“Alexandra was my first wife. We married young.”
His words, hesitant at first, grew into a deluge.
“I’d just turned eighteen and enlisted. Alexandra was a year younger, still in high school. I’d never met anyone like her. She had this wild energy, a passion that she directed toward her art. She was a really good painter, did these incredibly lifelike oil portraits.
“Most of the time she painted from photographs. Only rarely did she use live models. You could understand why after seeing the results. When she painted a real person, everything was somehow different. The brush strokes, the colors, the composition.” Keats shook his head. “The person came out looking scary or grotesque or deeply disturbed.
“Those pictures should have served as a warning to me. But I was young, madly in love. It wasn’t until years later that I realized that when Alexandra painted a real person, she projected her own madness onto them.
“She started having these fits where she’d babble incoherently at some object. The kitchen sink, a lamp on the wall, a shoe. There was no accounting for what might set her off. The police arrested her at the mall one time for screaming obscenities at a water fountain.
“At first I blamed myself. I wasn’t around enough and thought that might be making her nuts. By then I was involved with a Ranger battalion and later with more covert units. I was gone for long periods on missions. Later I wondered whether the two of us being so different had something to do with her illness. I was planning to be a career soldier and she was an artsy type. Not exactly a match made in heaven.”
Aiden glanced over at Jessie. She remained curled up in the seat but her eyes were open. She was listening intently.
Keats went on. “Looking back on it, I suppose those things might have played a role. But they weren’t the real reasons she lost her mind. Her first breakdown happened when I was overseas. By the time I got back, she was hospitalized and on anti-psychotic meds. She barely recognized me. The shrinks labeled it schizophrenia coupled with MDD – major depressive disorder. But one of the docs, probably the most honest of the bunch, said he didn’t have a clue what was really going on with her.
“She was in and out of hospitals over the next several years. Somewhere around then I met Tonya and realized she was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my days with. But I couldn’t just abandon Alexandra. When you’re on a mission, everybody comes home. You don’t leave your people behind.
“Alexandra’s been institutionalized now for close to twenty years. I visit her pretty often. Sometimes Tonya comes along. Alexandra seems to like that.”
He paused and hunched forward. Ahead of them to the west, the dark heavens remained punctuated with a handful of stars, holdouts against the creeping dawn.
“Sometimes, rarely, Alexandra smiles and talks to Tonya about the flower garden outside her window or about the weather. But it’s never more than surface chatter, never anything of substance. And she never mentions her art. She doesn’t seem to remember that she was once a fine painter.”
Keats hesitated. Aiden pressed for more.
“You said something about ‘our painting.’ About it being gone?”
“It’s not gone. I have it at home. I’m not sure why I dreamed it was lost.”
That last remark didn’t ring true. Keats knew why the painting figured in his dream.
Jessie turned to him. “What’s the painting of?”
“It’s one she did from a photo. She captured the essence of the scene, the essence of us.”
“The photo in your wallet,” Aiden said. “The one of you and Alexandra on the beach.”
Keats nodded. “A friend snapped it. We were vacationing at Cape May. At the time, we were still living in this cramped, one-bedroom apartment. We were building the sandcastle and making it huge, giving it all these extra rooms. Alexandra did the painting a few weeks later.”
He clamped his mouth shut, as if that was the only way he could stem the outpouring of revelations. There was obviously more to the story, something beyond what seemed obvious, that Keats was still in love with his first wife. Aiden wondered how Tonya felt about that. But the tormented look on Keats’ face made it clear that now wasn’t the time to delve deeper.
THIRTY-SIX
They reached Natrona County, Wyoming, by 8am. The region was a mix of petroleum facilities and cattle and sheep ranches. Casper was about a half hour to the northwest.
Keats came alert, scanned the terrain ahead.
“There,” he said, pointing to a gravel lane angling to the right.
A white post held a rickety mailbox. Fading paint spelled out the name: I.C. Nedelka. It took Aiden a moment to make the connection and realize this was the home of Icy Ned.
