It was done, then.
I walked to my bedroom and stripped down to my underwear and T-shirt. I dropped onto the mattress and slid the butter knife under my pillow. I was asleep in minutes, the first solid sleep I’d had in a long time.
I awoke in the middle of the night to another loud banging at my door. I shook myself awake and fought to gain my orientation. It’s night. You’re at your new apartment. Another fool’s at your door.
I grabbed my butter knife, took a solid grip of it in my right hand, then rolled off the mattress and took to my feet. I walked towards the door and thought of Teddy and my new plan. I gripped the knife tighter. Hope is a powerful thing. If this world wanted a fight, I was now happy to oblige.
Chapter Fourteen
September 1, 2016
Boone Mobile Home
Southwest Arkansas
Tommy Boone parked his F-150, camouflaged in primer, outside his trailer in Loblolly Estates, just southwest of El Dorado, Arkansas, near the Louisiana border. He stepped out of the truck and slammed the door with a grinding metallic clank. He patted himself down roughly and drywall dust enshrouded him. He coughed and swiped at the white cloud, a Marlboro screwed into the side of his mouth and a beer in his big left hand.
A barking dog rushed him. He was a pound mix, big and brown with patchy spots. His ribs showed. Boone calmly reached into his pocket, withdrew a hard dog treat and lobbed it overhand in the direction the dog had come. The dog spun to retrieve his treat. It clanked off the side of his shit-for-brains neighbor’s trailer and into the weeds. The dog scooped it up and was chewing his nightly offering as Boone reached his own trailer.
He ducked as he entered, because Boone was a big man. Six foot four and wide, with a big bucket head and size sixteen boots. He was country strong and liked to throw things around, whether it be 4x8 sheets of drywall at work, or any takers at the local bars from Shreveport to Pine Bluff on the weekends. He had a patchy blond goatee and a prominent forehead big enough to project movies on. He saw the world simply, through squinted eyes.
He tossed his keys on the table by the door, watched them slide off and hit the floor. He left them there and headed to the fridge to get another beer. The fridge door creaked open to reveal two six-packs and leftover fast food bags. Boone grabbed a six of Bud and a bag of Taco Bell and headed across the room. He pushed some junk to the side of the table and sat down. The chair groaned. He dropped the evening’s nutrition onto the table, then retrieved his laptop from under the sofa, where he placed it for safekeeping.
Boone lived alone, at least for now, until he could land wife number three. He had two ex-wives and four young children by three different women, and had declared bankruptcy twice in his thirties. Boone was in his mid-forties now and working as a drywall laborer for cash under the table to avoid his various spousal and child support orders. His good ole country boy act had worn thin. Any affability he once had was gone. Boone was now just bitter and angry. So angry.
The laptop was the most expensive thing Boone owned, if one counted possession as ownership. He had stolen it from a rich kid’s closet during a big remodel job he had worked on six months ago. Boone figured the kid’s parents could buy him a new one. He’d paid another drywaller, a young tweaker, fifty bucks to wipe the laptop clean, and another twenty bucks to hack into his neighbor’s WiFi—the two young dumb-asses with the dog.
Boone fired up the laptop and logged on as he slugged down his can of Bud. He went to Fox News and clicked on the top story. It was a video of a Pentagon spokesman announcing the death of ISIS terrorist Wael Adel Salman, its minister of information and one of the few people who had direct access to Abu Bakr Al Baghdadi, the leader of ISIS. The U.S. had got Salman with a drone strike, hitting him on a motorcycle just outside a house in Raqqa, Syria.
Boone laughed. Another raghead dead. Good. Kill ’em all. He clicked out of the top story, then walked back to the kitchen for another beer and to look for more hot sauce to punch up his day-old tacos. Boone realized it when he was deep into the fridge, rooting around in taco bags. He jumped back and stood at attention. No—it couldn’t be.
