The military service section picked up the bio. Enlisted in the Marines at Quantico, Virginia, on 5 December 1987.
Four months of basic at Parris Island, three months of advanced infantry training at Lejeune, and then joins the recon battalion. Well, well, well. The recon battalion was the Man . the Corps version of Special Forces troops. Kid must have done exceptionally well to be picked up right out of the training pipe. When Train had been in the Corps, you couldn’t even apply for recon until you’dserved successfully in the Fleet Marine Force for at least a year. And yet his father had said the kid got into the Corps via what the recruiters euphemistically used to call “a judicial referral.”
That didn’t square with the elite recon assignment. So, young Jack must have had either a unique skill set or a unique personality. Train was ready to bet on the personality. He scrolled down to the discharge info.
Hello. A bad conduct discharge in January 1990. That meant a special courtmartial and something relatively serious.
He scrolled up and checked out the last physical description in the bio: five-seven, black hair and brown eyes, 155 pounds. That was still pretty accurate, even now, except for that scraggly beard. He yawned and hid to blink his eyes to keep them focused. Got to get some sleep.
The physical description dated back to Jack’s graduation from boot camp.
A little guy, by Marine Corps standards.
And yet his pack and-gear would have weighed more than one-third of his own body -weight, so a. very strong little guy. Little was the wrong word; wiry better described it. He paged down to the section on criminal records, which was in two parts, preenlistment and then the subsequent civilian entries. Sure enough, there was his teenage track record, with three arrests, one for breaking and entering, one for drunk and disorderly, one for possession. But no convictions. Three arrests in two years, but no convictions. A snitch maybe? His father said he ran with bad company.
Maybe a gang. He windowed further into the arrest record and looked for adjudication codes. PB-plea bargain on the last arrest, the B and E beef. Off to the county boot camp.
the police boot camp to the Marine boot camp, which explain why he had done well. Already knew how to say, “Sir, yes, sir!” at the top of his lungs, “What’s the right answer, maggot?”
“Sir, anything you say it is, sir!”
A genius-level recruit by Corps standards.
He sat back from the screen. A high school grad, but with marginal grades. Three arrests, lowlife punk type, goes to police boot camp.
That in itself was a little strange, given his age, which had to have been around nineteen. Then he gets into the Corps. Thirty years ago, he could have accepted that on face value. But this had happened in 1987, and things had become a whole hell of a lot more selective by 1987. Even with his old man pulling a few strings, this just didn’t sound like the kind of guy the Corps -wanted.
He screened up the military record. the Page Thirteen showed assignments and promotions. Boot camp. Advanced training. He had joined the recon battalion in the fall of 1988. Promoted one pay grade June 1989. BCD seven months later. The Page Thirteen had an entry listing the special courtmartial but not the charges and specs. JAG records ought to have that. Maybe Karen could get them on He thought about it. If a guy didn’t work out in the rec force, he’d be shipped back to the FMF until his hitch was up. But this had to involve more than just a misfit. A special courtmartial, and a poisonous discharge paper that he would carry around for the rest of his life.
And there was the post-enlistment civilian arrest record.
Possession of marijuana. DUI and speeding on a motorcycle.
A second DUI charge that was later dropped due to contested evidence. An assault charge, dropped because the complainant had failed to appear in court. Regular pond slime, our boy Jack. But all low-level stuff.
Train considered the current address. Most of the Cherry Hill area overlooked the Potomac, separated from the river itself by the main north-south line of the railroad that serviced Washington.
He closed the file and shut down the PC. He rubbed his eyes and then looked at his watch. It was well after eleven.
Suddenly, he was very sleepy. He tried to conceptualize a pattern out of the file on Jack Sherman, but nothing surfaced. The admiral had told them he divorced his wife in 198 1, when Jack would have been just entering high school.
Mother a drunk, kid in the full emotional flame of male adolescence, and Pop bails to save his career. Good recipe for producing a bent kid.
