by Ponzo, Gary
“-and maybe you’ll get another scholarship.”
“Big maybe. And another year of my life wasted.”
“Beth-”
“And you.” She looks close at his face. “You might get a ticket out of here.” Peter does his best to keep his face clear, but she knows him too well.
“You…already did?”
He knows that lying would be the worst thing to do, but he’s still tempted.
“Where?”
Peter sees the sadness, the self-pity leave Beth’s face. It’s replaced by something else. Something far more dangerous and potentially damaging.
Fear.
He takes a deep breath. “Marquette.”
“Milwaukee,” Beth says. Her voice sounds lost, like a little girl talking to herself. She snaps out of it and hugs him. “Congratulations. Full scholarship?”
He nods. Despite the situation, he can feel the pride in his belly. He made it out of Lake Orion. He worked hard, but he was given the height along with the speed. As hard as he tries to quench it, he feels proud of the fact that he made the most out of what he was given. Beth worked hard, too. Poor Beth, he thinks.
“Do you think we can…” she falters, blushing.
He takes her hands in his. “I think we can make it work,” he says. “If that was what you were going to ask.”
She presses him to her.
The worst thing to do is lie, he thinks, but sometimes, it’s necessary.
He puts his arms around Beth and hugs her back.
Twenty-Eight
Deerfield High gymnasium. Pep band. Cheerleaders. The smell of popcorn and teen spirit.
Beth sits two rows behind her team, her left leg stuck out straight in front of her on the bleacher. When she first came to the gym the crowd surrounded her, clapped her on the back, wished her encouragement. Her response was to tell them to encourage her teammates.
They had a game to win.
Now, Beth watches her team. She thinks they look strong and confident, at least they did during the pre-game warm up drills.
The other team, Deerfield North, looks awfully strong. They look big, too. Their purple and yellow colors remind Beth of the Los Angeles Lakers. Two girls, sisters, both of them listed at 6’4” and they move okay, too. Beth scopes out the opponent’s point guard. Small and thin, but lightning quick with a sweet stroke.
I would’ve eaten her alive, Beth thinks. She flushes at the bravado. She never bragged, never boasted. But suddenly, it’s eating her up that she can’t be out there. She feels like a parent who watches her child in a fight but can’t step in, needing the child to learn how to fight on his own. But no, that’s not fair. Her team’s not a child without her. Wishful thinking, Beth.
Maybe I need to think that.
Beth is brought out of her contemplation by the buzzer. It’s tip off, and the game starts quickly, or at least the other team does. Their passes are sharp and crisp. Their footwork is quick and precise. They take good shots and they make them.
Lake Orion crumples before Beth’s eyes.
Before Beth’s coach can call a time out, it’s 10-0.
Beth has never seen her team in such a daze. They’re out of sync. Their passes are tentative. They’re lagging on defense. Their shots are hesitant. They’re playing without an ounce of confidence.
In the huddle, Beth hears her coach lay into her teammates. Trying to fire them up. But Beth knows it’s not going to help.
By the end of the first half, the score is 38-18.
Deerfield North heads into the locker room with their heads high, smiles on their faces. Lake Orion walks slowly from the court, heads hanging. Silent.
In the locker room, Beth speaks to several of the players, offers advice, encouragement. She tries to help the coach rally the troops, but you can’t instill confidence. Beth has little hope for a turnaround in the second half. She seeks out her replacement, who is struggling, seven turnovers in the first half, not all of them her fault.
Lake Orion takes the court and finds out that the worst is yet to come. Deerfield turns it up a notch and by the end of the third quarter, Lake Orion is down 55 to 27. By the fourth, it’s a foregone conclusion. With five minutes left, Deerfield puts in their second string. Lake Orion does the same thing, and by the end, everyone but the Deerfield players are merely looking for the slaughter to end.
When the final buzzer sounds, the numbers on the scoreboard are pure humiliation for Lake Orion.
Beth shakes hands with the other team. They are happy, confident, and moving on to the next round of the tournament. She stands on her crutches and with her giant knee brace accepts well-wishes from them.
