The Athena File

by Jennifer Haynie

  She shrank away. No, she didn’t, not after almost losing her career once. “Uh, no sir. I, um, I’d, well, I’d better go and get my notepad.”

  “That you should.” He returned to the podium and muttered something as he raised the lid.

  She stepped to the door.

  “And, Abigail.”

  She turned.

  Sal stared at her, his eyes an obsidian color that did nothing to obscure the power radiating from them. “I’m glad we have an understanding.”

  A chill washed over her, and she shivered slightly as she retreated to her office. Had she fallen down a rabbit hole or something? Normally, nothing rattled Sal, but a few minutes ago, he’d essentially threatened her. Why? Who knew? Rather than contemplate the reason for her CO’s anger, she reached for her phone and smiled at a text from Rick.

  “Good morning, beautiful. You want to go for a run together after work?”

  Her mood lifted a little as she remembered the way he’d flirted with her. Thing was, she’d responded and had even given him her phone number. She tapped out her response. “Absolutely. Let’s talk this afternoon.”

  Her phone began ringing.

  Gabrielle.

  “Abigail, hey,” her friend gushed when she answered. “Shane called. They’ll be picking me up at eleven, and we’ll meet you at 11:30 for lunch. How does that sound?”

  “Um, fine. I’m…already ready for lunch.”

  “You are—wait. Are you okay?”

  She stared at her doorway. A couple of coworkers strolled down the hallway, chatting on their way to the briefing. “I’m…not sure. I think my commanding officer just shut me down. Big time.”

  9

  Burning Tree, Utah

  David lay under the massive sink next to the dishwasher at Kyra Lane Cafe and Restaurant, the restaurant Kyra owned with her business partner, Lisa Lane. He’d run the new water line from the valve to the faucet, and now all he needed to do was to connect it. Problem was, the nut was located in an area where he couldn’t use his left hand. And thanks to his broad shoulders in a tight space, he had no room to maneuver his entire right arm, only his wrist.

  He worked the wrench. Hopefully it would be tight enough now.

  He pulled back, reached over, and twisted the valve.

  Water squirted from the connection.

  He grumbled irritably and jammed the valve closed.

  “Are you okay?” Kyra’s voice floated to him from somewhere above.

  “I didn’t get it tight enough.” He snatched up the wrench, settled it around the nut, and twisted the blasted thing with a strength reinforced with his frustration. After all this time, his grip was still weak and grew weaker with every failed attempt to tighten the nut.

  He might as well have greased the metal handle with lard. The wrench slipped and belted him across the neck right at the scar from the bullet nick…

  The Incident, as he called it. Seven years ago. The day when ten of his closest friends had died. His adopted little sister and her family as well. Tomorrow marked that awful day.

  Kyra tapped him on the leg. “Let me try.”

  “I can—”

  “Seriously. I’m smaller than you. Let me try.”

  At least she hadn’t pointed out that her grip at that moment was probably three times stronger than his. With a grunt of acknowledgment, he squirmed from underneath the sink and pushed himself upright.

  Kyra, still dressed as a manager in dark slacks and silky blue top, knelt beside him.

  “You’ll mess up your outfit.”

  “That’s what washing machines are for. Where’s the wrench?”

  Almost reluctantly, he handed it to her. At five-three, she was a much better candidate than he to be under the sink. As she worked, he mopped his face with a towel and tossed it aside.

  “Okay. I think I got it. The valve’s on, and no water’s leaking.”

  “That’s a good sign. Let me try the faucet now.” He raised his right arm and grasped the lip of the sink. His useless hand simply slid off the metal. This time, he kept the foul word inside his head as he used his left hand. No problem there except that his left leg barked at him a little.

  Curse The Incident.

  He offered a hand to Kyra, and she rose as if climbing under sinks were an everyday occurrence for her.