Yeah, like you know anything about. Still, Sherman had achieved the pinnacle of his profession, admiral’s stars, while his wife ended up eating a gun and his only son was probably hustling pot to the riffraff who hung around the main gates of the Quantico base. And even those brand-new stars hadn’t saved Sherman the moment there was a whiff of scandal. That exclusive club he’d been dying to join for so many years was apparently ready to deep-six him.
Or were they? Carpenter had assigned Karen Lawrence and Train von Rensel to run some cover for him, or at least until Karen’s abduction. The tasking had become ambiguous, as if Carpenter was suddenly scared of something more than just bad press for the Navy. Now Sherman was apparently missing, but Carpenter and company didn’t seem very concerned about that. There had to be something they knew-some bits of privileged information flickering around that, famous flag-protection circuit-that Carpenter, for some odd reason, wasn’t going to share with them.
He stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace while Gutter snored quietly in the comer of the study. The hot coals swam in and out of focus. This whole case was being expertly steered into a box canyon of some kind. Surely Mcnair and the Fairfax police had access to the same kinds of information NIS did. So why hadn’t they found Jack?
Who was telling them to back out, and why were they so willing to go along? Local cops hated federal interference.
And there was the FBI, fence-sitting, trying to decide between helping out and letting the agency they loved to hate get another political black eye.
He kept coming back to Carpenter. What did that wily old man really want them to do?
e stretched at his desk, then immediately regretted it. shoulder muscles were sore as hell from the helo hoist, and his right leg had the makings of a really good charley. horse. Then another thought struck him: If they weren’t supposed to go after Galantz, did that perhaps mean Carpenter expected Galaitz to come after them? Take Karen somewhere safe. And do what? Wait. Wait for Galantz to come to them. And when he does … what? Were they bait now?
He shook his head. He was missing something here. But more than anything, he was too tired to think. it was time to climb up in his tree and get some desperately needed sleep.
He got up to close the screen and glass doors on the fire, considered going upstairs, then flopped down on the big leather couch instead. His last thoughts before drifting off were about Karen.
Karen woke up, to find herself actually out of the bed and standing in a comer of the guest room, her heart pounding.
She couldn’t remember the dream, other than having a desperate desire to run. She listened for signs of life downstairs, but the house was silent except for the occasional creaks and cracks of an old house’s bones. Her nightgown was soaked with perspiration from the nightmare. She took it off P and went into the bathroom, where she used a wet washcloth to sponge away the film of fear. She appropriated a terrycloth bathrobe hanging on The back of the bathroom door and went back to sit on the edge of the bed, where she stared through the sheer curtains covering the window. There appeared to be. a heavy fog or mist outside that hid even the big trees surrounding the house.
She wondered where Train was.-Down the HAII9 She had been so sleepy at dinner, but now she was afraid to go back to sleep, even though her eyes were aching. She recalled his words at dinner: that there are worse men; there are better men. She would never QTWIL the bitter coil of anger at the fact that Frank had cheated on her. And
yet, as a philosophy for the rest of her life, the “better men” thesis would be a hell of lot more productive.
She eased the bedroom door open and went downstairs, walking on tiptoes past the other bedroom doors along the hall on her way there. There was a single night-light on in the main hall, and light showing through the open study doors. She was halfway into the room when she realized Train was asleep on the couch. He was on his back, his massive hands folded on his chest. She walked over to the’ couch, silent as a ghost in her bare feet, and watched him for a minute. His face looked younger in repose, the lines and furrows in his face less pronounced. She spied the brandy decanter across the room, walked over and poured a small measure into a snifter, took a sip, and made a face.
Strong stuff, whatever it was.
She went back, sat down on the floor next to the couch, and breathed in the aroma of the Armagnac. So what are we doing here? she asked herself.
You know full well what you’re doing here. You’ve had the stew scared out of you and now you want a man, a big strong man, to hold you and love you and make it all go away, if only for a while.
