Darren glanced up at the impressively built women flashing in and out of existence on his computer screen. Some women - every one of them, in fact - that he saw flash by were merely representatives of binary numerals, like 100101110100111010011100111, and the merest adjustment to that number stream, say, changing the second zero to a one, could make the photo out of focus. Or blur it completely. One switch of a digit could turn something originally designed to arouse men into a frustrating blend of colors and static.
He looked away from the screen. The unfilled puzzle was still in his lap. He remembered his boss’s orders. Take the day off. We need you fresh.
True enough.
Darren picked up his pen and went to work. Now. Who in hell had been the female lead in the Broadway premiere of South Pacific?
~ * ~
Brian Doyle spent part of his day off heading out to a small park near Greenbelt that looked like it hadn’t been maintained since it had originally been slapped together. The park memorialized some cavalry unit from Maryland that had fought for the Union during the Civil War and save for a few benches and a statue of a man on a horse there wasn’t much to the place. Late-night drinking and sex bouts by local high-school students were probably the main recreational activities. Brian pulled into the gravel parking lot, noting with satisfaction that the place seemed empty. Good. That suited him well.
He got out of the Lexus, went to the rear door and took out a heavy black box with a handle in the center. He walked past the statue, down to a grassy field that overlooked a stream. The grass was ankle high but that didn’t bother him. It seemed to be a good day. He put the box down on the grass, looked around. No picnickers, no witnesses. Brian remembered how, some years ago, in a similar park, the body of the White House counsel had been found, an apparent suicide. Now that had been a time, and an eight-year vacation from reality. All that spilled ink and recorded news tape about a pudgy intern and a lecherous president, leading to an impeachment and an incredible waste of media energy and resources.
So. Nobody had asked his opinion about it. All he knew was that Adrianna was correct. While most folk were focused on the trivial, serious men with serious grievances were preparing to do the American people harm. And were continuing their preparations.
Brian kneeled down in the grass, undid two brass snaplocks and opened up the cover of the box. There, nestled inside and folded, was a set of Highland bagpipes. He took the ungainly tangle of pipes out and stood up. The ebony finish of the tubes was shiny in the sunlight, and he tossed the three drones over his left shoulder, placed the mouthpiece between his lips, and began inflating the bag. As the bag came to life, he recalled the brief and unsatisfactory conversation he’d had with his son Thomas that morning. He had asked questions about school, about Thomas’s friends, about his pitching status on his school baseball team, and most of the answers he received had been the same grunts or ‘Yeps’. About the only time Thomas had been anything like himself was when he’d asked the last question he always asked: ‘Dad, when are you coming home?’
Good question. A damn good question, one that Marcy always asked in that acid tone that shot right through him. ‘What kind of father are you, spending so much time on the road?’ she would always say. ‘What in hell are you doing to your son?’
Brian closed his eyes, felt the leather bag inflate under his left arm. He fingered the chanter with both hands, squeezed the bag, heard the drones - one bass, two tenor — explode with that steady tone, and a second later the chanter squealed into life. He dipped his left knee, slid right into ‘The Heights of Vittoria’, a good tune celebrating a British battle in Italy during the Second World War. From ‘The Heights of Vittoria’ he went into ‘The 42nd Black Watch Regiment Crossing the Rhine’ and then to something more cheerful, ‘Highland Laddie’. The tone and depth of the music cut right through him. He played for a while, letting the music relax him, playing the tunes he loved, which most certainly did not include what he thought were the two most overplayed bagpipe tunes of all time, ‘Amazing Grace’ and ‘Scotland the Brave’. Brian had taken up the bagpipes, just like Dad, after joining the force, and he had become a member of the NYPD’s bagpipe band, playing at functions throughout the city, from ribbon cuttings to parades to funerals .. .
God, especially funerals. As he went into a slow march -’Skye Boat Song’ - Brian remembered that dreary fall in 2001, playing at funeral after funeral all over the city. Save for one, that of his father, and he never quite forgave himself for one thing: the tears. He had shed plenty of tears for his fallen brothers in the police department, as well as for the firefighters, EMTs and Port Authority cops. But for one funeral he had remained stone-faced and silent - for his own father’s.
And what kind of son was he, that he would not cry at his father’s funeral?
Brian opened his eyes, played another march, ‘Johnny Cope, Are Ye Walkin’ Yet?’ and tapped his left foot in time with the music, thinking about the pipes themselves, how he hadn’t wanted to pick them up, but now he was enjoying both the music and the history. The history, of course, was of war, for the Highland pipes were known for inspiring Scottish fighters and frightening their foes. Killers in kilts, the Scots soldiers were called, and Brian wondered briefly if the pipes had been played by the British troops a couple of years back when they took Basra from Saddam’s forces.
There. He sensed something, spun around.
