GRUDGE
VIRTUE & VICE BOOK 5
CAIT FORESTER
BRIAN C. PALMER
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical reviews and articles.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The author has asserted his/her rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book.
This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers.
1
Martin Warner sorted through his Aunt’s mail at the Willow’s End post office, searching for something with his name on it. There were sales papers that he threw away—they encouraged his Aunt Janey to spend money she didn’t have and it was best to just keep them out of sight—a couple of utility bills that he tucked under his arm, no less than three offers to take part in Publisher’s Clearing House and other stupid lottery scams.
He shook his head at that. What were the chances anyone else in Willow’s End would win the lottery like old Mama Bee had anytime in the near future? Lightning might, in reality, strike the same place twice, but you were more likely to be struck by lightning than win the lottery in the first place.
Among the junk mail, though, he did find what he was looking for. Three of them, actually; each from a different clinic. In those plain white envelopes with his address printed on a sticker and slapped to the front by some secretary somewhere who probably had no idea what was riding on the letter inside . . . was Martin’s whole future.
The tips of his fingers literally itched to open them but he tucked them into his shoulder bag with the utility bills, tore up and tossed what he didn’t intend to take home to Aunt Janey and tried his best to ignore them until he got there.
Warm early-spring air met him outside, full of all the smells and feelings he liked best about this time of year. Especially now. That new-life smell of green things waking up and the fresh new sun which now made a difference being in the sky—the indefinable feeling of things pressing up against the ground from underneath, reaching for the opportunity to live. He let himself take that in for a moment before he made his way to Main Street.
In Aunt Janey’s house the feeling of spring went away. She liked it cold enough that Martin had to wear a coat inside. One of her many peculiarities that were starting to crop up more and more over time.
Peculiarities. Eccentricities. Oddities.
They were all ways of not saying what he knew was becoming more and more true every year.
Dementia.
When he got home, she was at the table working on her jigsaw puzzle in a fluffy bathrobe and mismatched slippers. Her hair was pulled into a rough bun that tugged smooth a few of the lines around her face, but not enough to really hide her age. She had put makeup on today, even though she likely wouldn’t leave the house.
“I got my applications back, I think,” Martin said as he hung his bag on the door.
Janey looked up from her puzzle and squinted at him. “Applications? For school?”
“No, Auntie,” Martin said patiently, “for my internship. Remember? I filled out all those applications when I got back from school?”
“Oh,” she said dismissively. “Of course I remember. Well, let’s see them. Do you need help filling them out?”
Martin smiled and pulled a chair out at the table across from her. “This is the part where they answer me,” he said. “It’s just reading. And probably heartbreak. Let’s find out, shall we?”
Janey nodded, and went back to hunting for where to place the puzzle piece in her fingers.
He watched her for a moment—and spotted the place it probably fit but his aunt hated it when he tried to help her. Instead, he occupied himself with tearing open the envelopes. “Columbia Healthcare Cooperative,” he announced, and scanned the letter. His heart fell an inch or so. They hadn’t been his first choice, at least. “Rejected.”
Janey made a small sound of disappointment, but didn’t look up.
“Behind door number two,” Martin muttered as he tore open the next envelope. “That’ll be . . .Northside Medical and Rehabilitation. Who also don’t want an intern who’s been out of school for so long. At least they’re polite about it.”
“You’d think with our healthcare like it is, you could get a job as a doctor anywhere.” Janey sighed. “What’s the last one?”
Martin bit his tongue rather than correct her. She’d been stuck on that for a while now—thinking he was supposed to be a doctor instead of a physical therapist. He’d explained the difference but she never remembered. “The Columbia VA hospital,” Martin said. “Working with veterans. Worse places to be.”
Janey looked up at that and put the puzzle piece down. She waited as Martin smiled as he tore the final envelope open. Any mention of veterans always seemed to pull his aunt back to herself. It probably reminded her of her dead husband and of Martin’s brother, Keith. Why that connection was there, Martin couldn’t be sure. Possibly because they’d both died in the service.
He slipped the letter carefully from the envelope, bracing himself for the bad news.
“Dear Mister Warner,” he read aloud, monotone, “thank you for your application to the Columbia Veteran’s Association Hospital’s twenty-seventeen internship program. We had hundreds of applications but of course we are only able to accept twenty applicants to fill a variety of critical positions—blah blah—we are . . . happy to accept your application to our Physical Therapy Residency Internship program in our prosthetics and rehabilitation department.”
He read the words again to himself to make sure he had it right. That the words on the page telling him that he, finally, had a future.
“They—I’m in. Auntie, I got into the VA program!” His grin split his face as she beamed at Janey, who clapped her hands and pushed her chair away from the table to stand.
She came around the table and he stood to accept a warm hug.
“I knew you could do it,” Janey whispered. “I’m so proud.”
