by Mel Odom
“We’ve talked about other things you like. Basketball. Biking. It just seems kind of strange that you’ve never mentioned an interest in astronomy before.” Gerry preferred to talk about anything other than his father and his relationship with the man. During some sessions, Gerry had even stooped to talking about homework problems and assignments.
“Maybe,” Gerry said, “it’s ’cause you didn’t ask.”
Megan let that statement sit between them for a moment. By assigning the blame to her, Gerry was trying to distance himself from the conversation. She remained silent, knowing from experience that arguing the point was the wrong thing to do. Gerry was a good kid. Not all of the ones she worked with were, but Gerry Fletcher was one of the good ones in a bad spot.
Looking at her, guilt flashing in his eyes, Gerry said, “Sorry. You ask lots of questions. It’s not your fault you didn’t know. You just didn’t ever ask that question.”
That was a start. “Tell me about your telescope.”
A trapped look creased Gerry’s thin face. For the first time, Megan saw the deep purple bruise that marred his left jawline. The back of a hand? she wondered. Or a collision with something else?
Her stomach turned and she had to push back from the line of thinking and the images that came to mind. Boyd Fletcher was a big man physically, and he lived on adrenaline. A definite type A personality filled with anxiety, tension, and aggression.
“What about it?” Gerry asked defensively.
“What kind is it?” Megan started slow, working with small details that would gradually tear away the fabrication Gerry was presenting. If she did it, here and now, with him knowing she was on his side, maybe it would go easier when the MPs presented their questions and Helen and Dr. Carson accused Boyd Fletcher of abusing his son.
Gerry carefully raised and lowered his thin shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s just a telescope.”
“How long have you had it?”
“A while.”
“Did you get it for a birthday or Christmas?”
The presentation of the choice brought home to Gerry that he was going to have to be careful and more attentive to his answers. “Does it matter?”
“I don’t know. Is the telescope broken?”
“Probably,” Gerry replied. “It was a long fall from the top of the house. I mean, the fall banged me and my arm up pretty bad.” He nodded, more to himself than to her. “Probably the telescope got broke.”
The television had returned to the basketball game, but Gerry’s attention was riveted on his cookies and milk and the questions Megan had for him. He nibbled at one of the cookie pieces.
“Did you check on the telescope?” Megan asked.
“No.”
“I was just wondering. You know how your dad is about your things.” Boyd Fletcher had a history regarding his son’s property. If Gerry broke or damaged something, the boy was made to pay a price. But if Boyd were mad at his son, he broke or disposed of Gerry’s toys.
When Gerry had claimed he’d had a bike wreck, Boyd Fletcher had gotten rid of the bike, which had upset Gerry terribly. The brief—very brief—conversation Megan had shared with Boyd Fletcher had been harsh and to the point: Maybe Megan could require the sessions, but she couldn’t require him to provide a bike for his son.
“He won’t care about the telescope,” Gerry said.
Megan nodded. “That’s good. Who got the telescope for you?”
Hesitating, Gerry said, “My dad.” During the sessions, he always tried to build his dad up in her eyes. He was eleven years old and he knew that she didn’t feel good about his father even though she had tried to hide that fact.
“Is your dad interested in astronomy?” Megan asked.
“I guess so.”
“How is he going to feel about the telescope getting broken?”
“He’s probably not going to like it.”
There’s an understatement. Megan sometimes got the feeling that Boyd Fletcher deliberately gave his son breakable things or items that were hard to manage just so he could find fault with him.
“Probably not,” Megan said. “So what are we going to do about it?”
Panicked, Gerry looked at her. “What do you mean? It’s broken. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Don’t you think we’re going to have to tell your dad?”
Gerry was quiet.
“You know your dad doesn’t like it when you do something wrong and then hide it from him,” Megan said. Several of Gerry’s more severe punishments, including physical as well as mental ones, resulted from the boy’s attempts to conceal things from his father.
