by Weston Ochse
“What happened to him?” he managed to stammer.
“Freddie was born that way. Congenital amputation.”
The room seemed to dissolve almost as if it were a mirage, miles away. The image of another young boy in a wheelchair replaced this one. This time it was a young Afghan boy of eight with arms and legs that didn’t work thanks to an IED. He’d been used for something he never should have been used for. Bile rose in Starling’s throat. He struggled to stand. The image of the boy was suddenly replaced by that of the goat in his dream, its mouth inexpertly sewn shut, its devil eyes judging him, the girl standing imperiously behind.
He backed away until his rear end touched the fireplace.
He desperately needed to regain control of his mind and the situation. The drugs and booze had left him a washed-out old soldier on the edge of sanity. Barring a sudden and immediate stay at an all-expenses-paid detox joint of his choosing, he was going to totally lose his shit. The girl. The goat. The shy boy from Afghanistan. And now this Korean woman—Joon—who claimed to know him. And her son. The bile continued to rise. He stumbled from the living room to the kitchen and unleashed his stomach into the sink, covering the breakfast dishes, including one that had a smiling Big Bird on the bottom with the words JOB WELL DONE, with vomit.
He heard from the other room, “Mommy, is the man going to hurt you again?”
“I don’t think so, Freddie. This time it seems different.”
“But he’s sick, just like the last time.”
“It’s going to be okay, I think, Freddie. Now go back to your room.”
With both of Starling’s hands gripping the sink and his head hung low, he listened as the boy maneuvered the wheelchair, then moved down the hall. Starling jumped a little when a door slammed.
A moment later, Joon entered the kitchen. She barely glanced at the vomit, reached up into a cabinet for a glass, then filled it with water from a gallon jug in the refrigerator. She handed it to him.
“Here. Sit down.” She pulled out a chair from the table.
He accepted the glass, then sat. He took a sip, then drank half. After he swallowed, he rolled the cool glass across his forehead. He regarded Joon, who stood across from him, her back against the counter.
“Who’s the father?”
“You wouldn’t know him,” she said.
Starling considered his position in the mess. “Let me guess. He comes from money and he wants little Freddie to come live with him.”
Her face pinched, menacing. “He can have him when I’m dead.”
“I think that was one of the options. It’s why they sent me.”
She shook her head. “You ever killed a woman?”
“Once,” he said, reliving the moment. “I had to. She ran at me and wouldn’t stop. Turns out she had on a suicide vest. We checked her out afterwards. She had three kids and a husband. It was the husband who made her do it. It was either her or him and he was too much a coward to do what the Taliban told him to.”
“What’d you do to the husband?”
“Something that made him wish he’d strapped the bomb on himself.”
She regarded him for a moment, then as he finished his glass, she took the jug from the refrigerator and refilled it.
“You some big time soldier?” she asked.
Big time. Had he ever been big time? “Nah, I was just the guy you turned to when you needed something fixed… when you needed help.”
“Like a boy scout.”
He laughed.
“What? I say it wrong?”
“No, you said it right. It’s just that Boy Scout used to be my call sign—what they called me in Afghanistan.”
“You’re not a boy scout anymore?”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been anything close to a boy scout.”
“You going to do what Larrson wants?” she asked.
He noticed that her hand was close to the kitchen knives. “If it means taking the boy, then no.”
Her hand retreated an inch. “You shouldn’t cross Larrson.”
“How do you know him?”
“He got me this place.”
“You have anywhere else to go?”
She shook her head. “My father and mother say I disgraced them. My brother was killed in Iraq. All my other family is in Korea and they’re even worse than my father.”
“What was your plan?”
“The boy’s father was going to give me enough money to live on and to take care of him.”
“And now?”
“Now he wants my son so he can put him in a state home. His wife found out about the monthly payments and he wants to shut them off.”
“Larrson tell you this? How did he know?”
“The boy’s father used him as a go-between. Count on that asshole to know criminals.”
“If I don’t come back with the boy, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“Can you pay the hell back?” she asked, twisting the words to mean something else.
Starling downed the rest of the water and placed the glass on the table, then nodded. “Yeah. I think I can. Let me make a call.”
Chapter Three
STARLING WAS WELL aware that he was about to cross a line he couldn’t uncross, but he saw it as an opportunity rather than a negative. He’d been silently begging the universe to throw him a lifeline for months. He couldn’t tell how he’d stumbled onto this downward path, but he’d desperately wanted to get off it. Helping Joon and her son would be the first major step back to being who he’d been. And he’d need the help of the only member of his former team he was still in contact with: Chaz McQueen.
