by Anthony Tata
She turned her attention to the television. Flipping through all of the news channels with the remote, she took a sip of her coffee and placed the cup on the cherry wood end table. She kicked off her slippers as if she had just returned from a long day at work and tucked her feet underneath her on the sofa. Finding a station that seemed to have more video and less talk, she watched the video replay of the house burning over and over on different channels.
“Glad I didn’t commit to that one,” she whispered to herself. She smacked her lips at the strong coffee, all the while contemplating her next move. Melanie would be bankrupt because she was certain that she had not insured the house prior to signing the contract and closing. Amanda obviously had learned things from her father’s house and the other people with whom she now consulted. But what else had she learned, and would it threaten their relationship?
On the contrary, with Melanie the clear instigator and manipulator in Amanda’s eyes, this panned out about as she’d expected and hoped it would. As Amanda went to college or moved out of the house, she would have to divide her time between her mother and grandmother, making difficult choices about who to see and when. The life of a young adult revolved around her friends and immediate social network more than her family, Nina knew. When the child came back for the holidays, whom would she see, spend time with, show affection to? Those were the key issues that dominated Nina’s thought process. Her goal was to make sure that Amanda tilted that balance in her favor.
Amanda’s love for her had always been a mainstay, undeniable and irrevocable. She was confident that would remain steadfast. Like a true believer, Amanda would remain loyal to her, she was certain. After all, there was nothing in any chain of events that could be traced back to Nina.
In her mind, morality was a rationalization. The moral thing, the right thing, was always to take care of yourself, take what you could get. Scratch and claw for it if you had to, but best to learn the polished approach and make it seem like everyone else was fighting, and you were just trying to make peace, the innocent bystander. And why go to those lengths? Well, if the thread came undone on the newspaper article, she had decided, the entire scheme could unravel and expose not only their most recent antics, but possibly years of petty crimes.
Most importantly, if Amanda were led to believe she should love her father, then there would be less for her. That was the reality.
Watching replays of her daughter on television screaming at firemen made her look casually around her confines and smile. Amanda had survived the night but was assuredly sweating bullets somewhere. The scared and insecure little girl would soon come running home to Nina. She swirled her coffee cup in her hand and offered a silent toast to Amanda as if to notch one on the scoreboard for her.
Yes, Nina Hastings was doing just fine, thank you.
She looked at her watch when she heard the key enter the deadbolt on the front door.
“Right on time.”
CHAPTER 81
SPARTANBURG, SOUTH CAROLINA
Amanda smoothed out her light green windbreaker, which she was wearing half zipped over a chartreuse short-sleeved sweater and blue jeans. She had changed and left her hoodie and other jeans at Brianna’s house for Brianna’s mother to wash. She rubbed her eyes again, then squeezed a few eye-drops into each, followed by a light tossing of her hair. The morning sun had crested and this Monday promised to be a turning point in her life. With graduation less than a week away, she was going to step into the big, bad world a new, wiser and stronger person.
Fumbling with the keys, Amanda burst through the front door, tripping in the foyer of her mother’s house. As she did so, it occurred to her that they had actually sold the house. They intended to vacate it this weekend for the new owners.
“Nina! Nina! Are you here?”
Amanda darted into the dining room and the kitchen, but did not see her grandmother. Reversing course she entered the main hallway and shot straight back to the den, where she saw Nina standing with an expression of concern on her face. Amanda immediately ran to her and hugged her.
“Oh, Nina, it was so bad! Have you turned on the television? Did you see what happened?”
“What’s going on, Amanda? You can tell Nina.”
Amanda pressed her face into the silver silk blouse, feeling her grandmother flinch when she knew that Amanda’s tears might stain the fabric. Having the good fortune of hindsight now, it occurred to Amanda that when her grandmother referred to herself in the third person as Nina, she was full of the conceit that served as her fuel.