  She stared at the piles of dirty dishes and the empty shelves where they should have gone. According to her report when she’d called him up frantic at 8:30, the fitting between the faucet and waterline had broken on one of the busiest, most crucial nights of the year since the restaurant hosted a rehearsal dinner as well as regular customers. The guy doing the dish washing only had time to shut the water off to avoid flooding the kitchen. David had offered to fix it for her, and after ensuring that the neighbors would watch his nephews and niece, he’d stopped at the hotel to gather his supplies before heading to the restaurant. In the meantime, business had continued, and fortunately, the dishes had lasted until every last item had been used.

  His sister rubbed her eyes. “I guess I need to do these.”

  “Can’t your staff help?”

  “I’d have to pay them overtime, and honestly, we can’t afford that right now. And with that bridesmaids breakfast and the wedding being a Friday event…” She hung her head.

  “Let me help, then.”

  “But the kids—”

  “Rod and Daisy are watching them. I’ll rinse. You fill the racks.”

  A weary smile crossed her face. “Thanks.”

  For the first few rounds, they worked in comfortable silence. At least on the outside. Inside, David’s gut churned like the dishwasher’s motor. He couldn’t seem to stop the thoughts about The Incident now pouring through his head. What had happened to that contentment from a couple of weeks ago when he’d spent the morning with Little Bit?

  Bingo.

  Ever since then, since Kyra had suggested that he contact Jonathan and offer his condolences, David had lost his peace. Her suggestion stalked him. He’d fled from it by working longer hours than needed or working out harder than he normally did. When he fell into bed each night, exhaustion had stunned him into a dreamless sleep.

  “Did you ever try to call Abigail Ward?” Kyra asked.

  Oh, great. Did she have to bring that up? Again? “Uh, no. I wouldn’t know where to start, you know?”

  “The Army. They have a personnel office. It’s easy.”

  “So says you.”

  She filled a couple of trays of glasses and slid them into the dishwasher. She shut the door and started it. “I know it’s easy because I took the liberty of calling them and getting her number. I’ve got it at the house.”

  David’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Finally, he found his voice. “You went behind my back?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” She turned to the two racks of plates and began drying and stacking them. “I knew you wouldn’t, so I did. And it’s not like I called her.”

  “I don’t appreciate that.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe not, but I still think you need to call her to get Jonathan’s—”

  “I don’t need to do anything. Especially anything like that.” He picked up a plate. Carefully, completely opposite of what he wanted to do, he dried it and set it on the counter.

  “Like I said two weeks ago, Jonathan’s your best friend. And he saved your life.”

  The image of briefly coming to in a sea of pain flashed before his eyes. That bright light from an operating room lamp seared his soul like it had his vision seven years before. He flinched.

  Kyra had her back to him as she set the plates on a shelf, so she didn’t notice.

  “I don’t care.”

  The dishwasher beeped, and she turned toward it. “What?”

  “I said I don’t care. He doesn’t need my sympathy, and I’m not going to give it.”

  “David, honestly, I think—”

  “You know what?” He threw down his towel. “I’m d
one here. It’s been a long day, and I need to crash.”

  Her gaze shot to the four twelve-high piles of plates, scads of dirty silverware, and remaining glasses. “But, I need—”

  “I don’t care. I’m sick of discussing this. And since you seem intent on doing so, I’m out of here. Good night.” With that, he stomped from the restaurant.

  His anger kept him warm only for the first twenty feet as he strode along the path winding behind his parents’ resort. As he passed between the river and the terrace, the memories of that day two weeks before sank into his soul. The sound of the mason jar shattering echoed in his ears. A chill of guilt swept over him. He should have stayed.

  No, then Kyra would have pummeled him again and again about how he should call Jonathan. He shoved away the thought and followed the path as it turned toward the highway. Within minutes he opened the gate to the backyard.

  Ranger whined as he joined his master.

  “Hey, boy.” David knelt and worked his fingers through the dog’s thick fur.

