Other good things were happening, too. I had found proof of my innocence; Yang would catch the guy that had been pretending to be Howard Taylor; Mary would run her story. Eventually the whole nightmare would be over. Somehow I'd made it through the worst, and as crazy as it sounds, I even made a few friends in the process.
I sighed. There's nothing in the world like having a huge weight lifted from your shoulders. I felt as though I could breathe again, and I realized things would be okay after all. Certainly everything wouldn't be like they used to, back when I had a surrogate family and two legs, but this new life could be livable if I tried to make it work.
There was still some more to do before it would all be over. The Death Agreement's final section called for a graveside visit. I wanted to finish the whole ordeal by paying my respects to Lorie and Jon.
I stepped from the steaming bathroom and found Mary still sleeping. I put on my dress uniform as quietly as I could, then slipped out the door, careful to shut it softly behind me.
The two MP escorts greeted me with a quick salute and we walked to the commander's office. The door was closed, so I knocked once and waited.
"Enter," Colonel Litwell called out in a gruff voice often reserved for career soldiers.
I opened the door and marched to the center of the room, half turned, and saluted. "Lieutenant Randon reporting, sir."
Litwell returned the salute. I dropped my arm and stood at attention.
We weren't alone. Two people wearing dark suits sat next to Colonel Litwell's globe bar: a dark-skinned woman and an older man with grey-white hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I couldn't make out anything else, and resisted the urge to turn my head. I felt them staring at me but neither one spoke. Litwell stared too, unflinching. The seconds ticked by in an uneasy silence.
Normally a commanding officer will tell you to stand at ease immediately after you salute. If they don't, it usually means you've got some serious shit stuck on your shoe and you're going to hear about it.
Drops of sweat formed on my brow. My leg began to throb and an extremely painful shock ran up my back. The longer I stood, the more Litwell's treatment ticked me off. Thirty seconds, one minute, two minutes…I couldn't take it any longer.
"Sir," I said through gritted teeth. "May I sit?"
Litwell eyes bulged. "You want to sit down?"
"If you prefer I can collapse on your floor? I've gotten quite good at falling."
The woman raised a hand. "This isn't necessary, Colonel. Let him rest."
"Take a seat," Litwell growled. "I can hardly wait to hear you explain all this garbage you've brought to my doorstep, son."
I sat next to the white-haired man. "I don't even know what this is about, sir."
"Lieutenant Randon," the man said. "I'm Agent Rossenkants and this is Agent Porter. We're with C.I.D."
"Criminal Investigation Division? What do you want with me?"
"We're assisting the FBI and local P.D. on the Taylor case," Porter said.
"There's something we need to check, Lieutenant. We're better equipped to handle it than anyone else."
Rossenkants lifted his briefcase onto his lap and opened it. Porter leaned over, reached in, and took out a small device.
"Lift up your leg," Porter said. "The…um…"
"Fake one?" I asked.
"Yes. The fake one."
I shrugged, then lifted my leg. Rossenkants grabbed the plastic ankle and held it steady. Porter switched on the device and waved it around the bottom of my foot.
"Hmmm," she said. "You can put it down." Porter turned toward Litwell. "Is it possible he has another one?"
"No," Litwell said.
"Could he have stolen a different one?" Rossenkants asked. "Taken a leg from another serviceman?"
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "Care to tell me what this is about?"
"That's doubtful," Litwell said, ignoring my question. "They are custom made to fit each soldier." He looked at me. "Where were you last night, Lieutenant?"
"In my room, sir. I have a witness if necessary."
Litwell raised his eyebrow. "A witness?"
"Who, Lieutenant?" Porter asked.
"A lady friend kept me company last night," I said, leaving out the fact she's a reporter. "If you don't mind, I'd like to know what's going on, or I'd like permission to leave."
Rossenkants bit on the end of a pen.
Litwell pointed at Porter. "Tell him. You two did your test. He's not the guy you're looking for."
Porter nodded. "You are familiar with a Detective Weise Yang of the Anne Arundel County Police Department?"
