by Peter Telep
“Of course,” Dr. Kamran said. “And again, if you can’t make the decision on your own, we can help.”
“What kind of world do we live in, when something like this happens?” Senecal asked the doctors. “You tell me? What kind of a world?”
“Mr. Senecal, you’re very upset right now,” said Kamran.
“They killed my boy.”
“You can’t change that, but what you can do now is focus on your wife and your daughter. You’ll need to make the best decision for them. This is a tragedy, and the longer you delay the inevitable, the longer you wait until the healing begins. As we’ve said, there’s nothing more we can do. Now it’s up to you.”
Senecal turned to Mimi, who was kissing Emile’s forehead. He studied her a moment, then faced the doctor. “They killed my boy.”
Senecal’s mind filled with a cold rationale for the horrors he was about to unleash.
* * *
Johnny had an eight-gun security safe in his downstairs office. The safe was equipped with a heavy green door and key lock. The door was splotched with stickers from Sig Sauer, the National Rifle Association, Reliance Tactical Supply Company, and other manufacturers of firearms and tactical gear.
With the shipping box tucked under his arm, Johnny entered the house through the garage and headed directly into the office. He opened the safe and squeezed the package onto the shelf above his rifles. Once again, the paranoia reared its ugly head. Chief Schneider handed him a search warrant, then opened the safe and lifted the block of cocaine.
“All right, son, you got something you want to tell me?”
“Not really, Chief. Want a beer?”
Johnny grabbed one from the refrigerator and headed upstairs, into the living room, where everyone had gathered around the dinner table.
After taking his chair, Johnny cleared his throat and said, “Look, I don’t want any awkward stuff. Let’s eat and relax. We sure as hell need it. I’m glad you’re all here.”
“Me, too,” said Elina.
That broke the ice. Conversations began and plates were filled. During the meal, Johnny told them about the cleaning and grout replacement at Daniel’s house, and his nieces said they were unsure they could ever go back. Maybe someone else could get their stuff, and they should probably sell the house. Johnny comforted them by saying he and Elina would go with them to the front door. They could decide then if they wanted to step inside or not. The girls half-heartedly agreed. While it was painful to do now, they needed to remember how Daniel and Reva lived, not how they died. That house and its contents still represented a life well-lived.
And it might also hold more secrets.
After dinner, Johnny and the others retired to the cave, where those dusty bottles of whiskey came down from the shelves. The first commandment was to get drunk, and the shot glasses were summarily filled. Johnny took his and dropped onto the sofa, but he was not there. He was at Daniel’s house, searching behind pieces of art, lifting mattresses, and ransacking his brother’s home office. He pulled out the desk drawers, got on his hands and knees, and strained his neck to spy anything taped onto the bottom of those drawers, like he had seen on old crime-drama TV shows. He searched the inner breast pockets of every suit jacket Daniel owned. He lifted the tank covers of each of the four toilet bowls. He shone a flashlight behind the washer and dryer.
“Hello, Johnny, you with us?” Willie asked.
“Now I am. Just went somewhere for a little while.”
“Elina says the wake’s tomorrow, and the funeral’s the day after,” Josh said. “Who’d you go with?”
“Andrews.”
“They do a great job.”
Johnny glanced over at the hallway, and from his position, he could barely make out his gun safe. “How’s the proposal?”
“To be honest, we haven’t done shit on it,” Corey said. “It’s hard to wrap our heads around it, you know? We’ll get back.”
“Roger. Any of you guys talk to Band-Aid recently? Know how he’s doing?”
Josh and Corey shook their heads. Willie frowned and said, “Last I heard, he was still working over at the marina.”
Johnny nodded. “I talked to him back in, what was that, August, when I brought the boat down there.”