He rushed back to the laptop and rewatched the video. He paused it and leaned in for a closer look. Played it, then paused it again. His eyes were squinted almost shut now, his head inches from the screen. The woman in the background, off the right shoulder of the Pentagon spokesman. It was her! Boone whooped.
“God dammit!” Boone mumbled to himself. “Fucking bitch.” Boone was sure it was her. Prisha Baari. His first ex-wife. Though he didn’t consider her that. She was merely the first woman who’d screwed him over. The first of many in his life. Boone had to admit that Prisha looked good, though. And she was obviously a government big shot of some kind, getting face time at a major Pentagon news conference. He googled her and found her after he properly added the double “aa” to her last name.
Boone’s mouth dropped open, his beer frozen mid-air in his hand. He read from the official CIA website:
Prisha V. Baari
Deputy Director, Central Intelligence Agency
Prisha Veda Baari was officially sworn in as Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) on April 18, 2009. She was thirty-four at the time of her appointment, making her the youngest deputy director in CIA history. As deputy director, she manages the Agency’s intelligence collection, analysis, covert action, counterintelligence, and liaison relationships with foreign services.
Deputy Director Baari joined the CIA in 2005 as a direct SES placement in the Directorate of Analysis. In Washington, she has held numerous senior analyst and leadership positions, including Director and Deputy Director of the Directorate of Analysis, and Acting Director of the National Clandestine Service.
Deputy Director Baari is the recipient of the Intelligence Medal of Merit, and the George H. W. Bush Award for Excellence in Counterterrorism.
Deputy Director Baari earned a bachelor’s degree in Political Science from Barnard College in 1997, and a master’s degree in International Affairs from American University in 1999. Before joining the CIA, she worked on Capitol Hill from 2000 to 2004, rapidly rising to serve as Chief of Staff to Congresswoman Janet Mullins, Chair of the United States House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence.
Deputy Director Baari was born in Saudi Arabia and became a U.S. citizen in 1990. She has been an effective advocate for Arab American causes and was active in forming legislation in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. In addition to English, she speaks fluent Hindi, Urdu, and Arabic.
Boone’s hands shook. He balled them into sledgehammer fists. Bullshit! Boone knew better, because he had been there. In Saudi. For all of it. A U.S. Marine in Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm, 1990 to 1991. Boone had been a testosterone-filled nineteen-year-old kid who had never been outside southwest Arkansas. He’d met Prisha on base; she was one of the locals who helped keep the place running. She was young and beautiful, and appeared interested in Boone from the start. He couldn’t believe his luck, and because it was forbidden, they’d managed to hide their relationship from both their countries. The sex had been great. Prisha certainly knew how to please a man.
At the time, Boone had considered this the best part of his life: he was a Marine, young and strong, defending his country against terrorists. He had a hot girlfriend on the sly. Life was good. He was the cock of the walk.
That had all changed when Boone met Prisha’s parents and learned it wasn’t luck that had brought them together. Prisha had sat to the right of her father, avoiding eye contact, as the old man ran it all down. He told Boone he knew of their relationship, and that Boone had brought dishonor to his family. The father said Boone had to marry his daughter, that this was the only way. Boone had equivocated, and the father had had to threaten to expose him to his superiors. This made Boone angry, a fact he made known. The father had then offered a significant cash dowry—$50,000—to set Boone and his daughter up in the States. This was more money than Boone
had ever seen. It got his attention, and the rest became mere details. In the end, Boone got his beautiful Arab bride, his cash payout, a less-than-honorable discharge from the Marine Corps, and a one-way ticket back to southwest Arkansas. And Prisha had gotten her green card. She had divorced Boone within one year, after they had pissed through the fifty thousand dollars.
Boone had learned some troubling things about Prisha during their brief marriage. First, she had lied about her age and was only fifteen when they met, sixteen on their wedding day, which under U.S. law made Boone a statutory rapist. And Prisha and her parents were not the moderates they pretended to be, but strict Wahhabis who hated the United States. Prisha was a convenience Muslim who had developed a taste for alcohol behind closed doors.