“I’ll tell him,” Gerry said. “Promise.”
“I appreciate you being willing to. But I think this might be something we’d do better together.” Megan slipped a glance at her watch. Only eleven minutes remained of her allotted time. It was time to turn up the pressure. Help me here, God. I’m getting in over my head, and there’s not going to be any turning back. She kept her voice casual. “We can tell him about the telescope at the same time we tell him about your visit here tonight.”
“I can tell him in the morning.”
Megan shook her head. “Sorry, guy. No can do. A visit to the hospital in the middle of the night requires Dr. Carson to report this.”
“To my dad?”
“And possibly to other people.”
Gerry gnawed his lip. “The doc called you, didn’t he?”
Megan thought about Dr. Carson. The man was young and bright and caring, and she thought Boyd Fletcher would probably rip through him like a buzz saw. No, Boyd Fletcher needed a more substantial target, someone who could stand up to every withering second of the argument that was surely forthcoming. Someone who could dish it back.
“Actually,” Megan said, “Mrs. Cordell called me.”
Gerry seemed to relax a little. “Mrs. Cordell is a tough lady.”
“Yes,” Megan said. “One of the toughest I know.”
“She doesn’t believe I fell off the roof, does she?”
Megan didn’t hesitate. One of the bonds she had with anyone who saw her was unflinching honesty. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
Gerry glanced at the thick file on the Fletcher family that Megan had brought in with her. The boy deflated with a long sigh, finally giving in to the realization that events had progressed past the point of his ability to control them. “How much trouble is my dad in?”
“I don’t know, Gerry,” Megan said. A lot, for starters. But she honestly didn’t know how much more. She glanced at her watch. Six minutes. Help me, God, because that’s not nearly enough time. She looked at the intercom on the wall, torn between begging more time from Helen and Dr. Carson now and panicking Gerry.
The boy sat on the hospital bed and looked apprehensive.
Keep it nice and easy, Megan decided. Give it a couple minutes. See how things go. There’ll be time to call Helen. She smiled a little to ease Gerry’s mind. “Why don’t you tell me what really happened, and we’ll take it from there?”
8
Turkey
30 Klicks South of Sanliurfa
Local Time 0718 Hours
On the other side of the collapsed wall in Glitter City, the trapped man’s horrified screams continued to assault Goose’s ears, spurring in him an instinctive need to react—now. Only his training as a professional soldier—think first, have a plan, and stick with it—kept that impulse in check as the wall section collapsed further.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Bill said calmly to the man as he maintained his hold on the crowbar shoring up his end of the heavy wall section. “Just the sand shifting. We’ve got the wall. We’re not going to let it fall on you.”
Goose didn’t know where Bill found the strength or the wind to speak. He felt all but done in from his exertions to uncover the trapped man. The crowbar felt as though it were about to pull his arms from their sockets. He wasn’t the only on
e feeling the strain. The heavyset man and one of the other volunteers had bailed on the line, dropping out of the rescue effort, collapsing, exhausted and wheezing, to the sand.
Danielle and one of the other men rushed forward with rocks to put under the edge of the wall to brace it up. Then Goose and Bill added a second flat rock to the first and fought for another fistful of inches.
The wall section shifted more, letting sand cascade in again. Under the ton of dead weight, the man screamed, then his cries were cut off abruptly. Several cubic yards of sand and rock around the Vshaped section of the building’s corner left standing broke free and sped under the elevated wall section like mercury rolling across a flat surface at room temperature.
Anxiety flooded Goose as he realized the man they had been trying to rescue had probably been buried in that avalanche. He squatted and drew his Mini Maglite from his LCE. Clicking the flashlight on, he dropped prone to the ground and peered under the monstrous slab, praying to God that their efforts had not inadvertently crushed the life from the man they were trying to save.
