by Nick Adams
“Are there real bad guys here?”
“Sometimes.”
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Frank.”
“Does Frank like kids?”
“For dinner, yeah.”
Her face wrinkled up. “You’re joking.”
“You’re right. Go ahead and pet him. He loves people.”
She wasted no time making friends. She even got Frank to shake and roll over a few times before he realized there were no treats involved in the transaction.
Frank sat down and looked at me as if to say, “What’s the deal with this kid? Doesn’t she know how this works?”
Very shortly Ted returned with his father. He was a younger man. Maybe thirty at most. Tanned and in good shape. Neat hair and maybe six feet tall and around two hundred pounds. He definitely wasn’t a passive couch potato. I could see him evaluating me as he jogged near. A larger man with a large dog, a huge revolver and a claymore sword slung over his back. I could see him taking it all in and not enjoying it in the least.
Before he could speak I took control.
“You need to watch your kids near the water.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, offering no attitude and no resistance.
I didn’t respond. Every now and then people surprise me. I had expected him to be fuming with anger and then have to struggle to control himself once we started talking. But he was cool and composed.
“This is my fault,” he resumed. “I slept in and then I got distracted building the fire and making the coffee. I was sleepy and wasn’t paying attention for a few minutes. But that’s no excuse. All I can say is I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I dumped a bucket of cold water over your kid.”
“He told me.”
“Doesn’t that bother you a little?”
“It did at first, to be honest. But I had a minute to think on my way. I’ve told Ted not to bully his sister, even if she refuses to stop following him around.”
“Everywhere,” Ted mumbled.
“But it sounds like you got his attention.”
I nodded and extended my gloved hand to the man. We shook, and he introduced himself as Theo Tomac.
“After what happened yesterday, I can see why you’d be on edge when you heard Mel screaming.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And as far as the water rules go, I have to be a jerk about it. Finding someone’s kid floating like a bobber isn’t my idea of fun.”
“I understand completely. I’m grateful. And I appreciate what you did yesterday.”
I nodded.
“I didn’t see the incident myself, but I heard all about it. And again, I am sorry Melanie gave you a scare. I’ll speak to her.”
“No harm, no foul,” I said. “Some things, like yesterday, can’t be avoided. But I do my best to be on top of things around here. I’m tough but I’m fair.”
“Yes,” Theo nodded.
“Are you in the military?” I asked.
“Served four years,” he answered. “Army. But I’m out now, thankfully.”
I could tell that he had been involved with some sort of service even without his confirmation. He stood straight, spoke clearly. Looked me in the eye. Obviously he respected authority, just as his children respected it.
I said, “One of my cousins went into the army after high school.” I was referring to Will’s older brother, Peter. “He started in the infantry and then made it into the Rangers. A few years later he moved to the Berets. We haven’t seen much of him since he made selection. Doesn’t like to share much with the family.”
“Probably for the best,” Theo said. “His parents wouldn’t want to know most of those details anyway. Wouldn’t make for a good night’s sleep.”
“I believe it.”
“A lot is asked of those SF guys in the Middle East,” he said. “A lot more than their pay grade reflects. They have to understand the language and lifestyles and mingle with the locals. It’s danger-close around the clock.”
“That whole sandbox looks hopeless to me.”
“It’s no picnic.”
“We have no clue where he is,” I said. “Could be Syria. Could be eastern Europe, gearing up the locals for the next cold war.”
“It’s tough all around,” Theo said.
After a pause I asked, “Did you pay to stay here?”
“Certainly. Two nights for a tent site.”
“We don’t accept money from veterans.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“There’s a sign by the desk when you check in.”
“Well, I’m a civilian now.”
I got out my wallet and started to thumb through my cash. He tried to refuse. I refused his refusal and held out two bills.
“I don’t really like to play the veteran card,” he said.
“It’s our land and our rules. Veterans don’t pay.”
He finally accepted the two twenties and put them in his pocket.
I said, “Feels awkward, right?”
“It does sometimes.”
“Well, then you can understand how I feel when people thank me for stopping a kidnapping. It’s like being applauded for zipping up your fly.”
He laughed quietly. “Interesting way of putting it.”
We spoke for a few more minutes on our way back up to the access road. As with most conversations on war and politics and the armed forces, we resolved nothing, but found that we shared fairly similar worldviews. There was small comfort in the similarity. Which is the most one can realistically hope for regarding matters beyond the reach of individuals.
I walked back to my cabin feeling pleasantly distracted. It was a beautiful morning, and the conversation with Theo Tomac had temporarily taken my mind away from the local bottom feeders I would soon have to confront. The sort of people that offer nothing to society but gladly steal whenever they have the chance.
There was still no word from Kendra when I checked my phone. I sat in my rocker on the porch with a second cup of coffee. Frank took to his usual spot with no coffee. I had just started typing out a text message when something dawned on me.
It was Sunday. My phone’s lock screen confirmed the day and date.
Shit.
