by Cameron Bane
After swearing me to secrecy, he told me the person who’d passed that bad info on to my unit had been connected. Highly connected. As in a long-term, United States senator’s grandson connected. What compounded the problem was months earlier the grandson had sold out to al Qaeda for a goodly sum of non-traceable cash, and his intelligence “error” was really nothing more than a full-tilt, remote-controlled, balls-to-the-wall mass assassination.
But as the flack danced around the edges of it, revelation of the threat finally dawned. Regardless of his flag-filled “think of your country,” patriotic spin, the truth of the thing was simpler. In fine and in sum I was being blackmailed: I could take a medical retirement with a generous, as in the high five figures, monthly stipend.
Or else.
Looking back, had I really expected them to kill me? I don’t know; I’d heard stories of CIA-sponsored “accidents,” things no one could explain. All the publicity the operation had gotten would seem to preclude a personal attack, but you never know.
So not being an idiot, I accepted the deal.
But I turned the tables. After Ferguson left I made some calls to some friends, and a month later, when he visited again (checking up, really), I had some jarring news for him.
I told him I was fully aware that sometimes Uncle Sammy forgets his promises, so to keep things on a level playing field I’d made full documentation of everything, with verbal testimony, hard copies, and CDs of the same, safely squirreled away in several sites around the world against the day anything untoward happened to me.
I went on to say if a week ever passes without me checking in with the people who hold that proof, then the lid comes off, the lights come on, and the shit hits the fan. Then no doubt Mr. Ferguson and his bosses will be invited for a command performance before the Senate Armed Services subcommittee to explain exactly what they’d pulled.
That said, I awarded him a sunny smile. He opened his mouth, and closed it. Then shooting me a hard look, he stalked out. On reflection, I suppose what I did makes me a jerk.
But I sleep well.
And it gets better. Rather than spending the rest of my days slurping mai tais with beautiful brown-skinned women on a Costa Rican beach, I now assuage my guilt by unofficially taking on hopeless tasks that just skirt the edge of the law.
For free.
After leaving the gym I headed home, and fifteen minutes later found me pulling my car, a 1965 candy-apple red Mustang, into an open spot in my apartment house, concrete parking lot. Still stiff and sore from the attack, I’d just slid out cautiously, black field bag in hand, when I heard a young boy’s high, familiar voice calling out to me. “Hey, Mr. Brenner! Hey, coach!”
Turning around and looking across the lot, I smiled. It was Mark Brantley, one of the ten-year olds whose football team I coach for the Butler County urban league. He was pedaling his ancient, faded red Schwinn bike toward me, coming so fast his legs were almost a blur. A second later the boy skidded to a halt, his brow knitted in concentration, leaving twin foot-long trails of stinky rubber from his already thin tires.
“All right, Mark! Pretty slick.” Shutting the car door with a solid thunk, I turned to face him and gave him a high-five. “Looks like you got that move down.”
“You like that, huh?” Beneath his thick thatch of yellow hair, his corn-fed, freckled face now beamed. Ever since he told me he’d seen a kid on some TV show do that stunt, he’d been practicing. The last two times he’d taken a nasty fall, but he was game.
I removed my sunglasses, hanging them from my red tee shirt by an earpiece. “You think you’re ready for the big screen yet?”
“Pretty soon now.” His nod was absolutely serious. And then, as kids will do, he completely changed the subject. “Have you seen Billy?”
“Billy Cahill?” Billy and Mark were best friends, sticking to one another like rare-earth magnets. “I think I saw him down the street at the corner store a few minutes ago.”
Mark nodded. “Yeah, he’s supposed to be gettin’ us some red licorice whips. But I think either he got lost, or he’s readin’ that new Blue Menace comic.”
Licorice. The most foul candy known to man. “Now then, what can I do you for?” Locking the car and pocketing my keys, I turned and started heading around to the front of the old building, where the entrance was, knowing he’d follow. “And this being Monday, how come you’re not in school?” I matched Mark’s stride as he walked his bike alongside. The traffic on this narrow side street was light this time of day.