“Mama, Dagus, it was all so bad last night. He was going to kill me, and then there was Mama. It was terrible.” She heaved into her grandmother’s bosom, holding her tight. She felt a little like Dorothy after she had returned to Kansas in The Wizard of Oz.
“It’s okay, Amanda. It’s okay. You know, it’s just you and me now, and I’m going to make it okay for you like I always have.”
She felt Nina embrace her, but it wasn’t a loving embrace. The way that she could feel her grandmother’s muscles flexing in her arms, Amanda sensed that she did not want so much to hold her close, but to prevent her from getting away. It was a clutch rather than a hug.
“Oh, Nina, I’m so sorry for all of this. I know that you have been the one there for me all this time. It’s only you, Nina.”
“It’s okay, Amanda. I’m here for you.”
Her conversation with Brianna had refined the path that she had finally chosen. She’d learned many lessons living within the confines of the psychological hell her grandmother and mother had created for her. Primarily though, she had discovered that everyone had a soft spot, a weakness.
For example, looking at Nina Hastings, the average person would believe she was a refined, cultured woman with a sense of humor and a tough edge. Her father’s revelations to her, even in his death, however, had given her the distance she required to look back on the situation and see it from a more objective standpoint. Like a diver surfacing to check his distance from land, she was able to break away just long enough to gain a balanced perspective.
But defeating Nina was probably not possible. The woman was simply too tough and too savvy. There was only one possible route: an indirect attack.
“I know you’re here, Nina.” She pulled away, wiping at the ersatz tears. “You’ve always been there for me.”
“And I’m here for you now,” Nina said, an edge to her voice, “once you level with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I checked, Amanda. Your father’s not buried in Arlington. That was some other loser’s funeral you went to. Why did you lie to us?”
Amanda’s mind raced. Her strategy had been cut short by what she should have considered the one obvious flaw in her plan, but she was prepared. Military funerals were highly publicized and easily researched. Again, Nina was punching and jabbing, circling the ring with her own flesh and blood, keeping her off balance and controlling the situation.
Not this time.
“Because he was Special Operations we handled everything quietly at Arlington. Go check it out yourself.” This part was true as far as she knew. Matt had told her that he was the executor of her father’s estate. In his documents there was a clause that asserted, in the event of Zach’s death, that there was not to be a ceremony. He had already been buried once. In reality all they had handled at Arlington, was Sergeant Eversoll’s funeral.
“I don’t appreciate you questioning me.” Amanda’s temper flared, counterpunching. “You don’t believe me? Here I come back to you for support, and you are suspicious of me? What in the world could I do to you, Nina?”
Nina stared at Amanda, her black eyes set upon her like a target finder. She watched her grandmother flinch, the tightness in her face eventually giving way to a more relaxed, if sagging, expression.
“You’re right, Amanda. I’m sorry. You know, when I didn’t see you-know-who’s name in the paper for Arlington funerals I just began to wonder.”
“Remember how crazy it was last time? They buried him, but he was really alive at Fort Bragg. I think they just wanted to get it over with. Yeah, we went to the ceremony for that guy, but it was right after that we sorted out everything about my dad.”
It bothered her to call Lance Eversoll “that guy,” but she transformed that feeling into a pained countenance.
“Come here.” Nina clutched her again, her bony arms bruising Amanda’s back.
She felt her grandmother begin to shake. “What is it, Nina?” Perhaps her plan was back intact. “Let’s sit down.”
They sat close to one another on the sofa. The television was turned to mute and the network news had begun, but the fire still replayed in a small inset next to the anchor’s head as she spoke. Amanda wondered if Mary Ann had time to make the papers this morning.
“Grandma, talk to me, please?”
Nina looked at her absently. “Grandma.” It was a statement, not a question. “That sounds nice. You always called me Nina because you couldn’t say ‘Grandma’ as a little child.”
Amanda knew this was a lie. Nina had named herself that and began reciting it with Amanda when she was three.