  Ranger rewarded him by swiping his tongue across his cheek.

  “C’mon. Let’s head upstairs.” He headed up the steps to his apartment. Already, he dreamed of crashing on his rack and catching a solid night’s worth of Zs, just like he’d done the past several nights.

  Not this time.

  Eleven came. Then midnight. Guilt surged as he listened carefully through his open windows for signs that Kyra had returned. He should have stayed and helped. He settled for staring at the ceiling as he studiously worked to keep his mind blank.

  Shortly before one, the front door opened and closed. Below, Kyra greeted Rod. Then the door shut again, and silence reigned. Or did he did he hear the smallest sound of a sniffle?

  David turned onto his stomach and clamped the pillow over his head. Kyra, I’m sorry. He had to make it up to her, but he didn’t see a way to do so. He’d work on it. Later.

  10

  Burning Tree, Utah

  David awoke before dawn with a headache. Rather than follow his normal morning routine, he popped a couple of aspirin to ward it off. He pulled on a pair of cycling pants and a shirt with a fleece over it. With his hair pulled back at the nape of his neck and his shoes in his hands, he crept down the stairs. Once in the silent kitchen, he filled his backpack with water bottles for him and Ranger, lunch for him, and dog treats for Ranger. He needed to get away and think on his day of mourning The Incident.

  He tiptoed outside and to the shed where he kept his mountain bike. With his helmet on and Ranger beside him, he walked it down the driveway. Only the sound of his cycling shoes scraping against the concrete reached him.

  With Ranger trotting beside him, he glided into town and to the restaurant. He slid his key from the back pocket of his shirt and let himself inside, where he flipped on the light. And stared. Kyra had done more than finish the dishes. Now, snowy white tablecloths adorned twelve tables. The nice china they’d washed the night before gleamed creamy white with deep red and gold rims. Freshly washed silverware sparkled, and goblets waited to be filled. Stunned, he wandered into the kitchen. Not a dirty dish remained anywhere. She’d even taken out the garbage.

  Man, he felt like a Class-A jerk. What was he—a two-year-old? No, even toddlers behave better than he had last night. He owed Kyra a super-sized apology.

  Retreat to his sacred spot had turned into a fantastic idea, especially as his internal darkness pressed closer. After locking the door, he rode toward the highway heading south of town. Only a few lights glowed in some homes, and the outlines of the buildings came clear as the day began getting dressed in the gentle pinks, oranges, and yellows of dawn.

  The chilly air raised goose bumps along his arms as he turned south onto State Road 15, which led toward ranch land full of soaring mesas and buttes. As soon as the lights from Burning Tree faded behind him, he turned onto a secondary road that meandered westward and paralleled the river when it once more crossed the highway.

  He pedaled faster around the twists and curves, trying to drive away the memories that pursued him.

  It didn’t work.

  They stung him like a swarm of Africanized honeybees.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, Sergeant Shepherd?” Those words came from Tina, the Mighty Men’s comms specialist Jessie’s widow, at the PX that hot July day when he’d shopped for some chow and run into her.

  “I don’t remember anything,” he’d told Abigail Ward-Bocelli and Bryson Bishop as he recovered at Lundstahl shortly after the Incident. “Seriously. It’s like I have no coherent thought after Captain called me to get the guys together.”

  He shoved those thoughts from his mind and focused on making the turn onto the dirt road that led to the top of the mesa. For the next ten minutes, sucking precious air into his lungs and feeling his quads, glutes, and hamstrings burn took his mind off the day.

  Once he leveled off, he pushed harder and harder against the pedals. His muscles trembled. His chest heaved. Thankfully, he’d been smart and used the gripper for his right hand. Ranger loped beside him, a faithful dog steadily keeping up with his master. David reached the barbed wire marking the border of his parents’ land and gingerly passed over the cattle guard. He turned off the road and bumped over packed desert soil along a hiking path. Finally, it came into view.