“In service day,” he explained. “All us kids got off.”
“I used to love in service days.”
He watched the spokes of his front wheel as we walked. The cardboard, New York Giants trading card he’d inserted there chattered like a machine gun. “I was wonderin’ when we’re gonna run those new plays you were talkin’ about.”
“I was thinking about introducing those at practice next week. The city has that open area at Park and B streets reserved for us.”
He pulled a face. “I wish we could run them at the school field.”
“The high school team gets first dibs on that, Mark. You know that.”
He pulled a face. “Yeah, and it sucks.”
I couldn’t argue with him. Many times they don’t let us use the field even when it’s available, but I don’t tell the kids that. By then we’d reached the front sidewalk. “Remind the guys, Sunday, three o’clock. And be on time.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial mutter. “I’ve got a quarterback sneak play up my sleeve we used on my college team. It’ll catch those Highland momma’s boys flatfooted next Saturday.”
“Yeah!” Excitement filled his blue eyes, and Mark flashed a grin from ear to ear as he climbed on his bike. “Well, see ya, coach!” A moment later he and his machine were fading away fast down the street, his legs pumping like pistons.
Once inside the building I climbed the stairwell to the second floor, and down the hall to 3-B, my place, to grab a shave. Slipping the key into the lock, I wrestled with it a moment before the tumblers clicked. As I did I heard the most ungodly screeching erupt from inside the room, followed by high-pitched alien sounds of a loud wolf whistle, ending with, “Hey, baby! Hot stuff!”
Opening the door I found the source of all that noise: Smedley, my eight-year-old, green-tailed, one-eyed parrot. He’s a good pet, relatively clean, even-tempered, and he takes peanuts from my hand without biting. His only fault is his upbringing.
Being reared by his original owner, a Cincinnati saloon keeper who served a twenty-year hitch in the Navy, may have its good points, but a clean vocabulary isn’t one of them. As a kid I’d always thought it would be a hoot to have a parrot that could curse with the best of them, but Smedley’s incessant filthy mouth and raucous comments had embarrassed me more than once. It wouldn’t be so bad if what he spouts has anything to do with the moment at hand. It doesn’t, of course. They came up with the word “birdbrain” for a reason.
“Have you been good today?” I asked him. He simply cocked his head in reply, showing me the black cotton eye patch I’ve slapped on him. Don’t snicker. I wasn’t trying for a pirate look (much); it’s just that the injury from another bird that took his eye before I got him was so stinking ugly.
Smedley’s vet is the one who made the suggestion of keeping the socket covered, for appearances sake if for nothing else. He’d said that after a while he’d leave it alone. He has. The fact he ended up looking like Long John Silver’s boon companion is something we’ve both had to deal with. If I could just get him to sing buccaneer ditties, we’d be golden. I have drawn the line at sawing off his leg, though.
After lathering my face with Gillette’s best and waiting while warming up the safety razor under hot water, I scrutinized myself objectively in the bathroom mirror. It’s never a good experience. My late wife Megan had always said I was “ruggedly handsome,” with a “boyish charm.” But as the saying goes, love is blind.
The intense, weather
ed visage of the blue-eyed gent staring back looked quite a bit worse for wear these days, but that was to be expected. Battle and grief can scar a man in many ways, and life’s taken a heavy toll on me.
The eyes reflected lasting grief mingled with hardship, eyes that had seen too much, but still somehow managed to retain a sense of humor and cussed stubbornness. Many times I’m amazed there’s anything left of the curious boy who hunted and fished around the towering forests of rural West Virginia.
Regardless of my injuries my muscle tone remains good, and since I try to get in a run each day, my legs have kept their strength. In spite of the injuries to my spine my six-foot-three frame still stands straight, and my medium length, wavy, dark brown hair only holds a few gray ones. Plus I’ve been favored with straight white teeth, and so far have somehow managed to keep them all.