“Thank you, Auntie,” Martin breathed. Silently he thanked God that she could be here with him, lucid, for the news.
She pulled away, and clapped her hands together once, loudly. “Oh, I should . . . I’ll make a cake. We should celebrate! I have some candles, somewhere, too.”
Martin chuckled. “Auntie, you don’t have to go to all that trouble. I’ll make us some lunch instead.”
But Janey was already digging through the junk drawer in the narrow kitchen, looking for something—maybe the birthday candles. She pushed everything in the drawer to one side and then the other.
He’d gotten good at seeing when she came and went. It happened in that moment. A slight pause; like she’d forgotten, for a second, what she was doing. Then the frantic moment that followed as she continued to go through the motions. If she kept at it, she’d remember. Like something on the tip of her tongue, the doctors had said when they tried to explain what it was like for her.
She scratched at the floor of the drawer and pulled the whole thing out of the counter to rest it on the top and pull things out one by one.
“Auntie,” Martin said gently, “are you looking for the birthday candles? If you want to make a cake we can do that. I’ll help. I haven’t made a cake in a while;
it’ll be fun.”
Janey stopped sorting through the things in the drawer, and rubbed her neck self consciously. “They were here,” she said. “I have a set of red measuring spoons. They should be in this drawer.”
“I think they’re over here,” Martin offered, and went to another bank of drawers. He pulled open the second one from the top, where most of the kitchen utensils that weren’t silverware were kept.
“No, I remember putting them in here,” Janey insisted.
Martin pulled the measuring spoons out and showed them to her. “Here they are, see? And the measuring cups, and the—”
“Did you move them?” Janey snapped as she came at him and snatched the spoons out of his hand. “Why do you move things around on me like that? You know I like to keep everything in its place. I get confused when you move things, Keith.”
Martin swallowed hard, taking the admonishment and his brother’s name silently until Janey calmed down. Once she put the measuring spoons where she thought they belonged, she shooed him away from the drawer he’d gotten them from and began shuffling through that one as well.
He let her and went to the table to sit and watch her, while he read over the letter a few more times as he tried to decide whether he could live with himself if he left home—and whether he could afford to take care of her if he didn’t.
He picked over the puzzle pieces on the table and sighed. The puzzle she’d been working on was a mix of two different puzzles that didn’t even go together.
2
Taggart Coulson looked at the television but he didn't exactly watch it. He saw what was happening on the screen, and in some distant way he processed what it all meant, but it didn't grab any part of his attention — not really. It didn't translate itself into any kind of meaning.
It should have. It was the news. They'd just talked about an operation in Yemen. It had all been good until then. They hadn't shown any footage — none had been released— and they hadn't even played old footage from other conflicts like they sometimes did. All they showed was a picture of someone who'd died in the line of duty.
And, just like that, some part of his brain just . . . switched off. Other parts switched on, one by one. Whatever it was that made his heart suddenly race—that part was one. Whichever portion of stupid neurons made his leg ache, too. Somewhere in the distance outside his shitty little trailer, which was all he could afford on the meager allowance he got from Uncle Sam, someone closed a door, but the part of his head that should have told him it was a door instead threw up red flags and started screaming at him to get down, to cover his head. That the sound he'd heard was a gunshot and any moment now the bunker—no, no—the trailer—was going to be peppered with bullets.
Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened. There was no one outside with an automatic weapon, this wasn't a war zone. It was Missouri. Taggart closed his eyes and tried to swallow but his dry throat wouldn't allow it. He gasped for air, and reached down to rub the pain out of his left knee.
Right. It was easy to forget, still. His hand found the cheap-feeling plastic of his fake leg. The bottom tier, last decade's model, barely-useful bit of machinery which rattled when he walked. The thing they'd stuck on him "just until we can get you in to see the VA prosthetist."
Six and a half months ago.
Which was remarkable, when you thought about it, since they'd managed to get him into basic just a week after he signed on to become a United States Marine. Thirteen weeks of training was followed pretty damn quick by another six weeks of pre-deployment training with his new unit. Another week after that and his boots crunched over the cracked, dusty earth of another continent.
When they wanted you on the ground, Old Sam could put you to work real fast.
If he’d had anything left in him, he might have begun to cry. He felt it so close to coming on sometimes, a weird kind of quivering in his chest, like tremors that might become an earthquake or might pass quietly. At the moment, he wished he could. Don’t be such a fucking pussy, Tag. It was his own voice—and Plunk’s voice, somehow. Mixed together so it came from inside and outside at the same time.
He tried to watch TV. His sister, Angie, had gotten him a nice big flatscreen. The volume was down, the subtitles on. Having to read them to keep up sometimes helped. Not this time, but sometimes. It was always a bit too bright though.
