Incursion
Book Three of the Recursion Event Saga
Brian J. Walton
Camton House Publishing
Also by Brian J. Walton
The Recursion Event Saga
Book 1: Recursion
Book 2: Dispersion
Book 3: Incursion
Book 4: Recension (Coming March 2018)
Book 5: Inversion (May 2018)
All books are available exclusively on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited
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Contents
Also by Brian J. Walton
New York, 1998
November 5
November 24
December 2
December 13
December 19
June 23, 2001
October 18
April 8, 2002
February 11, 2005
February 12
February 13
May 21, 2008
May 22
Get the Sequel
About the Author
November 5
How can you spend all day, every day with someone for years of your life and still feel like you never even knew them? Consider exhibit A: the duffel bag. It’s brand-new, the price tag still hanging from one of the handles. Inside are blouses, bras, dresses, jeans, underwear, even that sweater I bought her last month. Exhibit B: the envelope of cash. A brief examination reveals somewhere in the realm of several thousand dollars. But the last item is the most damning of all. Exhibit C: the tickets. One way, departing from LaGuardia this Saturday. I half expect to see a fake name next to my wife’s picture, but there is none. The name reads Molly Gardner.
My damn ring… If I hadn’t lost it at some point while changing, then I never would’ve gone snooping back here. I had an image in my head of bumping the dresser, sending the ring rolling across the carpet and into the open closet door. It was an unlikely place to look, but I’d already checked every corner of the bedroom. So I looked, and now I’ve seen it.
Things had been strained between us for the last few weeks, and I was still desperate to find out why. The obvious culprit was my six months of being held hostage in a Jaysh al-Saalihin prison. People don’t return to normal quickly after something like that, and I certainly wasn’t. But Molly had been distant, and every effort to broach the topic had met with defensiveness. Which is why I’d spent the last half hour frantically searching for my ring while she took a phone call with her editor at the magazine. I had the irrational thought that if Molly saw the ring off my finger, she would accuse me of cheating and would pin that on the source of our conflict. Instead, I’d stumbled across a discovery that somehow managed to explain all of her coldness and standoffishness, while explaining nothing at all.
Cheating I could understand. But running away? The Molly Gardner I know would never have a secret bag, packed away, hidden in the back of the closet. But this Molly Gardner apparently does.
So she’s going to leave.
But why?
Molly’s voice calls up from the living room. “James? Are you ready?”
I hastily straighten, pushing the closet door closed. “Almost!”
Shit, I haven’t shaved. She hates it when I don’t shave. I hear her footsteps ascending the stairs of our apartment so I rush to the bathroom and hastily apply shaving cream. Shit, I haven’t even taken off my dress shirt. I’ll have to be careful. It occurs to me how absolutely insane it is that I’m worried about her opinion of how I look when she’s the one who might bolt at any moment.
“By the way, I found your ring on the floor in the hallway. That’s weird, right?”
“That is weird,” I say.
She’s in the bedroom now. I hear her moving about, opening her dresser drawers.
“I left it on your dresser, okay?”
“Mm hmm.” I drag the razor across my chin, hastily trying to finish. The floor in the hallway? What the hell was it doing out there? I hear her stop in the doorway and turn to look. Molly is wearing a black evening gown. Her curly brown hair is done up in some sort of complex arrangement, leaving her bangs to fall across her forehead. Her job at Renaissance Magazine requires her to dress well, but she works with writers and artists, generally a more casual bunch, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her wearing a black dress. She joins me at the sink, applying finishing touches to her makeup.
“I have a meeting early tomorrow morning with a writer we’re thinking of hiring, so don’t let me drink too much. What have you been doing up here the last half hour that made you have no time to shave?”
I turn back to the mirror. “Just… thinking,” I say as I continue to shave. My hand is shaking.
“About what?”
“Tonight,” I lie. My voice sounds all trembly coming out. She makes a humming noise in acknowledgment. I’m picturing her sobbing out an apology as she tearfully explains her conspiracy to betray me.
“You’re getting that all over your shirt.”
I glance at her, then look back at the mirror. Shaving cream has dripped down my neck and onto my collar.
She steps toward me and pulls my bowtie off, unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt. Taking a washcloth from the linen cupboard, she wets an end and dabs the shirt clean. The way she’s leaning over causes her bangs to fall across her face in a way that reminds me of the Molly I met five years ago. The young, awkward woman with a penchant for sweatshirts and tiny hairless dogs. Her hair was longer, then. A constant mess of dark curls. She rarely wore it pulled back, letting it instead fall across one side of her face, perpetually obscuring an eye. It gave her a look that managed to be both serious and sad.
I fell in love with that look.
“We want to be sure everything looks good for the pictures.” She stands, glancing at me. She hasn’t looked like that sad young woman in years. Serious, yes. But not sad.
I stand, splash my face, and dab it dry with a towel.
“There will be plenty other guests there just like me.”
