The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  “Fifty!” they chorused, scrambling to their feet with a sense of accomplishment.

  Dylan’s gaze fell to Tobias’s broad chest and the message on his red T-shirt.

  I’D LIKE TO APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE FOR WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY LATER.

  A rusty chuckle scraped up her throat and escaped her parted lips. Catching her eye, he sent her a quick nod, and she realized that was his way of apologizing for his PTSD comment, yesterday.

  “Burpees!” Ashby shouted, reclaiming her attention.

  With muttered curses, the men dropped into a plank position, but Tobias kept them motivated as he called out the count again. Dylan fought to keep her eyes off him.

  His charisma, even more than the skills he could teach them, made him an asset to the militia. Was it possible that he might want to take Terrence’s position?

  Hope for the future, so long absent, pulsed through her bloodstream, keeping her from drifting back into the past.

  “Two miles!” Terrence called as their calisthenics came to an end. He consulted his watch, preparing to time them. “On your mark.”

  Dylan pointed out the running course to Tobias. “Follow the path.”

  “Go!” Terrence pushed a button, and they all took off, Dylan at the lead.

  Down the hill and along the perimeter of the open field she raced, her warmed muscles accommodating her with ease. Dew glimmered like droplets of liquid mercury under the ever-brightening sky. The chilly air nipped at her ears and cheeks. Her hair, caught up in a ponytail, whipped back and forth in rhythm to her graceful strides.

  Running was her refuge. When she ran at top speed, her memories could not keep up, and so she pushed herself to stay ahead of them—free of pain—if only temporarily.

  She could hear her NCOs falling behind, as usual, even though they dared one another to overtake her.

  The running course split at the tree line. A right turn would take her to the firing range, only used on Saturdays. Dylan bore left, running parallel to the forest. Normally, by the first mile marker, she found herself running all alone—in a still, peaceful setting where the drum of her heart and the patter of her feet were her only company. But today, someone was gaining on her fast, and she didn’t have to look back to know who it was.

  Innately competitive, she lengthened her stride.

  But it was no use. By the time she turned uphill in the last half mile to the house, she could hear Tobias gaining on her. With her calves screaming and lungs burning, she gave up the pretense of being able to outrun him.

  He pulled alongside her, shooting her a gamey smile. “Damn, you’re fast,” he huffed.

  The compliment took some of the sting out of being overtaken. He was obviously giving it his best effort. “You run pretty fast yourself.”

  “Used to be a lot faster. This is good for me.”

  There he was, kissing up to her again. “Beat you to the finish,” she tossed out, shifting like an engine into an alternate gear.

  With a muttered curse, he surged forward to meet her challenge.

  Their sawing breaths and pounding feet silenced a twittering cardinal. It lit out from a dogwood tree as they tore up the slow grade to the back of the house. Ashby stood by the willow tree, poised to call out their times.

  Accelerating at the last instant, Dylan defeated her newest NCO by two seconds and beat her personal best record by seven.

  Walking in circles with her hands clasped at the back of her head, she gasped for breath. Tobias doubled over, hands propped on his knees, his chest heaving. He glanced up suddenly, caught her watching him, and grinned. A sense of camaraderie washed through her, sending her into confusion.

  As he turned away, calling encouragement down to Sergeant Lee, Dylan studied him covertly. She liked his enthusiasm, his natural leadership. She liked more than that, only she wasn’t ready to admit it.

  “Come on, brother,” Burke called, encouraging Lee, who tackled the incline with his only arm pumping furiously. Tobias held out his hand for him to slap as he crossed the finish line, well ahead of his colleagues. Sergeant Morrison huffed up the hill twenty seconds later, and Sergeant Ackerman trotted up dead last.

  “Twenty minutes and ten seconds,” Ashby announced on a disgusted note. “That’s pathetic, Sergeant. You’re supposed to beat your last time, not add to it.”

  Ivan Ackerman’s hands balled into fists. Sensing his volatility, Dylan chimed in, “You’ll pick up the pace next time, won’t you, Ivan?”

