Now, Steve's hands shook as he pressed the small plastic tee into the cool earth of the 9th tee box, sweat dripping from his balding forehead.
He placed a golf ball on the tee and took a practice swing, his legs quivering weakly. He took another and sucked in a deep breath of the cool morning air. Even that couldn't calm his nerves.
Steve's third swing was his tee shot. Normally, he could have expected the ball to land on the fairway short of the green, if not the green itself.
Not today.
Not after that phone call.
The expensive golf ball landed nowhere near the green. In fact, it didn't clear the water trap.
"Shit." He said, walking to the drop zone as his brand new golf ball sank to the bottom of the algae covered water trap.
He hoped this tee shot wouldn't be a sign of things to come.
Chapter 14:
10:50 AM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
The walk to the Sea Breeze Motel was the longest and loneliest of Jackson's life.
Jackson was no stranger to long hikes. Between the seemingly endless forced marches in SEAL training and in the mountains of Afghanistan, Jackson had logged hundreds of miles in hostile and unforgiving conditions on foot. But, this morning's mile walk down the sidewalk of his hometown felt like it would never end.
He blinked back tears and sighed heavily, relieved to see the sea green awnings of the 1970's built motel appear. The fading paint of the cheap motel stood out amongst the sea of newer, nicer buildings that crowded this part of the quaint town of Sumner.
Jackson covered the last quarter mile quickly, his heavy steps carrying his physically drained body through sheer power of will. As he approached the glass enshrouded reception area and sliding glass doors of the aging building, Jackson felt himself wishing that the place had a bar.
He stepped tentatively through the sliding glass door of the motel's reception area, his footsteps echoing across the lobby as his sweaty body moved across the fading granite floor of the sea-foam-green appointed reception area.
A young black man stood looking bored behind the worn wooden countertop of the front desk.
"I'd like one room for the night," said Jackson.
"That'll be 59.00 plus tax," replied the disinterested young man, his mind clearly focused on the television which sat across the lobby, loudly tuned to a Jerry Springer rerun.
Jackson shook his head. "Fine," he replied, handing the young man $100.00 in cash.
"I'll need your driver's license", said the distracted young man, beginning to make change.
Jackson knew he needed to stay anonymous. "How about you keep the change and we skip the driver's license."
A small smile spread across the young worker's face. "Welcome to the Sea Breeze, Mr. Smith" he said, sliding a small packet containing two electronic key cards across the wooden counter.
Jackson muttered a subdued "thanks" before stepping away from front desk. His room number was printed hurriedly on the side of the envelope which contained his key cards. Room 414.
His tired feet covered the distance between the front desk and his room on autopilot. Jackson was emotionally and physically exhausted. His hands worked of their own volition as he swiped the key card to his shabby motel room.
Jackson stepped through the door and into the dark room. He was lucky to make it to the queen size bed before falling down face first on the dirty green bedspread, the stranger's gun poking uncomfortably in his side as he slept.
For the first time in years, Jackson didn't dream of Kabul. Although when he awoke, he would wish that he had. The dreams and images which cascaded through Jackson's unconscious mind were much more painful than the familiar trauma of his combat experiences.
As he slept, nightmares taunted Jackson.
His mind replayed flashbacks of his once happy married life along with scenes from his painful divorce. His mind tortured him as he recalled the lilting sound of his daughter Clementine's laughter. In Jackson's nightmares, the dark haired man in the pin-stripe suit lingered in the background; his hands dripping red with the blood of Leigh and Clementine.
Jackson awoke to the sound of screaming. It took several seconds before he realized that the cries of anguish were originating from his own lungs.
He found himself sitting bolt upright on the threadbare bedspread. The plain white t-shirt that he wore beneath his leather motorcycle jacket was still soaked with sweat.
Jackson glanced at the alarm clock. It was 4:57 PM. Time for the evening news.
Jackson reached to the side of the bed and retrieved the remote control. He pressed the small red button on the top left of the plastic device, and the small television switched on immediately. Jackson turned to FOX 43, the local FOX affiliate.
As the lead in music faded away and the news camera panned in on the handsome, brown haired newscaster and his pretty young co-anchor, Jackson's breath stood still. "I'm Mark Howard with Amber Bright" said the male newsman, "and this is FOX 43 news at five."
"Our lead story tonight, a fire at the local Carmike Chemical Storage and Distribution Facility has shut down no less than 10 miles of Interstate 664 over concerns of chemical contamination. The fire began yesterday evening, and reports are that the installed fire suppression system did not work as designed, a failure that caused a massive explosion when the fire reached the volatile chemicals stored in the facility. The initial cause of the blaze is still unknown and a 10 mile stretch of the Hampton Roads Beltway is expected to remain closed for the rest of the day."
The pretty female co-anchor continued for her counterpart, "We have reports from residents as far as 10 miles away who saw the fireball and heard the explosion when the fire broke out. At least one man, a nighttime security guard, is presumed dead."
The male anchor began anew, "Authorities are advising that residents who live downwind of the chemical facility remain indoors as much as possible and use their air conditioning until environmental tests of the ambient air can be conducted in the area."
