Michael frowned.
“Helicopter accident,” he let out slowly. Memories leapt unbidden into his mind, vivid as the daylight around him. Teeth. Sinew. That glowing yellow nose. He forced them down, but he couldn’t keep the look off his face.
“Ah,” Covington answered, sensing the delicacy of the subject. “Come back by for another visit when you have more time and tell me about it.”
The younger man met his eyes and nodded. He supposed he had to tell someone. Who better than Jim Covington?
“I will. I promise.” They shook on it, and then Michael reached for the door to his car.
“Hold on,” James told him, reaching into his pocket. He pressed a button on the chain. One of the three doors on the larger garage bay opened. “You took off so fast I couldn’t deliver your wedding present.” He tossed Michael a key chain.
“That’s because we never had the wedding.”
“I wasn’t taking this one back.”
As the door rose Michael recognized the car at once. The deep metallic gray body of the 2002 Porsche 911 Carrera Turbo gleamed in the morning sunlight. Once, Michael had dreamed about that model car, lusted after it almost as much as the girls he used to chase.
“I can’t accept this,” he said, preparing to return the keys. Covington turned his back before he could throw them.
“Too late,” he replied, striding toward the house. “The car’s already in your name. Insurance is taken care of. Whenever you want it, it’ll be there.”
“Wait – how’d you put it in my name? I never signed anything.”
The older man flashed an enigmatic grin.
“You can do all kinds of things you’re not supposed to when you’re filthy rich,” he answered, before turning back to the house. He called back over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Michael. And keep in touch.”
“I will.”
Michael gazed longingly at the Porsche for a long moment. Visions of racing it down the back roads of Georgia flitted through his head. He grinned. Then he frowned and shook his head, glad he hadn’t gotten the car years earlier. He probably would have crashed it on the first drive.
Eventually, he pressed the button on his new key chain and closed the garage door. A moment later, he drove his beat up Subaru down the long driveway of the Covington estate, thanking God for air conditioning.
Chapter Two
Stopping at Katie’s grave had been a mistake. Perhaps he should have gone down the day before or waited until the weekend. Then again, he’d wanted an excuse to leave. He might need to have that conversation with Jim Covington, but he wasn’t ready. And he definitely wasn’t ready to face Abigail. He’d keep his promise to James... but not just yet.
He had greatly underestimated campus traffic. Located in downtown Athens, the University of Georgia played home to some thirty five thousand students and more than two thousand faculty and staff. Michael felt certain that every single one of them crowded the roads right that moment.
Michael concluded that the average pedestrian had about as much brains as a squirrel, darting in front of cars carelessly and seemingly at random. No mere human would survive a close up fight with his three thousand pound sedan. Nevertheless, they simply waltzed into traffic as if they owned the road, expecting all of the cars to stop on a dime.
He should have brought the Porsche after all. True, it wouldn’t help him much in this traffic. But he’d have gotten here much sooner. Maybe this jock moseying in front of him would hurry a little if heard that deep sports car growl. Michael wondered if he could plead justifiable homicide for running him over.
His parking spot left him with a bit of a walk. With noon rapidly approaching, the temperature had risen from merely unbearable to downright torturous. He found himself sweating like a pig, ready for another shower.
The heat did bring one upside, however. He couldn’t complain about the college girls in short shorts and tank tops. UGA’s student body definitely had, well, nice bodies. Maybe school wouldn’t be all bad.
A familiar nervous energy filled him. He’d experienced the same feeling before missions in Afghanistan. He hadn’t expected it here, but he found it strangely comforting. He knew from experience that adrenaline could do strange things to you. No doubt his nerves would steady after the battle... er, classes... began.
Despite his hurry, he stopped at the massive brick square and waited for traffic to clear. Twenty minutes earlier he’d been cursing at the pedestrians crossing this same street without looking. Now that he had to cross it himself, he had a bit more sympathy. Traffic proved even more nightmarish from this vantage than it had from the air-conditioned comfort of his Subaru.
