by Davis Bunn
“So. How’s England?”
The box was so tightly enclosed by the mist and the empty night he might as well have been the only person on his side of the Atlantic. One connection linking him to the outside world. One.
“Matt?”
“When I was a kid, I used to dream about seeing Europe. I had a map I put up on the wall of my room. Every time we moved it was the first thing up, the last off. I’d read a book and stick colored thumbtacks where I was going. Take time, really get to know the places. But here I am, running around like crazy and seeing nothing.” He banged his head softly on the glass behind him. “Failed again.”
“You’re not a failure.” She was fully awake now. “You’re really special.”
“A lot of girls have called me a lot of things. But never special.”
“Give me a break.”
“Shallow, impenetrable, invisible, toneless, faceless, emotionless, ice-man . . .”
“Stop.”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Since when do you need a reason?”
“I’ve told you that I never talk about myself, Connie. Never.”
“Maybe you should try, Matt. What would you like to tell me?”
He leaned over slightly, trapped inside a viselike cramp. Not his body. A cramp so deep it clenched his spirit. He tried but could not say the word—everything.
“Matt?”
He straightened in stages. Stared at the glass in front of his face. Watched the home video of past mistakes he was doomed to repeat forever.
“Maybe it would help if I went first. What do you think?” There was a rustling sound, and Matt realized she was sitting up in bed. “I was always drawn by the wrong kind of man. Always after that edge, you know? After that hint of the dark side. I used to tell myself it came just from wanting to make a bad man better. Now . . .”
He knew she wanted him to ask something. Even just repeat her last word and attach a question mark. He opened his mouth. No sound came.
Finally she went on, “Now I build my deck. You’ve got to come over and see what I’m doing out back. It’s pretty nice, Matt. All teak. Charcoal grill, outdoor sink and fridge, even a place for a hammock.”
Another pause, another silent invitation. She turned somber after that. “Probably doesn’t sound like much of a confessional, me building a back porch. But the work means a lot to me, Matt. It’s been my therapy during the bad times. I think better when I’ve got a hammer in my hands. But sometimes . . .”
His fist clenched the phone so hard it bruised his ear, mashed it into his skull. Outside his red metal world the rain streaked the glass and formed soft halos around the only streetlight he could see. He heard the rasping sound of his own breath. Filling the gap between her words.
“Sometimes I worry about losing touch with the human race. Work doesn’t count. I’m talking about normal people and safe things and happy . . .” She stopped to pant in her own quiet way. Then, “You know the worst thing about when Hands accosted me? He was easy about it and he smiled and he talked in this real nice voice. But it was still an attack. And you know what I worried about afterward? That maybe I deserved it. Maybe the life I had, the guys I went after, maybe it has stained me deep where nobody but I can see. Me and guys like Hands.”
They were quiet together now. Connie unable to go on. Matt wishing he had the means to give back. Make it better. Make it right.
Finally she managed to say, “Will you at least think about talking with me, Matt?”
He tore the words out. One shard at a time. “I won’t think about anything else.”
He did not notice them until he opened the phone box door.
The car was parked a half block away. The doors opened together. The mist coalesced into three camo-suited men. The car’s headlights formed a glistening silhouette of their long wooden clubs.
Matt let the booth door swing shut. “Evening, officers.”
“Listen to the guy now.” The tall corporal from the guardhouse porch took center position and did the talking. “Gone all respectful on us.”
The two other men did not speak. The man to Matt’s left was a whistler, a single note that jiggled as he walked, like he was laughing at the same time. The man to Matt’s right was a fireplug, solid and silent. He tapped his club on his leg as he approached. His eyes showed nothing. That one was trouble.
“Wasn’t so respectful this morning, was he.”
They spread out slightly as they approached. They had done this before. Many times.
The tall guard said, “You’re coming with us.”
Matt backed up against the side of the phone booth. He did so to block a rear attack. He spread out his arms as though clenching the metal. The hand holding the rolled umbrella was now around the corner and out of sight. The squat silent man smiled with real pleasure. The man assumed Matt was scared. The man was right.
Matt said, “No.”
The tall guard smiled as well.“I was hoping you’d say that. I really was.”
The whistler started slapping his palm with the stick. The night was empty.
“Here’s the thing,” the guard said. “The major’s heard you’ve visited with a certain judge and a constable. We don’t take lightly to having outsiders come in and stick their noses into business that’s none of their concern. The major’s charged me with making sure you don’t carry the wrong message back to wherever you’ll soon wish you never left.”
Matt recalled the three soldiers standing in the rain and how no car stopped and no pedestrian looked their way. He knew if he screamed no one would hear. Even if they heard, they would not take notice. “Don’t do this.”
“You took the words straight out of my mouth. We can’t have you making trouble for us back in Washington.” The tall guard pointed with his club. “So you’re now under arrest. We’ll hold you long enough for you to confess to whatever charges we decide to lay on. When we’re sure you won’t be causing us any trouble, why, you’re free to go.”
The skinny man whispered something. Or perhaps he just made a sound. Trying to spook the prey.
Matt said, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Too late for that. Seeing as how you’ve done nothing but beg for it since you got here.”