When the last of Deerfield’s players shakes her hand, Beth turns and looks at the crowd. Her last game in a sense. The faces look familiar to her. Parents of fellow teammates, a few teachers, a bunch of students.
She’s just about ready to head for the locker room when her eye is drawn to one face in particular. A face she hadn’t noticed.
The scout from Northern Illinois.
And the girl she’s with.
The Tank.
Her scholarship.
At least now Beth knows where it’s gone.
She turns toward the locker room, her leg feeling heavy and cumbersome. Slowing her down. And suddenly, she knows exactly what it feels like.
A ball and chain.
Twenty-Nine
Samuel doesn’t flinch under the gaze of the Navy’s Internal Affairs officer, a man named Captain Purgitt. The man is tall and lanky, with a round face and an underbite. Samuel isn’t intimidated.
“Just following procedure here,” Purgitt says as he consults a list. “Ackerman?”
“Yes sir.”
“So it says here that you were working out at the time of Chief Petty Officer Wilkins’ death?”
Samuel can barely contain his glee. He feels good. Confident. A deep blossom of self-assuredness is growing like an atomic mushroom cloud, at its base, the wonderfully executed Nevens murder. A masterpiece of high-quality strategic planning followed by fearless execution. In short, he is goddamn happy with himself. “Yes sir. My sixty minutes on the bike. I do it every day when I can. Gotta keep in shape, know what I mean?”
“Sure do, son, sure do.”
Samuel knows Purgitt probably hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since he attended his teenage son’s last basketball game. He pauses as if the thought just came to him. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
Samuel makes his expression wide and open. The very picture of boyish innocence. “I heard, what happened to Petty Officer Wilkins? That it was an accident. That’s what the guys were saying. Did someone…do this to my CO?” Samuel hopes he isn’t over playing it. He’s got to keep his new-found confidence in check as much as he can - if he can.
The Internal Affairs officer shakes his head. “No, no. We’re simply double-checking the whereabouts of his crew, of any one he may have had - differences - with.”
“If I may ask, sir. Why are you talking to me? We got along fine.”
“Yes, well…”
Samuel can see he’s making Purgitt uncomfortable. Samuel wants to laugh. He knows that Wilkins had a file on him, that he probably had written down his negative comments. The fucker. He won’t be writing any of those anymore. His last paperwork will be his obituary, over which he’ll have no power.
“His preliminary review of your performance in ordnance - even though you’d just gotten started really - noted a need for…improvement.”
Samuel adopted a hangdog expression. The good sailor hurt that his best just wasn’t good enough. He held it for several seconds, then let a glint return to his eye, the kind that said goddamn he’d just try harder then. These officious pricks ate it up.
Purgitt proved to be no exception. “Nothing to worry about sailor. Your alibi checked out perfectly. You’re doing a good job and things are going to be back to normal in no time. Pretty soon you’ll be loadin’ bombs faster th
an the flyboys can drop ‘em.”
“Glad to hear it, sir,” Samuel says and lets a carefully executed smile beam across his face. “I’ll do everything I can to make that happen.”
“I know you will. I got an eye for these things.”
Thirty
The overworked and understaffed San Diego Police department begins the Larry Nevens murder investigation with the steadfast routine they’ve begun all murder investigations with since the Homicide Division was officially created back in 1956. The homicide chief checks the “board” and sees what team is up. Two detectives, Karl Markey and Florence Lavin are assigned the case via a cell phone call from Giancarlo that alerts them to the location of an unidentified body. The body was discovered in the early morning hours of Tuesday by an elderly man and woman who, on their regular walk, happened upon the remains.
The investigators arrive at the beach and examine the body of Larry Nevens.
Forensic work begins immediately and by the third full day of their investigation the SDPD homicide detectives are awash in information: Nevens was seen leaving a bar called the Outer Bank with one Rhonda McFarland the night of the murder. Miss McFarland is still missing. No one remembers seeing Nevens or the woman after they left the bar together. Nevens’ truck was found in the parking lot near the murder scene.