He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. It took him a moment to process it. When he realized that the dark skinned, wild-eyed man had just stepped into traffic, he shook his head in amusement. He knew that traffic would stop.
Only the oncoming bus didn’t stop. The driver stared the man down, as if trying to will him out of the way. The jaywalker paid no attention to the traffic, Michael realized. He danced, right in the middle of the square. He glanced at the bus driver again. Nineteen, maybe twenty, the kid just wasn’t going to back down.
Michael exploded into motion. Agony shot down his hip, through his knee, and along his leg. He ignored it and pushed harder. The bus closed in on them. He ignored that, too, as his shoulder slammed into the wiry man. He wrapped his arms around the dancer’s waist, lifted and pushed. Two more steps almost cleared the lane. He exited with a roll, bruising his shoulder hitting the hard cement sidewalk.
The bus squealed to a halt. The students around him let out a cheer. The dancing man brushed himself off and rose. Michael lay on the sidewalk and groaned.
“You are late, Sergeant!” the black man informed him in an imperious voice.
Michael stared up at him in disbelief, finally getting a good look at the man. Gray hair hung in a mop over an aged face, wild and dirty. Threadbare, olive drab pants hung loose from his skinny legs. The patches on his long brown jacket had holes. Some of those holes had patches of their own. His shirt had been white once, but probably not in Michael’s lifetime. Warts covered his bare and gnarled feet. Wide, wild eyes darted everywhere.
“Um, you’re welcome?” he responded tentatively.
“Then I thank you,” the man continued in the same imperious tone, “for I am seldom welcome anywhere. I have received a message for you!”
The old man stopped and closed his mouth, ran a hand through his hair, and then knelt down to help Michael up. When he spoke again his voice had changed substantially. The confidence fled his voice, and the volume dropped.
“The thing is, I don’t remember it,” he whispered sheepishly into Michael’s ear.
The bus driver stepped out of the vehicle and began shouting at the man. His confidence quickly returned and he yelled right back at the driver. A police siren bleeped twice as a patrol car pulled off the road behind the bus, lights flashing. An Athens-Clarke County Police officer stepped out of the vehicle.
“Jeremiah Ezekiel Elijah Jones,” came the friendly voice. The smile behind it carried a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Clearly the officer knew Jeremiah well. “You’ve caused quite the mess, my friend.”
“I am on a mission from The Lord,” Jeremiah boomed once more in his imperious voice. “Do not hinder me!”
He turned to face Michael and whispered again.
“They’re not really vamp... no, wait. That’s later.” His brow creased in thought, unsure of himself. “Or is it earlier?” The officer cuffed him and led him away.
“Come on, Jeremiah. Let’s head down to the station for a rest.”
“The Lord has provided for me again!” Jeremiah called out, as the officer led him to the rear of the patrol car. “A warm bed and a hot meal call to me!” Revelation passed over his face as he said it. “It’s not for you, Michael! That’s the message! It is not for you! It’s for –” but the officer closed the do
or on him gently before he could finish.
Michael stared after the patrol car as it pulled away, unsure what to make of the crazy man. What wasn’t for him? He shook his head. He knew better than to credit the ravings of a deranged hobo. Yet it occurred to him that he’d never told the man either his name or his rank.
A quick glance at his watch informed him that his time had run out. He set off at a hard run, once again ignoring the pains in his leg. He’d sit and rest once he reached the classroom. He fought his way up the final hill. His knee and hip ached by the time he made it to the English building. Despite the rehab, physical therapy, and constant PT, he hadn’t made a full recovery yet. The doctors said he probably never would.
As he pushed through the front door, he caught something out of the corner of his eye and stopped dead in his tracks. He jerked his head around and scanned the hallway, but saw no more sign of black hair and blue eyes. He walked over in the direction he thought he’d seen the face and poked his head into a few classrooms. The nervous faces of students greeted him, but none matched the phantom.