  “Yeah, sure,” the supply sergeant muttered. “I’m coming down with something.” He hacked up some phlegm, beating his chest to prove it.

  “We’ll all beat our times on the next run.” Tobias Burke’s dancing eyes swung in her direction.

  Dylan frowned at him. How the hell was she supposed to run any faster than she had?

  He countered her dismay with a wink that made her jaw drop. He did not just wink at me. Horrified, she glanced at the others to see if they’d noticed. Thank God, no one had. Next time they were alone, she’d take him to task for his insubordination.

  Or maybe she’d take the high road and let him off the hook as she’d done with Ackerman. In good time, they’d all settle into the roles they were meant to fill.

  At least she hoped that was true, especially for her.

  ***

  An hour later, Dylan climbed into her Chevy Suburban with a travel mug of fresh coffee and drove off in the direction of the Martinsburg Medical Center. Ivan Ackerman went with her.

  “For counseling,” Sergeant Morrison explained as they watched the Suburban disappear. Lt. Ashby had ordered them to paint the front of the house. “Ackerman has more issues than most.”

  Toby turned toward the ladder. “Why, what happened to him?”

  “From what I heard, he was on leave from the service, visiting his family over Christmas. His wife and daughter went shopping at the mall and were killed by a thug who opened fire.”

  Toby stared at him aghast. “No shit.”

  “True story.”

  “Damn.” Dylan had tried telling him not to judge Ackerman too harshly. In Ackerman’s world, predators were everywhere, even at the mall. No wonder he’d joined her militia.

  “Sergeants Morrison and Burke!” Lt. Ashby’s stentorian voice carried easily across the yard. “Get to work.”

  All morning and into the afternoon, Toby stood at the height of a ladder, coating window frames with paint so thick it went on like glue. The sun shone warmly on his back. A lone fly buzzed around his head. On a ladder not too far away from him, Sergeant Morrison rolled the chiffon-colored paint over the scraped old clapboard with desultory sweeps. What Morrison failed to accomplish in work, he made up for in gossip.

  “You know, I used to be a patient over at the veterans hospital,” the artillery expert divulged in the middle of his running monologue.

  Toby glanced over in surprise.

  “I’d been going to Martinsburg for years, trying to find relief from Gulf War Syndrome, which I got in the first Gulf War. You know, bone aches, lethargy, the whole nine yards. I used to pop a dozen different pills a day, and it didn’t make a lick of difference. Matter of fact, I got worse. Started having heart palpitations. Then these black outs would hit me out of nowhere.” He spit a wad of phlegm into the rhododendron below him. “Can’t keep a job when you pass out for no good reason. I used to head up security at a software development company in Kearneysville.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Toby picture Morrison in a blue uniform wearing a gun in a holster that went across his pot belly.

  “Yep. Liked it, too, but I was sicker’n hell, and when I keeled over one night, they fired my ass the next day.” Morrison moved his roller to a new area.

  Toby mumbled his condolences. For a while, they painted in silence.

  “After that, I could see the writing on the wall.” Morrison picked up right where he’d left off. “I applied for disability and couldn’t get it. I was gonna lose everything to Gulf War Syndrome, and
the VA didn’t give a rat’s ass. To hell with it, I thought. Next time I went to the hospital I told them, ‘Give me a new doc who’ll fix me, or I’ll take my complaints to the media.’ That’s the day I met Cap’n Connelly and, if I say so myself, she’s a sight for sore eyes.” He waggled bushy eyebrows at Toby. “She takes one look at my records and turns white as a sheet. I’ll never forget that look on her face.”

  “Why? What was in your records?” Toby prompted.

  Morrison paused for dramatic effect, dragging his roller through the pan of fresh paint. “It was all those pills I was on—experimental drugs. She said I was lucky they hadn’t killed me. She put me through a detox program, and in a week or two I felt like myself again. Except, by then, the bank had taken back my house. When I found myself evicted and jobless, she gave me work and a place to live. Damn fine woman, Cap’n Connelly.” Morrison spat on the bush a second time.

