The woman said, “What did you do?”
“I shined my flashlight in his eyes, grabbed the baton from one of the Sailors next to me, and hit him in the head, dropping him on the spot.”
“So, you didn’t try to trap the knife.”
“No, I grabbed a bigger, better weapon. Trapping the knife is what you do when you’ve run out of other options.”
“What happened to the Marine?”
“He woke up the next morning in the infirmary handcuffed to the bed with a concussion and a broken jaw. He spent six weeks eating through a straw, twice that amount of time having difficulty remembering his name, twice that again in jail, and was eventually dishonorably discharged.”
“We watched you disarm someone with multiple black belts. Don’t you think your reaction was a little extreme?”
I had picked this story for a reason, to drive home a point. “Remember the first two rules — this is combat, and survival is the key.”
I noticed a few heads nodding. Those students were grasping the severity and consequences of a weapon attack. They might have a chance if they were unfortunate enough to find themselves in such a dangerous situation.
“You might have ruined his life. Some people never fully recover from that degree of brain injury.”
“He ruined it when he decided to pull out a deadly weapon. If the Marines had wanted to, they could have charged him with attempted manslaughter. They went with assault with a deadly weapon.”
“But—.”
“But nothing, ma’am. Infantry Marines are trained in knife combat. He told me what would happen if we tried to stop him, and I saw by the look in his eyes, he meant it. You want to survive something like that, then you need to remember the consequences are permanent. You must be brutal. You must be effective. You must be fast.”
CHAPTER 2
Had I been too hard on the young woman? Had I been too blunt? Tact wasn’t always one of my stronger features. Those were some of the thoughts running through my head on the drive to my favorite Thai restaurant. Was there even such a thing as too blunt when telling the truth about a weapon attack? She had signed up for a realistic self-defense class, and it looked like she needed a healthy dose of realism.
I was standing inside the restaurant waiting for my carryout order when I heard a female voice behind me. “Are you following me?”
I turned to see a woman in her late twenties or early thirties addressing me. Five-foot five. Lean. Vibrant red hair, so vibrant it’s seldom seen naturally. Yet, on this woman, it fit her complexion and skin coloring so well I doubted it came from a bottle. She had intelligent hazel eyes. A smirk more than a smile — sort of lopsided, but it fit her perfectly. A pretty woman. The same woman who questioned me twenty minutes ago in the self-defense class.
“You are behind me. Maybe I should be asking you that question.” I smiled.
She smirked back. “I’ve been standing behind you for the last couple of minutes. Maybe I should question you about your situational awareness.”
“Oh, I knew someone was behind me, I simply didn’t register you as a threat.”
“That hurts. I spent an hour in a class honing my attack skills. I would have thought it made me more intimidating.”
“Next time, try screaming like that one lady.”
“Yes, because that would go over well inside a quiet restaurant, and totally go against my strategy of testing your situational awareness.”
I laughed briefly before reaching my hand out to greet her. “I’m L.T. McCain.”
“You don’t lead with doctor? I thought all doctors did that,” she said while shaking my hand.
“You mean like a ‘Bond, James Bond’ kind of thing?”
“McCain, Dr. McCain,” she said in a deep voice. “Not good enough. What’s the L.T. stand for?”
“Legend Thaddeus.”
“McCain, Legend McCain. That has a ring to it. But Legend, where did that come from?”
“My mother.”
“She’s a real free-spirit, huh?”
“Not really, she was born and raised in Norway. I don’t think she realized no one names their kid Legend.”
“And you hated it growing up, hence the L.T.”
“Exactly. What about you, ma’am?”
“First, I have to get you to stop calling me ma’am. I’m Lisa,” she responded with a mischievous smirk.
“Nice to meet you, Lisa.”
“You too, L.T.” She was careful to avoid calling me Legend.
We were interrupted by the arrival of my to-go order being delivered by a young, shy Thai girl who had waited on me several times in the past. I said something to her in her native language, which elicited a small giggle before she walked away.
Lisa looked at me surprisingly. “You speak Thai.”
“Very little. I said thank you.”
“I’m not sure you’re telling me the truth. If you said thank you, why did she giggle like that?”
“I asked her the same question the first time she laughed at me a year ago.”
“What did she say?”
“She said it sounds funny when I say it.”
“It’s because she finds you attractive.”
“I hope not,” I said.
“Oh?” she replied with a flirtatious arch of her brow.
“The chef in back; he laughs when I say it, too.”
Lisa let out a small giggle. “You learned Thai from your time in the Navy?”
“Yes, but obviously not well. Or someone taught me the wrong way back then, and now it’s the world’s longest-running joke.”
“You seem like a very interesting man, L.T. McCain. Since I’ve run into you, I wanted to let you know I was intrigued by what you had to say earlier. You know, about your thought patterns at the end of the class.” I cast her a suspicious look. “Sorry, sometimes I can’t turn my work switch off. I’m a psychologist here in Memphis.”
