When things got serious with Katie, Jim pulled him aside. The old billionaire informed him in no uncertain terms that the next time he went to jail, the Covington wealth would see to it that he stayed there. Michael didn’t exactly shape up, but he did tone it down. He never crossed the line again.
He struggled for words. James relieved him by speaking first. The tone surprised him. He’d expected to get reamed up one side and down the other. Instead, the words came out in the gentle tones of a confidante.
“How many times have you thought about ending it all?”
“What?” Michael stammered back at him.
“It comes after the nightmares, doesn’t it? When you wake up covered in sweat, even though it’s freezing cold. Terrified and screaming. Only they’re not nightmares, you’re just remembering.”
Michael didn’t answer.
“How close did you come?”
Michael closed his eyes.
“I almost pulled the trigger. Twice.”
James nodded.
“Anna had me under twenty-four hour supervision for about six months after I got back. She took all the firearms away. I fought her on that one – hard. I’m a southern boy, born and bred, and I wanted them handy. And I was scared. Terrified.”
“I know the feeling,” Michael agreed.
“Yes, I rather think you do.”
Michael wasn’t sure how to take that.
“I never actually made it to the Hanoi Hilton, you know,” Jim continued.
Startled, Michael turned to look at his friend. His days as a prisoner of war in Vietnam formed the core of the Covington legend.
“That’s just a cover story. They told me that if I ever told the truth to anyone, they’d ruin me.”
Michael strained to hear him over the road and engine noise.
“They took me deep inside North Vietnam. There was another place, a worse place. You’ve never heard of it. Nobody has. Few of us ever went there. Fewer came back. After we escaped, they bombed it out of existence. And they swore us all to a secrecy so deep that even now...” Jim took his eyes off the road for a moment and stared at him. “You tell this to nobody. Not your friend Peter, and sure as hell not to Abby. Nobody.”
Michael nodded.
“Like I said, it was a special place. Outside the NVA chain of command. Not Charlie, either. This guy was messed up. At least, that’s what we thought at first.” He paused for a moment. Michael didn’t press him. James never talked about his POW days with anybody. He’d asked both Katie and Abby about it more than once. They knew less than he did. Even Anna didn’t know any more than the official corporate biography let on.
“His men warmed us up with all the normal stuff. Torture of all kinds. The same stuff the guys got at all the other camps. And that stuff was bad enough. Once they’d weakened, he started coming at night. We all tried to fight him, but it was a sick joke. They’d already beaten us within an inch of our lives.
“When he first started drinking our blood, we just thought he was nuts. War can do that to you, you know?” He paused for a moment and glanced at Michael. “Of course you know. We figured he’d just snapped.
“Two months in, the first group tried to escape. There were three of them. He brought them back quickly and hung them, where we could all see. Hung them like a deer, so they could bleed out right in front of us. Only they weren’t dead yet. He bled them slowly into this giant barrel...”
His voice trailed off. For a moment he just stared at the road. Michael could see his knuckles turning white as he gripped the wheel. He said nothing, not daring to interrupt the tale. After a bit James took a deep breath and resumed.
“Three more groups tried to escape before me. Eleven men altogether. They met worse fates. He flayed one group alive. Three men had their brains pulled out with hot pokers. Four of them he crucified. Literally.” Michael shuddered involuntarily.
“He didn’t treat the rest of us much better. He fed off of us the whole time. And he tortured us. Not for information, either. Just for fun. So I convinced my cellmates to give it another go.
“This time, though, I knew what he was. We’d all figured it out by then. So we planned for it. He was smart – there was no wood in the complex. Even the three he crucified, he did it on metal lamp poles. He just jammed the nails through their arms and wrapped them around the pole.
“Anyway, I knew we’d have to get some. And I figured that daytime was our best time for it. We overpowered one of the guards. That was never the hard part. They weren’t exactly in top shape. He fed on them, too, you know. And then we ran for it, out into the woods. But this time we didn’t go far. We made ourselves a stash of wooden stakes, and we went right back in there.
“We found him sleeping in this weird earthen coffin. When we tore the roof down, sunlight streamed in around him. He caught fire as soon as we opened the coffin, but we didn’t take any chances. We drove that stake straight through his heart and then watched as that undead son of a bitch burned straight to hell.”
They pulled to a stop in Michael’s driveway. James killed the engine. They both stepped out of the car. Instead of heading into the house, though, James popped the trunk. He retrieved a bag, locked the car, and followed Michael inside.
“How’d you get out of the country?” Michael asked quietly.
“His own guards helped us. Like I said, he’d been feeding on them the whole time, too. They loved us. But they didn’t really want to explain a couple of Americans to their countrymen.”
Michael supposed that made sense.
“You sure you don’t want to stay at the house?” Jim continued. “I’m beefing up the security there. It’ll be a lot safer than here.”
“No, but thanks. I’ve got some things I need to look into. I need to be here for that. Besides, I’m not sure what a bunch of security guards would do that I didn’t try already tonight. I’m not sure it’s all that much safer.”
“I worry about that, too. But it’s what I can do.”
