residual glassy sheen. Part of him was still somewhere else. He would only stew if left to his own thoughts. She needed to get him talking, get him to do something that he was good at, so he would find solid ground below his feet.

  “We need a plan,” she said, hoping that thinking proactively would bring him all the way back. “This may sound silly, but what if we make a fire outside and send up smoke signals? The Native Americans did it.”

  “Indians?”

  “I’m just thinking smoke could get someone’s attention? Maybe a passing plane?”

  He bolted up from his chair and took a step in her direction.

  She cringed. Then, all of a sudden, he turned back toward the kitchenette. When he reached the counter, he braced his hands on its edge, his knuckles turning white. Maybe he would get through his frustration by taking charge again. In his mind.

  “Okay, Margo. Let’s think about that for a second.” His tone was patronizing. “Do you know how high commercial planes fly? Never mind. Take it from me, if a plane flew over us right now, no one on it would see a fire down here. And you sure can’t expect a low-flying prop plane to be out in this weather.”

  “So what do we do? You can’t keep hunting day after day.”

  “Wait! We wait, Margo. We stay here for as long as it takes. And don’t ask how long that’ll be. It’ll take as long as it takes. Days, weeks, whatever it takes.”

  And then it was her turn to lose control, and she began to weep. He wasn’t thinking rationally. He wasn’t thinking about the rescue workers arriving at the scene. Someone would definitely come looking for that train and the survivors. The train wreck affected hundreds of people who would demand a rescue effort.

  She tried to suppress the tears. But her chest heaved.

  He turned around. His expression was now intense and hard.

  She was rocking to soothe herself, to get control.

  “Stop it,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. My hormones are a mess. I’m afraid for us. I know you’re taking care of us, doing everything possible. I feel vulnerable.”

  His harsh expression faded. “You rest. I’m going to add more wood to the fire. If it eases your mind any, I’ve been in much harsher conditions than these. There’s always a way to survive. We’ll just have to find that way.”

  She nodded and then had an epiphany. Maybe this would give him a peace of mind. “Hey, you know what? I think it’s Christmas Day. Merry Christmas, Nick.”

  When he didn’t respond, only looked perplexed, she closed her eyes, rolled over, patted her belly, and whispered, “Merry Christmas” to her child.

  She’d counted on the baby to make Christmas a happy time again. The holiday hadn’t been festive ever since the year that Olivia had turned sixteen. That was six years ago.

  CHAPTER 34

  Heather and Charles had wanted to take a Caribbean cruise over the winter holiday break, and Olivia would finally be allowed to come to Chicago and stay with her Aunt Margo. Yes, she’d finally been granted permission to visit. Margo had just broken up with Matt. She welcomed the chance to play Fun Aunt Margo, the cool, sophisticated, single woman Olivia didn’t see much.

  When Olivia arrived at Chicago O’Hare, Margo waited anxiously for her to walk out of airport security. Her heart melted when she saw Olivia. She’d grown up so much. She wore a short, form-fitting denim dress with leggings and a pair of boots, had a cross-body bag slung from one shoulder to the opposite hip, and wore her hair up in a hippie-style bun secured with a bandana with strands of loose hair pulled down and around her face. Her makeup consisted of heavy eyeliner, mascara, and bright pink lipstick on her plump lips. She was stunning, simply beautiful, and Margo couldn’t have been more pleased. The moment she saw her standing there waiting, Olivia’s face lit up like a bright star, and she put an extra hop in her step. Margo waved, and instead of waiting for Olivia to reach her, they raced to each other and hugged.

  “Aw, it’s so good to see you, Olivia,” Margo said. “You look like your pictures—no, even more beautiful.” She didn’t want to sound too sappy, but she couldn’t help herself. So much for the cool, sophisticated aunt. “So did you have a good flight?”

  Oliva nodded, and her bun bobbed up and down. She rolled her eyes like a typical teenage girl and said, “It was a great flight, except I had to sit next to this guy who wanted to talk the whole way. When he got up for a few minutes, I finally had the chance to put my earphones in and face the window. There’s glory in a window seat. Such glory.”

  “How’s everyone back home?”

  “Mom and Dad are off on their big, fabulous, disgustingly gross trip. Imagine sitting on a ship for a week, getting seasick, and eating the same food over and over again.”

  Margo laughed. “I don’t like cruises either. But sailing, now that’s entirely different. I’ll take you one day.”

  “Mom said if I didn’t get my homework done, I’d never get another trip away during the holidays.”

  “Homework during the winter holidays?”

  “Journal project, English lit. No biggie. And yeah, I’m doing fine in school. Mom said you’d ask and to tell you that we didn’t need to be running all over the city. That we should stay in and read and eat healthy.”

  “Very funny.”

  “No, I’m serious. She said you were the wild child, that you might be a doctor now, but, you know, whatever. She’s so freaking strict it’s ridiculous. Thinks everyone is out to get me. I must have heard fifty lectures before this trip alone on how I shouldn’t talk to strangers, shouldn’t walk on the street by myself because someone could snatch me. Jeez, I’m not four years old. It’s a wonder I ever got to go to preschool.”