"Yang? Yeah. He was supposed to come by today to collect some evidence."
"What evidence are you referring to?" Rossenkants asked.
"I found some of Taylor's things. Yang was out of town last night, so he told me to hold on to them."
"Tell us what you found," Porter demanded.
"Better yet, show us." Rossenkants added.
"You're welcome to take it with you for all I care. I'd be glad to get rid of it."
"We would also like to talk to your witness. Just to verify you were where you say you were last night."
"Fine by me." I stood up and looked at Litwell.
"Dismissed, Lieutenant," Litwell said. "Clean up the mess. I don't want to hear about any more problems. Are we clear?"
"Crystal, sir. Thank you."
I saluted and walked out of the office. The two C.I.D. Agents followed.
***
"My room is on the other side of campus," I said. "I'd like some answers though. You can fill me in as we walk." Neither of two agents seemed willing to talk, so a few minutes later I decided to be less than helpful. "Hey," I said, stopping in the middle of the abandoned street. "What is it with cops and information?"
Porter scowled. "What do you mean?"
"If everything is on a need-to-know basis, no one would ever know a goddamn thing. Arrest me if you want, but I'm not moving another step unless you tell me what's going on." I stared at them with my arms crossed, waiting.
They stared back, dumbfounded.
"I'm serious. Take me to jail if you want to keep playing these games."
Rossenkants regained his composure first. He tapped Porter on the arm and they walked a few paces away. I heard them whispering but couldn't make out what was said. A moment later, they walked back over, and Rossenkants said, "What we tell you can't go any further. Got it?"
"Sure." I spat on the ground, then walked at a slow pace to ensure neither of them would hold back.
Porter said, "Detective Yang was detained last night."
"What?" I asked, surprised. "What the hell for?"
"Assault. Theft." Porter said.
"After leaving the scene in Pennsylvania, there was an incident," Rossenkants said. "Detective Yang and another individual entered an evidence locker. The unidentified man assaulted the clerk, stole evidence, then fled."
I stopped and turned to the C.I.D. Agents. "You thought it was me! What did Yang say?"
"Yang claimed he had been held hostage and convinced the officer holding him to remove the cuffs. He joined the chase for the other man, then slipped away. Innocent men do not run, Lieutenant." Porter nodded. "As for the other man, while making his escape, he ran through a muddy field before fleeing in Detective Yang's vehicle. He got away, but the police were able to pull his boot prints."
"That doesn't give you any reason to suspect it was me."
"It does," Rossenkants said. "The shoe sizes did not match. That means either the man has one foot much larger than the other."
"Or," Porter chimed in, "he has a fake appendage, like you. The shoe size isn't right and the spectrophotometer did not show a match, but there's something about you that I don't like."
"This doesn't make sense."
"No, it doesn't," Porter agreed. "That's why it is imperative that we find Detective Yang." She smiled thinly. "And I think we'll be confining you to your quarters until this is
straightened out."
"Do what you got to do. Can you tell me what the other guy took?"
Porter and Rossenkants exchanged a look.
"What did he take?" I demanded.
Rossenkants took a deep breath and let it out. "A rusty, old saw," he said. "Does that mean anything to you?"
I felt the blood drain from my face and my mouth suddenly went dry. I turned away from the agents and started walking again. "No," I lied. "Doesn't mean a goddamn thing."
SECTION VII - CELEBRATE LIFE
The C.I.D. agents followed me through the winding hallway. I turned the last corner and found the door to my room partially open.
"Huh, that's strange." The hinge creaked as I pushed it the rest of the way inward.
I leaned my head inside and looked toward the empty kitchen, then toward the dark bedroom. "Mary? You still here? Decent?" When she didn't respond, I stepped over the threshold. "Mary? I've got company."
I turned to the agents and shrugged. "I guess she decided to leave."
Rossenkants narrowed his eyes. "What did you say Mary's last name is?"
I motioned for them to follow me into the kitchen. "I'll give you her business card. Don't mind the mess," I said, stopping to pick up a crushed beer can.