Jackson's mind struggled to put the pieces together. The Carmike facility had burned down. That, he knew. The orderly this morning had said as much when he'd wheeled Jackson to the cab stand outside of the hospital.
The man who presumably killed his family had been in possession of Jackson's paycheck, presumably from the facility itself.
The pieces still didn't fit.
Jackson cursed his injured brain, his frustration getting the best of him momentarily as he stared at the flickering images of the burning warehouse.
He continued to stare at the small television screen. It seems it had been a busy news day in the normally quiet town of Sumner.
Chapter 15:
4:55 PM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
The Sumner Police interrogation room smelled like acidic coffee and stale donuts.
Julie Page would have loved either at this point. She hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the police picked her up at the coffee shop shortly after discovering the body of her coworker, Leigh.
At first, she hadn't believed her ears. Leigh, along with her beautiful young daughter Clementine had been shot to death sometime during the night at their apartment. The police suspected her estranged husband, a former Navy SEAL as the perpetrator.
Julie shifted in her seat uncomfortably, still somewhat in shock as she went over the events of the past few hours in her mind. A tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away as she stared into the two way mirror across from the interview table. She tried to control her breathing as her mind raced.
She was so deep in thought that when the door to the hallway outside opened behind her, revealing a sliver of light that cascaded across the dimly lit room, she hardly noticed.
Office Howe was gracious, but clearly stressed.
He bustled into the room, a manila folder in hand as he sat down heavily in the chair opposite Julie. He pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his now s
weaty brow as he settled his hefty body into the small metal chair opposite Julie's own.
"I'm so sorry we kept you here this long, Ms. Page. As you can understand, murder investigations require us to obtain as much information as we can from anyone associated with the victims or suspects."
"I understand," said Julie, putting a cigarette in her mouth, which Officer Howe lit.
She paused, "I only smoke when I'm stressed." She said, feeling silly as soon as the words crossed her lips.
Jimmy Howe smiled.
"I understand." He picked up the pack of Camel Lights from the table and looked at the young, clearly shaken Ms. Page. "Me too. May I?" he asked simply.
Julie Page returned the smile weakly, nodding.
Jimmy lit the cigarette and looked Julie in her soft brown eyes, which were swollen from the seemingly endless cascade of tears she had shed since early this morning.
"Anything you can tell us could help, Julie." Howe began.
"Anything you can remember about Leigh, or her ex-husband. Were they involved in any kind of dispute?"
Julie looked back at Jimmy, sorrow in her eyes as she responded.
"I'm sorry Officer, but Leigh hadn't even mentioned Jackson in months. Since the divorce, they seemed to get along fine. She had full custody of their daughter, and from what Leigh had told me, Jackson was always on time with the child support and alimony payments, though he had struggled to keep a job ever since he left the Navy."
"You say he had struggled to keep a job," replied Officer Howe, taking a deep drag of the cigarette he held between his index and middle finger. "Is there a reason?"
Julie paused. "Something happened while Jackson was in the Navy. Leigh never went into details with me, but they were a very happy and well adjusted couple for a long time. Then, a few years ago, Jackson left with the teams on another mission to parts unknown."
She took a deep drag of her cigarette.
"He came back, but he and only one other man made it home from that mission alive. Both were injured. Jackson had suffered a traumatic brain injury, and the other man had been wounded several times. Despite their injuries, the military put both of the men under investigation. There had been some kind of security breach. Obviously it was all very quiet, but Jackson was dishonorably discharged shortly after the proceedings. The other man retired, I believe."
Julie shook her head as Jimmy Howe extinguished his cigarette in the small aluminum ashtray which sat on the pitted desk.
"It ruined him," continued Julie, her soft brown eyes and deep auburn hair illuminated lightly in the dimly lit room, "To hear Leigh tell it, he just lost himself somewhere along the way. He was constantly drinking, he became dependent on pain killers, and he couldn't sleep. He would wake up screaming. His daughter became fearful of him. Their relationship just died, along with most of Jackson's team on that mission."
Julie took a final drag from her Camel Light and crushed it in the ashtray.
"So they divorced. Jackson was crushed. Every time Leigh would drop off their daughter, Jackson would have another job. His house was a mess. Finally, she got to the point that she had to renegotiate the custody agreement. There was no way she was going to leave young Clementine with her dad, when he could barely take care of himself."
Officer Howe interrupted. "But you say there was no conflict. I'd think a man being deprived of his daughter could create a lot of animosity."
Julie's lips formed a tight line. "Leigh expected the same. But Jackson complied with the new agreement without a peep. That was several months ago, and Leigh hadn't mentioned her ex-husband in months. I took that to mean everything was going well, and didn't pry."
Her voice cracked. "Obviously, I was wrong."
Tears streamed down Julie's face as she lowered her head, peering intently at the gray ashes that littered the bottom of the metal ashtray on the wooden table of the police interrogation room.