“I know, but, you know, Grandma just sometimes feels good to say. It’s kind of like saying ‘I love you.’”
Again, she saw Nina’s features soften another notch.
“Well, I guess that’s okay. Sure makes me feel good.”
“You don’t feel good much, do you Grandma? I mean, you always seem on edge like you can’t trust anyone and you need to defend yourself.”
Nina paused a moment and then spoke. “I suppose, Amanda. I’ve lived a hard life, you know. Came from nothing. Anytime I let anyone get close to me it seems they wound up hurting me. So I just quit letting it happen.”
“But you know, Grandma, you won’t even let me close to you. I mean, we’re sitting here next to each other, close and all, but not emotionally close.”
“I can’t remember the last time I let someone get emotionally close to me, or me them.”
“If you don’t allow yourself to be fully happy, what kind of life is that, Grandma?” Again with the name, like a hypnotist.
“So many people out there, they want things. They take from you all the time.”
“Come on, Grandma, it’s not that bad. Just let it go. You’ve got so much held up inside you. For all these years you’ve just bottled it up. Remember that time we were at Six Flags, and we did the wet and wild ride? That was so much fun. That was the real Grandma that I grew up loving. Where did that person go?”
Nina sniffed. Perhaps it was possible to derive water from a rock, Amanda thought. She reached up and rubbed her grandmother’s shoulder with her right hand. “It’s going to be okay, Grandma. Just let yourself feel something. You’ve got to start trusting someone. Can you trust me?”
The aging woman began to show her years as if a computer imaging program had redrawn her. Amanda could see the demons that she carried waking and creating havoc. The tortured look on Nina’s face told Amanda that somewhere in the basement of her soul a stagnant conscience must have emitted an electrical pulse. If only briefly, Amanda saw the look of absolute guilt cross her grandmother’s face.
“Can you trust me, Grandma? It’s important to me that you do.”
Her grandmother lifted her hand slowly, tentatively, and reached toward Amanda, placing the leathery paw on her arm and then sliding it down and clasping her hand.
“I can try, Amanda. I guess it’s time to start trying. We’ve been through a lot together, and I think if I were to pick one person in this world that I could trust it would be you.”
“We make a great team, you and me, Grandma.”
Amanda held her grandmother’s hand and pulled her close so that they could hug. She noticed a picture of Mary Ann Singlaub appear on the television screen next to a Web site excerpt. The anchor was obviously referring to what Mary Ann had written. She knew it was time.
“Grandma, I’m really tired. I didn’t sleep all night. Can I just go upstairs and take a nap?”
“Well, I’m up and I imagine your mother’s going to need some help.” She sighed heavily, blowing out a fraction of the stress she had been carrying for decades.
“Well, can you tuck me in like you used to do?” Amanda paused for effect and then pleaded. “Please, Grandma?”
Nina smiled at the thought. “You really are my little girl, you know. When you were born I stood right there and said, ‘God gave me exactly what I wanted.’”
“I know.” Amanda smiled tightly.
Amanda grabbed Nina’s hand and walked with her through the hallway and toward the foyer where she would turn and take the staircase up to her room. As she passed the front door, she paused and said, “What’s this?”
“What?” Nina seemed lost in another time, perhaps a place she always wanted to be, ensconced in the love of a child.
Amanda opened the door, still holding her grandmother’s hand with her opposite hand. Standing on the porch were two police officers from Spartanburg. They wore pressed gray shirts with creasing along the pockets.
“Hi officers, this is my grandmother. I believe she’s the one you’re looking for in relation to the prostitution of Brianna Simpson.”
The rage came back into her grandmother’s face instantly. The scared little girl suddenly became the fierce, hardscrabble Southerner. Snatching her hand from Amanda’s, leaving a long fingernail scratch down her wrist, Nina reached for her granddaughter’s throat.
“You little bitch!”