As Starling dialed the number, he remembered that he owed McQueen three hundred bucks, which was what the big man wanted to talk about right after they said their pleasantries. Of course, he also wasn’t surprised when Starling wanted to talk about something else. When presented with the intriguing problem, McQueen was more than willing to do something that lent relevancy to his existence—not that bouncing the door at West Hollywood’s most exclusive gay bar wasn’t relevant—but he couldn’t make it until after his shift was over at one a.m. Starling pressed him, but McQueen was firm. He’d made a commitment to the club and wouldn’t leave them in the lurch. Starling was a little bemused as he hung up. It seemed as if at least one of them still knew what the word duty meant.
The next call was a little trickier.
He walked deeper into the backyard, found a spot to stand next to the clothesline, then hit redial on a number.
“Is it done?” Larrson asked.
“Is what done?”
“Don’t play games with me.”
“Who’s playing games? I asked you what the mission was and you said I’d know when I got there. Well, I’m here and I don’t know what the fucking mission is.”
“I’m not going to spell it out on the phone. No telling who’s listening.”
“Just tell me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“What do I do with the girl?”
A moment of silence was followed by a salacious laugh. “Whatever you want, big boy.”
Starling gritted his teeth and turned to look back at the house. Joon stood behind the screen door, staring out at him, clutching her E-cig against her breast. He wondered if she knew how her future was absolutely in his hands.
“No, seriously,” he said.
“I am being serious. About the boy…” Larrson paused and shouted to someone off-phone. “About the boy. Package him up and deliver him to me by six.”
“It’s ten now. What do you want me to do the rest of the day?”
“Babysit. Fuck, I got to tell you everything?”
“Why wait?”
“Because I’m in fucking San Bernardino taking care of another schmoe who can’t tie his shoes without asking why. You don’t want to be that guy, Starling. You don’t ever want to be that guy.” Then he began yelling at someone again. After a few seconds, he hu
ng up.
“Don’t be that guy,” Starling said to himself. “Too late. I am that guy.”
He pocketed the phone and strolled up the walk to the back porch.
Joon didn’t move as she watched him come back to the door.
“What did he tell you to do with me?” she asked.
“Whatever I wanted.”
Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. He could see her playing out possible futures in her mind. “Did he say that?” she asked, each word measured.
“In so many words.” He lifted his hand to the screen door handle. “Can I come in?”
She regarded him for a moment, then backed away.
When he stepped inside, she nodded to the sink. “Feel free to clean up your mess.” Then she turned on her heel, grabbed the laundry, and headed into the living room and down the hall, presumably to her room.
Starling glanced at the vomit in the sink and shook his head. Being that guy wasn’t so hot after all, but it seemed as if it was necessary if he was ever going to get back to the boy scout he’d once been. Going against Larrson felt right. This was different than the other times he’d been the man’s stalking dog. Starling was in sort of a rehabilitation phase, one where he had to clean up his own vomit. On the bright side, at least it was in the sink.
After washing away his addition to the sink, he cleaned Joon and Freddie Park’s breakfast dishes.
Certainly when he failed to bring the kid around at the appointed time, Starling would become that guy. It would probably take an hour or two for Larrson to send his crew, which meant they’d probably be safe until about 8 p.m. The problem was that McQueen wasn’t arriving until after midnight. Starling was going to have to come up with a plan.
After he was done at the sink, he helped himself to two pieces of bread and some peanut butter. He ate ravenously, making small animal sounds as he chewed open-mouthed. He chugged some water then made another sandwich. He was halfway through eating when he heard a humming noise, which was soon followed by the appearance of Freddie in his wheelchair. Starling stopped in mid-chew, as if he was a thief who’d been caught in the act. Then he slowly resumed chewing.
“You stealing my peanut butter?”
“I’ve got to get some food in my stomach,” he said.
“That’s our food,” the kid said.
“True, but since I’m helping you, I figured I could have some.”
“You should have asked.”
Starling considered arguing, but the kid was right. He should have asked.
“Want me to fix you one?” Starling asked instead.
“I had breakfast.” The kid watched him for a moment, then asked, “Are you a criminal?”
Starling felt a blow to his soul. Was he? He supposed the law would see some of the things he’d done as a crime. It was funny. He used to see things in black and white. There was a right and a wrong and no space between them. He had guys on his team like Dak and Oz, who both lived in the gray zone between the two. But for Starling—at least how it used to be—there had been no gray zone… until now.
“I don’t think I am,” he said.
“Then what are you?”
Starling thought for a moment, then slowly said, “I’m just a guy who’s going to try and get you and your mother out of a jam.”
The kid blinked several times at the answer, then put the steering pole into his mouth, spun the wheelchair around and headed out of the kitchen.
“Where’s your mother?” Starling called after.
“Putting together a suitcase.”
“She better not take much stuff. We need to be able to move fast.”
The kid halted the progress of the wheelchair. “I can’t move too fast.”
“Then I’ll figure something out.”
“You won’t leave me, will you?” the kid asked in a small voice.
“No, kid. I won’t leave you.”
The wheelchair started up again and Starling watched as Freddie turned down the hall and headed towards his bedroom.