That2s silly. That stereotype went out the window a long time ago.
Oka-a-y-y, so maybe he’d like someone to hold him, love him, and make it all go away. Look at the lines on his face, the bags under his eyes. The poor beast is exhausted. Hell, we’re both exhausted.
She smiled to herself in the darkness. All these rules.
You’re forty-four years old. Just exactly how long do you plan to abide by other people’s rules? Frank is gone. They had had ten years, and if he had been unfaithful, he’d at least been discreet about it. And he’d been a pretty good provider. This Sherman mess was going to come to a head f some kind, probably behind some closed flag office doors, and then what? She would be leaving the Navy and the career and all the rest of it.
She watched him sleeping, then just let her thoughts wander for a while-about her life, choices made and avoided, her ten years with Frank. She thought about this mess with Sherman. Behind the applause of flag selection, what a shambles that poor man had made of his life. Some things of value. It was ironic that Galantz seemed to have a better appreciation for which things really were of value in this life. She looked back at Train, and was surprised to find him awake and watching her.
“Did you swipe my Armagnac?” he asked.
“Not uilty. Fetched my own.”
“Anything else I can do for you, Counselor?”
She looked right at him, touching him with her eyes, and then he’was swinging himself off the couch and up into a sitting position, lifting her to him, kissing her hard, no more control now, just a hungry wanting that lit her up from one end to the other like a tungsten filament. They kissed while working hurriedly on each other’s robes, and, then he stretched out full length on his back and pulled her up onto his body.
She arched her back as he explored with his hands and his lips, and then she did some exploring of her own, stopping, almost alarmed, when she realized how big he was. She swallowed hard.
He pulled her knees forward, lifting her hips, kissing her breasts, letting her labia rub along the full length of him, keeping it flat against his belly until she started to tremble uncontrollably with her own desire.
“You do it, Karen,” he whispered. “Go slow.”
She leaned all the way forward and reached behind her to guide him in, moaning when she felt his heat begin to fill her up while she lifted and then pushed backward, slowly, but seemingly forever, her belly fusing finally with his. He didn’t move, just let her absorb him without discomfort, and then he was unfolding her legs backward, stretching her out full length on top of him. And then he did move, slowly, carefully, until she responded, and then, the first time, it went fast, very fast, her fingers clawing at the leather of the couch, his hands bouncing her hips harder and harder as she climbed the mountain, until she stopped, her breath caught in her throat, her whole physical being suffused with the power of her climax.
She collapsed over him; muscles humming, the edges of a cramp in her legs, her breath shuddering out of her in sobbing gusts until she was able to get it under control. He was still inside, still hard, and she was almost afraid to move. But then he was pulling her knees up again, gently lifting her into a straddling position on his hips, his big hands on her breasts, massaging them, rolling her nipples through his fingers while he moved inside of her, going deeper, the flat, hard muscles of his groin pressing harder and harder against her own, summoning the fire again. As she felt him rising to his own climax, she took over, driving the rhythm while watching him through slitted eyes, her hair damp and hanging down over her forehead, the taste of sweat and his hot kisses in her mouth as she rocked above him, locking him in and going faster, feeling his hands go weak and then his breath catching, his hips lifting up in one werful deep thrust that felt as if it would split her in two PO as he came, filling her belly with an intense warmth.
She leaned forward when he was spent, keeping him inside, and kissed his face, his lips, his chin, his lips again, whispering to him while he stroked her back and her hips with his hands. She stretched out full length on top of his body, -with his arms wrapped tight around her.
After a little while, he suggested they go upstairs to his room.
“What are-your intentions, kind sir?” she asked, reaching for the robe.
“Whatever my lawyer recommends, Counselor. Unless you’re out of ideas.”
“Silly man,” she said. “What a silly man. Only you’re going to have to help me walk.”