“It was all a complete misunderstanding.” He timed his strike to the last word. He took a single step away from the phone booth. Headed straight at the tall guy. Going for the boss. Moving so fast it caused the tall guard and the skinny one to Matt’s left to hesitate. But not the fireplug. He was a fighter. He closed.
Which was what Matt had hoped for.
The fireplug swung with an economy of motion at Matt’s chest. His staff was two-thirds the length of his arm, the windup just the span from slightly behind his body to where Matt was closing. But he knew his weapon and his own strength. Matt blocked the blow with his umbrella, holding it at the tip and handle. The umbrella buckled.
Matt bent the umbrella around the club, locking it momentarily. His second step was a windup. He swung his entire body around and clouted the fireplug on the side of his head with the heel of his right foot. The squat man spun in a parody of a dance. The club was attached to his wrist by a leather thong, which now kept it from flying away. The umbrella, however, spun away into the night. The black spinning form caused the tall guard to flinch and step back.
Which left the skinny man exposed.
This third man was brave only in a crowd. His eyes widened at Matt’s approach and whatever he saw in Matt’s expression. The guard made a half swing, half stab with his club. Matt moved his upper body back while his feet still closed. He deflected the club with his left forearm. His right he drove straight into the man’s solar plexus. He brought his left arm down in a vicious chop to the point where the guard’s ear met his jaw. The man fell hard.
The fireplug was down on all fours but not out. He shook his head like a wounded bull, waiting for his vision to clear. Matt needed to use this
moment, but could not. The tall guard was going for his radio. Matt closed in two strides, launching himself on the third step. The tall guard raised the hand holding the radio. The side of Matt’s foot caught it hard, sending it spinning out of the guard’s grip. It landed on the pavement and shattered.
Matt heard the huffing breath behind him. Knew the bull was up and taking aim. There was no time to look, and without looking he could not deflect. He collapsed to the ground and rolled.
The bull caught him with a baton swipe to his ribs. Thankfully the squat man’s strength had not fully returned. Even so, Matt felt like his lung had been punctured. He did not try to rise. A thousand sessions in Vic’s dojo had taught him that much. He rolled onto his back and danced hard with his heels, taking the squat man twice in the stomach.
The tall guard cleaved down with his club, wielding it axlike with both hands gripping the handle. If it had made contact, it would have finished him. Matt rolled away, slick now with grass and wet. He bounded to his feet and ran, or started to. But his foot lost traction and he almost went down.
The tall guard’s aim was too high. He lost force re-aiming downward, so the club merely swiped off Matt’s left shoulder. Even so it sent him tumbling once more and numbed him to his wrist. Matt fell into the bullish guard who still held his free hand to his middle, huffing for breath. Matt sensed as much as saw the tall guard coming in for the kill. He gripped the squat guard’s club and brought it around, hand and arm and all.
The tall guard’s blow missed Matt and struck his mate’s arm. The bullish man squealed in pain and rage.
When the squat guard bent over his arm, Matt chopped down once with the blade of his hand to the back of the stubby man’s neck. The guard fell without a sound.
Matt stepped back and to one side. The tall guard was hesitant now. His motions were cautious. He was not used to having his prey fight back. Nor had he expected any real struggle. Now he was alone. And fear was in his eyes.
Matt tensed and waited, weaving steadily back. He clenched and unclenched his left fist, willing his strength to return.
The guard saw the motion and recognized Matt’s weakness. He charged.
But the guard rushed it, and the wet grass was against him. His foot swept right out from under him. He twisted about, flailing for balance.
Matt feinted, as though going for another spin kick. When the tall guard flinched, Matt sprang forward. He put everything he had into a straight-armed jab for the tall man’s forehead. It was a dangerous act, for the forehead was the single hardest portion of a man’s anatomy. It required the same focused power as striking a stone block. But a solid punch rattled the brainpan. Matt felt the blow all the way to his spine.
So did the tall guard.
His eyes glazed over. He collapsed to his knees, then fell facedown into the grass.
This time, when Matt stumbled into the ready room, the young woman looked at him. Really looked.
Which was hardly a surprise. Matt limped slowly. He cradled his left arm. His ribs ached with each breath. He was not breathing hard so much as moaning softly. He was soaked and filthy with dirt and wet grass.
He stopped before the desk. “Can you hide me?”
Understanding lifted her from the desk. “Stafford’s men did this?”
“They tried.” Matt pointed at the door and winced at the motion. “There are three of them out there in the grass.”
Her eyes went round. “You took out three of Stafford’s guys?”
“Temporarily. When they come around, there’ll be trouble.”
She scampered around the desk. “You just come with me.”
Matt hesitated when he saw she was aiming him for the ladies’ restroom. Impatiently she pulled him forward. Inside she tried the door to the janitor’s closet and found it locked. “Use the sink and clean yourself up. I’ll be back quick as I can.”
Matt washed his face. Took a handful of paper towels and did what he could for his trousers and jacket. Glanced in the mirror. Looked away. Used his fingers as a comb. Washed his face a second time.