Sergeant Ashur Bandar, the interpreter attached to Johnny’s platoon during that night raid in Fallujah, had been paralyzed from the waist down. He had chosen to settle in North Carolina, where his cousin had a house and where Johnny and the guys kept in touch, using his nickname, “Band-Aid.” Despite having earned his college degree, Bandar took odd jobs that lasted no more than a few months before someone pissed him off and he had another of his infamous meltdowns, where he would scream, “Stop telling me you understand! You don’t understand! Stop trying to make me feel grateful for the things I have! Stop turning me into your welfare project! My life is not your project!”
Johnny had helped Bandar find work at a marina in Hampstead, where the former terp had learned how to fix boat motors and where he could explode to his heart’s content since the place was owned by another veteran Marine, Dominick Sattler, who understood Bandar’s angst and knew where it was coming from. They joked about renaming the place “Dysfunctional Veterans Marina.”
“You want me to call old Band-Aid and let him know?” Josh asked.
“No, I’ll do it,” said Johnny.
“It was on the news. He probably heard,” Willie said. “And if he didn’t see it on TV, you know how word travels.”
They all nodded.
While Johnny would love to see Bandar at his brother’s wake, he had another reason for asking after the man.
Ashur Bandar could read Arabic.
Johnny accepted another shot from Corey, who had just poured them all a second round. The warming in his chest took him back to a night of debauchery in the Philippines, and the pleasant numbness began around the base of his neck.
By the third shot, Johnny was lifting his finger at the boys, narrowing his gaze, and speaking like a root canal patient. “I bet you all got secrets you don’t tell me. What’s your secret?”
“I could tell you,” said Corey. “But then I’d have to pour you another shot, and I’m too lazy to get up.”
“I got nothing to hide,” Willie said. “Ain’t no false advertising here. What you see is what you get.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” said Josh. “But I ain’t volunteering anything, either. You know where I’m coming from.”
“You’re all full of shit,” Johnny said.
They replied, but his eyes had already closed, and sometime later, in the middle of night, Elina woke him and helped him upstairs and into bed.
* * *
The nightmare was different this time. Sergeant Oliver was not on the stairs, about to leap on the grenade, Daniel was. He wore Oliver’s uniform and shouted that he was the sheepdog, just before—
Johnny shook awake. He lay there on the sweaty sheets, panting. He reached blindly for the night stand and grabbed his phone to check the time. 1459. Really? He glanced out the window. Sunshine. Well there it was. The exhaustion, stress, and alcohol had sent him into a twenty-hour coma that felt like twenty years. Did cars now fly and robots cut the grass? He sat up and scuffled toward the bathroom.
“Johnny, are you up?” Elina called from the hallway. She told him to get in the shower. They were taking his nieces out for an early dinner before the wake at seven. Johnny told her okay, then he returned to the night stand and called Bandar.
“Band-Aid, how you doing?”
“What’s up, Johnny, I know why you’re calling.”
“So you coming? The wake’s at The Market Street Chapel at seven. I would love for you to be there.”
“You can count on me, Johnny.”
“Hey, dude, you sound like you just got up.”
“So do you.”
“I got an excuse.”
Bandar paused. “I don’t.”
“Well, get your ass cleane
d up. I’ll see you later.”
* * *
The Market Street Chapel, part of Andrews Mortuary and Crematory, was an old southern home constructed in the Georgian style back in the 1920s. The grand entrance foyer and smaller anterooms were furnished with sofas and chairs covered in rich fabrics. Wainscoting and elaborate window treatments featuring heavy draperies created bold, ornate statements across the walls. Dozens of oversized floral arrangements formed a semi-circle reaching all the way to the chapel entrance. As Johnny stepped inside, he was awestruck by the outpouring of support. Dozens of people stood on line, waiting to enter the viewing room, while dozens more loitered in the foyer. Elina had coordinated with Reva’s parents so that the viewings and burials were together, as they should be. Reva’s father, wearing white to the wake as was customary by Hindus, grabbed Johnny by the arm and began introducing him to Reva’s sisters, her cousins, their children, their cousins, and Johnny feared he would be there all night if he did not escape. He politely slipped away and wandered toward the back of the room, where Josh and Willie had convened.
