I do—but therein lies the issue. “I’m not sure they’d just let me go like that.”
“How long does your contract run? You must have signed a document that outlined the exact terms, including the duration of your employment.”
That I don’t even know says a lot. “I don’t think that’s an option.”
I can tell that my vague answers are getting on her nerves, but I’m sure that, somewhere in said contract was a nondisclosure clause, which is something she respects. “When did this start, your disillusionment with what you’ve always thought was your dream career?”
That is much easier to pinpoint. “When you called and told me that my brother is dead.”
I can tell that her first impulse is to dismiss my momentary malaise as just that, but she does me the courtesy of not pointing that out. I’m not exactly happy when she changes the topic to ask, “That recruiter of yours? You turned into a veritable pillar of salt when you saw him.”
I wonder for a second if she wants to imply something with that downright biblical reference. Serves me right for talking about “soul” with her, I guess. “I didn’t expect to see him there.”
“Does he have a name?”
“I’m sure he does.” My obtuse response makes her frown.
“You’re not telling me for the same reason why you don’t want to talk about him in general, I presume? You know that it likely just takes me a single call to the army recruitment office to find out what I want to know?”
“Don’t.” I know I have to tell her more after that slip, but I do so with a certain kind of trepidation. “He may appear harmless, like a distinguished older gentleman and retired paper pusher, but that’s as far from the truth as it gets.”
She takes that in with more calm than I feel. The very idea that she could accidentally prod an anthill that should never be prodded is making me feel sick for a moment. Then again, my mother does everything with deliberation. Besides, she’d likely have a field day with Decker, and it stands to reason that one amiable talk later, she might hire on as his top analyst, if only so she’d get access to all manners of redacted files—including my own.
“You’re afraid that he had something to do with your brother’s death?”
“Wasn’t that your first assumption?” I point out, not without a hint of bitterness. “That I somehow got him killed?”
She looks chagrined—not something I normally associate with her. “As I explained earlier, I may have said a few things in my life that you didn’t deserve to hear.”
I don’t miss the point in her phrasing—she still feels like she had the right to say them—but it’s not something I choose to dwell on.
“It’s a conclusion that I’m prone to jump to,” I admit. “But no. I don’t think that he had anything to do with Raleigh’s death, and neither did I. Decker is known to be more… direct about expressing any misgivings he might harbor. He would have let me know, today, if that was the case.”
“But he is the reason why you can’t quit,” my mother deduces. I give the smallest of nods. She scoffs. “So very typical of you to go looking for an abusive father figure once you got away from under my less than emotionally available roof.”
The assessment makes me smirk, both in and of itself, but also because of the inherent irony of it. “I wouldn’t call what he does ‘abusive.’”
“What instead? ‘Loving and kind’?”
“Efficient.”
I watch with morbid fascination as her misgivings—after all, someone roughed up her son, that’s inexcusable—morph into interest. I’m not sure I’m going to like hearing the conclusion she reaches when her face lights up. “It’s not that you’re fighting with what someone made you do,” she says, almost whispering conspiratorially. “No, you’re bored.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” she states, matter of fact. “You thought leading your… what is it? Company?” She waits for me to nod in agreement. “You thought that being responsible for the actions of so many people would be fulfilling, but it’s turned out to be a drag. That’s also why you keep refusing promotions—that would take you further away from what you actually yearn to do. All you want to do is play. Jump right in, hit ‘em hard, and bail with whatever it is that you were sent to extract. A few good men is all you need, not the everyday drag of organizing and delegating. You tell them what to do, and you do it with them—problem solved.”
I can’t help but squint at her. “My company is rather efficient as a hit squad as well, which is essentially what you just described. And trust me when I tell you that I get to scratch that itch elsewhere.” I know I’ve already said too much, but it’s hard to defuse that bomb now that it’s out in the open. It’s just like my mother to look satisfied at having ferreted something out that I tried to keep hidden, but she doesn’t dwell on it now. For whatever reason, that leaves me defensive as hell. “I am not bored,” I insist again.
I’m almost surprised that she doesn’t reach over to pat my hand. “It’s okay that you are,” she assures me. “I would be, too. Have you considered maybe switching career paths inside your chosen track? Just because you are proficient in leading a company doesn’t mean that you have to.”
“It’s what keeps me sane and grounded,” I insist. Part of me wants to believe that she has no clue what she’s talking about and thus is giving me the worst advice possible. The far stronger, cynical part of me is convinced that she knows exactly what she’s talking about, and my mother just told me to stop being a pussy and get back in contact with the nice people at PSYOPS.
“Sanity is highly overrated,” she offers as a throwaway remark. “Honestly, I feel like that ship has sailed a long time ago.”
I’m tempted to agree—and this conversation may very well be the base for that conviction. I stare into my half-empty mug—black, just like hers—and try to come up with a good defense. “Didn’t you repeatedly accuse me of being a bad son for trying to get killed?”