  Toby ground the bristles of his paintbrush into the grooves of the frame. Was it possible to be both a saint and a terrorist? He glanced over at Morrison, who’d lapsed into thoughtful quiet.

  “I take it you were the first one here?” The FBI had neglected to ask these kinds of questions when they interrogated Dylan last month.

  “Oh, no.” Morrison shook his round head. “Cap’n Connelly brought the XO home from the war with her. He was the first man here.”

  “You mean they served together?” How was that possible? Records showed Ashby was a helicopter pilot.

  “Well, yes and no. The XO was an aviator. Used to fly the Cap’n from the Mortuary Affairs Collection Point and back. That was her job—collect the dead from the field, identify ‘em, clean ‘em up as best she could, and ship ‘em home. Used to be called Graves Registration back in my day.”

  “Why do you think she did it?” Toby probed, eager to have his questions answered.

  “Penance,” the former gunny sergeant answered.

  “What?”

  “It’s like this: The only way Cap’n Connelly could afford med school was if Uncle Sam footed the bill. For the cap’n, that was like making a pact with Satan himself. But, hell, it was either that or be stuck with a lifetime of student loans. Still, it bothered her conscience. So to keep from feeling like she’d compromised her beliefs, she volunteered for the worst assignment a physician could get—to command a MACP. In other words, penance.”

  “Sergeant Morrison!” The deep voice bellowing up from ground level nearly startled Toby off his ladder. “Less talk and more work will get the job behind you.”

  Lt. Ashby had caught them gossiping again.

  Gil Morrison rolled his eyes and kept right on layering the same wood he’d been painting for the past half hour. Toby, meanwhile, had finished his last window frame on this side of the house.

  The XO shaded his eyes against the sun and inspected Toby’s work. “Nice job there, Burke. Once you’ve cleaned your brush, march to the head of the driveway and fetch the mail from the box.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you’re free to relax until the briefing. Morrison, you have one hour to go. Work faster.”

  Toby dabbed his last touch of paint on the window frame, climbed down the ladder, and doused his brush in turpentine. Calling Milly, who sat in the yard watching the cat, he headed up the driveway toward the mailbox, glad for an excuse to breathe fresh air instead of paint fumes.

  The gravel crunched under his feet, and the farmhouse fell further behind him. Milly loped along next to him, her mouth wide open, tongue lolling in an unmistakable doggy grin.

  “You like it here, huh?” Toby’s gaze swept the rolling terrain. The gnarled apple trees growing in rows for acres in either direction had just dropped their yield for the season. Rotting apples pebbled the ground for as far as the eye could see. It’s a shame, he thought, to let the harvest go uncollected. But the birds and squirrels sure as hell enjoyed it.

  It was hard enough to envision Dylan training a militia here on this untarnished landscape bathed in autumn hues. He couldn’t wrap his head around her plotting the demise of the Defense Secretary. But given Nolan’s passionate support of Syrian military intervention and Dylan Connelly’s equally virulent articles opposing involvement, she certainly had a motive for wanting him dead.

  An American flag fluttered on the picket fence at the head of the driveway. Toby’s stride broke as he regarded it. Was she a patriot or a terrorist? Her ancestor, John Brown had killed five pro-slavery southerners before raiding Harpers Ferry armory in the hopes of sparking an antislavery insurrection. By modern standards, that would have made him a terrorist. And yet, he was still upheld by many to be a hero for civil rights.

  With a shrug, Toby popped the mailbox open and pulled out a handful of mail. Signaling for Milly to retrace her steps with him, he turned back toward the house, sifting through it as he went.

  There were two envelopes, one containing a bill for the landline phone that NSA had already tapped into and the other containing a letter from the Director of the Martinsburg VA Medical Center. Curiosity tempted him to slit the latter open, read it, and seal it shut again, but postal mail, unopened by the recipient, was inadmissible in court, and Dylan was due home at any moment.

  He strolled back to the house, laid the mail in the command room and dashed up to the attic to swap his paint-splattered T-shirt for a fresh one. Hearing the sounds of Dylan’s return, he headed to the first floor to claim a decent seat in advance of the briefing.