The agents stepped inside and waited as I threw away the rest of the trash from the night before.
Porter stared at the three empty liquor bottles. "Would you say you're a heavy drinker?"
"I've had a rough few weeks."
"I see," she said.
I shook my head. "Lady, you don't have slightest idea."
Rossenkants took a step forward and held out his hand. "Business card?"
I removed Mary's card from under a magnet on the fridge and handed it to him. "That's her office. Her cell is written on the back."
Rossenkants looked at it and nodded. "Thank you."
"Give me a second, I'll get the rest." I tried to walk past the agents, but Porter grabbed my arm.
"Lieutenant," she said, "why don't you stay here with me while my partner has a quick look around."
I shrugged off her hand and made a waving gesture. "By all means, knock yourself out."
Rossenkants smiled and left the kitchen.
Porter looked me over. "What is it you're not telling us?"
"You probably won't believe this, Agent Porter, but from the moment I heard that Jesse had died, all I've tried to do is keep from losing it."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I hadn't even recovered from the news that he was gone before I learned about what else he had done. Not to mention everyone thinking I had any part in this. I'm not a murderer. I'm not an accomplice. I'm not anything."
She frowned. "All of this is happening around you, yet you can stand here and tell me that you're not involved."
I stared at her for a moment before responding. Finally, I said, "Because it's true. I didn't ask for any of this, and all I want is for it to end."
"You're very convincing, but where there's smoke there's fire."
From the living room, Rossenkants called out, "All clear."
Porter smiled and left the kitchen. "Now, about that evidence…."
The jeans I'd worn the night before were piled at the base of the couch. I picked them up and rummaged through the pockets looking for Taylor's letter.
"Damn," I said.
"What is it?" Rossenkants asked.
"It's gone. The drawing…the confession…both copies of The Death Agreement."
In a mocking tone, Rossenkants asked, "Is it possible you put them somewhere else? Maybe in your bedroom?"
"No. I had everything in my pocket." I threw the jeans across the room and nearly fell backward. "That bitch stole it for her goddamn story!"
Porter and Rossenkants watched me pace back and forth. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed her number. The call went to voicemail, of course.
"Why, Mary? You didn't need to steal from me. I would have given you copies."
Ending the call, I sat on the couch and lowered my head.
"She's got what you want," I said to the agents. "So leave me alone and go bother her."
I felt their untrusting eyes stare through me for what seemed like an eternity before Rossenkants finally walked back into the hallway. Porter followed him. From the hall, Porter said, "You'll be seeing us again soon, Lieutenant."
I listened to their heavy footsteps fade away.
For months, I had constantly been in the dark, and when I finally felt like I had gotten ahead of the game, the game thrust me to the back of the line. I knew right then that I was done with The Death Agreement, done with Jesse Taylor, done with the military, done with everything. As for Yang and Mary, they could go to hell. I didn't care why he had helped some psychopath take that saw, and I couldn't give less of a damn why she had thrown away my trust for a story.
It dawned on me how long I had allowed all the hurt, anger, and sadness to flow into each other, strengthening over time until the meld became a perfect storm of pain.
I crawled into bed and screamed and thrashed and cried and cursed and kicked. At some point I forgot about the troubles of the world. At some point I forgot about Jon Randon.
***
The blades of a helicopter sliced through the air somewhere in the darkness above.
"Jon?" Taylor whispered. "Come and play with us."
I opened my eyes and sat up on a blood-covered cot. Taylor's shadow danced away, and I stood, amazed both of my legs were made of flesh. Looking around the empty medical tent, I felt a sense of disorientation, as if the world had begun spinning in the wrong direction.
"Jesse, I don't know what to do."
The steady cadence of a helicopter engine distorted into a sickly whine that grew louder and louder.
"Come," Taylor said.
I followed the shadow to the front of the tent and looked up at millions of maple tree helicopters slowly falling to the ground.
"Beautiful," I said.
When the first pod landed softly onto the sand, a terrible crash of twisting metal and shattering glass filled the air, and a sudden blast of heat blew back the tent flap, burning my face.