He made the turn, proceeded up a steep hill to the apex. The lane dead-ended at a small clearing in front of an L-shaped ranch house. The modest domicile squatted amid a forest dominated by Ponderosa pines. Off to the left was a separate three-bay garage.
The exterior of the house defied architectural conventions. One side was constructed with cinderblocks and creosoted logs, the other with white bricks and rough-hewn cedar siding. Three shades of asphalt shingles clad sections of roof that intersected at deranged angles. The highest roof had a trio of satellite dishes.
A petite woman wearing jeans and a sweater emerged from the house. Bangs of white hair framed a pixie face. Her skin was ruddy as leather. She greeted Keats with a smile and a hug.
“Mabeline, good to see you again. You’re looking well.”
“Ned told me you’d called. Had a hunch you’d be stopping by.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Good days mostly, a few bad ones here and there. He’s on some new meds. They seem to help.”
Keats introduced Aiden and Jessie. They fell in step with their host, followed her toward the entrance.
“I was so sorry when I heard…” Mabeline began.
Keats grimaced. “We don’t need to talk about that right now.”
She glanced back at Aiden and Jessie, nodded. Aiden wondered if she was referring to Alexandra. But then he realized that made no sense. Surely Mabeline would have known that Keats’ first wife had been institutionalized for decades.
Mabeline ushered them into the house and down a hall to a paneled office. Shelves covered nearly every square inch of wall space. The shelves overflowed with books, magazines, maps and documents. Items that couldn’t be contained were stacked on the floor. Several stacks reached almost to the ceiling.
Aiden scanned the collection. The subject matter was eclectic. Film noir, advanced metallurgy and baroque musical composition clamored for attention amid automotive journals, astrophysics texts and treatises on military history.
Books and papers covered the solitary desk as well, with only a small footprint reserved for a keyboard and large monitor. The wiring tunneled through a hole in the floor. Presumably, the guts of the computer were housed in the basement or another room.
“Well, look what just crawled out of the crapper,” boomed a voice behind them.
A lump of a man in a motorized wheelchair swept into the office. He’d apparently reached a point in life where personal grooming was no longer a priority. Clumps of salt-and-pepper hair fell across the shoulders of a tattered denim shirt. A mustache drowned his upper lip. If he lowered his head, the scraggly beard would tickle his stomach.
Keats made the introductions. “This is Icy Ned. He taught strategy and tactics to half the special ops community.”
The older man gave a dismissive grunt. “Icy Ned? Sounds like one of those gut-busting gins served in some Southeast Asian excuse for a bar. Can’t even remember who saddled me with it.” He went quiet for a moment, stared blankly at a bookcase. “Anyway, neither here nor there. Just plain Ned is fine.”
“Ned’s also got some amazing talents in the digital realm.”
“And Deke Keats knows how to spread it on thick. He’ll put so much grease on the nozzle you won’t feel him tun
neling across your demilitarized zone.”
Keats grinned. He handed Ned the phones taken from Rosen and Vesely.
“I took out the batteries to disable tracking. Pretty sure they’ve got memory-wipe that’ll activate when they’re powered up. Anything you can do?”
“Probably need to punch in a code within a few seconds of turning them on. I’ve got an RF-proof room in the basement and know a few tricks. But don’t get your hopes up.”
Ned pocketed the phones and turned to Aiden with a lopsided squint. “Boy, you look like crap on a cracker. What the hell’s Deke been doing, draggin’ you through spiderholes?”
“It’s been a long night,” Aiden admitted. “We could use a few more hours of sleep.”
“Mabeline!”
“Right here, hon,” she said, stepping out from behind Keats.
“These kids need to clean up and bed down. See to it while Deke and I do some catchin’ up.”
Mabeline guided Aiden and Jessie to a tidy bedroom at the back of the house. She retrieved sheets from the closet and made up a futon roomy enough for two.
