by Ryan Parker
“So good to see you, mate.”
“Good to see you, too,” I said.
“Hey, drop the fake American accent for a little while, huh? Loosen up, Finn.” He laughed and we sat down.
I smiled. “Second nature now, you know?”
“What’s that, the accent or your uptight nature?”
“Fuck off, Spencer.”
“Same old Finn,” he said, looking around, as the waitress came out of the kitchen. “Beer, please. Same as my friend here.”
We ate lunch and talked about the old days, such as they were. A decade isn’t really that much time, but when you have lives like ours, it can seem an eternity sometimes.
Spencer and I had become fast friends when training for the mission in Chechnya. He had lost a brother, sister-in-law, and two nieces in the terrorist attack. He’d had a rough go of it early on during the training. We stayed in the same room on nights when the team slept at Wilshire’s farm, and on more than one occasion, I had heard him shouting and thrashing around on his bed. Nightmares.
I’d never had them. Not a single one. I don’t know what to attribute that to.
Spencer had a tendency to take out his anger on the dummy targets on the shooting range, often going out there at night and emptying multiple clips in them. Our trainers said he was just working out his anger. We were all angry, but none of us were as volatile as him.
We were all worried about it fucking up the mission, but he pulled through just fine like the rest of us. And afterward, he changed. He was no longer angry, but from that point forward just determined and dedicated like the rest of us.
Our whole team watched him make the transformation. As the years passed, I had come to think of Spencer’s situation as an act of catharsis for the team. Maybe even more necessary than any of us realized at the time. It refocused the rest of us on discipline, and we pulled him along with us.
Since then, he’d been a damn good operative judging from the periodic reports I would get from his sector of the United States.
Even with the minimal contact we’d had over the years, I had come to know the new him as a happy guy, always ready with the sarcasm and jokes, very easy to get along with. He worked as an independent personal trainer, a job that suited him well.
And as he sat across from me in Savio’s that afternoon, he was just as I’d expected him to be.
I briefed him on what I knew so far about the operation. He filled in some of the holes with last-minute information he had received.
Later, the conversation got more personal than I’d expected.
“Holy fuck, Finn, I’m in love,” he said after we had finished our meal and wrapped up the reminiscing part of our conversation.
“Really,” I said flatly. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. His breezy nature made him so different from me—he dated, for one thing, and he had apparently become part of a tight-knit group of guys where he lived.
He shook his head back and forth. “I can hardly believe it myself. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always thought I’d settle down and start a family. But I wasn’t planning on it now.”
“Pregnant?”
He nodded slowly. “Couldn’t believe it myself, but when the fourth test came back positive, well, there was no denying it. And before you ask, because I know you want to know, we weren’t exactly trying very hard to prevent it.”
“It’s going to change everything for you.”
He knew what I was getting at without my having to say it bluntly. He shrugged, as if he didn’t care. “It’s time to move on from all of this.”
“How much does McDowell know?”
He laughed heartily, throwing his head back. “Fuck McDowell. I’m going straight to Wilshire about it after you and I are done with this one.”
I signaled the waitress and caught her eye. “Another beer, please.” I’d planned on having only one and had switched to Coke as we ate, but I had a craving for a second one. “You know McDowell probably already knows.”
“So what? He hasn’t come to me about it, and I haven’t volunteered anything. Like I said, I’m done after this op, so his time to torment me is running short.”
I almost told him about Rachel right then. I wanted to tell him the situation, and how McDowell had given me an order. But I didn’t want the conversation to open up to an exploration of my private life.
For one thing, I was still slightly suspicious about the possibility that McDowell had planted Spencer with me to dig for more information, maybe even talk me out of continuing things with Rachel.
But more than that, I still had a lot to sort out for myself without input from anyone else, least of all Spencer. His advice to me would have been a form of justification for his own current situation and decision. I didn’t need my thoughts clouded by that.
The waitress stopped at our table and cleared some of the plates. “Separate checks?”
“No,” I said, “I’ll take it.”
She smiled and said she’d be right back with it.
“Thanks, mate,” Spencer said.
“It’s the least I can do, considering you’re going to be buying diapers and baby food and new clothes every year and paying college tuition—”
“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “I know you’re a distant, jaded man, but that’s a bit much, isn’t it? I’d think a little congratulations would do just fine.”
“You’re right. Sorry.” I sipped the last of my second beer. “And congratulations, of course.” I held my glass up and he raised his. We toasted, and I was even more relieved that I hadn’t reversed course and told him about Rachel.
“I’m serious, Finn. You’re too cynical, too isolated. There’s no woman in your life?”
“No,” I lied.
“See, that’s your problem right there. And I’m not just talking about getting some pussy, either. I’m talking companionship, trust, love. Three things you’ve denied yourself for over a decade now.”
He was right, of course. I had deliberately deprived myself of those things. While I always told myself that such denial was all a matter of security because of my job, there were times when I felt the truth pushing through a little, telling me that I was depriving myself of relationships as a matter of personal, psychological security. You can’t lose what you don’t have.