Josh slapped him on the shoulder. “Look at all this. Everybody’s here for you, bro. Because of who you are. Don’t forget that.”
“And don’t run away,” added Willie. “Because you have an entire battalion coming to pay their respects.”
Corey and Lindsey walked up, and Lindsey gave Johnny a deep hug. “That’s a really nice suit.”
His cheeks warmed. “I was praying it still fit.”
A dark-haired man, not quite six feet, with a day’s worth of stubble on his square chin, finished signing the guest book, then shouldered his way through the crowd. Only someone like Johnny would notice the man’s gait and peg him as a former operator. He took Johnny’s hand in his own, then gave him a deep hug. “Very sorry about your loss.”
They drew back and Johnny nodded. “Are we being recorded?”
Mark Gatterton snorted then pointed to his heart. “If you see a laser dot, hit the deck.”
“No, shit.”
Gatterton smiled. “It’s good to see you, Johnny. Wish it wasn’t like this.”
“Me, too.”
Gatterton already knew everyone, so the introductions were spared. Despite Willie’s admonishment, Johnny excused himself for a moment, then pulled Gatterton aside and said, “You doing any research on the drug trade? Links to jihadis and coke coming out of Colombia?”
“No, but I guess you are. Where’s this coming from?”
“Ah, it’s work-related. Figured I’d ask you before the storm hits and I forget.”
“No talking about work now.”
“Just real quick.”
“Look, Johnny, you got Corey and Josh over there. They were down in South America. They know Colombia better than I do. And what about your consultant working for the DEA?”
“I thought you might have some current intel.”
“It ain’t earth shattering, I’ll tell you that. Same old shit. FARC rebels in bed with jihadis. Money pouring in from the Middle East. Coke coming up the pipe. Narco subs. The whole nine.” Gatterton snorted. “You thinking about a career change?”
“No, wiseass. I’m thinking about some lost opportunities close to home.”
“You phrased that very carefully.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want answers, but you can’t ask the right questions.”
“Mark, you know I’ve always... I wish I could—”
“What?”
Johnny sighed.
Gatterton leaned in closer. “I don’t work for the FBI anymore. You can talk to me.”
“You’re right. This isn’t the time.” Johnny squeezed Gatterton’s shoulder, thanked him again for coming, and said they would catch up later or tomorrow.
“Hey, Johnny, if you need me to call in a few favors to get things moving here, you let me know. Some of my old friends from the bureau still love me. Why? Because I call out their pussy supervisors in all of my lectures!”
Johnny winked and headed off. He got ten feet before a squad of veteran Marines surrounded him; these hard chargers had flown in from all over the country. After shaking what had to be thirty hands and getting choked up, he rubbed his eyes, found Elina, and they settled down on one of the couches.
“This is a beautiful thing,” she said.
“What?”
“Seeing all of our friends... and how much they care.”
“You’re trying to make me cry.”
She smacked him on the arm. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
She raised her brows. “So, did you pay your respects?”
“Not yet.”
“What’re you waiting for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You need to go up there. You don’t have to say anything or do anything.”
“Maybe I’ll wait till the end.”
“That’s fine.”
They sat for another minute, then Elina was dragged off by Reva’s mother, and Johnny did a brief recon, searching for Bandar. He asked the guys, but none of them had seen him. There were four or five disabled vets inside the chapel, but only Bandar could read that cursive script in Johnny’s safe.
Johnny’s nieces left the chapel, and Johnny followed. They paused on the walkway, and Isabelle buried her head in Kate’s shoulder.
“Hey, we’re strong,” Johnny said, marching up to them. His slid his arm around both girls and added, “We can do this.”
Kate shook her head. “No, we can’t Uncle Johnny. We can’t. All this religion and God. It’s all bullshit. Look what happens.”