“Hence your fascination with my thought patterns.”
“I have an interest in PTSD. The potential causes or situations that might lead to the disorder. I saw you mentally tabulating which story to tell the class. Meaning you’ve been involved in more than one dangerous altercation. May I ask why you chose the story you told us?”
“Because I wasn’t willing to share the other one,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone.
She studied me to see if I was going to explain my answer before giving up and resuming her questioning. “Dr. McCain, the reason you fascinate me is you seem relatively unaffected by your involvement in numerous potentially traumatic events. As a doctor, do you have any thoughts on the matter?”
“Psychological resilience.”
“Wow, no hesitation at all. Does that mean you are familiar with the work of Emmy Werner?”
“I am.”
“I thought you were an ER doctor. Do they teach you guys that stuff?”
“I came upon her on my personal path of self-discovery.”
“Self-discovery, huh? Trying to remedy any chinks in your mental armor?”
“No, I wanted to make sure I might be seen as interesting and fascinating in case a pretty, red-haired psychologist should ever want to start up a conversation with me.”
“You are good at this, Dr. McCain.”
“Good at what?” I replied with an innocent, incredulous tone.
She laughed for several seconds but didn’t answer my question. “If I’m not too forward, any ideas why some people are more resilient than others?”
“I don’t know. Some of us just are.”
“So, you are one of the enlightened ones.”
“Enlightened? Hardly. I think I compartmentalize well. I can’t speak for others.”
“Interesting.” She paused for several seconds. For some reason, the pause did not seem natural. More like she paused to make me think she was carefully pondering my response.
“Another question if you have time.” I nodded my approval. “As a doctor, which implies a
certain degree of altruism, does it give you pause when you deal out large amounts of bodily injury to people?”
“You’ve dropped a modifier, Lisa. Bad people. Or at least, people involved in bad things,” I replied with a moderate terseness to my voice.
“Correction, bad people.”
“Besides, the definition of altruism is the belief in or practice of selfless concern for the well-being of others. I believe my actions were quite altruistic from the perspective of the two Sailors stuck with shore patrol duty. God only knows what I might have saved them from.”
“Interesting, but hardly altruistic from the unfortunate Marine’s viewpoint.”
“He doesn’t get a viewpoint. He gave up that right the second he threatened to kill us.”
“Still, don’t you think your actions were a little excessive?”
“No. I did what needed to be done. Would you rather I shot him? I had a gun.”
“No, I guess not. But the brain injury. Are you saying he got what he deserved?”
“I never said he got what he deserved. He got what happened.”
“You don’t feel bad?”
“I feel bad for him. What a waste of potential. He might have been a good Marine otherwise. But no, I don’t feel bad about him.”
“You have a clean conscience?”
“In this case, squeaky.”
I studied the young woman for a few seconds trying to get a read on her. Earlier, her smirk looked almost flirtatious. Now, she looked amused and proud of herself.
“Are you a lawyer or something?” I asked. “You ask questions like a lawyer. Like you are trying to get a rise out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. Now you’re trying to humor me. You need to practice your look of feigned sincerity.”
“I can assure you I’m very interested in talking to you.”
“See, that was an honest answer. But I’m bored with this conversation. I’m taking my leave now.”
I turned away from her, heading for the front door.
“Now, you’re not being honest,” she said.
I stopped and turned to face her, “You’re right. I’m trying to remain polite. Good day, ma’am.”
***
My father first explained the term armchair quarterbacking to me when I was a kid. With 16 years in the NFL, he understood the term all too well. Criticizing a coach or the team is easy when you have no idea what it’s like to have an enraged middle linebacker want to take your head off simply because you dared to run the ball in his direction. Or in my father’s case, no idea what it took to stop a 250-pound man hell-bent on crushing your quarterback. I played both tight end and linebacker in high school, so I understood my father’s irritation. That irritation paled in comparison to having someone second guess my handling of a dangerous situation. Especially from someone who’s never looked death in the face, from someone who might not even have the courage to do so. The young woman at the restaurant had struck a nerve with me. Afterward, I believed that had been her goal all along.
I wasn’t lying when I told the young woman I mentally compartmentalized well, placing my conversation with her on a figurative shelf in the back of my mind during my drive home. Something to be forgotten. Minutes later, I pulled up to the two-story commercial building in Memphis I called home. The building had been a large department store back in the fifties and sixties. The previous owner had converted it into one of those downtown buildings with commercial business on the bottom and living space on the top floor. I parked my car in the loading dock I had converted into a garage and took the freight elevator to my apartment.
I was immediately caught off guard by the presence of walls as I stepped out of the freight elevator. When I purchased the building four years ago, my goal was to split the second floor into multiple apartments, saving the big apartment with access to the freight elevator and loading dock for myself. I never got around to it. The entire second floor, over 5500 square feet, was my apartment. Other than the two bedrooms and bathrooms on opposite ends, it was one large, open floor plan.