I marveled at the red fireball roiling high into the pitch-black sky.
The shadow circled around me like a vortex, then slid from the tent into the hot desert air. "Come play with us," Taylor said again.
Several other shadows, silhouetted by the blaze behind the dunes, slid across the black sands. They were laughing and kicking a ball. I knew them all. Mr. Hunter, Mrs. Christina, Kyle, Tiffany, Lorie….
Mary Stallings said, "Kick it to me, kick it to me!"
"No," Yang replied. "It's Jon's turn."
"Hello, everyone." I waved, and they all waved back.
Taylor pointed in my direction.
Yang kicked.
I ran forward and stopped the ball with my right foot, feeling the soft texture give slightly under my weight.
"It's mine," Taylor said. "Kick it over to me."
"Okay." I readied myself, drawing back my right leg, then stopped. "Wait. Something is wrong."
I rolled the roundish object under my foot, twisting and turning it. "The ball has hair on it."
After giving it another roll, the face Taylor's infant son, Jon, came into view. His milky, dead eyes stared up into his head, and when I screamed, the baby looked at me and blinked.
***
Each time I woke from a nightmare, I noted the color of the sky seeping through the window shade before forcing myself back into oblivion. The ambient light had changed from blue, to orange, to red, then finally to the dull eggshell color of the street lamps.
Eventually my mind refused to shut back off, and instead of restless sleep, I listened to the sound of a clock ticking the hours away.
My stomach growled. The pangs of hunger had caught up to me, and I couldn't recall when I had last eaten.
I knew it was past midnight by the sound of the generators. They on
ly kicked on after the solar power batteries fully depleted, which usually happened around two in the morning.
I fumbled to get myself out of bed, making sure to securely attach my leg before attempting to stand.
In the kitchen, I found the refrigerator nearly empty. What little was inside didn't appeal to me in the least, but my stomach rumbled again, telling me to eat something anyway.
I inspected the quarter loaf of bread, looking for signs of mold. Then I opened the container of lunch meat and sniffed. "Borderline." I shrugged and dropped shiny turkey slices on what had been left of the rye, then devoured the sandwich. After, I drank a glass of tap water and wiped my lips on the sleeve of my wrinkled dress uniform.
Appetite pacified, I opened my door to see if the newspaper had been delivered. Sure enough, the St. Patty's Day edition of the Baltimore Sun had been propped up against the door frame, rolled up in a transparent yellow sleeve.
Kneeling, I noticed specks of blood that led down the hallway, and wondered which patient's leaking bandage had messed up the carpet.
I sat down at the kitchen table and flipped the paper open to the obituaries. Mary had kept her word, at least in terms of Taylor's death notice. The tidy history of Major Jesse Taylor lay before me in black ink on the dull grey pulp.
'Sterile', she had called it.
Yeah, well maybe it had lacked soul. I didn't care. The message was honest, and that was enough for the general public. The firestorm would come, no doubt, but I didn't want to be the one to throw the match.
While I read over the good parts of Taylor's life, a transformer exploded somewhere far off, and the lights in my room dimmed until they finally extinguished.
Sitting in the dark, I considered trying to go back to sleep, but then I heard the unmistakable loud pop of a second transformer failing.
"Gotta be a power surge," I said.
Then the silence was shattered again by a third explosion, a foundation-rattling blast.
"What the…?" I walked to the window and peeked outside. The whole campus seemed to be without power. The crescent moon provided the only light for miles. Though I had hoped to see several electrical crews working, the street was deserted, and a sudden need to go outside overwhelmed me. I felt my way through the darkness to the door, hoping that when I opened it, I would find light on the other side.
The hallway was just as dark, and after I closed the door behind me, cutting off the dim moonlight, the pitch black felt viscous. My throat tightened and my breathing quickened. I pulled in each breath through my open mouth to make as little noise as possible. When the floor creaked below my feet, dread like I've never experienced stabbed through me.
The Death Agreement Page 8