A man was standing there with a woman and two children. Holding on to their mother’s hands. Boy and girl. All were dressed for a day off, maybe a drive in the country, a picnic in a deserted park. The man seemed apologetic.
‘Sorry to disturb you, but. . . well, we were enjoying your playing.’
Brian smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘And I was wondering…would you mind playing something for my kids?’
‘Sure. What would it be?’
The guy grinned. ‘My favorite. “Amazing Grace”.’
Ugh, Brian thought. He was going to say something short and sharp - like ‘I’ve never heard of it’ - and then he looked at the eager and expectant faces of the man’s children. Thought about Final Winter. Thought about these kids, coughing and wheezing, being brought to an overwhelmed emergency room by their terrified parents. Or maybe even worse...this boy and girl, alive and well, but trying to wake up mommy and daddy in their bed, mommy and daddy who had been so sick and now seemed to be sleeping, but they had been sleeping so long and their skin was so cold . . .
Brian rubbed at his dry lips. ‘Sure. “Amazing Grace”. Coming right up.’
And he played for the man and his wife and his children, all still alive on this glorious spring day in the United States.
~ * ~
Adrianna Scott looked at herself in the mirror, didn’t like what she saw, and didn’t particularly care. Her face was made up more than she was used to, really highlighting her eyes and her lips. Her aunt would say that she looked whorish and, for once, Auntie would have been right. Adrianna stepped back, looked at the crop-top white tank top that she was wearing, with no bra underneath. Her nipples were showing through fine and clear, and her brown tummy was nice and flat. She supposed that maybe she should have had her navel pierced - some guys seemed to get off on that - but that was too drastic, and besides, her time was short. She spun around, examined the tight white slacks she had on. Underneath she was wearing a tiny bright pink thong and the colored fabric could be seen clearly through the white of her slacks. Perfect. Hot and slutty. Just like she wanted.
She walked out into her apartment, saw up on the mantel the photograph of her and Auntie that Brian Doyle had been admiring the other night. That had been close. She touched the thick frame and then went to the closet, put on a knee-length light green coat, and left the house, carrying her heavy purse in one hand. She got into her car, backed out of her lot, and went to the new Summergate Mall, about a twenty-minute drive from her condo. She checked the time when she got to the mall and drove into the underground garage
. Time for once was on her side, and she left the car and strode quickly into the mall, looking like any one of the hundreds of women packed in there tonight.
A good night, a good night for shopping. But Adrianna didn’t plan to buy a damn thing.
Instead, she relied on her training from her early CIA days at Camp Perry - also known as The Farm - where basic tradecraft was taught, everything from using mail drops to shaking a tail, which helped her feel completely confident, an hour later, as she drove away from the underground parking garage in a stolen Chrysler minivan, that she wasn’t being followed at all.
Adrianna allowed herself to feel a quiet tingle of excitement. Her day off was proceeding just as planned.
~ * ~
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Adrianna Scott drove west for almost an hour, going over the state line into Virginia. As each mile slid on by a little voice insistently whispered at her, saying that she really didn’t have to go out here tonight, that it was too disgusting and too dangerous, picking up strange men like that. She let the little voice drone on. Sure, it would be easy to turn around and drive back - hell, she might be able to get the minivan back to the mall parking garage before it was even missed - and go home and just have a glass of wine and try to unwind.
But the little voice, while it could be heard, was certainly going to be ignored. The next few weeks were going to be hell indeed, and Adrianna needed this break tonight, needed it bad, and there was nothing that was going to stop her. Her mouth was dry and her tummy was fluttering with excitement, and she wondered if this was what gambling addicts or drug addicts or Internet sex addicts felt like, just before scoring whatever it was that they needed to soothe their frayed nerves and jumpy imaginations.
Maybe so.
But tonight would be the last one. Honest.
Sure, the voice said, just like the one in New Jersey, three months ago. That was supposed to be the last one, right?
Right.
Now Adrianna was off the highway, navigating narrow state roads, heading to her target. She had scoped it out weeks before, and was confident that it would suit her needs. There. Up ahead. There were neon lights there, red, white and blue, marking a local VFW hall. It was a two-story wooden building, white, with darkened windows. Pickup trucks and other vehicles were parked in the gravel lot. She drove into the lot, found a place to park the minivan so that it wouldn’t be spotted from the street, and stepped out into the cool dusk. She shivered. She knew what she had to do. There was no turning back.
Adrianna walked up to the entrance, teetering a bit on the black high heels she was wearing, carrying her heavy purse in one hand.
~ * ~
Inside the place was dark and smoky, a jukebox in one corner playing a country and western tune. The bar was a square structure in the center, surrounded by tables and chairs, and off to one side was a polished wooden dance floor. The place was about half filled, more men than women, and Adrianna sat down in the corner at an empty table. There was a candle in the center of her table, unlit. She looked around, took in the atmosphere of the place. There were framed items on the wall, old Second World War recruiting posters and photographs of tanks, aircraft and ships. There were flags and banners as well, along with the usual bumper stickers plastered along the side of the bar:
9/11: Never Forgive, Never Forget.
