The neighborhood was quiet, the only movement a yellow cat stealthily prowling across a nearby lawn. The spacing of street lights and front porch lights gave the street a dim glow of suburban security. Yards were neatly maintained. Everything looked so clean. Back in the U.S.A. at last. San Antonio was equally as hot and humid as the jungle, but on the other side of that door would be a wonderful invention called air conditioning.
Rich’s luggage made a muffled, rubbery noise as he rolled it to the front porch. Rattling keys out of his pocket, he wondered if Rita had thought to put his favorite flavor of ice cream in the fridge. A bowl of dulce de leche would be great.
Rich fought to unlock the door, which only rattled in his grasp. He pulled the key out of the lock and examined it. Fatigue overwhelmed him...maybe he had the wrong key. But, no, that was the one, the silver key that said TRU-SEC across it. He tried again, but the lock was frozen. A light came on upstairs. Well, as long as Rita was awake, he would ring the doorbell. The chimes sounded at the press of a button. The upstairs light suddenly flicked out, but no one came to the door. He rang again, trying to shake off the sense that he was being watched. If this was Rita’s idea of a joke…
Fury mounted as he stood outside his own home and knocked sharply on the door. “Rita? Let me in. It’s Rich.”
There were scurrying sounds, but still no Rita. This time he pounded on the door with his open hand. “Rita! Open this door or I’m going to break it down.”
Too bad if he woke up the neighbors. He was hot, hungry, and exhausted. He wanted inside that house. Now.
The safety chain kept the door from opening more than a few inches. In the soft porch light, Rich made out the concerned face of a man he had never seen before. Pakistani, perhaps? Indian?
In his clipped British accent the man asked, “Is it possible you have arrived at the incorrect street address?”
For a moment, Rich thought he might be at the wrong place. But, no. This was his house. He had planted that boxwood under the front window. He had painted the shutters and trim white.
With a voice of authority, he fired questions. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I am Chandra Pulashty. This is my home. Is it possible you are searching for the previous owner, Mrs. Martino?”
Previous owner? “I’m Mrs. Martino’s husband.”
“Quite so?” the man said gently, almost sadly. “My family bought this house last month. It is possible you will be able to locate Mrs. Martino elsewhere, but I do not know where.”
With that, he slowly closed the door. Rich heard the deadbolt click. If he were twenty years younger, Rich would’ve kicked down the door. The wisdom that came from making too many mistakes of that kind reminded him breaking and entering would not solve his problem.
He was stunned. The scene was surreal. Rich collected himself for a few minutes, then pulled his suitcase to the next block and sat on a bus stop bench. He needed some time to clear his head.
Things had been great between him and Rita when she was married to Jack. When the couple split over Rich and Rita’s affair, Dad warned him, “Son, if she ran around on her last husband, she’s going to run around on the next one.”
He didn’t listen. Rita was gorgeous and Rich lonely. He tried to ignore the way other men looked at her when they went to a bar for a few drinks. Although he often resented the way she looked back at them, he tried not to think about that too much. He suspected she was glad when he got his orders for the Philippines, but didn’t want to believe their marriage was falling apart.
Somehow, he convinced himself Rita would be waiting when he arrived home, ready to welcome him with open arms. Well, maybe she was waiting, somewhere. Maybe things were not what they seemed. Rich would sort that out as soon as he could. The immediate problem was finding a place to spend the night.
Rich considered his options. He could wake up a neighbor and ask to use the phone to call his dad. But he didn’t know for sure who lived in any of these places now. If he could talk his way into someone’s house, there was a good chance his father would still be out of town.
He could find an unpopulated area and sleep under the stars. He’d done that more nights than he cared to remember in the last twenty years. But that had been in the real jungle, not the urban one. How many houses had been built, and where, since he left town? Sleeping in some guy’s yard could get a man picked up by the local cops and slapped with a record for misdemeanor vagrancy.
So far, retirement had nothing to recommend it.
Rich opted for his long-time refuge, the U.S. Air Force. He had driven from this neighborhood to Randolph Air Force Base and back five days a week when he was assigned there. So he knew the distance—four-point-three miles, one way. On a good day, jogging the round trip wouldn’t work up a good sweat. Dog tired, hungry, hefting a carry-on, walking and dragging a suitcase? Probably an hour and a half. That would put him at the main gate about three a.m. With a little luck, he could secure a place to spend the night at Randolph, maybe even catch a ride from the main gate to his room.
Rich opened his carry-on bag and removed the duty-free champagne he had planned to share with Rita. It was good liquor, but he didn’t feel like carrying it four miles tonight. He grinned, thinking about some surprised schnook finding the intact bottle at the bus stop the next morning.
One would think any fool who would carry a magnum of champagne eight thousand miles would at least have a drink. The prospect was tempting, but his survival instincts told him to stay completely alert until the situation was under control. He fished around in his luggage for some fresh socks and athletic shoes. Thus prepared, Rich slung his small bag over his shoulder, grabbed the handle of his suitcase and started hiking.
“Welcome home, Colonel Martino,” he muttered. “A grateful nation thanks you for your many years of faithful service.” What else could go wrong today?
The first raindrops began to fall.
~ ~
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Daughter of the King Page 27