“Yeah. Keep an eye on Abby. And Faith. O’Bryan threatened both of them, explicitly.”
“Thanks for the warning, Michael.” Covington’s eyes darkened.
“Abby told me about your research project. I assume it has to do with all this?”
Michael nodded.
“The annual fundraiser for the children’s hospital is Saturday night. I’ll make sure Stoegemoeller attends.”
It had been Katie’s pet cause. When she’d died, Jim had set up a fund in her name. Michael had gotten invitations to all the fundraisers, but his deployments had prevented him from attending.
“How?”
“I’ll tie his grant funding to it. Lord knows I’ve contributed enough to his research. Be there. I want to compare notes on these things and figure out what we can do.” Michael agreed and jotted down the details.
Covington set the bag down on Michael’s recliner and yanked the zipper open. Michael grinned at the contents.
“The sheriff confiscated your pistols. No surprise there. And there’s a good chance that you won’t pass the background checks to get new ones. I anticipated that when Abby told me they’d arrested you. Being a rich southern aristocrat can only carry you so far in the favors department, I’m afraid. But I have tons of weapons myself.” It was true. Michael had always wondered at the size of the Covington gun safe. He didn’t anymore. “This will help, though.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could get my phurba back?”
“I’ll have my lawyers talk to the police, but don’t hold your breath.”
Michael nodded.
“Thanks, Jim.” Despite everything the older man smiled as they shook hands. “For everything.”
“One more thing before I go.”
“What’s that?”
“What on Earth possessed you to jump out a second story window with that thing? Much less chase it across campus unarmed?”
Michael didn’t even hesitate.
“He�
�d set his sights on Abby. I couldn’t stop him, so I removed her from the equation.”
Covington turned away, but it was too late. Michael had already seen the tears forming.
“Dammit Michael, why the hell didn’t you just marry my daughter when you had the chance?”
“I don’t know, Jim. I honestly don’t know.”
Covington nodded without turning.
“Sorry, Michael. That was out of turn.” He left.
Chapter Seventeen
“Do you know what time it is?” Peter grumbled into the phone.
“One AM,” Michael replied.
“This had better be good.”
When Michael told him about the attack and asked for company, Peter didn’t hesitate. He knocked on the door about twenty minutes later. Michael explained the situation from start to finish. He told his young friend about the crash, the cave, his medical discharge, his nightmares, his run-in with O’Bryan, the attack, and even his interrogation.
“Jameson didn’t say it outright, but I’m pretty sure they’ll throw me in jail for a good long while if they find out I’ve told you all of this. Especially about the interrogation.”
Peter nodded.
“You realize you sound like a lunatic, right?” he finally let out.
“Stark raving mad, I’m sure.”
“It explains a lot, though,”
Michael’s eyes almost popped out of his head as Peter sat back and stroked his chin.
“Um... it does?” That was the last reaction he’d expected.
“Yeah,” Peter answered. “For one, how’d you ever get a medical discharge? That hip and knee may have bothered you a few months ago, but I’ve watched you in the dojo since then. You could be back in combat today. I have family and friends who were injured far worse than you who are back in combat today.”
“Well, yeah, but –”
“Then there’s all the prayer. Most folks wouldn’t notice, but I’ve seen you hanging around after mass. Every week. It’s not exactly normal for folks our age. I would know. People stare at me for it.”
“Ok. Go on.”
Peter nodded at the pistols in the bag.
“Only times I’ve ever seen you not carrying have been when you’ve been suited up for class at the dojo.”
“You’ve noticed that?”
“My dad was a US Marshall. I always notice that.”
“Fair enough.”
“You’ve been studying this folklore stuff nonstop. Every time I come over, it’s spread out all over the place, or pulled up on your computer, or whatever. And don’t feed me that line about working on a novel. Everyone else seems to buy it, but they don’t spend as much time with you as I do. Where is it?”
Michael shrugged.
“Like I thought. There never was one. But you’re crazy obsessive over that. Even hardcore academics don’t get that obsessive over research.”
“You get a lot of hardcore academics on building sites?” It was a low blow, and Michael knew it.
“I’ll let that one go because you’re shaken up, asshole.”
Michael grunted. It was the first time he’d ever heard Peter swear. But he’d earned the title, and he knew it.
“My uncle’s a physics professor,” continued Peter. “He doesn’t spend half the time on research that you do, and physics is a real field.”
“Touché.”
“And then, when you’re in the dojo, you train like hell, man. And out of it. Nobody there trains that hard, not even Sensei Rogers. Except me, and you know my story. You train like you’re prepping for a real fight. Because you are.”
Michael sunk into his chair.
“How many others have figured this out?”
“Just me and Sensei Rogers. Nobody else spends enough time with you. They think it’s just the PTSD manifesting. They don’t bring it up because they don’t want to piss you off again.”
“And you and Sensei don’t think I’ve got PTSD?”
“We’re certain you suffer from PTSD. But we also figured something was really up. Otherwise it would calm down at times. So he asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“You going to tell him what’s going on?”
“No way. You think Sensei Rogers is going to believe this, man?”
Michael actually laughed at that. Then he stopped, an odd look on his face.