FRIDAY. dressed in Karen came down for breakfast just before eight her uniform and carrying a large leather civilian purse. The breakfast table was set in the dining room, but no one seemed to be about, so she went into the kitchen’ where she found Hiroshi and - Kyoko having a cup of tea. As Kyoko started to get up, she asked Hiroshi if he would bring her car around to the side of the house. Hiroshi frowned but then nodded and left to get the c*. at down witk Kyoko and asked if she could have Karen’s some tea. Kyoko took one look at Karen’s face, smiled hugely, and hastened to get it.
“Train is still asleep,” Karen said, blushing. “I think he is very tired.”
The old woman just looked at her over the fun of her cup, and Karen was careful to avoid eye contact. “I’m going over to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. I think it best if Train was not disturbed.”
Kyoko nodded once but still didn’t say anything. Karen sipped her cup of tea for a few minutes, suppressing a grin of pure pleasure. She finally looked over at Kyoko. Then they both smiled, exchanging one of those knowing looks women have been trading since the beginning of time. Karen got up when she heard the car, thanked Kyoko for the tea, and went out the back door to intercept the Explorer. Hiroshi stepped out and gave her a remote device for opening the main gates.
“Train-sama does not go with you?” he asked.
“He needs his sleep, Hiroshi. He stayed awake to watch the night before last in the hospital. I’m just going over to the Marine base. I’ll be back by noon. Let him sleep, all right? He’s been up for almost two nights.”
Hiroshi looked unconvinced. “There is no danger where you go? Do you wish Hiroshi to go with you?”
She looked at him and wondered how much Train had told him. “I don’t -think so,” she replied. “I’ll be sa on the base, Hiroshi. There are lots of big Marines there. He has my car phone number if he’s worried.”
Hiroshi nodded, then hesitated, as if he had one more question. But then he bowed and closed the door for Karen.
She drove off as quietly as she -could, not wanting to wake Train. He’d be pretty agitated when he found out she had gone 4f on her own, but after last night, she was determined to do two things: first, hurry this Sherman thing to a conclusion. She knew Jack would never open up if Train was present. But if she could make him talk and establish that he was acting in concert with Galantz, they should be able to force Mcnair to move, which damned well o
ught to precipitate something. Secondly, she wanted to demonstrate to Train that she was an equal part of this team.
An hour later, Karen drove back out of the Marine base front gates and turned fight into tiny Triangle, Virginia. Her trip out to the airstrip had been a complete bust: Jack Sherman had not shown up for work. And when she had asked for his home address, the civilian clerk behind the counter had refused to give it out, citing the Privacy Act. Since Karen did not have Train’s database file with her, she now needed to find the boy’s address. She could, of course, admit defeat and go back to Aquia, but she was determined not to do that. She checked her car phone to see if there had been any calls, but there were none. Good. Still asleep, then. With any luck, she could get back before he even woke up. Then she saw the sign for the Triangle post office.
She turned the Explorer off Route One and entered a side street that led to the post office. The assistant postmaster turned out to be a retired Marine, and he perked up at the sight of Karen’s three stripes. She turned on her best smile in an effort to ease his bureaucratic conscience. After a few minutes of Navy-Marine. Corps banter, the postmaster produced the box with the postal box registration cards.
“Here’s your boy,” he announced, pulling an ID yellow
“Shows an address of number four card out of the file box.
Slade Hill Road. Which explains why he has a box. I think I’vd seen this guy. Skinny, rat-faced fella.”
“Sounds like him. We’ve interviewed him once over at the Marine base where he works. But he didn’t show up this morning. How do you know him?”
“Slade Hill is a one-lane mud track, goes up a steep hill off a Cherry Hill Road. There’s a pair of trailers halfway up, and then this guy. Our delivery trucks can’t get in end out except when it’s bone-dry, which is almost never’ That’s assumin’ they’d want to. Buncha biker lowlifes up there.
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