He stood in the hallway, turning frantically and rapidly scanning everything. It proved useless. Of course, he hadn’t really seen what he’d thought he’d seen. O’Bryan had survived the crash in the Khyber Pass, but he hadn’t shared Michael’s curse of surviving the aftermath. His friend’s mutilated remains hadn’t been displayed at the closed casket funeral. But he’d had been the one to identify the body. He’d seen it, and he knew.
Besides, a perfectly normal nose decorated O’Bryan’s face. The glowing yellow snout belonged to that thing.
He closed his eyes and stood there for a moment, breathing. He reopened them to find several students eyeing him nervously. He probably made quite the sight. He forced himself to move, and the spell was broken. The other students went about their business. If anything, he’d just be the funny story they told their friends later.
He had other things to worry about. He headed for the stairwell at a brisk jog. Inside, he took the steps two at a time, making short order of the three flights of stairs. He burst through the door into a nearly empty hallway, sprinted across the building and caught the corner hard. His two hundred pound frame was therefore moving at full speed when he collided with the tiny blonde girl.
He stopped to help her collect her things, mumbling an apology. He turned to hand her a stack of notebooks and found himself looking straight into the scowling face of Abigail Covington.
Chapter Three
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” The words sounded weak as soon as they left his mouth. Surely he could have done better than that.
“I never want to see you at all,” she returned. “Why’d the Army finally toss you out?”
The accusation stung, no less for the truth buried within it. He could have fought the medical discharge and won. He had no doubt about it. But they’d made it abundantly clear that if he didn’t accept the medical discharge, they’d have pushed on other, less favorable grounds. They’d never actually said it, but he could see the writing on the wall.
“Medical discharge,” he answered.
It would be too much to say that Abigail’s demeanor warmed. Instead, he would have said that it grew less cold. He should have expected that. Her father still suffered complications from his own medical discharge. She would sympathize. But not much.
“Well, Daddy’s probably thrilled that you’re back.”
Michael nodded.
“We’ve talked. I went to visit Katie this morning.” When her expression hardened again, he opted for a strategic withdrawal. “Look, I’m sorry to run – and definitely sorry for bowling you over like that – but I’m late for class. I’ll try and catch up later, OK?”
“I meant it, Michael. I don’t want to see you.”
On that note, Michael took off and found his classroom, relieved that the professor hadn’t arrived yet. Plenty of empty seats still remained. He chose the one nearest the back of the room, as had long been his preference. He hadn’t exactly proven himself a stellar student his first time around. Lectures weren’t his thing. He did a bit better with the readings – especially when he chose the topics himself. But he definitely learned best by doing, and failing if necessary. He found sitting in a classroom to be one step shy of waterboarding. Or maybe one step worse.
His new classmates chattered inanely around him. He had little interest in discussions of who was dating whom, which girl was upset with which other girl for some petty slight, and who the cutest boys were. He found the boys’ discussions of video games and movies to be slightly more interesting – but only slightly. He’d spent his fair share of time at both while overseas – God knew there was little else to do. But he stifled a laugh as one student praised the realism of the latest first-person shooter. And he didn’t even recognize any of the television shows they mentioned.
Children. The word came to mind as he surveyed the room. Had he ever been this oblivious? No. He’d been far worse. Covington was right. The boy he’d once been no longer existed. He envied their innocence. He’d give much to unsee so many things. He felt like he stood out, as if every eye were upon him.
One young girl in particular stared at him – too young, really, to be in a junior level class. Tall and athletic, she had a very pretty face. Her t-shirt advertised a band called Spectre. Michael recognized it as a relatively new Norwegian death metal band. The almost-too-small shirt also advertised her shapely figure.
Too bad pale blue hair, ratty clothes, and a nose ring ruined the image. Definitely not his type. He was used to drawing female attention, but he’d never had a stranger stare at him so intently before. Something about her tugged at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t figure it out. He chose to ignore her.