“Bathroom’s there,” she said, gesturing to an adjoining door. “Plenty of towels. Extra PJs in the bottom of the dresser.”
Aiden hesitated. “Jessie and I aren’t together like that.”
“Sorry, this is the only extra bedroom. If one of you wants to sleep on the living room couch–”
“We’re cool,” Jessie said.
Mabeline departed, closing the door behind her.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Aiden offered.
“Bed’s big enough.
“OK.”
She headed for the bathroom. He heard the shower go on.
He’d wash later. Stripping to his underwear, he got under the covers. He was already drifting off when he felt Jessie slip in beside him. The warmth of her body felt good.
He mumbled “Good night,” closed his eyes and was gone in an instant.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jessie was dressed when Aiden awoke. She was perched on a settee by the window, peering through a gap in the curtains.
“What time is it?” he asked, swinging his legs out of bed.
“One o’clock.”
He felt better, at least in terms of having gotten some decent rest. But his burned arms pulsated beneath the dressings. Time to pop another pill.
He leaned over her shoulder to see what she was looking at. A clump of forest. He caught a whiff of her perfume or body wash, a pleasant flowery aroma.
“I never killed anyone before,” she said quietly.
“Me neither,” he offered, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Not the easiest thing to do, is it?”
She turned to him. He expected a look of regret or sadness at having been forced into murdering another human being. But she wore a weird smile.
“I know I should feel bad about killing that prick. But I’m energized. It’s like a runner’s high. Is there such a thing as a killing high?”
“Don’t know. Maybe.”
His thoughts turned to the merc he’d shot, Vesely. There’d been no choice. He didn’t feel bad, but he certainly wasn’t juiced about it either.
Jessie got up from the window. Not for the first time, he noticed just how beautiful she was. A guy could lose himself in those aquamarine eyes. He imagined their lips touching, a prelude to cascading pleasures.
She sensed his interest, motioned to his bare arms. “Those dressings should be changed.”
“I’ll deal with it later.”
“We’ll deal with it now. C’mon.”
She led him to the bathroom.
“I should take a shower first,” he said.
“Good idea. You smell like something that’s been living in a sewer.”
“Thanks for the image.”
“While you’re getting wet here’s something to remember me by.”
She gripped his head and drew them together, planted her lips on his. The kiss was brief but frenzied.
He pulled away from her. There was something creepy in that kiss. It brought a feeling of revulsion. Fantasies he’d entertained only a moment ago were drained of carnal power.
“I could help you in the shower,” she whispered.
“No thanks. I think I need a bit of alone time.” His words sounded lame. What’s wrong with me?
Jessie didn’t try to mask her feelings. She looked annoyed, maybe even angry. Aiden retreated to the bathroom and closed the door. Had he encountered her before this weekend, they’d probably already be slipping and sliding under soap and spray. But now…
He stripped off everything but his bandages and entered the stall, being careful to keep his injured arms clear of the spray. The hot water was close to steaming. He tried to imagine Jessie in here with him. Maybe if he forced the fantasy it would spark interest.
It didn’t. Instead, the more he thought about the two of them making love, the more unsettling the idea became.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Body odor vanquished, Aiden changed his own dressings and joined Jessie and Mabeline at the kitchen table. Despite the hour, Mabeline had laid out a generous variety of breakfast staples. He dove in, sampled everything. He was hungrier than he’d imagined. The scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, wholewheat toast and silver-dollar pancakes went down with ease.
Ned wheeled himself to the table as Aiden and Jessie were finishing their coffee. He ate like a creature from the wild, hunched over his plate, his beard collecting scraps. At one point, he leaned back and allowed Mabeline to use an old toothbrush to comb out crumbs trapped in his facial growth.
“What’s for dessert?” Ned growled, handing her his empty plate.
“No dessert till supper. Remember what the doctor said?”
His cheeks flared crimson. He slammed his fist on the table, startling Aiden and Jessie. “Goddamn it, woman! I’ll be dead soon! A man needs his dessert.”