“Have all of them been asked to introduce Congressman Boyle?”
I glance at her in the mirror. She looks impressed. But does admiration have anything to do with love? I suppose not.
“You know I hate crowds, and pictures, and people fussing over me.”
“Whatever you say.” She leans in to kiss my cheek, then stops. “You cut yourself.”
I turn back to the mirror. A small dot of blood is oozing down the side of my chin. I lean down, pulling a square of toilet paper off the roll. When I stand back up, Molly is gone.
The limousine is idling at the curb and Molly stands beside it smoking a cigarette. The driver stands near her beside the car, as if they’d been talking. Had they been talking? She meets my eyes and looks away. Her dark skin, paler than usual, is flushed and her eyes are red as if she’s been crying. My mental image of a spiteful, angry wife on the verge of running comes swiftly back.
The driver nods as he makes his way to the door. He has a mustache, a round face, and short hair. He’s not tall, but he has the slim, muscular build and ramrod straight posture of a veteran. The driver smiles thinly as he opens the door. “Sir.”
“How long did you serve?” I ask.
He gives a moment of hesitation. “Three tours. Algeria, then Tunisia, twice.”
“So you must’ve gotten out in 95?”
“96.”
He’s looking at me with a funny expression. It’s one I recognize. Army guys can spot their own, but they’re not used to guys like me, with the slightly hunched posture of a
civilian, doing the same.
“I’ve been to Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Sudan, and Somalia,” I say. “War correspondent.”
“I’ve seen you,” he says, waving a finger at me. “You’re that journalist, right? The one who got captured?”
I glance at Molly, then give him a small nod. He grabs my hand in a viselike grip and shakes it, one quick up and down. “It’s a privilege.”
“Likewise…”
“Lieutenant Gaines.”
“And you’re driving now?”
“Much more peaceful,” he says. “No one tries to blow up limousines.”
Gaines moves to open the door. I watch him, waiting for a follow-up that doesn’t come. Something in me chills.
“Come on,” Molly says. “We’ve got to go.”
Molly slides into the limo and I crawl in after her.
The car starts and pulls away from the curb. I lean over to Molly. “Did you hear what he said?”
“About what?”
“About people not blowing up limousines.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You didn’t think that was a little, I don’t know, weird?”
She shakes her head. “What? No. He said people wouldn’t blow us up. That’s good, right?” But there’s a strange edge in her voice, as if she doesn’t quite believe what she is saying.
I turn away, unable to ignore the icy feeling forming in a tight ball behind my lungs. Our apartment is in Greenwich Village, not far from the fictional apartment in that show that everyone seems to watch—the one about the six friends? How a couple of unemployed twenty-year-olds can afford an apartment like the one in the show is beyond me. The night’s event is a fundraiser at the Gracie Mansion for Congressman—and Senate hopeful—Edward Boyle. I would never vote for the man, but the mayor called and asked personally for my endorsement. Since my capture by a radical Islamic terror group in Saudi Arabia and subsequent rescue by the soldiers of the United States Special Forces, New York has been proud host to a local hero, and no efforts of mine have allowed me to forget that fact. What wouldn’t I give for a drink right now.
I search for a minibar, finding it to my right, under the window. Thank God, there are a few small bottles of Johnnie Walker inside. I take out two, pocketing one of them. I take a sip and am transported back to college, drinking Johnnie Walker while listening to records with my roommate, Ellis. Odd how a taste or a smell can do that. What ever happened to him?
“Seriously, what’s wrong?” Molly asks.
I find her staring at me as I lower the bottle. Why does she get to ask me that?
I shrug. “Still just thinking about tonight. The crowds. The attention. You know I hate this stuff.”
She turns and frowns at me. “Pretend to enjoy it so I can have fun, at least.”
I sink back into the seat, watching street lamps flash by, and trying to think of one reason, just one, why she would want to leave. The only thing I can come up with is me.
We pull up in front of Gracie Mansion, the official residence of the New York mayor for the last sixty years. I suppose it would be small in, say, Texas, but for Manhattan, it’s a bona fide mansion, and at 200 years old, a damn historic one at that. The two-story, three-chimney, five-bedroom house looks out toward Hells Gate from East End Avenue at 89th Street, managing to be both quaint and filled with metaphorical weightiness.
A stream of people is already moving into the house when we park. Gaines opens our door and his stony face sends chills down my spine. Molly grabs my arm, pulling me toward the expansive double doors and into the mansion.
A smiling woman, with severe bangs and an impeccable wardrobe, spots me in the throng and makes a beeline toward me. Sophie, I remember.
“Mr. Gardner, the dinner will be starting soon.” Sophie has one of those tiny new Nokia phones. I have refused to get a cell phone, despite Molly’s urgings. The thought of someone being able to reach me at any time is unnerving.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” I say.
Sophie turns to the door, ignoring me, and I rush to follow her. “You’ll be introducing Congressman Boyle at 8:15, thirty minutes after the main dish is served and before the dessert.”