It was more space than I needed, but with the two businesses downstairs paying me rent, the building was making a small profit, and I enjoyed the idea of having no neighbors. I could play my music as loud as I desired. I had room for my gym, complete with weights, punching bags, and floor mats for Jessica’s yoga. I had room to expand.
“You look irritated.” Married a little over two months, and Jessica already knew my looks. She was sitting on the couch waiting for me as I got off the elevator. “You knew the walls were going up today.”
“Still a little startling,” I replied as I looked around for someplace to set the takeout food.
“Look around the wall to your right. You’ll find dishes and silverware setting out on the kitchen table.”
I walked around the wall and found what I needed under a sheet being used to keep the work dust off the table. I placed our food on plates and returned to the living room to hand Jessica her food before glancing around the apartment to take further notice of the new walls that had been built while I was at work.
“Sit down, sweetie. Eat. And tell me what’s irritating you, because we both know it isn’t the walls.”
“People are stupid,” I said while sitting down.
“Did something happen at work today?”
“No, after work.” I told her about the woman at the restaurant while we ate.
“Some people will never understand, Legend. It’s like you said about tennis on TV — the players make it look easy until you play the game yourself.”
“I guess. By the way, when is the kitchen supposed to be finished?”
“When it’s done.”
“Alright, smart aleck. I’m trying to visualize how you are splitting this up, and it doesn’t make sense.”
“Are you saying you don’t trust me?”
“No, it’s ju—.”
“Because you gave me full decision-making ability concerning the apartment. It was time you turned your bachelor pad into real living space. You know, with walls and rooms instead of areas for everything.”
“But—.”
“Are you doubting me now?” she asked.
“No.”
“You seem to be doubting me. You think I can’t handle a little apartment?”
“That’s not wh—.”
“You gave me full control of your real estate business. Are you having second thoughts on that as well?”
“No, dear.”
Verbal judo with Jessica, even when it was playful, usually ended up with me on the losing end. Today was no exception.
“What about you, Jessica, are you sure you don’t want to finish your master’s?”
“I’m sure, sweetheart. The trust you’ve placed in me, the opportunity you’ve given me, it’s amazing. I’m getting to build things most women would never get a chance to do. Let alone one my age. I absolutely love it. Besides, it’s not like my engineering degree is going to waste. I’m good at this. I’m gonna make us lots of money. You’ll see.”
Jessica placed her plate on the floor, walked over to me, grabbed my plate, and placed it on the floor as well. She sat on my lap and looked me in the eye. “Thank you for worrying about me, though.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied with a feigned timidness to my voice as I pretended to wonder why she was sitting on my lap.
Jessica kissed me hard on the mouth before pulling away with a pained look on her face. “Holy crap, Legend, how hot do they make your food? I’m not kissing you again when you are eating Thai food.”
She jumped off my lap and grabbed her glass of water, taking a large gulp. “Speaking of money, Boyd called. He said he could use your expertise in Illinois collecting money from a guy who bought some horses and has fallen behind in payments.”
“A repo man? Really? I don’t know anything about horses.”
“He said you might say that. He told me to tell you he’s n
ot collecting the money from horses. He’s collecting from people, and you know people.”
“But a debt collector?”
“He said you might say that. He wanted me to remind you that you’ve done it before. From Kent Rutherford in Texas last year. In fact, you did such a good job that Rutherford reached out to Boyd to see if he could help with his problem.”
“But—.”
“He said you might say that.”
“I didn’t say anything yet.”
“You said but. He wanted me to tell you that you owe him one. Two actually.”
“He keeps insisting I owe him two. I call BS. He volunteered to help me two years ago. He can’t hold that one over me.”
“Maybe he’s talking about the number of people he’s shot for you.”
“I’m not so sure his number would be higher than mine.”
“Maybe he’s referring to the number he killed protecting me.”
“In that case, I’m eternally in his debt.”
Jessica’s eyes sparkled, her lips curled into a faint smile. “I love you, too. He needs you there tomorrow by two. If you leave at eight in the morning, it will get you there by one.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Jessica said, “It pays twenty grand apiece.”
That piqued my curiosity.
“You can drive the Supra.”
Letting me drive her 1992 Toyota Supra was seriously sweetening the deal. She loved that car. Especially after the modifications I made to the engine boosting the 232 stock horsepower to over 350. The car was Ferrari fast and handled as well as any Porsche costing twice as much. Jessica’s only complaint was I had not made it faster.
“Twenty grand, and I can drive your Supra. I never thought I’d say this literally, but it looks like I’m gonna see a man about a horse. I guess we are not celebrating my birthday tomorrow.”
“Who says? Tomorrow starts at midnight. I promise not to wear you out too much, old man.”
Deadly Promise Page 2