“You know what your dad used to tell me? He said no matter how smart he got, God was always smarter. I thought he’d go off to school and become an atheist, while I found God in a foxhole, you know? But your dad never stopped believing. That’s what our parents instilled in us. We were Southern Baptists but we didn’t go to church much. Didn’t matter, though, because we learned to have faith in God.”
“So you think God had a purpose for murdering our mom and Dad?” Kate asked, glaring at him.
Johnny lowered his voice. “God didn’t do that. Some evil bastard did. And we’ll catch him. And he’ll pay.”
“I like the way you interpret religion, Uncle Johnny.”
“Sometimes you can’t keep your eye on the target if you turn the other cheek. I know that sounds wrong. It’s not something your dad would ever agree with, but that’s the way it is for me. Your dad ever sit down and talk to you about God?”
“Not really. Mom made us learn about Hinduism, but we never got into it.”
“Your dad ever mention changing his religion?”
“You mean become Hindu like mom?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
“I don’t think so.”
Isabelle slid away from her sister, backhanded tears from her eyes, and said, “I thought he wanted to become a Muslim.”
Johnny’s jaw dropped. “Really?”
“Yeah, because he was always talking about these students and how they were like geniuses, and they all had names like Mohammed and Abdul, whatever. He used to make us feel bad because those guys were so smart. I was like, Dad, if you love them so much, why don’t you go hang out at the mosque? Sometimes he didn’t even ask about us. He was just talking about them.”
Johnny shrugged. “Your dad was a great teacher. He was excited about his students. But you guys always came first. Don’t think for a minute you didn’t. He loved you more than anything. You don’t forget that.”
Ivonne and Jada arrived at Johnny’s side, and his pleading look said it all. They took over consoling the girls, while he returned to the chapel and began catching up with more of the guests. The conversations lasted another hour, until the last of them headed off to their cars, leaving Johnny and Elina alone. The utter silence reminded him of diving, of heading down to two atmospheres, then another thirty-four feet to three, then four... the pressure mounting on his shoulder
s.
He walked up to his sister-in-law’s casket and frowned as he studied her dress and hair. They did everything they could to accentuate her beauty, but she still resembled a wax figure. Without planning it, without even thinking about it, he whispered, “He was lucky to have you. I know we didn’t get along at first, but I’m glad we both came around. You didn’t deserve this.”
Johnny walked over to his brother’s casket. At Johnny’s insistence, Daniel’s beard had been trimmed to a quarter inch and his hair cut regulation short. They looked like brothers again, old Army brats, and Johnny found it hard to believe that the shipping box and its contents had ever belonged to this man who shared his blood. Maybe they did not. Maybe someone had grabbed one of Daniel’s empty boxes and hid the materials in his office. But why? To frame him for something? Was someone coming back for the box? Johnny’s head began to throb as a migraine took hold, another byproduct of the stress.
* * *
They were burying Daniel and Reva in the morning, and Johnny was not feeling very well, so he asked to be left alone for the night. Once he, Elina, and his nieces had returned to the house, he took a few aspirins, then sprawled out with the dogs on his living room sofa. He put on the Military Channel, then lifted his phone and scrolled through some photos. He found a picture of Daniel and zoomed in on his brother’s eyes, as though he could find an encrypted message in the mottled brown reflections.
He sat up. He had time. He could drive over to that storage facility in Sneads Ferry. He could do it right now.
Or not. Maybe he should wait until after the funeral. But why? Would that really make a difference? Or was that just another excuse?
Slow down, Marine. If he made any moves, they would be planned, rehearsed, and executed to ensure success. No witnesses, no loose ends of any kind. Swift, silent, deadly.
Elina came in from the kitchen and hunkered down at the edge of the couch. She put a hand on his cheek and whispered, “You’re a good man, Johnny Johansen.”
“Maybe I’m not. Look here, what if one day you woke up, and you found out I was somebody else? I lied about who I was.”
“I don’t know. Why are you asking me that?”