The high-intensity yellow beam barely cut through the haze of dust that squirted out from under the slab in a boiling rush. The hollow under the wall section left an area almost seven feet long and four feet wide. Just about the dimensions of a grave, Goose couldn’t help thinking. Hackles stood up on the back of his neck. The man they’d been working to rescue was nowhere in sight.
In the center of that space, something writhed under the sand that had rushed in. For a moment, Goose was reminded of a cow he’d seen sink in a pit of quicksand in the Okefenokee Swamp while on a hunting trip. He’d been sixteen at the time and out hunting with his buddies. They’d tried to save the cow, but in the end they’d had to watch the terrified creature sink into the bog until it disappeared.
Bill threw himself forward but was too broad to get through the gap. On his knees, he began scooping at the loose sand with both hands.
The wall shuddered and sank an inch, and the sand continued to flow.
Watching the struggling figure in the middle of the space, Goose stripped off his helmet and his LCE. “Let me.”
Bill kept digging. “You’re the last man that should go under there, Sarge. That wall could come down any second. We redistributed the weight, but we can’t get it shored up on the hillside.”
“I’m the only man that will fit. Now move, Corporal.” Goose pulled his kerchief down and shoved the Mini Maglite between his teeth.
Reluctantly, Bill gave ground.
Goose slid by his friend. The flashlight beam jostled and jarred across the sea of sand that filled the hollow space. Dust flooded Goose’s lungs at once, choking him down so that he couldn’t draw a breath. He scooted forward on hands and knees, clawing through the sand. Something more solid than the sand and considerably less dense than one of the stones he’d been handling took shape under his right hand. Turning, he found he’d uncovered the face of a dead man.
Sand had filled the man’s eyes, nose, and mouth. He lay partially on his side, his hair black and stringy against the fine yellow sand.
God help me, Goose prayed as he forced himself to push the corpse from his mind and concentrate on the struggle ahead of him. There was no way of knowing—yet—how many people had been in the structure when it had come down. Later, if there was a chance to excavate the bodies, authorities would learn the number of casualties—and who they were.
Later, he’d have the luxury to wonder how many families were going to be devastated by the news today.
Reaching the writhing pile of sand, Goose tried to push to a kneeling position but couldn’t. The wall was less than two feet above him. He worked from his stomach, arching his back and using both arms like a swimmer, shoving sand from the person who had been buried.
Even as he pushed the sand away, he became aware that still more sand was sliding in from the wall’s edge where it butted into the Vshape of the building’s corner. Their efforts had lifted that portion of the wall enough to allow the sea of sand to slither in. A moment later, the wall itself shifted, grinding across the rocks they’d placed to create the gap Goose had crawled in through. Even as he watched, the wall dropped at least two inches.
“Sarge,” Bill called.
Goose didn’t answer, concentrating on his efforts to save the man. Sand flew into his mouth around the Mini Maglite he held between his teeth. He resisted the urge to spit it out because he would lose the flashlight, and the ambient light from outside the wall wouldn’t be enough to work by. But the dust felt thick in his throat, gathering weight and threatening to trigger a purge reflex.
The wall section shifted again and dropped enough to slam into the back of Goose’s head.
“Sarge!” Bill sounded a little more panicked now.
A hand grabbed Goose’s ankle and yanked. He slid backward a short distance. “No!” he said around the flashlight as best he could. He prayed fervently, wishing he believed with the same intensity that Bill did, but the face of the dead boy he’d seen only moments ago kept haunting him. How strong did faith have to be? Beneath the goggles, perspiration trickled across his face, washing small bits of grit into his eyes, making them stream and burn.
Then a hand reached up from the sandy grave and wrapped around the back of Goose’s neck like something out of a horror movie he’d seen as a kid. Fingernails tore into his flesh. Concentrating, thinking quickly, Goose followed the path of the arm that held him in a death grip. Ramming his hand through the shifting sand wasn’t easy, but it was doable.
Reaching down the length of the arm, Goose hooked his hand under the armpit and managed to secure a strong grip on the man’s shirt. For the first time, Goose realized that the man had been standing up in the building. The sand had come in so swiftly that the deluge had filled the structure with him standing.