Something hummed and vibrated against his leg and he jerked to get away from it, swatting at his thigh before he remembered his phone was in his pocket. “Son of a bitch,” he murmured, half relieved and half pissed. He took the phone his sister had also given him and saw her picture on it while it buzzed in his hand.
It had been a while since he answered. She was probably worried he’d killed himself or something. He swiped, and put it to his ear for a second before he managed to answer. “Yeah?”
“Taggart?” Angie asked.
“Yeah,” Taggart answered.
Angie sighed. “Uh . . .well, it’s good to hear your voice. How are you doing?”
She couldn’t seem to stop asking that. Six months and she still asked him, even though he’d told her again and again that he was fine. Except the time he told her he wasn’t; but the outcome had been the same. “All systems check out,” he said, and rapped his knuckles on the plastic that hid the stump of his left leg. “Except whichever one is supposed to regrow me a leg. That one’s on the fritz.”
Angie gave a nervous, noncommittal chuckle. “Okay. I want to come visit soon. Aubrey keeps asking about you. Oh, and I have some mail.”
“What mail?” He asked. “Anything good?”
“I can bring it by,” Angie said. “Or you could—come by my place, if you wanted. Casey would love to see you, too.” Angie’s wife would have made a good marine maybe. Or a linebacker. Taggart liked her well enough.
Taggart rubbed his jaw. “How about, ah . . . this Friday or something?”
Angie snorted. “What, are you busy?”
“I got a date,” Taggart grunted. He smiled, already hearing Angie’s response.
“Uh huh. With who, your right hand?”
He smiled and bobbed his head. “Don’t have to take it out to dinner or be polite.”
“You’re so gross,” she said. “Look, I’ve got something here from the VA. It looks all official and important. Do you want it or not?”
“Probably just a polite letter like the last one,” Taggart said. He rubbed his prosthetic again, and finally unstrapped the thing and pushed it off so he could scratch the sweaty skin underneath. “What’s it say?”
“I don’t want to open your mail, Tag,” Angie sighed. “It’s yours.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. Besides, no point in going out of your way to let me know they’re thinking about me. Open it up.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Fine. Give me a sec.”
A ‘sec’ later, he heard paper tearing. Then, “Oh my God . . .Tag, it’s — they want you to come in to get fitted.”
“For what?” He pulled the cuff of the prosthetic back on. It was uncomfortable, but better than looking at the alternative.
“For a new — for a prosthetic.” She sounded like she might start cheering. “You’ve got an appointment next week. Wednesday, at 4 pm.”
“Shit,” Taggart breathed. “Really?”
“Really!” Angie insisted. “Let us come pick you up. We should celebrate!”
Celebrate. Taggart’s stomach twisted.
“Friday,” he said. “I just . . . there’s a lot of cleaning up to do here and . . . I’ve got therapy. But I’ll see you soon, kid. Okay? Tell Aubrey and Casey both I love them.”
He could hear Angie’s disappointment in the heartbeat between when he spoke and she answered.
“Okay, Tag.” She made a kissy sound that he had hated for years but put up with. “I love you. We’ll see you Friday. I’ll call ahead. Sounds good?”
“Sure,” Taggart said, already tracking text on the television. “See you. Lo
ve you.”
After he hung up, he stared at his old, worn out, possibly used fake leg. “Your days are numbered, friend.”
It was good news. Great news. Fancy new leg. Maybe he could get them to install some kind of spy gadget; make him into the billion dollar man.
But he couldn’t smile about it, no matter how hard he tried.
3
Martin had this to say about the VA hospital in Columbia, Missouri: they didn’t stand much on ceremony and they didn’t waste time.
He had a ten minute intake interview to fill out paperwork and sign away his life for the next year with the human resources contact, Tani, who walked him through it at a clipped pace. She made a passing attempt at being friendly, at least, when she asked how he was.
“Good,” he’d told her. “I’m excited to be here.”
“Excellent,” Tani had said with none of the enthusiasm the word seemed to warrant.
He initialed all the forms and signed where he was shown signature lines, and he gratefully accepted the folder with all his copies and manuals.
Then he started to work.
The physical therapist he was shadowing for the day—it was made clear he would not always work with the same PT—was Scott Klein; a lanky older man with almost black eyes who looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days and shoved a clipboard at Martin immediately after they shook hands. “You know how to take notes?”
Martin glanced at the form on the clipboard. It was a standard SOAP note form. “Sure,” he said. “Of course. So are you—”
“Come on,” Scott said and turned away on a heel.
The place was packed, as hospitals go, but not terribly loud. Martin had expected to see . . . well, he didn’t know. More amputees, maybe, or veterans which looked homeless. There were a few of both but, for the most part, the patients appeared to be just visiting a doctor’s office. A very busy doctor’s office. No one was in fatigues or uniform, which just sort of seemed disappointing but he couldn’t have said why.
Grudge (Virtue & Vice Book 5) Page 1