“Has he read my introduction? I emailed several drafts.”
She pauses, looking up at me for the first time since spotting me in the entranceway.
“Sorry?”
“He wanted me to tell jokes to keep things light. But I never heard back, and I was wondering if the jokes are okay.”
“The jokes are fine, I’m sure. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Gardner. Mayor Schueller is honored to have you here.”
I swallow a lump in my throat and glance over at Molly. She gives me a reassuring smile. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
“Being captured by Jaysh al-Saalihin is not too different from running for a seat in Congress. You only do, say, and eat what other people tell you to. And if things don’t work out the way they want, they throw you in a hole and leave you for dead.”
Light laughter.
I relax a little bit more. You can’t be captured by the JAS without then being expected to talk about it all the damn time. Though, detailing how you spent six months shitting in a bucket doesn’t set people at ease. So, humor.
“The only notable thing I ever did was managing to not die. Congressman Boyle has done many notable things, not the least of which were his years of both public and private service. But we’re not satisfied, because now we’re here to send Congressman Boyle to the United States Senate, and he has my full endorsement.”
Congressman Boyle breezes onto the stage and I make my swift exit.
Molly nods encouragement as I take my seat next to her. My hand goes to my jacket pocket, reaching for the bottle, but I feel Molly’s hand on my own, stopping me. I meet her gaze and she shakes her head. I get it. How would it look, me taking slugs right after introducing the night’s main event? I look down at my plate. Some kind of gooey, gelatinous concoction has appeared in my absence while the remnants of my steak have been whisked away. Flan, maybe? I don’t care to know. My knotted stomach has rejected it on sight.
The Congressman’s address is mercifully short. His platform is straight down the Democratic party line, no surprises. But he does spend some time talking about Saudi Arabia, oil, the rising threat of the JAS, and he even manages to weave in a thank you for my “kind introduction.” The guest to Molly’s left is no one less than Mayor Schueller himself, a disgustingly overweight and piggish man, who has been making clumsy attempts at flirting the entire evening. Is Molly’s dissatisfaction of me so obvious? I know this man can’t possibly be the reason for the duffel bag in Molly’s closet, but I still can’t help but place the full weight of the blame on his hunched, meaty shoulders.
Congressman Boyle finishes and the guests rise, setting their sights on the next target for thinly veiled schmoozing. I put a hand on Molly’s shoulder, mutter an apology, and plan my escape route. Weaving through the tables, I spot the large doorway leading onto the back porch of the house. Slipping outside, I fumble the bottle from my jacket pocket and take a quick pull.
I met Molly in a grocery store in Brooklyn. It was April, and the weather had finally turned from freeze-your-ass-off-cold to who-gives-a-shit-it’s-shorts-weather, giving New York that mismatched look unique to those magical few weeks before the heat of summer. I remember because I hadn’t gotten the memo yet and was still getting groceries in a knit sweater, a beanie, and scarf while Molly breezed in wearing running shorts and a cut-off tee. I was stalking her instead of shopping and almost gave myself away when I reached for the same eggplant as her. We shared that awkward glance you share when you’ve accidentally invaded someone else's space and then went on our way. I felt like a creep and was ready to pretend the whole thing had never happened. And the rest of it almost didn’t. It wasn’t until we were both leaving the store and our dogs got tangled up in each other’s leashes—I swear to God that really happened—that we final
ly started to talk. Of course, we live only down the street from each other, and of course, we both know Carlos who does yoga in the park, and of course we’ll meet up for drinks later, and of course, of course, of course, and then six months of dating, a one-month engagement, a courthouse wedding, and suddenly I’m here, trying to figure out how the hell life went from breathless encounters outside of grocery stores to my wife keeping a secret go-bag tucked away in the closet.
I don’t even see the server before he’s practically run over me.
“Mr. Gardner, there you are,” the man says.
“What? Is there a problem?” I ask, feeling paranoid.
“No, no problem.” The man is tall and rail thin with sharply parted blonde hair, and is dressed in the staff uniform. The event planner, maybe? But he has far too much confidence for someone used to dealing with other people’s problems. And I think I can detect a faint British Accent. “I was given something to deliver to you,” the man says, producing a small package from his inside jacket pocket.
“What’s this?” I ask. I take the package from him. It’s not much larger than a ring box, and is wrapped in simple brown paper with a piece of twine knotted around it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “But I don’t know. It was given to me by another gentleman here at the party with some very specific instructions.”
“Oh?” I ask. As a journalist, it’s not the first time I’ve received strange parcels with very particular instructions. I make a mental note to have Mark Gaffigan check it out. He’s a fellow war correspondent for the Times who spent a few months with a bomb disposal unit in Tunisia. But I’m already noticing that it’s far too small to be a bomb. Some kind of poison? But that would usually come disguised as something mundane to ensure that I would open it. No, this was something else.
Incursion: Book Three of The Recursion Event Saga Page 1