Goose tried desperately not to think about the number of people that had been caught in the building. Overhead, the wall fell again, sinking into the deep sand, coming far enough down now that it pressed against his back. He spat out the flashlight, caught it in his free hand, and yelled, “I’ve got him! Pull!”
“Get him out of there!” Bill yelled. “C’mon! Pull! Put your backs into it!”
Even as Bill shouted, the massive stone slab over Goose’s head dropped another few inches, pinning him against the sand.
United States of America
Columbus, Georgia
Local Time 12:28 A.M.
Basso booms of speed metal music, delivered with hammering intensity, rocked the interior of the nightclub. Out on the large dance floor, young men and women writhed and practically fought one another. To someone not familiar with the club scene, it probably looked like they were vying to claim more territory.
Most of the club’s dancers favored leather and lace, barely-there shorts, crop tops, slinky dresses that were painted on, and leather pants so tight—on both sexes—they just had to cut down blood circulation. The laser light show burned red, blue, green, and livid purple beams through the air and swirled multicolored patterns over the dance floor. The dancers’ dangling earrings and ornamented piercings in their eyebrows, lips, and noses glinted in the garish colors of the laser lights.
Many of the dancers sported intricate tattoos. Some of them were temporary, courtesy of a street artist working with fluorescent paint who’d set up shop in his van outside the club. Others wore glowing necklaces and armbands that the band had thrown out a few songs back.
“Are you having a good time?”
Mesmerized by all the action in front of him, Joey Holder looked down at the young woman at his side. “Yeah,” he said.
She gave him a puzzled look and leaned closer.
Realizing that he hadn’t spoken loudly enough to be heard over the music, Joey raised his voice. “Yes. Great time.”
Jenny McGrath smiled up at him. She rocked to the beat, popping her shoulders and clenched fists to the rhythm. “Cool. I thought you would.”
“Ye
ah. Me, too.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Joey realized how dumb they sounded.
“You’re a funny guy, Joey.”
“It’s not all natural talent,” Joey replied loudly. “Sometimes I have to work at it.”
She grinned at him, and in that flash of white teeth, Joey fell in love with her all over again. At an inch or two over five feet, carrying a woman’s full body with slender lines, her short-cropped spiky hair dyed purple, Jenny McGrath was beautiful.
Stonewashed low-riding jeans sheathed her hips, and her midnight blue camisole top revealed enough milk white skin that it threatened to fry his brain cells. Her nose ring and eyebrow ring glinted in the laser lights.
She so totally fit into the club, reminding Joey again that he didn’t. His nervousness over the fake ID in his pocket increased. Someone was going to find him out, then there’d be all kinds of trouble. Jenny didn’t know how old he really was, and she was twenty-three. His mother, if she had known where he was, would have gone crazy.
“Want to dance some more?” she yelled.
“Sure,” Joey shouted back.
She took his hand and charged out onto the dance floor. At the outer fringes, she stopped, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted, “Leonard!”
A shaggy-haired behemoth turned to face her. He was dressed in jeans and a loose plaid shirt over a concert T-shirt. He looked like he was in his thirties. Tattoos featuring flaming skulls marked his bared arms.
“I want to surf,” Jenny shouted.
Leonard grinned, revealing that he was missing his two front teeth, then bent over slightly and folded his hands together to make a stirrup. “Come ahead, darlin’.” He raised his voice in a thundering shout. “Surf’s up!”
Immediately the nearby dancers turned and raised their hands.
Without hesitation, Jenny threw herself forward. She stepped into Leonard’s clasped hands, then let him hurl her into the audience. Waiting hands caught her above the heads of the crowd, balanced her, then propelled her toward the stage.
Jenny surfed on her back, flailing wildly to make sure the other dancers knew she was coming. “Joey! C’mon! See if you can make your way to the stage!”