The day went faster than he’d expected. Starling had figured early on that they couldn’t merely stay in the house. He was only one man and there were too many ways to get in. No, he needed to find a place for them to hide until McQueen came for them. He considered taking him back to his apartment, but two things discouraged that idea. The first was that he lived in a third floor walk-up, which would make it hard for Freddie to get up there, much less flee if the need arose. And the second was that Starling didn’t know if Larrson had set up surveillance. It could be either technical or personal, but if there was someone or something looking for them, especially the obvious biometrics of a wheelchair, they’d be in worse shape than they already were.
So he’d decided to look for something closer to home. After a long conversation with Joon, he discovered that the house next door with the high fence belonged to a neighbor who was on a twelve-day cruise. She’d given Joon the keys to the gate and the home and asked her to water her plants and put the mail inside. Joon said the woman was a little paranoid when it came to security. An older Korean woman, she didn’t appreciate at all the influx of non-Koreans and blamed every bad thing on their intrusion.
After several visual circuits of the home, Starling escorted both Joon and Freddie out the back, helping him guide the wheelchair down the ramp, across the yard, and into the back alley. They hurried to the gate at the house next door. While Joon unlocked the padlock, Starling looked up and down the street, waiting for a car to swing around either corner and plough towards them.
Soon they were inside with the tall gate locked behind them. This home was another 1930s Craftsman, but the two couldn’t be more different. Where one had cracked and peeling paint and more dirt in the yard than grass, this one was pristine. Even the grass in the back yard looked manicured. Starling noted that the wheelchair left distinguishing lines in the grass, so he went behind and used his feet to rub them away.
After Joon opened the door, he lifted the wheelchair onto the porch and they went inside. She hurriedly punched a code into the security alarm, telling Starling the numbers as she did so. The model home look continued inside. With a Spartan yet elegant touch, everything had a place. A hint of lavender remained in the air, reminding Starling that this home belonged to an old woman. They made their way into the living room. Joon positioned the chair near the fireplace. She sat on the loveseat next to it, then pulled an iPad from her bag and installed it into an electronic cradle attached to the front of the wheelchair. Using the steering rod, Freddie began to play a game.
Starling left them and checked the house. Once he was satisfied it was empty and all the doors and windows were locked, he settled into a chair by the front window and prepared himself mentally for the siege. It was like putting on an old familiar uniform. How often had he done the same thing during his protection details as a TST commander? He’d lost count. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. He couldn’t help smiling as he recognized that he was once again becoming who he used to be.
By five, however, he began craving a drink. Anything. A beer. Wine. Scotch. Vodka. He’d even settle for a bottle of strawberry Boone’s Farm. He got up and went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. His hands were trembling enough that he was afraid he’d drop the glass. He drank two glasses of water, then washed and dried the glass and put it back on the shelf.
Glancing around the kitchen, he searched visually for where a bottle might be if the older Korean woman was so inclined. It wouldn’t be where people would normally see it. She’d make sure that it was available but hidden as well. After all, it was her business if she wanted to have a nip or two, but no one else’s.
He tried the small cabinet over the refrigerator but saw that it only held a crockpot.
Of course—it was too high.
If you were an older Korean woman, where would you put your booze?
Then Starling leaned down, searched under the sink, and saw a bottle of Maker’s Mark behind the ant and r
oach killer. He pulled the bottle free and held it as if it were a precious child.
“Is that what this is about?” came Joon’s voice from the doorway. “You going to get drunk and then protect us?”
Starling fought the urge to say something back. He licked his lips and stared hard at the bottle.
“Do you want a straw, big man?” she asked.
He unscrewed the cap and inhaled the rich acrid smell of barrel-aged bourbon. Then, with shaking hands, he put the cap back on, put the bottle back under the sink, and closed the door. When he straightened up, he looked Joon in the eye.
“I told you I’d protect you and I will.”
Then he stalked out of the kitchen, his throat the ass end of the Sahara, his will all but broken as he put distance between himself and the liquor he so desperately wanted to baptize himself in.
Every second of the next hour was a battle of will. He almost gave in a thousand times, but fought against it.
“How long have you been drinking?” Joon asked.
“Better ask how long I haven’t.”
“Why do you do it?”
He thought about it. Images of that night and the boy in the wheelchair flashed by so fast he barely saw them, but it didn’t matter. Those transitional moments of justice had been forever etched into the back of his skull. Try as he might, he’d never forget.
“I honestly don’t know,” he said, and then his phone rang.
He checked the time. 18:11.
“Where are they?” Larrson growled.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Starling said.
After a moment of silence, “I knew you’d act this way. Fucking wannabe boy scout.”
“Then why’d you give me this one?”
“I thought you’d be too far gone to care.”
And there it was. That’s how the universe saw him… too far gone to care. Steel slid into his spine. He stood a little straighter. Head high. Eyes steady. “I guess you were wrong.”
“Yeah, I guess I was. You know I’m coming for you, right?”
“I was counting on it.”