Most of these revelations came after a night of drinking and fighting; and man, did Prisha like to fight. She went from fun to furious in a flash. And she was cruel, gloating about her family’s deception: how her father had pimped her out; how Boone had not been the first American to taste, but was the first gullible enough to bite; how easy it had been to fool him; how she had never loved him or been faithful to him, not even now in the States.
Boone looked around his shitty trailer and reflected on the squalor that was his life. He threw his beer can across the room, spraying foamy liquid everywhere before the can hit the wall with a crash. He slammed the laptop shut.
Boone knew he had been stupid to agree to his green-card marriage to Prisha; he was also painfully aware that he had made a litany of mistakes over his life. He would never be anything more than a good ole country boy. A bit of a hell-raiser, sure, but not a bad guy, all in all. But his life was shit and he knew it. Why should he be living like this? Boone had fought for his country and had nothing to show for it. Prisha was a lying bitch who didn’t give a rat’s ass for this country, and she was the hero? The goddamn Deputy Director of the CIA?
Boone was patriotic. He regretted what he had done—given Prisha green card status in his beloved country. He had no idea how Prisha had gotten full U.S. citizenship status, but knew it could not have been through proper channels. It troubled Boone that a woman such as Prisha was the number two at the CIA. She was dangerous. It troubled him more that she had won and he had lost. After a few more beers, he resolved to fix this.
Boone rooted around under the sofa again and came up with a tattered photo album. He flipped through it and then slid out what he was looking for. He held the faded wedding photo in his large, callused hands. It was the only thing he had left from the marriage. He looked so young and hopeful, his arm around his bride, a broad smile for the camera. Boone had had feelings for Prisha, despite everything, and had tried to make their sham marriage work. He studied young Prisha in the photo, the tight-lipped smile that never reached her dark shark eyes. She had never cared for Boone at all, had just wanted to leech off his citizenship. And now she was at the highest levels of government, and he was spending another night alone and drunk in his trailer. Trying to ignore the beat-bop of music that blared from his neighbor’s trailer and crawled under his skin.
Boone slammed his fist to the flimsy plastic table, which sent his crushed empty beer cans crashing to the floor like fallen leaves. Enough was enough. Time to get even, balance the scales of Lady Justice. What she and her family had done—to his country, and to him—wasn’t right. He might be just a good ole country boy, but he had a pretty good idea that the CIA and the American public would be awfully interested in this little piece of information. And that Prisha would be awfully interested in keeping it secret. He had a plan: he would blackmail the bitch.
Boone would make her pay this time. Really pay, not the pissant fifty grand he’d got the last time. This time Boone would add another zero. Prisha would find the money. She’d have to, or Boone would ruin her. Tell all he knew. She had everything to lose, and he had nothing. Going up against the CIA frightened him, but there was nothing more dangerous than a man who truly did not give a shit—like Boone. He didn’t care if he got arrested, beat up, or worse. He wanted Prisha to pay for what she had done. And he wanted his money.
Boone found a pen and paper among the clutter of his kitchen counter. He scratched out a quick note, then taped it to the front of his refrigerator. The note was addressed to his children. It contained things he wanted them to know about their dad in case he didn’t come back. He packed a quick bag, turned off the lights, and left his front door unlocked. Steal all my shit. I don’t care.
He walked to his pickup. His neighbor’s dog was lying by the door, in the glow of the porch light. The dog eyed Boone but did not charge. He let out a solitary bark, then put his head back down. Boone got into his truck, rooted around in the deep storage console between the front bucket seats, and tossed the dog his remaining treats. The dog sprang up, walked a few steps, and scooped a few up. He watched Boone as he chewed.
Boone put the truck in gear and headed north to seek his fortune.