  “That’s just normal parental concern. No one wants anything bad to happen to their kid.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I’m looking forward to a little fun for a change. I’m a little wild child myself. No offense, Aunt Margo.”

  “None taken. Anyway, you know how things get blown out of proportion. We all grow up, and we all have our moments. I never did anything bad. Your mom is probably thinking about her own dirty deeds.”

  Margo wrapped an arm around Olivia’s shoulder, and they shared another laugh.

  That week they visited museums, went shopping, to lunch every day—and then did more shopping, because Olivia was definitely a fashionable Fletcher woman and had to have all the new styles. Plus, her father had given her a credit card and a hefty allowance.

  They’d just come in from a long day of shopping. Olivia kicked her shoes off, plopped down on the couch, and kicked her legs up. Then she looked up at Margo. Margo sensed that Olivia had been trying to tell Margo something all day. But if she’d asked, Olivia, like most teenagers, would’ve shied away. Margo was now the desi
gnated Fun Aunt, so she got to hear the stuff that Mom didn’t.

  “I’m seeing someone,” Olivia said.

  “That’s good, Olivia. He’s nice, of course?”

  “Chase is the best. But I … My parents don’t know. They won’t approve. He’s a sophomore at Gonzaga.”

  Margo understood why her sister and brother-in-law wouldn’t approve. “Olivia, that makes him, what, nineteen? I mean, you’re only sixteen, so—”

  Olivia got that look of disappointment and borderline disgust that only a teenage girl can get. “I thought you’d understand, Aunt Margo. The high school boys are immature. Chase is really sweet. A really good guy. And very, very cute. Awesome guy.”

  “You should tell your parents,” Margo said. “If he’s as nice as you say, they’ll understand.” Margo knew this wasn’t true.

  “No, they won’t. They got upset last year when I was interested in a senior in high school. And he was only seventeen.” She swung her legs around, sat up, and leaned forward. “So, you’re a doctor and my aunt. I was wondering.” She blushed. “You could write me a prescription for birth control pills, right?”

  “Oh, Jesus, Olivia. You should talk this over with your mom. Heather will—”

  “She won’t do it. She’ll think I’m some kind of slut. My God, it’s the twenty-first century, and my parents are like—like Grandma and Grandpa.”

  And so Margo was put in a position she never wanted to be in.

  “We’re doing it already!” Olivia blurted out.

  And in her eyes, in that face which so resembled Margo’s own, she saw the same defiance that she’d shown at the same age. Aunt? Mother? What did it matter? Margo was a doctor, and if Olivia had come to her as a patient, she would’ve written the prescription.

  “Oral contraceptives are not enough,” Margo said, trying to sound clinical. “You should be using a condom. STDs are—”

  “We have been, but the last time it broke. Oh my God, I was so scared, because I was a week late. I thought I was …”

  Margo wrote the prescription, which Olivia filled at a chain pharmacy that had a store in Spokane. It took Heather all of a week to discover the pills—which of course on the label showed the prescriber as Margo Fletcher, MD.

  “You had no right, Margo,” Heather told Margo over the phone in a tone as calm and analytical as their father’s.

  “I’m a doctor, and she came to me for help.”

  “I don’t believe you did it because you were her doctor.” The mockery on the last word was also worthy of their father. “Be that as it may, Charles and I feel that you betrayed our trust.”

  Of course, their parents were aligned with Heather. Blanche, the Switzerland of their family, stayed neutral. And while Olivia and Margo kept in touch for a while through emails and texts and the sporadic phone call, Olivia gradually withdrew and went on with her life, and why not? She was young.

  Margo hadn’t seen her family in six years. This trip home was to be a reunion, and Margo hoped, a reconciliation. Now, she hoped she and her baby lived to see Spokane—to see Olivia, her niece, her biological daughter, get married.

  CHAPTER 35

  Nick didn’t protest when he received the transfer stateside to Fort McNair in Washington, DC. He’d killed the henchman who’d murdered Andrea White, but he hadn’t gotten to the bosses, who received protection from many internal factions. Because he couldn’t root out the leaders and kill them, he wanted to come home. Besides, he needed a rest, perhaps a permanent rest, from the army. He had a decent job waiting for him back in the US. The army had a high demand for instructors qualified to train soldiers to fight in mountainous terrain. Few had better qualifications than Nick Eliot. So he continued on in the military when he was ordered stateside and became a training instructor for Special Forces.

  Four months after he’d returned to the United States, his commander, a Colonel Dwyer summoned Nick. Dwyer was prematurely gray with a face so leathery that he could’ve passed as a seasoned veteran well over fifty. The fact was, the officer was only forty-eight, eight years older than Nick.

  “We have a job for special ops which requires your survival skills and talent with weapons,” the colonel said. “In Afghanistan.”