United We Stand.
These Colors Don’t Run.
Adrianna had to hide a smirk. Imperialism through bumper stickers.
A waitress, a sagging middle-aged woman, came over, wearing jeans and an old gray sweat shirt. Over the sound of the twanging guitars, Adrianna ordered a Budweiser - and then, slipping the waitress a folded-over ten-dollar bill, she ordered something else.
The waitress stood up, her expression shocked. ‘Tell me again what you want?’
Adrianna repeated her order. The waitress looked at the folded bill in her hand and said, ‘Well, I suppose Henry would fit the bill. He’s single, not bad-looking, but I tell you…he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean.’
Adrianna sipped from her beer. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
The waitress left and Adrianna sipped the cold brew again, wishing she had ordered something different. But in this place, she reckoned, she’d be lucky if imported beer meant a Coors from Colorado. It was warm sitting there, her long coat over the few clothes she was wearing underneath, but she left it on. She was making an impression, no doubt about it, but she didn’t want to cause such a big stir that a lot of people would remember her later.
There.
A man was coming over, a glass of beer in one hand, a pool stick in the other. She judged him to be in his late forties, close-trimmed beard - which was fortunate, since she liked men with beards, Brian Doyle notwithstanding - and had on khaki slacks and a red flannel shirt. There was a bit of a beer belly developing but, thankfully, there wasn’t a heavy gut. The man grinned and she was relieved again to see that he seemed to have good teeth. This night was turning out to be fortunate indeed.
‘The name’s Henry Spooner,’ he said. ‘Are you really looking for me?’
She looked up at him coyly. ‘My name is Adrianna, and yes, I really was looking for you. Or somebody like you.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Please,’ she said, motioning to a chair, ‘do sit down.’ And of course, as she motioned to the chair, she let the coat slip open so that the white tank top was revealed in all its braless glory, and Henry definitely caught a good glimpse as he sat down. His grin was wider and he said, ‘Karen told me that there was a pretty girl sitting here by herself, looking to meet a single man. A vet who’d served in the Gulf. Was she right?’
‘Yes, she was,’ Adrianna said, gently running a finger around the tip of the beer bottle. ‘But you served in the first Gulf War, am I right? Back in 1991?’
He nodded. ‘That’s a big affirm, lady. Gulf War One, which would have been the last Gulf War, if Daddy Bush had had any balls.’
‘And what did you do when you were there?’
A satisfied smile. ‘Gunner on an M-1A Abrams Tank, First Army Division, Big Red One.’
Adrianna made a point of licking her full lips. ‘Really? That sounds so fascinating…and dangerous.’
A manly shrug. ‘We did what we had to do, that’s all.’
‘Did you...did you kill many Iraqis?’
Another manly shrug. ‘Some. It was real easy for us, in the M-1A. Called it a turkey shoot. Our thermal imaging could spot a T-72 out there, hundreds of meters before they knew we were even coming after them...sometimes you’d get a T-72 popped and we’d have crispy critters out there, smokin’. . .’
She reached out and gently touched his left wrist. ‘Thank you...thank you for your service.’
His smile was still there but she sensed he was suspicious and she was right - thank you, Camp Perry training - and he said, ‘So. Why are you asking me all these questions? Something wrong?’
Adrianna shook her head. ‘Not at all. You see...my uncle, he was in the Army as well. Served in the Gulf. He was a driver on one of those armored vehicles — the ones that carry troops - what’re they called?’
‘Bradley Fighting Vehicles.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s the one,’ she said, sitting up straighter, making sure that her chest was nice and prominent. ‘He served there as well, and was seriously hurt.’
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that.’
Sure, Adrianna thought, sorry that I’m not flashing you my naked boobs, that’s what you’re sorry about. Aloud she said, ‘Oh, he survived. Somehow an anti-tank round hit his vehicle, damaged it severely. He was trapped inside and would have died, except another soldier, from another unit, pulled him out and saved him. My uncle never knew his name.’
Henry said, ‘Well, sorry to disappoint you, miss, but that wasn’t me. Never did see anything like that, though it sure did happen in other sectors over there.’
Adrianna touched his wrist again.
‘I’m sorry, you don’t understand. You see, my uncle died last year, and he was upset that he had this debt, this obligation, that had never been paid off. That somewhere out there was an Army trooper who had saved his life, and he’d never got a chance to thank him personally. And before he died, so he could get some peace, I told him that I’d go out and find this man, and I would thank him. I travel a lot on business, and I knew I would have an opportunity to find him, whoever he was.’
Final Winter Page 14