She came back bearing a steaming mug, two blankets, and a ring of keys. She opened the janitor’s closet, pulled out a wheelie-bucket and a pair of mops. Tossed in the blankets. Handed him the mug. “This should warm you up. Now hide in there.”
“Thanks . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
She shut the door, leaving him in the dark.
Matt settled down on the blankets, leaned his back on the painted concrete wall, sipped his mug.
He had no idea how long he sat like that. Quite a while. Long enough to doze off. He would have thought it impossible. But he did.
Footsteps awoke him. Then he heard the outer door swing open. He scrambled to his feet or tried to. But one leg got trapped by the blankets and he slammed against the closet door. Which mashed both his shoulder and his ribs. Matt groaned and almost went down.
The keys jingled in the lock and the door swung open. The young woman said, “Take it easy, will you?”
“Sorry. I tripped.”
“It’s okay. There’s nobody else around yet. Here.” She handed him a pair of hangers wrapped in plastic. “I raided the cleaners in the officers’ mess. You’ve just become an air force loadmaster. It’s the largest uniform I could find. They won’t be looking for a fed in fatigues.”
Matt accepted the clothes. “I can’t tell you—”
“Don’t you even start. Here’s another coffee.” She handed over the mug. Her eyes appeared clear for the very first time. “The three stayed where you left them until about an hour ago. People were standing about, nobody doing a thing to help. Shame it didn’t last longer. But a patrol spotted the crowd and went for a look. None of the three got up on their own. It was a delight to watch.” She backed out. “Better get yourself ready. Wheels up in fifteen minutes.”
She shut the door. Matt kicked the blankets to one side and stood drinking his coffee. She had dumped in double measures of sugar and fake-cream dust. He downed it like medicine. Then he dressed, testing each movement carefully.
Soon enough the woman was back, this time accompanied by another. “You ready?”
Matt could hear quiet murmurs from the ready room. Sleepy voices getting ready for the day ahead. “Yes.”
“Right. Here’s how it’s going to play.” Her voice was tighter now, softer. “Annie here is running routes this morning. She’s going to walk you out, just another ranks getting special treatment from the staff. You don’t look anybody direct in the eye. Just move fast, straight for planeside.”
Matt recognized the other woman as one of the two soldiers caught inside the guardhouse front room. “Whatever you say.”
“We get so many visitors through here, one more flight officer who can’t find his way to the airfield without help shouldn’t cause any notice at all.” Talking like she was trying to convince herself and her friend. She asked, “Ready?”
Annie held a metal clipboard to her middle. She gave a tremble of a nod.
“Right.” The young woman stepped to the restroom door, scouted quickly, and then said, “Quick march.”
Annie stepped forward. Matt followed close on her heels. He smelled coffee and saw several people clustered around a back table. But he saw no one clearly. Just kept his eyes on Annie and his attention focused on staying upright and not limping.
Annie pushed through the outer door and headed for the tarmac. Matt moved up alongside. “Could we go a little slower?”
She eased up a notch. “You hurt?”
“A little.”
“Almost there.”
The plane was stationed behind a troop transport, white and gleaming in the wet gray dawn. As Matt rounded the larger plane, the jet’s right engine fired into whining life.
Annie halted by the jet’s stairwell and snapped off a salute. When Matt tried to respond, she grinned and said, “You need to work on that.”
“Thanks again.”
She touched
his hand. “You’ve just made best friends with every guard on this base.”
Matt traveled back across the Atlantic in a semidoze. Two of the generals and a colonel joined him for the flight. They gave Matt’s appearance in fatigues a sideways stare, then dismissed him as an apparition of no importance. Matt kept to his seat at the back of the plane, neither awake nor fully asleep. He’d shut his eyes only to jerk upright time and again, drawn by sudden strikes from fatigue-clad enemies appearing in the fog.
Upon arrival at Andrews Air Force Base, Matt made two calls. The first was to Connie Morales. Matt found himself talking with an immensely frustrated cop. Matt tried to pay attention as she described their struggle with Social Services, something about arranging for a prisoner to see his son. How they had finally gone before a federal judge who had reluctantly agreed to personally supervise the meet.
Matt knew it was all very important, though his brain remained locked in low gear.
He made the second call through the base operator. “Baltimore Armory.”
“General Robards, please.”
“Who do I say is calling?”
“Allen Pecard’s . . . Allen Pecard.”
A pause, then, “Mr. Pecard?”
“No, General. Actually, it’s Matt Kelly.”
“One of the fellows who wasn’t here.”
“Yes sir. I’ve just returned from Upper Heyford.”
A pause, then, “You don’t say.”
“Is there some reason why the base police would intentionally give your National Guard divisions a hard time?”
“Is that what’s happening?”
“Sure looked that way to me, sir.”
Robards muffled the phone an instant, then, “We’re talking hypothetical and off the record.”
“This call never happened, sir.”
“If a local contingent wanted to rob the government blind, say, by making items disappear before they could be mothballed and shipped home, what do you suppose they would seek to do?”
“Create havoc among the base personnel.” Matt willed his brain to work harder but came up with a stuttering effort at best. “Lose or intentionally obscure records. Build a reputation for making mistakes with documents and inventory.”