  The burning tree. The very one that had given the town its name.

  He slowed to a stop several feet away and gazed at the massive hulk of blackened wood near the edge of the mesa. It stood over fifty feet tall, which had made it a prime target for a lightning strike. The hit had happened over a hundred years before, when his great-great grandfather arrived. According to legend, the tree had survived and gone on living until a few years ago.

  Until the day of The Incident.

  At least that’s what Kyra told him because their father had gone there to weep shortly after he received news of The Incident.

  Legs shaking from exhaustion, David released his right hand from the gripper, climbed from the bike, and laid it on the ground.

  Beside him, Ranger whined.

  “Sorry, boy.” David eased the pack from his back and pulled out a collapsible bowl and a bottle. He poured some water. “Here you go.”

  As Ranger lapped it up with eager slurps, David remained in his crouch and stared at the tree. Not a green leaf grew on the charred branches.

  A faint breeze washed over him. He swallowed hard as the memories crowded around him like evil ghosts. This time, his defenses had crumbled, and the darkness closed around him. He closed his eyes and bit down hard on his lip.

  Captain’s command to gather the Mighty Men echoed in his ears.

  Mackie’s laugh turned into his typical snort as they shared drinks one weekend night at Fort Bragg. The rest of the Mighty Men guffawed.

  Then came a memory of passing around cigars when Oso, the Mighty Men’s other ordnance sergeant, had announced the birth of his first child.

  “Why, God? Why? Why?” He groaned and sank to his knees. The burning tree blurred through his tears.

  David had awakened from the surgery in Germany to feel his father’s hand in his.

  The Mighty Men’s CO, Captain, smiled as he shared a picture of his wife shortly after he’d taken command of the Mighty Men. “I know SF is a tough mistress, but I also know that marrying the right woman allows me not to worry about things at home.”

  David grimaced as his harsh words to Kyra the night before slammed into him. He hugged himself, willing the agony to lessen.

  It didn’t.

  “You’re weak.” Tina’s harsh words echoed in his mind. “You’re no leader. You caused Jessie to die. You failed him and everyone on that mission.”

  “I didn’t, God. I didn’t. No!”

  Ranger, who lounged in the shadow of a scrubby pinion pine, raised his head.

  “What else could you have done?” Captain’s widow had asked. Sadness tinged her smile as she stared at her now-empty house. “David, don�
��t blame yourself. Please. And don’t worry about me. Or any of us. God has us in the palm of His hand. It’s hard to believe, but this did not surprise Him.” She’d moved away the next day to be closer to her parents.

  He rocked back and forth as his chest heaved. Tears streamed down his face. “Where were you, God? Where were you when that happened? We wanted to honor You! We had a job to do. We thought You were with us. But You weren’t.”

  The accusation rang in the still air.

  Only the crows cackled at his angst.

  He collapsed onto the ground and clawed the hard soil. A sob escaped him.

  “God was there, bro,” Jonathan had said six months after The Incident on the one night they’d been brave enough to talk about it. “If not, no way would we have survived.”

  Now David cried into his hands. “Were You really there? I can’t believe that.”

  He lay there for a few more minutes, his breathing shallow. He clung to the hard earth as if trying to survive a firefight. He forced his eyes open enough to stare at his right forearm. Those tattered words rippled as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “You’ve been silent in my life for too long.” His allegation against God came out as a growl in the still desert air. “How do You expect me to be in that pew with Kyra and the kids? How can I? You deserted me. Deserted us.”

  There. He’d said it. He’d laid out his reasoning for not going to church in seven years. Wasn’t that enough?

  David lay prostrate until a whine reached him. Ranger licked his cheek. That brought him back to reality. As he took a deep, wavering breath, he sat up, and the agony receded a little. “Thanks, boy. You saved me.”

  Ranger sat on his haunches and scooted so close to his master that his entire side touched him.

  David put his arm around him.