I leaned forward, placing my elbows on the table. Lowering my voice, I said, “You live your life, I’ll live mine.”
He raised his hands, palms out. “Fine, fine. Just trying to help.”
“You can mail me your bill, Dr. Spencer.”
Spencer laughed. “This session is on the house. But okay, let’s forget the personal stuff. All business from here on out. Deal?”
I nodded. “Let me pay the bill and let’s get the fuck out of here. We have work to do.”
Chapter Ten (Rachel)
By mid-afternoon on Thursday, I needed to vent. Not seeing Finn was frustrating, but not even hearing from him on our usual timetable was even worse. When work slowed down a little, I said to Tara, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I know I’ve been a little short with you the last couple of days. And, seriously, the lake house idea sounds great. It does. It’s just that right now, I have so much on my mind.”
We had cleared most of the bins. Only a few remained, and they were not even half full. Tara turned off the conveyer belt. “What’s the matter? Anything you want to talk about?”
She knew so little about my life. She only knew that I kept to myself a lot, and that I had very little experience with men.
“Have you ever told a guy you love him before he tells you?”
Her eyes got wide behind the large plastic goggles. “Um, yeah, once. But back the truck up here, honey. What the hell is really going on with you two? Is it that serious?”
“I almost said it the other night. I think he was about to as well. Actually, I think he was saying it, just…not in so many words.”
I would have felt
ridiculous talking to anyone else about this. I was twenty-six years old, feeling like I was sixteen. But Tara had never judged me.
She waved her hand and made a sound like Pffft, then said, “You mean a guy not saying what he’s feeling? Breaking news. I’ll call the media.”
I laughed, needing it badly.
“So,” she continued, “it really is that serious. That’s awesome. But yeah, I don’t know about saying it first. I mean, if you want to and it just happens, then it just happens. But I’d wait for him to say it.”
“Didn’t work out when you did it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It was during sex. Big mistake. But after that, he got really distant and I think I saw him two or three more times and all we did was have sex. Then he disappeared. Poof. Whatever.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I liked him a lot, but honestly we weren’t meant to be. We didn’t like the same kind of movies and not much of the same music. And he liked to watch sports all the time, even baseball, which is more boring than anything in the world.”
“But you liked him a lot, maybe even loved him?”
“At the time,” she said, “yeah, I thought so. That’s what it felt like, anyway. But honestly, I think it was just because the sex was so good. He’s still in my Top Five.”
Finn and I had so much more than that. The sex was amazing, no doubt, but it certainly wasn’t the center of our relationship. It might have been in the beginning, but so much had changed in such a short time. The history we had—all the emails over a six month period—provided us with a good foundation, and it only grew more from there once we finally met.
“I’d wait,” Tara said. “He’s not going anywhere, right? You have all kinds of time. Plus, if he was hinting at it the other night, he’ll say it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You know what you need?” she said. “You need a drink, some lights, some loud music… And before you answer, you should know that I’m going to ask every day this week until you say yes.”
I smiled as I thought about Finn urging me to go out and have fun. “Okay, you win.”
. . . . .
After work, we went to an Irish tavern called O’Malley’s.
“The name is a little corny,” Tara said. “I mean, as long as I’ve been coming here, I’ve never heard anyone mention that last name. Like an owner or anything. And I’m not just saying that because I’m of Irish descent and I feel offended. I don’t. I’m just saying they should have gone all out and called it something like Lucky Charms Blarney Stone Irish Spring.”
We were walking down the sidewalk as she chattered away. It was a good distraction for the evening, and she was the closest thing I had to a friend. No, she was my friend.
“Maybe you should tell someone that,” I said, grinning at her.
She stopped at the front door and pulled it open. “I’ll put it in the suggestion box. With your name on it.”
We sat at a bar table, both of us drinking from big glasses that contained a thick, dark lager.
“So, what do you normally do after work at night?” she asked.
“Go home, eat, read…” Damn, that sounded boring and pathetic when I said it out loud.
“And see Mr. Mysterious,” she said.
“Right. Oh, I also volunteer at a no-kill dog shelter.”
She didn’t seemed moved by that at all. In fact, she totally dismissed it. I wasn’t looking for recognition or a pat on the back, but still I thought it was one of the more interesting parts of my life. Aside from Finn, of course.
She took out her phone. “Did I tell you they said I had to buy a new one? Remember how it wasn’t getting texts and I couldn’t send any, either?”
I had forgotten, but remembered now as she reminded me. “Yeah.”
“Hate this fucking thing. And it’s just barely over a year old. Ugh. Anyway, see, I was talking to this guy I met…I don’t know, like two weeks ago. Did I tell you?”
I was glad to be talking about something other than me. “You didn’t, but I want to hear all about him.”
She told me the story of meeting the guy on the metro. She’d dropped her phone—that’s when she thinks something happened to it—and he picked it up and handed it to her.