Jimmy placed his bear like paw on the petite young lady's left shoulder and gave her a quick and reassuring squeeze. "Thank you, Julie. I can't tell you how much of a help you've been. I know this has been an extremely difficult day." He paused, "I have your phone number, in case we need any additional information. If you'd like, I'll have one of our officer's give you a ride to work where you can retrieve your vehicle."
Her soft brown eyes met Jimmy's own steely green eyes as she spoke. "Tell me you'll catch him," she stated simply, a slight quiver in her voice.
"We will," said the mountain of a man, determination lacing his words. He repeated under his breath; "We will."
Chapter 16:
5:00 PM- Saturday, September 9th
Sumner, VA
The dull ache in Jackson's mind continued as he sat transfixed.
His eyes followed the flashing light of his television screen, his ears tuned in to the voices of the news anchors as he watched the evening news within his fading, sea foam green appointed motel room.
The former SEAL's mind raced as the follow on to the story of the fire at the Carmike Chemical storage facility began.
"In other news," recited the pretty blonde co-anchor, "A double murder at the Marywood Apartments in Sumner late last night has neighbors shocked and fearful."
Jackson stared at the television.
Images of his ex-wife and daughter flashed across the screen as Jackson's eyes blurred with tears, his hands beginning to shake as his heart sank.
"The 32 year old mother and her 11 year old daughter were shot to death last night. Details are still forthcoming at this time; however, local police have identified the woman's ex-husband as a person of interest in the murders."
Jackson's own face flashed across the television screen as the male newscaster picked up the narrative.
"Mr. Jackson Pike is wanted for questioning in conjunction with the murders that took place last night at the Marywood Apartment Complex. If you know of Mr. Pike's whereabouts, please call our local Crime Stoppers hotline..."
That was the last Jackson would hear of the newscast for now, his mind beginning to race.
He stood up. He did his best thinking on his feet, possibly another consequence of years of physically rigorous combat training. He began to pace around his shabby hotel room but only got about two steps before he was drawn back into the newscast.
His famously selective hearing picked up the broadcast in mid sentence as many of his questions were about to be answered.
"In other news," read the seemingly disinterested lead anchor, "Two people were killed today in a car accident on Willow Lake Road. The two have been identified as Susan Winters and Mohammed Fatal, both employees of Carmike Industries' secretive Special Security Group in Norfolk. They were killed this afternoon in a single car accident when Mrs. Winters apparently lost control of her vehicle and veered off of the narrow and winding Willow Lake Road in rural Hampton Roads."
The images which flashed across the screen next would answer as many questions for Jackson as they would create.
Jackson couldn't imagine that he ever could have forgotten the pretty blonde face that stared back at him from the glowing screen of his diminutive motel TV. She was identified by the lead news anchor as "Susan Winters, a high level executive within Carmike Industries' notorious Special Security Group or SSG."
The sight of the woman whom he had witnessed murdered the previous evening brought a cascade of memories back to Jackson. As the televised images flashed across the screen, many of the missing pieces began to fall into place in Jackson's injured brain.
The camera angle panned over the wrecked black sports car. The Mercedes sports car sat mangled in the woods off of Willow Lake Road.
Jackson knew that car. It was the same sports car that had tried to run his motorcycle off the road the previous afternoon. Of that, he was sure.
As the report continued, Jackson's breathing quickened. The man whom the lead anchor had identified as Mohammed Fatal was none other than the intruder that Jackson had killed in his home earlier in the d
ay.
He was also the same man who had murdered the woman the press had just identified as Susan Winters.
How the dark skinned murderer had made it into the woman's car and been mistaken for an accident victim, Jackson wasn't sure.
As the pieces began to come together, Jackson remained lost as to the why of it all. Despite the new information, things still didn't make sense.
"Mother fucker," said Jackson, cursing the murderer and himself. If Jackson hadn't been fired, he would never have been there to witness the woman's murder.
Without thinking, he pulled the small orange pill bottle from his leather motorcycle jacket. He unscrewed the lid, glancing in the mirror as he stared at the soggy pills within the small orange Vicodin bottle.
He muttered under his breath. "No."
Jackson threw the bottle of pills against the mirror as hard as possible, causing a small white shower of soggy narcotics to fall over the hotel room's simple wooden furnishings and faded light green shag carpeting.
Jackson stared at the small white pills lying on the floor.
He sat heavily on the bedspread and held his head in his calloused hands as tears appeared in his eyes. His hands made fists on the faded linen bedspread as he pounded the saggy mattress repeatedly.
He would need all of his faculties if he was going to piece together the chain of events that had led to his family's murder.
Jackson lay back on the mattress, the television still chattering in the background as he went over what he knew about the preceding day.
The murderer must have tracked him by the paycheck that he had dropped when he ran from the Carmike Chemical warehouse, thought Jackson, his memories still emerging piecemeal from his injured brain.
That would explain why Fatal had been led directly to Jackson's ex-wife and daughter.
Jackson shuddered as he lay back on the bedspread and stared at the dirty ceiling of the motel room.
The stranger had obviously been able to get Jackson's address from Leigh and Clementine. Tears blurred his eyes as he imagined the tactics the murderer had used to extract Jackson's address from Leigh.
Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) Page 6