I love how vexed my accusation leaves her—but sadly, it doesn’t throw her off track. “Why do I keep repeating myself on this? I was being selfish. And yes, telling you to keep doing what makes you miserable but has a higher chance of you surviving is what’s in my best interest. But it’s not in yours.” She pauses as she casts around for words, as if I’m being dense and she has a hard time making me understand. “Nathaniel, I know this is something most mothers will not tell their sons, but I am not most mothers and you are not most sons. I am well aware of the fact that you joined the army because you were afraid you were a step away from becoming a serial killer. I know about the cats, and I have found your old diaries.”
I can’t help but frown. “Reading them is an invasion of privacy.”
“Letting you condemn yourself to death row would have been worse,” she quips. “Get over it. You want my honest opinion? You never had the urge to kill, you were only fascinated by it. You liked the idea of being driven to do something society abhors. But you certainly lack some of the barriers others possess, which predestined you for a stellar career in the business of war. There is a difference between being a stone-cold killer, and needing to kill, though. Any moderately competent man or woman can command a company, but it takes a certain kind of morally flexible person to do the things our fine country can never admit need doing—and you like being that person. So why keep yourself from fulfilling your potential?”
A valid question—and one I usually avoid mulling over. “Because that makes me a horrible person?”
“Who cares?” Her blasé answer makes me frown, which in turn gets me a somewhat confused look from her. “Obviously, you do. But I don’t understand why. You already made your hands dirty—and from what it sounds like, that dirt will never come off. If you need further arguments in your favor, see it like this: if you do the work, no bushy-tailed rookie will have to start the descent into madness when you not only have already completed the journey but are, in all likelihood, better at the job?”
&
nbsp; A part of me—a very small part, admittedly—is horrified that she thinks of me this way. The far greater part realizes that I must have wanted to have this conversation all along, or I wouldn’t have started it.
“You do realize what that means?” My voice sounds strangely hollow, not quite reflecting the kernel of conviction that is already forming deep inside of me—and I’m surprised that it’s not what I’ve expected. There’s a third option, and it sounds better by the minute.
“That I likely won’t see you in the months and years to come,” she replies, sounding a bit sad. Before today I would have chalked that up to good acting, but today I’ve learned that there are a few exceptions to her general state of not giving a shit about anyone—and it means a lot to me that I must be one. Why it took me over thirty years to see that is a mystery, but maybe I didn’t want to see it before—or couldn’t.
“Maybe not ever,” I mutter, low enough that I hope she doesn’t catch it.
No such luck, of course. “If that’s what it takes for you to find peace, so be it.” That remark is cryptic enough to make me look up sharply, but she’s just as calm as she sounds. “You misunderstood if you thought I meant for you to approach whoever you need to approach to get back into PSYOPS,” she clarifies. “What I meant is, you need to find out who is responsible for murdering your brother, and you know that it will take more than mere conviction to get the answers that you need.”
I realize that my confusion is a shield—a defense my mind is putting up to keep itself from realizing what is going on. “Didn’t you agree with me that it makes no sense for anyone to have killed him?”
“And neither of us believes that it’s true,” she points out. “Maybe you were wrong with your assessment of who might profit from his demise. Maybe it was a party that you don’t know yet is a player in this game. Whatever it is, I’m certain that you will find out, and you will exact the revenge that you are hungering for. It’s natural that you haven’t come to that conclusion yet yourself; you have only just started processing your grief, and that takes time. But eventually, you will get there. I’m sure you don’t need it, but you have my express permission to do whatever needs doing.”
I can’t help it—I chuckle under my breath, even though my blood runs cold. “Yeah, Decker would have a field day talking to you,” I mutter.
She frowns briefly—the name can’t tell her anything, but I’m sure she is making the connection.
“Ah, that explains it.” I eye her askance at that cryptic remark, but even before she explains, I know what’s coming—and I don’t like it one last bit. “I didn’t make the connection as I never actually heard his voice or met him in person,” she states, quite unperturbed. “But we have been conferring via email for years. I must say, I’m impressed. Until just now I never would have made the connection that the ‘son’ he had been referring to was you. I realized, of course, that he was talking about a man he was mentoring rather than his biological offspring, but I should have known better.”
“Could have been any number of people,” I object. I have to, because the very idea that the man I hate from the bottom of my soul because he cracked me open like an egg could do so because my own mother delivered the keys to him on a silver platter is too painful. Yet at the same time, it’s a relief. It means that some of the genius I’ve always attributed to him is actually hers—and I have a feeling that their most recent correspondence was the last time he will ever glean anything useful from her. I’m not stupid enough to ask if she feels guilty now—I wouldn’t enjoy hearing the answer. But judging from her pinched expression she just realized she knows more about my past than she ever wanted to know, leaving neither of us happy with that conclusion.
In an uncustomary show of compassion, she changes the subject. “I will, of course, have to continue our correspondence, but he will find my advice less helpful than in the past. While he seems genuinely obsessed with you, I don’t think he is responsible for Raleigh’s demise. Just like I am, your brother was the best way to put pressure on you and keep you in check. With those anchors gone, you would be a loose cannon and I don’t think he would risk that. But I don’t think he is a good resource for you in your new quest.”