“The pancake syrup was sweet, dear.”
“Of course it was! Don’t you think I know that?”
Mabeline, unruffled, carried his plate to the sink. Ned picked up his fork to spear more food. Confusion bloomed on the grizzled face when he realized the plate was gone. His eyes betrayed growing panic.
“Mabeline?” he whimpered, sounding like a lost child. “Mabeline, where are you?”
“Right here, hon. I’m right here.” She hustled back to the table, gently massaged his shoulders. “You mustn’t let yourself get too excited.”
Ned came back from whatever dark place his mind had wandered into. He nodded to Aiden and Jessie. “Deke’s in the study. Join us when you’re done.”
He pivoted the wheelchair and accelerated from the room. Mabeline offered an apologetic smile.
“I hope my husband didn’t alarm you.”
“Alzheimer’s?” Jessie asked.
Mabeline nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s all right most of the time,” Mabeline said, clearing more plates from the table. “He just hits a few speed bumps now and then.”
Aiden knew that those speed bumps were destined to grow higher and more foreboding. The father of one of his high school friends had suffered from the early onset version of the disease.
They offered to help with the dishes. Mabeline shooed them away with a resolute smile.
“It’s all right. I can handle things.”
THIRTY-NINE
The door to the study was open. Keats and Ned were leaning over the desk, perusing a rumpled US Geological Survey map. Aiden and Jessie entered quietly.
“Don’t see how they could do it,” Keats was saying, his index finger tracing a path across the rolled-out map. Its frayed edges were pinned down by vintage lead soldiers depicting World War I American doughboys.
“You’ve got no roads, no landing strips. There’s the railroad. But even if they could somehow get aboard the train, the late-day trip is going the wrong direction, taking the workers from Tau back to town. The track’s severed
from any main lines, so even if you had your own locomotive, no way you could get it there for an assault by rail. Which, by the way, is one nutbag idea.”
“Certifiable,” Ned agreed.
Aiden and Jessie flanked them at the desk. The map showed the region of western Montana encompassing Tau Nine-One and the town of Churchton Summit.
“What about railtrucks?” Aiden asked. “You know, those maintenance vehicles. Drive one right onto the tracks from a grade crossing.”
Keats shook his head. “The only decent grade crossings are in town. You’d be seen. You could access the rails in the woods, I suppose. Still, I don’t see the logic of it. Tau would spot you well before you reached the fence.”
“Motorcycles or off-road vehicles?” Jessie proposed. “Or maybe just hike in?”
Ned ran his fingers through his beard, as if searching for crumbs that had eluded Mabeline’s toothbrush. “You could use some of the fire trails in the area to maybe sneak a bit closer. But no matter how you’re trying to get there, you’re going to run into perimeter sensors out the wazoo. Cameras, motion detectors, infrared, the works. You’d have a shitstorm coming down on you before you could even think about breaching.”
“How far do you think the sensor net extends?” Aiden asked.
“A couple klicks, with the density increasing the closer you get. Anywhere near that fence you won’t be able to fart without raising an alarm. Even if you could somehow nullify the sensors, you’d be under counterassault once you got within visual range. Doesn’t help that the attack’s planned for broad daylight, without even the cover of darkness.” Ned shook his head. “This whole thing makes as much sense as a polonium enema. This de Clerkin character must be crazy if he thinks he can pull this off.”
“What about a lightning assault with choppers?” Keats proposed.
“The immediate perimeter will be a no-fly zone with radar coverage down to treetop level. Even if you come in hot and fast, the choppers would be targeted. RPGs for sure, maybe even a hidden, fixed-installation SAM. Odds are they shoot your birds out of the sky. And even if your choppers somehow make it as far as Tau’s landing pad, how the hell does your assault force get penetration? Those Marines ain’t gonna just let you walk in there, you know. And, for all practical purposes, they command the high ground.”
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