They have learned that the woman was a secretary at an accounting firm. Single, never married. An outgoing, sociable woman with a considerable appetite for men. A good-time girl with a heart of gold and few qualms about one-night stands.
Nevens was a BUD/S instructor. He had a reputation for pushing weak recruits hard. The DNA tests come back on the semen found on the scene: there are two types: one is Nevens’. The other is unknown.
Markey and Lavin seek cooperation from the Navy and get it. They speak to colleagues, friends, any one having contact with Nevens. They request blood samples from all of the recent BUD/S recruits. Since all recruits must submit a blood sample once a year as part of a Navy physical, all recruits have blood samples on file. The samples are forwarded to the SDPD and tests are run.
There are no matches.
They question Nevens’ colleagues in the BUD/S program but can find no evidence of ill will. They also find no evidence of recruits with a grudge against Nevens. They learn that most who drop out of the BUD/S program feel they are better for the experience.
Because of the lack of DNA matches, the detectives focus on Nevens’ personal life. They learn he is divorced, a hard-drinker, and a womanizer. They interview friends and family members, but can establish no credible suspects. At a dead end, the team decides to wait for new information or for the body of Rhonda McFarland to show.
In the meantime, Homicide Chief Giancarlo has assigned the team two more homicide cases and a week after being initially assigned the case, the Larry Nevens file is quickly shuttled to the bottom of their in baskets.
Thirty-One
Something was bubbling at the back of Commander Todd Lowry’s mind. It was an odd sensation, although not entirely unfamiliar. Kind of like being at the grocery store with three items in your basket when you know there were four things you needed. It was just bothering him. He hated loose ends. Was definitely not a loose end kind of guy. Some called it anal-retentive. He called it having your act together.
It was the end of a very bad week.
As he looked through the report again on the death of Wilkins. It was bad. Accidents happened, but rarely did they result in someone’s death. And never someone under his command.
The gruesome and horrifying aspect of Wilkins’ death aside, Lowry focuses on how it will affect his career. A bit clinical, yes, he supposes it is. But the military doesn’t just wage wars on battlefields. The corporate aspect of the Navy can be just as bloody. You kick ass and take names. You think of yourself first. That’s how you get ahead. That’s how you’re successful.
Lowry looks again at the report. A chain slipped here, a safety lever wasn’t thrown there and bam! you’ve got a dead chief petty officer. Lowry sets aside the report and inspects the last official papers Wilkins had completed. His weekly log, preparations for a speech he was going to give on the future efficiency prospects of Naval ordnance, several seaman assessment reports. One of the reports catches his eye for two reasons: a) it’s got a lot of below average check marks and b) it’s the name of the newest recruit.
Ackerman, Samuel F.
Lowry skims the report. He’s about to fold the report up and put it away when it hits him - the thing he couldn’t remember, that hung out on the fringe of his consciousness.
Ackerman.
Lowry fishes through the papers on his desk and comes up with the latest edition of All Hands. He flips through the pages, his heart beating fast, his mouth dry, the gears in his mind churning and grinding with a grating precision. He skims and finds it. Larry Nevens. BUD/S instructor. Murdered.
Lowry checks the date.
He sits back in his chair, short of breath.
Ackerman was in the BUD/S program but didn’t make it. Nevens was most likely one of his instructors.
Lowry checks the date again, then flips to his personal calendar and pinpoints the day he met with Ackerman.
It fits.
But could it have really happened? Did Ackerman kill his BUD/S instructors, get transferred here to ordnance and then, facing a poor initial assessment, orchestrate the death of his supervisor, Chief Petty Officer Wilkins, for…what?
Lowry shakes his head. It’s crazy. No way. The kid would have to be totally nuts, for one thing. And he, Lowry, would have to be nuts to suggest the whole freaking scenario to someone. And even if he went ahead with it, who would that be? One of the JAGs?