Banks were closed until Tuesday. That meant Kendra wouldn’t be able to get a new car until Tuesday at the earliest. Unless she happened to have a big stack of cash hidden away somewhere.
I backed out of the text and checked the time. Just after 7:00. I called her number. It rang four times before going to voicemail. Her message stated cheerily, “If you know me, you’ll know I hate checking voicemail.”
Double Shit.
I texted, Call me ASAP.
Frank was staring at me when I looked up from the phone. Apparently I was putting out bad vibes. My concern was concerning him.
“Relax,” I said.
He did. He knows what it means.
Given my odd employment status, I sometimes get lost within the days of the week. Literally half of those days can pass without me leaving the property. There’s no set time to clock in or out of my responsibilities. I’m not even on call. I’m simply here, melding into my surroundings and my routines. Watching, interacting. Waiting to react. Days blur together. The structure and routines of the world beyond the campground become largely insignificant.
But I couldn’t ignore this.
The way I saw it, there were two options for confronting the Bensons. An all-out blitz, or a more subtle attack. If they called Kendra hoping to cash in on the reward, I could play it cool and simply talk my way into their house and then deal with them from there. It seemed like the safer route, even though it contradicted my generally preferred methods of confronting problems with swift and overwhelming force. I have little experience with formulating and executing intricate plans. The heat of a given moment is where I’ve come to best operate. I’ve had years of practice.
Time was wasting. I couldn’t sit there all morning. So I got
up and got a few things together. Then we got in the van and headed out.
19
Willie wasn’t thrilled to see me in his bedroom. Evidently he’d stayed up half the night playing football and executing imaginary terrorists. There were empty bags of chips and empty soda cans on the TV tray beside his fancy gaming chair.
I clapped my hands and saw his eyes open. His mattress creaked as he started to move.
“Do they make these chairs in super sizes?” I asked.
“Frig you,” he mumbled.
“You’re gonna need one if you keep this up.”
“What do you want?”
“Get up,” I said.
He grunted like a bear as he kicked his feet out from the covers and sat up.
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Late,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“I need your help, big boy.”
Instantly his face lit up. He sat up straighter. He was awake, just like that.
“Yeah? My help?”
“Seriously. Get moving. We’ve got asses to kick.”
For a big guy with a rebuilt knee, Willie can move pretty fast when he’s motivated. He got on some cargo shorts and a sweatshirt and met me in the living room in about thirty seconds. It was just the two of us there. Frank was with my parents, and my aunt and uncle were likely at church. Willie looked hopeful. Excited.
“What’s the plan?” he asked.
“I need you to drive.”
“You mean …”
“I’m going in alone.”
His shoulders slouched a little.
“I need eyes on the outside. If things go bad, you’ll have to come in and get me out.”
“I can do that,” he said.
“I know you can.”
“You don’t wanna get stuck in there.”
“No way. That’s why I need you.”
He nodded sharply.
I said, “You know the old graveyard on the hill overlooking Bow Street?”
“I know there’s one up there, yeah.”
“It has two entries. One from Bow Street, and the other from a little dirt road near the old drive-in theater.”
“I know where you mean.”
“If things get bad, we’ll head out the dirt road and get to the Saulsbury town line in a hurry. I’d rather get pulled over by Uncle Danny than a Franklin cop.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “You got guns?”
I nodded. “You sure you want to get involved in this?”
“Damn right I do.”
“There’s a chance that something could go wrong.”
“Hell with that. Let’s get it done.”
I knew Willie could be trusted. In the sense of family loyalty, certainly. But beyond that he could be counted on to keep his composure in a tense situation. As of late he had been in a rut of depression and junk food, due to the abrupt end of his football dreams. But that wasn’t really him. The flame of his competitive nature was still flickering. The warrior mentality of a star athlete doesn’t fully acknowledge a reconstructed knee until years after the injury, when the arthritis sets in. The compulsion to be a part of a team and to achieve something significant is too deeply ingrained in the athlete to be cast off along with the uniform.
Willie drove my van while I prepared. It gave him something to do, and it really was helpful to me. I had on my black windbreaker. Black gloves. Black Red Sox cap. Black bulletproof vest. The only light color on me was a white painting mask. Not only to hide my face. I hoped it would help soften the blow of the Benson stench. Just recalling it from the night before made me dread entering that place again.
And I had two pistols. My big Smith, for show, and a suppressed Ruger SR22. In all honesty I didn’t think the guns were completely necessary. At least I hoped they weren’t. I viewed them as backup. A security blanket. Just in case I had underestimated the Benson brothers.
I checked my phone again as we crossed the town line. Passed the Welcome to Franklin sign. Still no word from Kendra. I sent her a quick text. Good morning. Then I put the phone on silent and focused on my plan.
Bow Street was quiet when we turned onto it. We noticed a few kids riding skateboards, but overall there were less people walking on the sidewalk and loitering on porches than I’d seen the previous night. It was a quiet Sunday morning. Working people were catching up on their rest. Night owls and partiers were recovering.