“Hey man, back up a minute. Did you say you’d been watching me stay after mass and pray?”
“Yeah, sorry if that sounds a little creepy.”
Michael shrugged. “It’s a little weird man, but under the circumstances... Anyway, did you ever see this old guy there? About my height, but old. Maybe sixty. Mop of gray hair, super expensive suit, Texan accent and a cowboy hat?”
“You mean Mr. McCann?”
Michael gaped at him. “Does everybody know this guy but me?”
“Not really. He’s new to the parish. He’s only been around, well, since right after you came back, now that you mention it. He’s not involved in many activities there, but he tells some great Korean War stories.”
“Know anything about him?”
“He’s from Texas, originally. But he’s lived in England for the last forty years. He said he knew my great-grandfather once upon a time.”
“Know how to get in touch with him?”
“Not a clue. But the parish office might have his info. We can hop over there in the morning and ask Sarah.” Michael shot him a blank look. “The parish secretary. You really need to get out of your bubble, Michael.”
“Is there anybody in town you don’t know?”
“In town? Plenty. In the church? Not many.” Peter stood up and walked over to the bag of weapons and began taking inventory. “You get some rest, man. I’ll take first watch.”
“You sure? I’m the one who woke you up.”
“That’s why you’re going to show me how to work the coffee maker. But you’re exhausted, beat to hell, and suffering from adrenaline shock. You probably should have gone to the emergency room. I’m just tired. So I’m taking first watch and you’re getting some sleep, and that’s just how it is.”
“Yes, sir!” Michael snapped a mock salute.
“Don’t give me any insubordination, Sergeant!” Peter laughed back at him as Michael started the coffee maker.
Michael slept in the recliner that night, curled up with his AR. He left the safety on. He didn’t want to shoot himself in his sleep. But he also left a round in the chamber. Even with Peter there, he couldn’t relax.
His friend never woke him up for second watch.
In the morning, they took a trip down to the church, but it was a bust. Sarah knew Gabriel by name, but patiently explained that since he hadn’t actually joined the parish, she didn’t have a member card for him.
“He’s only in town for a few months, so he didn’t want to bother. Comes in for daily mass most days, but I didn’t see him this morning. I can keep an eye out for him, though, and give you a call if he comes in.”
“Thanks, Sarah,” Peter told her, giving the large, motherly figure a hug. As Michael drove them over to The Varsity to pick up an early lunch, Peter made a quick call to the police station.
“They let him out last night,” he reported. “Shortly after you. He didn’t leave contact info.”
“Dammit,” Michael swore.
“He said he’d get in touch with you, right?” Michael grunted a confirmation as he munched on a French fry. “Then have a little patience, man.”
On the way back to Michael’s place, they agreed that the afternoon was unlikely to be any more productive. After making arrangements to meet back in the evening for the trip out to the Covington estate, Peter picked up his car and went back home to take a nap.
For the first time in months, Michael didn’t dream about the cave. He wished he had. He liked that dream better.
Chapter Eighteen
Blackness surrounded him. His skull pounded. He didn’t know where he was. Had he been
knocked out in a kickboxing match again? He felt around in the dark. No, that definitely wasn’t a mat beneath him. He felt some more. A bed?
He wore no clothes. Had he been kidnapped? Why would anybody want to do that? He had no money of his own. Nobody would get at the Covington fortune through him. Surely Jim Covington would pay his kidnappers to hide the body sooner than he’d pay for his release. He felt blankets. Not a kidnapping, then. Probably.
He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. Nausea rushed in. He closed his eyes again. Somehow he avoided vomiting. He curled into a fetal position and moaned.
“Good morning,” she whispered softly. He felt the hand on his back next, and then she snuggled close. He relaxed a bit. Katie always relaxed him. The world started to settle a little bit. Definitely not a kidnapping.
“What the hell happened?” he managed to get out through his dry mouth. He decided on hangover.
“I haven’t seen you drink like that in ages,” she answered with a giggle. Her voice sounded off. But she brushed his hair out of his face and kissed him on the forehead. Somehow that made everything ok.
He opened his eyes again. The nausea came back, but milder this time. An expensive hotel room surrounded him. He’d let Katie pay. He really had been wasted, then. A Covington never lacked for money, but he refused to ride off her father’s fortune. She usually humored him. She could afford to.
He gently brushed her arm aside and forced himself up. The world spun around him. He closed his eyes again, waiting for everything to settle. When he finally felt a bit of confidence he pushed to his feet and stumbled his way to the bathroom.
He made use of the facilities first. Then he hunted through squinted eyes for one of the glass hotel cups. He fumbled with the plastic wrapper but finally removed it. He took a few tentative sips of water, afraid he’d throw it all up. A moment later he downed the whole glass in one gulp. Then another, and a third. He kept going.
Five minutes later he felt like he’d drunk the river dry. He used the toilet again. But his head cleared a bit, and his vision with it. He’d never been so dried out by a hangover before. But then, ever since he’d started dating Katie, he’d cut way back on the stuff. He guessed he’d just lost some of his tolerance.
War Demons: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (The Prodigal Son Book 1) Page 9