What evidence does he have? What motivation will he point to? Is he, Lowry, really prepared to suggest a homicidal maniac is in their midst?
Lowry thinks of his career. Twenty-five years of solid duty he’s contributed to the Navy. Does he really want to risk it all on some half-cocked theory?
CYA, Steve. Cover your big ol’ hairy fucking ass.
How to do nothing but if it should turn out that Ackerman had something to do with the deaths, be able to point to some action taken and be able to say, “I did my part.”
He thinks for a moment and then it comes to him: He’ll make an official entry in his journal, dated, stating his suspicions. He’ll send an e-mail to the JAG knowing full well it will never get read; it’s called passing the buck. It’ll never happen, but if it does, he’ll be able to say, “I passed my suspicions on to the right people - THEY were the ones who didn’t handle it.”
And now, for the most important part of the plan.
Get rid of fucking Samuel F. Ackerman.
Thirty-Two
In the late afternoon, Florida’s thunderclouds act like schoolyard bullies: they threaten often, but rarely follow through.
Above the open sea near the Pensacola Naval base, a bank of dull orange spreads out beneath the gray clouds, and a stiff breeze turns the bay next to the Navy yard into rough chop. On the far horizon, a few fishing boats are scattered along a deep shelf. Crab traps, marked by a single white spherical buoy, follow the shoreline.
Under the fading intensity of the afternoon sun, Samuel is on his ninety-seventh pull-up and feeling good. Shaky. Exhausted. His body screaming in agony. But good.
He’s never done one hundred pull-ups in a row. The highest he’s ever gotten is ninety. Sweat is streaming from his face and his arms are quivering, but he feels strong. He tightens his muscles and raises himself, his triceps hot and angry, his hands in agony. He lifts his chin over the bar -ninety-eight - and drops back down, his feet locked behind him.
He hangs his head, resting.
A motorboat speeds by on the bay, its hull pounding into the waves with hollow booms. An egret pokes its beak into the shallow water looking for mullet.
Samuel lifts his head up and looks at the bar just as he hears footsteps approaching on the sidewalk behind him. Hi
s shoulders constrict, his abs tighten and he lifts himself, slowly but powerfully. His chin is inches from the bar when a voice calls out to him.
“Ackerman?”
Samuel thrusts his chin forward but it isn’t quite over the bar and he feels a stab of pain as the skin breaks. His head snaps back and he nearly lets go of the bar, but manages to hold on. Come on! He yells at himself. He pulls and his body slowly rises. The pain in his arms and chest are joined by the throbbing of the cut along his chin. He closes his eyes and heaves, using the pain to help him lunge upward and he clears the bar - ninety-nine! - then slowly eases back down, hanging from the bar as if in sacrifice.
Blood streams from the cut on his chin. The sweat from his face pours down, works its way into the cut and stings like small needles.
Samuel pushes aside the pain, the fatigue, and focuses on the voice. He knows it. Knows to whom it belongs.
Lowry.
“One more,” Samuel says, his voice a ragged gasp. “Sir.”
Samuel begins the pull. His hands are shaking, his triceps are on fire and his entire body screams in pain. His focus - one hundred pull-ups - begins to waver. Why is Lowry here? What does he want? Did the Internal Affairs officer, Purgitt, talk to him?
His head momentarily blanks and his left hand slips from the bar, his right arm screams, his entire body weight pulls at it. No! No! No! Samuel panics, feeling his fingers loosen from the bar.
“Whoa, Nellie,” Lowry says, his voice faintly mocking.
The words register in Samuel’s mind and like a match to gasoline, fill his head with an explosive fury. He thrusts his left hand back up, grabs the bar, and pulls. His body rises, a shuddering Phoenix, and the bar comes into view. One hundred, one hundred, one hundred. The number is a mantra in Samuel’s mind. And then, just like that, he’s over.
He’s over.
One hundred!
Samuel lowers himself back down and drops from the bar. His hands feel like gnarled roots. His arms back and chest are on fire. The rest of his body is one huge ache.