“That’s how we got to talking. When we got to his stop, he said I should call him sometime. I would have given him my number, but whatever. So he tells me his name—Trent—and gives me his number. I put it in my contacts. But I can’t text him or call him and I haven’t seen him on the train since. Doesn’t that suck?”
She was so much bolder than I could have imagined myself being just a few months ago. The chance meeting on a train like that was cute. It stood in stark contrast to the way Finn and I had met, which made me think of the only reason we ended up meeting in person. It was that email that I had sent, suggesting that we meet. I had come so far. All because of Finn.
The rest of the night went much like that—conversation, laughter, and all of it making me think of him. Wondering what he was doing. Worrying about his safety. And the occasional tug of fear reminding me of the very real possibility that something could go wrong and I’d never see him again.
Tara spoke, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Oh, did I tell you about what they’re starting next week?”
“At work?”
“Yeah,” she said, stuffing a napkin into her glass. “Random lie detector tests. Some new beefed up security bullshit.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t have if I wanted to. My arms and legs tingled with a wave of trepidation and my throat went suddenly dry. Finn and I had just discussed this very thing, and now it was happening.
. . . . .
I texted Finn later that night after I got home, changed, and slipped into bed: I need to talk to you ASAP. Wish you were here.
Thirty minutes passed. An hour. Two hours. I called and it went straight to his voicemail. I left him a quick message, asking him to text me back when he had a minute, and that I just wanted to hear from him.
He didn’t text or call back. I barely got any sleep that night.
Chapter Eleven (Finn)
Spencer and I spent all day Wednesday and Thursday running surveillance on the house. We had rented a white van and he had brought along magnets to put on each side of it that read “Bluewave Satellite Installation” complete with a fake phone number. A ladder was fastened to the roof of the van.
It was the perfect cover. Nobody was going to talk to us because nobody wants to face the onslaught of an independent contractor’s sales pitch regarding television service. They’d go out of their way to avoid us.
All of the intelligence we’d received was panning out, until we discovered that this cell wasn’t staying in one house, but two. The second one was about two miles away, so we split up.
Spencer took the second place, I took the first. There was more action at my scene. It was definitely the place where they gathered to meet and plan and bang prostitutes.
Early on Wednesday morning, Spencer had driven over and covered me while I slipped into the house and placed four microphones around the place, as well as cameras in the den, and in two of the bedrooms.
We monitored the terrorists’ activities on my laptop in the van.
“It’s like a goddamn porno,” Spencer had said at one point, referring to the revolving door of prostitutes they were bringing in and out of the place at all hours of the night. “These guys are so devout, huh? So pious and righteously devoted to their God.”
“Remember the 9/11 hijackers,” I had said. “They spent a lot of time in strip clubs in the days leading up to the attacks. So, yeah, they’re devout…when it suits them.”
A stakeout can be rather boring most of the time, especially when you’re doing it alone. But this time I had a partner. We spent a good amount of time talking on our pre-paid cell phones. Mostly it was Spencer talking about Stephanie, the woman in his life, which eventually turne
d once again into a lecture on how I’d been living my own life.
“You don’t know what you’re missing, Finn, let me tell you.”
I held the phone away from my ear, rolling my eyes. His gushing over his newfound love was starting to sound like platitudes. I knew the guy was sincere, but he was laying it on a bit thick.
“Don’t you ever wonder what will happen once you’re, say, fifty?” he asked. “You can’t go on your whole life fucking random women. When you’re that old, the hot ones aren’t going to fuck you, Finny. You’re going to have to pay them to do it.” He laughed.
“I’d never pay for it,” I said.
“That’s what you say now, but when you’re older you won’t have a choice.”
“Is there a point to this?” I asked, reaching over to the passenger seat and opening a pack of almonds.
“The point is this: You need to find a woman and start to get your life back.”
I was getting tired of hearing his take on my life. He had it so wrong, and only because I hadn’t corrected him. He had no idea what was going on with me. I had held off for a couple of days until my suspicion about his being here dwindled down to nothing. There was no way McDowell had sent him here to sabotage my relationship with Rachel.
So I told him.
“There is a woman, Spencer.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Then, “Bullshit, mate. You’re telling me that to shut me up. I know you better than—”
“You don’t know me,” I said, cutting him off. “You know what I’ve wanted you to know.”
“Ah ha, so it is true. I may not know the details of your life, but I do know that tone. So who is she?”
I gave him only the basics—how we met, how we finally actually met in person, how much time we’d been spending together, and most importantly, just her first name.
It was late afternoon, going on toward four o’clock. The neighborhood had been bustling an hour earlier with the arrival of several school buses. Parents waited on street corners. Kids got off the buses and ran, their too-large backpacks weighing them down. A couple of young boys had started tossing a plastic football. All of that had cleared up inside of five or so minutes, as I told him about Rachel, and the neighborhood had quieted down once again.