The Walls of Troy

by L. A. Witt

  But he also hated when the PTSD surfaced, forcing him to tip his hand and reveal that he wasn’t as invincible as he wanted the world to believe. Troy was scared and vulnerable, and he wasn’t someone who dealt well with being scared and vulnerable. He didn’t want to be protected. He wanted to be safe. Not guarded, not hidden behind walls—physical ones or those of his own creation. He wanted to stand on his own two feet, face the world head-on and not have to bring along outside protection.

  The fact that someone like that had looked me in the eye and all but begged me to stay with him even if I thought he was crazy? That scared the shit out of me.

  What’s happened to you, Troy?

  And how do I protect you?

  Our history professor wasn’t kidding about making us take some serious notes. Forty minutes into class, all the hand writers were shaking out some writer’s cramp while those using laptops were flexing tired fingers and wrists. By the time we made it to our afternoon biology class, Troy and I were both bleary-eyed and mentally exhausted. Thank God for Red Bull.

  At the end of a tiring but mercifully uneventful day, I dropped Troy off at home, downloaded my weapon, and headed back to my apartment in Norfolk.

  And of course, now that I was alone, my thoughts drifted away from the Industrial Revolution and mitosis to…him. I couldn’t relax. I should’ve been thinking about things like stocking my woefully empty refrigerator and typing up my handwritten notes, and whether or not I had enough gas to make it back to the Dalton house in the morning, or if I should stop tonight.

  But I was lucky I could concentrate on the road, because my thoughts kept going back to Troy. This morning’s conversation had been there in the back of my mind all damned day, buzzing in my ear like a relentless mosquito while I’d tried to focus on my professor’s long, droning lecture about steam engines and the cotton gin.

  “But I need you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Nothing added up.

  Maybe Troy did need a therapist. Maybe he was itching for attention from his father. But I couldn’t convince myself he wasn’t genuinely scared or that he didn’t need protection. Question was, scared of what? And protection from what?

  I needed an outside opinion, because nobody living or working in the Dalton household seemed willing to show many cards. Fortunately, I had a few of my own cards up my sleeve.

  I parked below my shitty little three-story apartment building. I entered the code for the security door, went up to the second floor, and keyed myself into my apartment.

  After I’d tossed my keys on the counter and draped my jacket over a box I hadn’t gotten around to unpacking, I took out my phone. I pulled up my contacts and scrolled to Senior Chief Jason Bowman. Without a second thought, I hit Send.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Senior. It’s MA1 Ayhan.”

  “Iskander! Long time no talk. How’s it going, man?”

  “Not bad, not bad.”

  “How’s the new assignment?”

  “Um, actually that’s why I’m calling. I need to ask you about something I’m working on right now.”

  “Yeah? What’s up? Where are you now, anyway?”

  “Norfolk. I was assigned to guard an admiral’s kid.”

  “Oh dear God.” He groaned. “Who did you piss off?”

  I laughed halfheartedly. “Better than shopping detail.”

  “Hmm. Yeah. Good point. So what’s going on?”

  “Well, my assignment is to accompany him as a plainclothes guard. I’m posing as a student, going to classes with him, shit like that. I’m told he’s been getting harassed for being gay.”

  “Is he?”

  “Maybe? But the school seems pretty LGBT friendly, so I’m not seeing it. I mean, they’ve got all kinds of LGBT groups and events. So, it’s not an outright homophobic environment, you know?”

  “Anything on a smaller level? Even in an environment like that, there could still be a group giving him shit.”

  “That’s what I’ve wondered, but to tell you the truth, I don’t see anything.”

  “You’ve only been there like two days, haven’t you? It might take a little time for something to happen.”

  “Of course.” I flopped down on the couch and put my feet on my piece-of-shit coffee table. “But one of the other MAs on the admiral’s security detail thinks the kid forged the threatening notes. There hasn’t been a single witness to any harassment either.”

  “Interesting…”

  “Yeah.” I paused, drumming my fingers on the armrest. “There’s more to it than that, though. He’s… Man, I swear to God, the kid’s got PTSD.”

  “No shit?” Something shifted on the other end, as if he was sitting up. “What makes you say that?”

  “You know that thousand-yard stare some guys get after they’ve been to combat? When they kind of zone out, but they get tense at the same time?”

  “Like their brain’s gone back someplace they don’t want it to go?” He whistled. “Yeah. I’ve seen that. The kid does it?”

  “Sometimes.” I told him about what had happened at the festival yesterday. “And the other day, someone dropped a book or something in the hallway on campus, and I thought he was going to have heart failure. When he’s not zoning out, he’s always looking around. Not just casually checking out his surroundings, but the way we do in combat.”

  “Ah shit.” Jason blew out a breath. “Something’s going on upstairs, that’s for sure. You know if he’s had some kind of trauma? Besides this harassment no one seems to be able to verify?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I tried to ask him if there’s anything else I should know, but he just shut down and clammed up. He’s done that a few times now.” I rubbed my forehead and sighed. “The minute he thinks I’m questioning the validity of him even having a security guard, he gets really defensive. I’d think he had a guilty conscience and maybe he really didn’t need me if he didn’t damn near break out in a sweat at the same time.”