Good news for me.
I took a deep breath as we neared the house. Then another. Willie had the van crawling along. Both of us were scanning all around. There were no vehicles in front of the house. Only one parked up in the driveway near the back of the place. That was what I’d hoped to see. There was likely no company to deal with. Just two oblivious idiots.
My plan was simple. Surprise and dominate. That was it. Now all I had to do was execute it.
Elite soldiers are taught that ninety percent of their challenges are psychological rather than physical. The mind determines success or failure, even before any actions take place. Elite athletes are taught the same principles. Professional motocross racers are trained to visualize themselves getting the perfect start to a race. They anticipate the drop of the gate, and see themselves being a wheel ahead entering the first turn. Then a bike length ahead as they exit the first turn. From then on they can forget the competition behind them, leaving them to squabble among themselves for second place. Those who perfect such methods often find themselves successful.
I knew my target and my goal. I could visualize my way into and around the house. I did not know if I would meet resistance. But I planned on it. I visualized the walk from the road and my entry into the house. Breaking the door in if need be. I saw myself operating with the cool efficiency of Jason Bourne. Dispatching resistance with shocking force. Standing over my defeated opponents. Having complete control of the situation. I saw the whole scene panning out smoothly. Easily. Like a winner.
But that’s not to say that I wasn’t a little nervous. On my home turf, it’s much easier to feel unshakable.
“Ready?” Willie asked.
“Yeah,” I said, pulling the mask up over my nose.
“Hundred percent sure?”
“Yes.”
The van was barely rolling.
“Go. Now,” he said.
I stepped out on my toes. Pushed the door lightly and let it shut with forward momentum. My van kept on moving by. I pushed off my toes as the rear bumper passed me and crossed the road in three strides. Went up the driveway at a fast walk. Like I owned the place and had every right to be there. Like a friend stopping by for a visit. I passed a black SUV. Went up the back steps on my toes. Looked in through hazy glass. Saw nothing as I turned the doorknob in my gloved hand. Felt it give. Heard the door creak and saw it open before me. Through the mask I smelled the terrible stench of that filthy house again.
The door closed behind me.
I was in.
20
The place looked no better in the daylight. It didn’t smell any better either, even with the mask. I was alone in the kitchen, in the sense that there were no other people. But there was plenty of shit to see.
There was trash overflowing from a can set against one wall. The formerly white wall behind it was noticeably darker with yellowed stains around the overstuffed can. Old wall paper was peeling from plaster walls. Dirty dishes were piled in and around the sink. There wasn’t a square inch of open counter space. The peeling linoleum floors were yellow. Empty beer cases were piled against one wall, like a collection. The kitchen table had some assorted junk and mail stacked on it, along with an opened box of Frosted Flakes. Tony the tiger would’ve frowned if he could’ve seen his surroundings.
Through the kitchen I saw a face. It was staring back at me from across the living room. Maybe twenty feet separated us. It was a pudgy male face. Big and round and expressionless. Like it was made of marshmallow. Either his hair was buzzed clean or else he was completely hairless
. His entire head seemed to have a uniform color. Like an egg with eyes and a nose and a mouth drawn onto it. No eyebrows to speak of. The rest of him was obscured by the couch. He was looking over his shoulder at me blankly. Beyond him I could see a cartoon playing on the TV.
He didn’t say a word. Just stared at me, chewing.
Not exactly the reception I was expecting. The Jason Bourne assault tactics would have to wait.
It’s not nice to judge people solely by their appearances. But sometimes it just happens. I judged the marshmallow face to belong to the younger brother, Seth. The follower the old woman had spoken of. At a glance he didn’t appear to have much going on between his ears. Which would amply explain why he was a follower.
I adjusted my plan. I had expected a rude welcoming in response to my intrusion. It hadn’t panned out. So within a few seconds I decided to employ physiological tactics. Confusion can be very useful. Even a Jedi uses mind tricks on occasion.
“How’d it go?” I asked, stepping casually into the living room.
“Huh?” he grunted, chewing.
“Treadstone.”
“What?”
“Operation Treadstone. Was your mission a failure or a success?”
The big marshmallow man stood up slowly. It didn’t worry me, because he had both hands on his bowl of cereal, and his expression was consistently blank. He wasn’t afraid or angry. Just dumb and lost. He looked like a giant loaf of white bread stuffed into a pair of track pants and a T-shirt.
I asked, “Did you meet your objective?”
Silence.
“Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
“Do you pack a lunch or take the bus?”
Nothing.
“Seth,” I said. “You’re not helping me here.”
Finally he said, “Who are you?”
“Seth.”
“I’m Seth,” he said.
“I know that. Where’s Jason?”
“Jason?”
“What about Jared? Where’s he?”
“Jared? He’s upstairs.”
“Did he get it?”
“Get what?”
“The files. For Treadstone. Matt Damon sent me.”