Chapter Fifteen
September 10, 2016
National World War II Memorial
Washington, DC
I was wide awake, lying on my floor mattress as I listened to the overpass traffic buzz by. Too nervous to sleep. I got up before sunrise, shaved and showered. I fidgeted in the mirror and changed my shirt twice. Like a nervous teenage girl before a big date. I really wanted this boy to like me.
I took the Metro to the National Mall and shared a serene early Saturday morning with Mr. Lincoln before the horde came calling. It was to be a beautiful September day in the District, full sun, light wind, with the temperature to reach into the high seventies by afternoon. It was cool now, with just a kiss of fall in the air. I bid adieu to Mr. Lincoln and walked east to the Washington Monument, where I spent another hour waiting. I stood at the foot of the great obelisk, leaned my back against the cool white marble. Closed my eyes and hoped some of the greatness of this man would seep into me. I could use all the help I could get today.
Having killed a couple of hours on the Mall, I slow-walked the half mile west to the World War II Memorial. The site of my big date. I crossed 17th Street and the three large lawn panels at the eastern memorial entrance. I veered left and found an unoccupied granite bench against the rampart wall at the curved southern approach. I was still early by thirty minutes. The elm trees behind me offered just enough shade to cast shadow on my bench, cooling the granite. The cold stone did not stop my nervous perspiration, now beginning to bead and run down my back.
I looked out at the memorial site, bathed in shards of morning sun. It was a park-like setting, a big granite oval centered by a grand water fountain and spread out over seven prime acres between Messrs. Washington and Lincoln. Bronze and granite statuary lined the oval, with twenty-four carved stone panels depicting the Atlantic and Pacific theaters of the great war. My bench was in the Pacific theater.
I licked my lips, checked my watch. A few minutes still. My heart sped up, despite the deep breaths.
It had taken me two weeks to convince Nicole to go along with my plan. I understood her skepticism. I’d earned that. But she knew me well enough to know I was serious about this, and that I did what I set my mind to. It all came down to Teddy. We were both doing this for him. She was allowing me back into their lives, would accept my government benefits package upon my demise in order to give our son a better life. Nicole had rejected most offers of money from Sarah and their parents, choosing instead for her and Teddy to go it alone. I respected her for this but couldn’t shake the image of Teddy returning from his warehousing public school, shuffling down a long, littered hallway past the screaming neighbors to his squalid two-bedroom home.
Nicole had slowly come around to seeing my government benefits not as charity but as money I—we—had earned. Money that had been taken from us. She didn’t like that any more than I did. So we agreed on my plan. I’d get my shot at redemption. I’d go to my grave knowing I had done something, that I hadn’t just stood around watching while the world swallowed my
son whole.
My one condition in all this was that I would get to meet my son. Nicole had been understandably cool to this idea, but I wore her down. We agreed I wouldn’t tell him our big secret, that it was best for him to continue to believe that his father was dead. This stung, but Nicole was adamant that this was non-negotiable if I wanted to meet my son. I had ruminated on the fact that I posed a worse option for Teddy than him continuing to believe his father was dead, which made me worse than nothing at all. I also knew that I would have done better by him—by them—had I known. I resented Nicole for not telling me, not giving me the chance to be a father to my son. I knew all too well how hard it was for a boy to grow up without his father. But this was on me. I planned to make it right.
I scanned the growing crowd. They were fifteen minutes late. My mind went dark. Had Nicole lied to me? Was I a fool to have trusted her? Faith was fragile, like inching out on thin ice. I fell through into my icy water now, bobbing like a buoy, arms down at my sides. My core temperature dropped. My blood began to chill. I knew this feeling and fought against it, but knew I would submerge again.
Then I saw her. I leapt from the icy water and back into the Saturday morning sunshine. It was Nicole. Walking towards me, behind oversized sunglasses. She held the hand of a beautiful five-year-old boy. My son Teddy. He was the boy from the photo, come to life. I started to shake.
Talion Justice Page 9