  “He’s probably just afraid you’re going to figure him out.”

  “No, that’s not the vibe I’m getting from him at all. It’s almost like in the same breath he’s pissed off at me for questioning him and he’s afraid I’ll ditch him. To be honest, the only time he’s really chill is when we’re at his place and he’s got his dog nearby. That dog is glued to his fucking side the second he gets home.”

  Jason chuckled. “You must love that.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “It’s a goddamned Rottweiler the size of a Clydesdale.”

  Jason laughed. “Oh shit.”

  “The thing is, though, the kid’s a different person altogether when he’s around the dog. I mean, I guess I would be too if dogs didn’t fucking terrify me. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out if anyone fucks with him at home, that dog will tear them to ribbons before they get near him. And I think Troy knows that, and he feels safer. Which is why my gut tells me this is more than just homophobic harassment. I think… Maybe I’m speculating based on nothing, but my gut tells me someone has it out for him specifically. And I get the feeling that either their intention or his perception is something violent.”

  Jason whistled. “Oh man. That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not.” I tilted my head back and stared at the ceiling. “But he won’t show his hand, and nobody else seems overly concerned.” I pressed my thumb and forefinger into the bridge of my nose. “What would you do?”

  “Same thing you’re doing. Keep your eyes open, don’t let the kid out of your sight when you’re on duty, and be ready for anything.”

  “How much digging do I do, though?”

  “Well.” Jason fell quiet for a long moment. “You’ll have to trust your gut, kid. If something doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t. You’ve got good instincts. You always have.
Your best bet in this case is to follow them.”

  I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. “Well, my instincts told me to call you, so…”

  “I wish I could give you some more concrete answers. Honestly, I don’t know what to make of this either.” He paused. “Thing is, if someone has it out for him, why would he keep that a secret? I mean, if he knows who it is, I can’t see why he’d withhold that from you.”

  “Depends on how afraid he is. In his mind, if he names the individual and they aren’t immediately put under lock and key, that might just be pissing on the hornet’s nest.”

  “You think it might be a domestic violence type situation? Like a wife who’s afraid to report her husband for beating her?”

  A chill went down my spine. “I don’t know. Maybe? It would explain why he’s asking for protection but not being specific about the threat.”

  “Well, all you can really do at this point is be vigilant and do your job. If he gives you more information, or more information presents itself, then use that accordingly. But until it does, just be his bodyguard.”

  “I will.” I exhaled. “Thanks, Senior.”

  “Any time. Good luck, MA1.”

  After we’d hung up, I didn’t move for a moment. Just be Troy’s bodyguard. I could do that, but I knew damn well my curiosity—and concern—wouldn’t go away.

  Nor would the fact that I was afraid to dig any deeper because of what I might find.

  Chapter Six

  Loud noises and crowds were obviously issues for Troy, so I did the best I could to avoid them. I’d make excuses to take the long way to one of our classes or the coffee shop if there was yet another event going on in the commons, and I tried to time our visits to the cafeteria for the off-peak hours. It couldn’t be avoided entirely, though, and there were a few incidents, but nothing as bad as the day he’d had what I could only assume was a flashback in the crowd. A slamming door, a dropped tray, a nearby argument suddenly escalating into a shouting match—small wonder Troy was always tense as fuck when he was away from his peaceful, quiet house and his dog.

  I did what I could, though. As a bonus, he wasn’t so hostile and wary toward me anymore. Still guarded, still all snark and postadolescent attitude, but…different. A little more conversational, a little less suspicion in every glance. It was a start.

  Three weeks into the semester, our history professor went down with the flu. Rather than leave us in the hands of one of his grad students, he cancelled class. Though the subject matter was interesting—I was enjoying the hell out of pretty much anything that had to do with history—I was thrilled to have a reprieve from listening to his nasal monotone lectures.

  But goddamn, it would’ve been nice if he’d e-mailed all of us instead of letting us show up to an empty lecture hall with “Prof. Bodner out sick—read chapters 13-15, quiz Monday” scrawled across the board.

  “Well.” Troy turned to me after we’d jotted down the chapters we were supposed to read. “Guess now we’ve got a few hours to kill.” He gestured down the hall. “Want to get in some study time at the library?”

  “Good idea.” As we started in that direction, I added, “I need all the study time I can get for that stupid chapter in history.”

  He glanced at me. “You’re really taking this seriously, aren’t you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? This is the only chance I’ve had to go to school full-time since I enlisted, and I need to finish this damned degree to help me get promoted.”

  Troy’s lips quirked. “So this whole thing is pretty convenient.”

  “I… That’s not what I meant.”

  He gestured dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. At least there’s some kind of silver lining. I’ll take what I can get.”

  “Works for me. Do you know where the library is?”

  “I think it’s this way…”

  He was right, and fortunately, there were some signs to guide us through the labyrinth of hallways and lecture halls until we found the library.