Blocking her thrust with a strong hand, Amanda grabbed her grandmother’s wrist. “No, Grandma, I just wanted you to feel for one minute what it was like to trust somebody and have them screw you over. Take how you feel right now and multiply it by seventeen years. That’s what you and your daughter did to me.”
Amanda stared at her for a moment, wanting to snap the tender wrist in her hand. “How’s it feel, Gabrielle?”
The look on her grandmother’s face shifted from utter contempt to a blank stare. Without much fanfare the police officers had Gabrielle Hastings handcuffed and seated in the back of the police cruiser.
Amanda Garrett walked up the stairs and began surveying everything that she wanted to take with her.
After all, it wasn’t her house anymore.
CHAPTER 82
Yemen
Tuesday Morning (Hours of Darkness)
Matt could feel his face tighten with the pains of scarring and healing. He had a major cut across his forehead that had required stitches and two on his left cheek, his exposed side, where the doctor had gone in and removed the metal. One piece of shrapnel had penetrated his cheek and actually chipped one of his rear molars.
Considering everything, the doctor told him he was going to be just fine. Everyone who came to see him called him A-Rod, the nickname of Alex Rodriguex, star infielder for the New York Yankees.
“Okay, A-Rod, you’re free to leave and do whatever you are going to do. I don’t guess it’s any use telling you not to jump out of airplanes, fight bad guys, or try to save the world, right?”
“Right,” Matt grimaced, sitting up. The wounds on his legs were minor, like the scrape from a bad slide into second base.
He walked with some pain through the hospital corridor into the waiting SUV. The sun was bright and high in the sky to the west. Late afternoon. The fabled 100 days of wind had seemed to start as the hawking gales blew out of the mountains and swept across the plains, making air travel even more treacherous than normal.
The SUV pulled around a series of byzantine turns and then through a small gate, which opened onto the runway, finally stopping at the open ramp of a C-17 aircraft. Matt thanked the driver, walked up the ramp with a slight limp and was greeted by the Air Force loadmaster.
“Sir, A-Rod.”
Matt stopped and looked at him, shaking his head. Apparently he was legendary for his toss. After all of the baseballs he had thrown in
his career, perhaps he would be best known for tossing a four second grenade on its third second into an adjacent room, saving the database and his team.
“It’s just A-Rod to you, Sergeant. Drop the ‘sir,’” Matt said, smiling, which hurt.
Walking into the cavity of the C-17 he saw the command and control pod in the center and three sets of jump equipment. Hobart and Van Dreeves were sitting at the terminals looking at Global Hawk photographs and Predator feed.
“The Yemeni government wants to know what we’re doing,” Hobart said.
“We’re not telling them jack,” Matt said.
Hobart and Van Dreeves turned their heads, both saying, “A-Rod.”
To which Matt said, “Bite me.”
“Welcome back,” Hobart laughed.
“Let’s get this pig rolling,” Matt said over his shoulder to the loadmaster.
Slipping on a headset he began to stare at the screen. On it were two pictures. One was a close up of a house in the middle of a residential neighborhood. It appeared to be Spanish architecture, complete with tiled roof. There was an empty driveway that led to what appeared to be an asphalt road. High shrubs of some type hugged the walls of the house and lined either side of the driveway as well as the entire yard. The yard was walled and gated, with swinging wrought-iron gates at the end of the driveway.
“This is Yemen?” Matt asked.
“Roger. We think this house is connected by underground tunnels to the houses on either side of it. When we do a thermal look, we get some shaded areas underneath that lead us to believe there are multiple escape routes through at least these two houses.”
“The medics always come to the middle house though, right?” Matt asked.
“Right. But we can’t follow them too well once inside.”
“How did Dubai go?” Matt asked.
“About as expected. The pilot dropped a bomb from 40,000 feet. It hit the target, drilled about fifty feet into the substructure, and exploded. Multiple secondary explosions and many dead. Team jumped in and verified the identity of number five on the list, the chief financier. And the pilot gets a medal.”