Strolling into my bedroom I hung the wet towel on the back of the door and began rooting around in my walk-in closet for something clean; like most men I know, I hate doing laundry. Before pulling on black Levis and short sleeve, navy and gold striped tee shirt, for a moment I regarded the tats on each of my deltoids. They’re still as bright and clean as the day I’d gotten them, more than twelve years ago.
That was no surprise: the man who’d put them there is an artist. His parlor is located just outside Fort Campbell’s gates, and over the years he’s done similar work for countless other members of the 101st Airborne Rangers, my outfit. Some of the soldiers in my particular group, the 2nd of the 502nd Infantry, HHC Company, had even gone so far as to have our official nickname, “Headhunters,” inscribed on their chests.
I didn’t really want that, so I just chose our other unit-approved emblems: on my upper right arm I had him put a picture of a nasty-looking, spread-out eagle talon, and below it a gold banner reading “Strike.” On my left shoulder he placed a profile of an eagle’s head with “Airborne” inscribed above it, and “de oppresso liber,” our unit’s motto, underneath.
To free the oppressed.
Figuring I still had some miles left on the chassis, I headed over to my office.
Since leaving the service I’d started my own industrial security systems training company, and business has been good, as people steal things and screw one another with disheartening regularity.
As I came in my phone was ringing. I picked it up. My cable bill was due, and I just can’t get along without the Animal Planet channel. Those chimps slay me. “Good afternoon.”
“Mr. Brenner?”
The deep voice sounded familiar. “Speaking.”
“Jacob Cahill. I hope you remember me. You coach my son Billy on your football team.”
“Of course I remember you, Mr. Cahill. How can I help you?”
“Something’s … happened.” He paused, and I heard him swallow. “To my child.”
My blood instantly flashed cold. “You mean Billy?”
“No. Not Billy.” I heard another odd sound over the receiver, like a choke. Or a sob. “Can we meet? Please?”
“All right,” I told Cahill. “Why don’t you stop by my office?”
“I will.”
I gave him the directions, and made the appointment for within the hour. After hanging up I went out to get a sandwich at the little Art Deco diner up the street, figuring to bring my dessert back with me. When I returned I found him already standing in the hall outside my office door, waiting.
I recalled the man, but we’d never really spoken at length. He was in his early forties, tall, trim, and well dressed, with short salt and pepper hair crowning a narrow face. Gold, wire-frame glasses framed his deep-set brown eyes, eyes holding a faint sheen of desperation.
I shifted the white Styrofoam box containing a piece of chocolate cream pie to my left hand, offering my right. “Mr. Cahill. Sorry to have kept you.”
His reply was friendly enough as he stretched out his hand, but the words seemed forced. “No problem.”
We shook, my grip firm but brief. Fishing out my keys, I opened the heavy wooden door to my stark, gray and white linoleum-floored office. “Come on in.”
“Thanks.”
I walked around to the far side of my battered, old walnut desk and indicated the visitor’s chair in front of it with a tick of my head. “Have a seat, if you’d like. Or stand. Whatever suits. I’m not big on formalities.”
“Okay.” Gingerly the man lowered himself into the old Shaker chair I’d picked up for a song at Goodwill. He was acting as if he was afraid it would break under his weight, but he’d be all right. I’d tried the chair myself when I’d bought it, and if it could hold my one hundred and seventy-five pounds, it would take his one thirty-five without strain.
Seating myself, I hooked a thumb toward my coffee maker perched on the small, scarred cherry table next to the desk. Next to it sits a small, glazed, painted porcelain French mantle clock with a sweet Westminster chime. It was a wedding gift for us from my late wife’s parents. Truth be told it’s a bit delicate for my taste, but she loved it. And I loved her.
The rich aroma of the Colombian brew saturated the air. Picking up the pot and pouring myself a cup I asked, “Would you like some? It’s fresh, and I made plenty.”
“No thank you.”
Cahill still seemed ill at ease, and I watched him surreptitiously while I put the dessert box on my desk.