I nod, once more agreeing with her.
We keep sitting, side by side, like that for a few more minutes, everything said that needed to be said. With anyone else, the silence would have felt awkward. With her, it’s second nature. It’s easy to admit that I’m enjoying this more than I maybe have a right to—also because the knowledge that this may very well be the last time I get to do this is weighing heavy on my mind. Already, a list of things I need to set in motion is forming in my mind, but rather than get up and do any of them, I remain where I am, watching the light outside change.
Someone murdered my brother—that much is certain. I will find whoever did it, and whoever planned it, and I will make them regret that their mother ever laid eyes on their father. I will do whatever it takes to take them down, and if that means that I die doing so, so be it. I don’t allow myself to consider the possibility of failure—I may die, but I will take them down with me. The only one I fear might turn into collateral damage is my mother, and I don’t have to ask her to know that she’ll gladly accept that consequence if the need arises. I’m a loaded gun—all I need now is to find out who or what I’m pointing at.
I leave well before sunrise the next morning, armed with coffee and a new mission in life. As I drive north toward Pittsburgh in my shiny red Corvette, I ask myself again if I really want to kick this off right now or wait a few weeks to see if anything happens that might tip me off. I’ve never exactly believed in the old adage of letting sleeping dogs lie, but there is a chance that if I start prodding and poking too soon, any leads I will find will end in nothing as whoever left them simply disappears. Yet like my mother must have intended, now that the thorn is in my side, it’s impossible to ignore. The more I think about it, the more I feel like she must have been suspecting something even when my brother was still alive. I don’t buy that she didn’t make the connection between Decker and the “son” he had been writing her about. I may be an accomplished—and experienced—liar by necessity, but she is one of the only people I know who has no compulsion whatsoever to tell the truth. I think that’s the reason why she made me promise to never lie as a child—to ingrain the importance of something she couldn’t live by herself. Great job, Mom—but that’s likely one of the few reasons why I’m still alive. I have a moral compass that usually points true north—but I have learned to ignore it when it’s convenient.
As expected, I arrive early to drop off the car. The same woman as yesterday is manning the counter, and she must recognize me, but the easy smile from before is gone. I wonder at first if that’s due to yesterday’s idiots having given her grief, but dismiss that option when she hands me a nondescript bag after the paperwork is completed. Inside I find two burner phones, fully charged.
That was quicker than I’d expected.
I know one of the two numbers programmed into the SIM cards—one each per phone—so I dial that one first. The phone rings exactly twice before a gruff female voice replies in sharply accented English. “Whoever you are, you better have a very good reason to have this number.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I respond in Serbian. I presume the phones are both encrypted, but sometimes adding an extra layer of security is as easy as switching to a language that’s not spoken by billions of people all over the world.
Only the slightest pause follows before Zilinsky responds. “I was wondering when you would be calling. Sorry about your brother. He was a good man.” She pauses for a second. “Romanoff says he is sorry, too. I presume you are calling because you aren’t convinced his death was accidental?”
One of these days I’ll get her to do small talk, but today I’m glad that she cuts right to the chase. “I have my doubts. Worst thing that happens is that I get confirmation that I’m just a paranoid lunatic. Ho
w quickly can you get a team ready should I acquire a target to go after?” I don’t ask where she is right now. She likely wouldn’t answer.
“Five days,” she says with barely any hesitation. “If you want a good team, twelve.”
“You have twenty, and I need the best. I don’t want to raise any flags for the time being.” I pause, but it’s needless to ask if it was her who planted the burner phones with the car rental girl. She would have known it was me calling had that been the case. I settle on telling her that someone will likely contact her soon and hang up, quickly dismantling the phone as I make my way to the check-in counter. I keep the SIM card for now so I can properly destroy it at the next airport after I touch down. Everything is ready for my return flight so I proceed, getting out the second phone after the security check.
Another female voice answers, this one softer with no accent besides all-American with a light west-coast tint. “You got my phones? Good. When will Zilinsky be ready with your team?” A yawn follows. “My condolences for your brother. Sorry I didn’t start with that. I’m not quite awake yet.”
To say I’m a little surprised to hear that Dolores Sanchez of all people is on the line is an understatement, but I’m ready to roll with the punches as they come. It makes sense, I guess. She’s a former child prodigy hacker I’ve worked with before—who actually owes me her life twice over—and someone just a few numbers down my task list from where I started out. One less contact to worry about making. It strikes me as strange that she initiated contact, but that’s easily explained as she goes on after I thank her.
“I figured you’d want to look into your brother’s death, so I started snooping around. I haven’t found anything yet, but that’s an answer as well, right?” she points out.
“Be careful,” I needlessly caution her. “Until I know more, I don’t want to tip anyone off. I presume you will coordinate with Zilinsky next?” They know each other from a few absolutely clandestine missions, so working together shouldn’t be a problem. I find myself annoyed that I can’t join them—yet.
Beyond Green Fields (Book 1): Beginnings [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 13