  The huge fucking library. It was divided into a section for students studying together—so some talking was allowed as long as it was kept to a reasonable volume—and for those who wanted to work in absolute silence.

  Even better, there were some rooms along the back wall with tables, chairs, and windows so we’d be able to see most of the library from inside.

  Troy paused and looked around at the three floors of bookshelves and the long book-lined hallways extending in all directions. “Man, I could lose a solid week in here.”

  “You ain’t kiddin’.” I hadn’t set foot in a library like this in years.

  After a moment, I realized he wasn’t looking at our surroundings anymore. He was looking at me.

  I cocked my head. “What?”

  He shrugged, a small but playful smile on his lips. “Nothing. I guess I just hadn’t pegged you for a bookworm.”

  “Likewise.” I laughed as we continued toward the study group side of the library. “You’d be surprised. Hell, I was on deployment when the last Harry Potter book came out. I had guys offering me serious money to borrow it once I was done.”

  “Really? I didn’t think that’d be big with Navy guys.”

  “When you’re at sea for weeks at a time, even the most TV-addicted Sailor is going to pick up a book eventually.”

  “Good choice, then. I loved Harry Potter when I was a kid.”

  “When—” I stopped dead and threw him a sidelong glance. “When you were a kid?”

  “Yeah.” He halted too and shrugged. “My dad read them to me until I could read them myself. He pretty much taught me to read with those books.”

  “He taught you…” I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Goddammit. Just when I’d forgotten how young you are…”

  Troy laughed, clapping my shoulder. “Sorry, old man.”

  “Fuck you.”

  We glanced at each other and both chuckled.

  Troy adjusted his backpack on his shoulder. “I guess we should get a room.”

  I blinked. “I…what?”

  “A room?” He raised his eyebrows and pointed down one of the halls. “To study?”

  “Oh. Right.” I shook my head. “Right. Yeah.”

  “What did you think I meant?”

  “Never mind.”

  He shot me a look, but at least he didn’t push the issue. I didn’t need him even putting me and “get a room” in the same train of thought. I didn’t need me putting those things in the same train of thought. Too late for that.

  Jesus, Ayhan. He’s twenty.

  But he let it go, and we continued through the library to the study rooms. We found an empty room, and as I closed the door behind us, Troy started to take the seat with his back to the wall, but then moved to the other. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I set my books down and took the seat. “Not everybody’s used to being around someone who doesn’t like his back facing a room.”

  “Is that just part of your—” He glanced around. “Is that a training thing? Or just you?”

  “A little of both. It’s kind of beaten into your head when you become a cop, and spending time in a warzone drives it the rest of the way home.”

  “Wow. So you’ve been to combat?”

  I nodded.

  “That must have been, uh, intense.”

  “It was. Both my deployments were pretty low-key, though, all things considered. We took some fire, and we had some close calls, but with the things some of my buddies saw on their deployments?” I shuddered. “I can’t complain.”

  He held my gaze, black-lined eyes wide. “That says a lot when taking some fire and having close calls is considered low-key.”

  “It’s a war. That is low-key.”

  Troy shuddered. So did I.

  “Anyway.
” I gestured at my book bag. “Studying.”

  “Right. Yeah.”

  I pulled out my history textbook. “Ugh. I think this prof is going to be the death of me.”

  Troy laughed. “Dr. Bodner? I like him.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  His laugh turned to a playful smirk. “So you don’t like dogs, and you don’t like squirrely professors who put you on the spot every five minutes?”

  I laughed. “It’s not that. I don’t like professors—or anybody, really—who constantly puts me on the spot about Islam-related shit. It drives me insane when people assume I’m some all-knowing goddamned guru about Islam.”

  “Because you’re Middle Eastern?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you Muslim?”

  I shook my head. “I was raised Catholic, believe it or not.”

  “Really?”

  “Surprise.” I rolled my eyes. “I mean, I know about Islam. Our family was Muslim for generations before my grandparents converted, so they taught us about it, but I can quote the Bible a hell of a lot better than I can the Qur’an.”

  “I can see why that annoys you, then.”

  “Yep. Sometimes I just tell people I’m Italian.” I gestured at myself. “I can pass, at least until someone finds out my name.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s not a very Italian name.”

  “Nope.”

  Troy studied me for a moment, then folded his hands on top of his book. “So, I’m curious.”

  “Okay?”

  “You obviously read a lot. And even when Dr. Bodner puts you on the spot, you know what you’re talking about.” He played with the corner of his textbook. “Why did you join the military instead of going to college in the first place?”

  “I enlisted mostly because I needed the GI Bill. I couldn’t afford to pay my own way through college, and my folks basically said I was on my own.” I shrugged. “Then the Navy offered me a sweet reenlistment bonus, so I stayed in. And by the time that enlistment was up, I was halfway to retirement. So…I figured I’d stay for the long haul.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “I’m surprised your dad didn’t push you to join.” I gestured at our books. “Or is he hoping you’ll go into ROTC?”