This is always an interesting time, observing how a prospective client takes in my office. They need to trust me implicitly, and not ask a lot of questions or be overly concerned with appearances. The training I’ve received over the years has taught me how to read subtle eye signals and body language, and I’ve discovered something fascinating: how a person views my workplace very often determines how well we’re going to get along. It’s not a hard and fast rule, but it works more often than not.
Roughly I’ve placed them into three categories: say-nothings, nodders, and thin-lips.
Say-nothings is self-explanatory. These types could care less whether we’re meeting in a dark-leather-and-plush-carpeted suite on the twentieth floor of a luxury high-rise, or a local bar. They’re all business and my kind of folks.
Nodders are a bit harder to read. You aren’t sure if they’re thinking, “Unpretentious office. The fellow that works here must be a straight shooter; surely he can help me get my pilferage problems solved,” or “Look at this place. I should have brought along a flea bomb.” You simply have to let them talk for a while to see which way they’re leaning.
And then we come to the thin-lips; you know the type. They enter a room and start staring around, gauging, measuring. It’s obvious they’re not happy with what they’re seeing, and then, count on it, like clockwork the eyebrows lower and the shoulders tighten and the lips … grow thin. Airs and appearances are all-important to these people, and I know from the start we aren’t going to get along.
It’s at this point I usually say something to discourage them from wanting to do business with me, something on the order of, “I trust I can do you some good, Mr. Jones. You’re my first client since I’ve gotten out of prison.” A swirl of wind and they’re gone. Using this arrangement is the reason why I haven’t dressed the place up more. It seems to work fine as my very own people barometer.
But Jacob Cahill’s reaction was unique. As he began looking around, I saw him giving the area the fish eye. His mouth grew taut.
Here it comes. I was about to give him a variation on the line about prison when he sighed, and smiled weakly. “Mr. Brenner, your place isn’t quite what I expected. But that’s irrelevant. You see, I’ve heard about … your other job.”
I kept my face blank. “Is that right.”
“I believe I can trust you.”
Yes you can, I started to say. But before I could … the oddest thing happened. I can’t explain it, but the air around me abruptly seemed to crystallize, the atmosphere growing still and dead. Hard after it a weird fluttering, almost like the wings of a moth, began vibrating around the walls of my heart, and a sudden
icy dread gripped me, horn to hoof.
And didn’t let go.
Like the sulphorous, blackstrap molasses I remembered enduring as a kid, a dark conviction slowly started pouring into me, the grim assurance that this man with the sad eyes was bringing something huge into my life, something more than a promise to be kept or a problem to be solved. A lot more.
Something terrible.
I suddenly knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that whatever Jacob Cahill was about to involve me in was going to escalate uncontrolled into a nightmare neither of us could have ever conceived, and it would change my life forever. And I had no choice in the matter, none at all. Events had been put into motion that could no more be changed than I could alter the rotation of the earth.
My Granny used to say that some mountain-bred people have “farsight” to one degree or another. I never really understood the term; as I kid I thought maybe it had something to do with Indians. Which was pretty cool.
But one day she told me farsight meant foreknowledge. As far back as anyone could remember, she said, every now and then mountain people simply know beforehand what’s going to happen, before it happens. Some things have no rational explanation but exist just the same.
By way of illustration, Granny related a story about her sister Ferdie’s youngest son, Uncle Jimmie Ray, and what happened to him as a little boy of eight. While at a friend’s Saturday afternoon birthday party, Jimmie Ray had grown inexplicably morose. Nothing could console him. The cake went bitter in his mouth, he said, and the milk tasted sour. An awful wrenching sadness had seized him. Somehow he knew it was a sorrow that couldn’t be turned but had to be faced. He went home sobbing, and from there straight to bed.
It was the very next day that a Western Union man on a motorcycle wheeled into the farmyard, where the party had been held, bearing an official notice in his battered leather satchel telling the old man there that a week earlier his oldest boy had been killed in a fierce battle on some faraway island called Iwo Jima.