  He had just shut the attic door when Dylan’s voice, carrying from the command room, made him stop in his tracks. Her odd tone and Ashby’s soothing answer prompted him to halt Milly and eavesdrop on the landing.

  “I can’t lead the briefing today.” Dylan’s words, uttered in a shaken voice, reached his ears clearly. “This letter’s giving me a headache.”

  “I’ll take care of the briefing.” By contrast, Lt. Ashby sounded as steady as a rock.

  “I told you the director was too spineless to reprimand Hendrix,” she said bitterly.

  So she’d read the letter from the director, Toby surmised. It sounded like a response to her complaints about her colleague, the one taking bribes from pharmaceutical companies.

  “You were right,” Lt. Ashby agreed.

  “I just can’t accept this!” Fury colored her voice, shortening her syllables. “I refuse to turn a blind eye to his malpractice.”

  “Just calm down,” the XO soothed. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Of course there is. I can stand up to the both of them.” Her footsteps grew louder on the oak flooring as she stalked toward the stairs. “Tell the men I’ve got a migraine,” she pleaded.

  Wiping all expression from his face, Toby released Milly and started down the steps just as Dylan rounded the banister. Her eyes flew wide as she caught sight of him.

  He pretended not to notice. “Afternoon, ma’am.” He stepped to one side, throwing up a salute, which she did not reciprocate. Biting her lower lip, she fled past him without a word. Consumed with curiosity, he watched her disappear into her room.

  Lt. Ashby’s unmistakable tread galvanized Toby into motion. He continued down the stairs, intercepting the XO’s harried look as that man passed him en route to the door. “Have a seat in the command room, Burke,” Ashby muttered. “I’ll be in with the others in a minute.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” He tossed out the question on a whim.

  Ashby froze and swiveled around to face him. “Of course,” he answered with a forced smile. “This happens from time to time.”

  It was just as Toby thought. She was as unstable as a one-legged pirate walking a tightrope. Good thing she had a reliable XO to keep her militia up and running whenever she lost her balance and fell.

  ***

  Dylan rolled onto her back and stared unseeing at the dark ceiling.

  Both her alarm clock and the inky darkness in all three of her windows informed her that she had hours to go before Ackerman blew his horn for reveille. Th
is was what she got for drinking coffee so late in the day. The caffeine kept her brain humming, preventing her from catching up on lost sleep. She inevitably woke up still tired, in need of more coffee. And so the cycle continued.

  Her eyes burned, and she closed them, remembering the dream that had wakened her minutes before. A shiver traced her spine. Was the dream born out of helplessness or was it an omen? She’d been stuck in a hospital room, her arms trapped against her body, wearing a straightjacket. Doctors and nurses streamed in and out, whispering in hushed tones as they examined her, but none of them would answer her questions or speak to her directly.

  There’s been a mistake, she’d tried to tell them. I’m a doctor, not a patient. They’d returned her words with looks of disdain or pity. But no one would acknowledge her statements.

  Then one of the nurses whispered to another, She’s crazy.

  I’m not! Unstrap me and I’ll prove it! She’d struggled to free herself until the one who’d maligned her jabbed a syringe deep into her arm, and Dylan had gasped awake, her heart pounding, her body drenched in sweat.

  It was just a dream, she assured herself, but then the words of the letter from the director flashed into her thoughts, and humiliation boiled in her.

  The letter was real; the dream just a figment of her imagination. A single tear slid from Dylan’s left eye and trickled into her hairline. Maybe I am crazy.

  That was certainly the gist of the director’s message. His words, which she had memorized, spilled over like a toilet backing up.

  I have found no evidence to substantiate your claim of prescription abuse by your colleague. In fact, I am concerned that the spreadsheets and copies you forwarded to my office are, in fact, forgeries. The production of such forgeries is a violation of West Virginia’s Code of Law, Section 46-5-109. In light of your uniformed service to this country, I will abstain from taking legal action against you, provided your allegations desist. I ask with utmost respect that you consider whether your diagnosis of PTSD has left you with unfounded paranoia.