His wall of stoicism shook when Abigail walked into the classroom. Of all the classes on campus, somehow they’d ended up in the same one on his very first session. That didn’t bode well. The wall shattered when she proceeded to the whiteboard at the front and faced the class.
Their eyes locked for a moment. He saw the same surprised look on her face he knew adorned his own. If anything, she seemed more shocked than him. That gave him some small comfort. He composed himself quickly, refusing to display weakness, and met her gaze with strength. She looked away first. The ridiculous victory calmed him.
He settled in for the torture of class.
“Welcome to English 3010, Introduction to Folklore. Everybody please make sure you’re in the right class.” The standard wave of laughter arose from the class – half polite, half nervous. They’d all heard variants of this speech before. “My name is Abigail.”
“What happened to Dr. Stoegemoeller?” one of the students asked.
Michael had wondered the same thing. He silently thanked the other student for asking first. Abby would’ve taken it the wrong way from him.
“Dr. Stoegemoeller is on a last-minute sabbatical,” she answered. “An opportunity arose that he couldn’t turn down. I’ll be your TA this semester.”
Graduate teaching assistant. He had to pause for a moment to convince himself that the math even worked out. Abby had been seventeen when he’d left five years ago. She could have done it – barely. This would have to be her first class. That put him more at ease. Somewhat. He honestly didn’t want to start a fight. But he also needed to know, so he asked.
“Is he gone, then, or will he be available for consultation this semester?” Abby glared at him, clearly offended. Well, he’d seen that coming. The blue-haired girl shot him a dirty look, as if he’d kicked a puppy. Teacher’s pet, then.
“He’s gone.” Her eyes shot daggers at him.
There it was.
He wondered if he’d even get what he was looking for out of this class with Dr. Stoegemoeller gone. He’d picked the class specifically to talk to the man. He’d tracked down every book the professor had written and read them all cover to cover. If anybody could help him find what he was looking for, it had to be him
. And yet he was gone.
He briefly contemplated dropping the class. He still needed the credit hours, though. The alternatives didn’t even remotely interest him. Besides, he’d never been one to back down from a fight. He certainly wouldn’t show weakness in front of Abby.
Abby continued the normal routine of going through the syllabus before launching into an introductory lecture. He didn’t pay much attention in the beginning. He read through the syllabus in the first thirty seconds, and didn’t really need to hear the extra emphasis on “doing your own work” and “high academic standards” with which every class started. As if he’d turn in someone else’s inferior work anyway.
He paid more attention to the actual introductory lecture. His hopes of picking up anything of use quickly fell. Like all first day lectures, the generic intro simply didn’t cover much – and he’d already done all of the required reading for the entire semester. More as it turned out, now that he’d seen the syllabus. He struggled to stay awake.
The other students seemed far more engaged. Surprisingly, even the blue-haired girl latched on to Abby’s every word. She practically jumped out of her chair to answer every question. She’d stopped staring at him, but something about her still bothered him. Clarity came when Abby finally called on her by name.
“Yes, Faith?” Michael slumped back in his seat, as recognition hit him like a freight train. Faith Palmer. If she’d kept her natural blonde hair, he would have recognized her at once. Her older sister Grace would have been Katie’s maid of honor. The girls had been shopping together in New York during the attacks.
Oh, this class will be fun.
Eventually Abby dismissed class. Despite his back row seat, Michael beat the others out the door. He knew he’d eventually have to finish their conversation, but it didn’t have to be today. Besides, he now very clearly remembered exactly how much he hated school. The rest of his day failed to change his mind or his mood.
He missed the onset of rush hour by the skin of his teeth, keeping traffic rough but manageable. Once home, he went to work in the kitchen and prepared an early dinner – some ground beef and mashed potatoes, good bachelor food.
War Demons: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (The Prodigal Son Book 1) Page 2