  “I’m done with that, sir. I’m no longer a kid.” The part about age was convenient to say, but in truth, Nick didn’t feel old. He didn’t want to fight anymore.

  “Hear me out, Sergeant,” Dwyer said. “This involves an operation to destroy a compound housing chemicals to be used in warfare.”

  Nick snapped to attention.

  “We have reason to believe the insurgents have successfully weaponized chemicals and are planning an attack on the Bagram Airfield.” Dwyer went on to tell him that the compound was located underground outside a small settlement near Azrow. The military couldn’t bomb the facility without risking civilian casualties. The operation was delicate and dangerous, in need of expert handling.

  “Your experience is critical, Sergeant,” Dwyer said. “You know the area.”

  “If you order me back to Afghanistan, of course I’ll follow orders, sir,” Nick said.

  “This is hazardous duty, Sergeant. Strictly voluntary.”

  Nick thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ve served my time, sir.” This offer was the test, and his reaction proved that he no longer wanted to fight.

  Dwyer folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “There are two unique factors you should consider before making a final decision. First, Specialist Andrea White has a stake in this. We believe the insurgents who are in control of the compound are the people who planned the ambush that killed her.”

  “If I may, sir, what leads us to believe that’s true?”

  “We detained and questioned the husband of the school headmaster who attacked your unit. At first he said he knew nothing about the attack, but after some effective interrogation, he provided intel about the insurgents who ambushed your unit that night. The leader of the insurgent group is a Taliban mullah named Hamid. His group has control of the chemicals.”

  Nick’s heart rate accelerated. The fight was returning.

  “The second factor, Sergeant, is this: Specialist White’s autopsy revealed she was three months pregnant at the time of her death.”

  Nick felt as if his skull had just been pried open and his brains pummeled. He had not a moment of doubt that the child was his. Had Andie known? She must have known. The way she looked at him, the ambiguous smiles she gave him. The proposal of marriage. The story of the pearl. A metaphor for a child.

  “She put in for a transfer back stateside with pregnancy as the grounds,” Dwyer continued. “She made you her medical proxy, the secondary beneficiary of her life insurance policy and military benefits. Her grandparents were the primaries.” Of course they were. Nick could support himself.

  He and Andie had thought they’d hidden their relationship. So much for stealth and discretion. The military had known all along that they’d violated the rules. Why had the army brass looked the other way? Probably because of their effectiveness in combat.

  “I appreciate your telling me this, sir.”

  “I’ll give you some time to think about this mission,” Dwyer said. “Purely voluntary.”

  “I don’t need to think about it. I’m in.” Nick saluted and left the room in a daze.

  After the initial astonishment passed, he realized it was time to do something he’d been dreading. He dug through his desk drawer and found Andie’s letter, the one he’d never opened. Since her death just months ago, he hadn’t found the strength to read the letter. He unsealed the back flap and began reading Andie’s last words, her last thoughts.

  She started the letter with a rooster joke. Of course she did. Then she reminded him of how she’d grown up on her grandparents’ farm in the heartland of Nebraska. She asked that, if he was reading this letter, he go see her grandparents in person and tell them about what kind of soldier she was.

  Nick wanted
to beat himself unconscious. How could he have procrastinated about opening this letter until now? It was common for soldiers to write letters and give them to someone else for safekeeping and delivery if necessary. The unspoken code was that these letters were to be opened and read. He’d violated that code. In his cowardice, he’d stood by and let her grandparents learn about Andie’s death from a dispassionate messenger and hear nothing else.

  He read on, hearing her voice in his mind. Her last few lines might as well have been a cold dagger penetrating his heart. Pregnant with your child … was to be my gift to you … dearest, Nick, you are my one true love. I know your family history, but think of it this way, Sarge. You’d be a great father because you know what it is to be a bad one.

  He’d never thought of a kid in those terms. But her words resonated.

  No matter what, if you truly loved me, you must honor my life and go on. Find happiness and a family. Complete yourself.

  Rage coursed through every inch of his body. He tucked the letter back in its envelope, raced out the door, and began running as hard and as fast as he could. When he could run no more, he returned to his office, dripping wet. There was no time to go to Nebraska. He had to get ready for war.

  Nick returned to Afghanistan a week later. The mission, code name Operation Dragon Claw DC-10, would be more dangerous than any he’d been on. He handpicked the soldiers who would accompany him. The squad consisted of seven men, two women, and himself. Afghan forces would sit this one out. It was always risky to trust Afghan soldiers. Too many potential Taliban spies.

  An advance team of more than one hundred coalition troops traveled toward a province south of Kabul and southeast of Kuh-e Soltan Saheb, near the Pakistan border, where intense fighting was beginning to break out. These additional troops would, the Americans hoped, draw out the Taliban soldiers from Nick’s target village where the terrorists had stored the chemicals. This diversion would allow Nick’s special ops unit to make a foray the following day into the village and destroy the chemical cache while the insurgents were gone. Eight hours after the coalition troops had set out, Nick got the word—Operation Dragon Claw DC-10 was a go.