Clean Cut Kid (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 1)

by Micheal Maxwell

  “We’re fine but those two need a bit of attention I think.” Sydney smiled brightly. Yameena and Aaliyah didn’t look up. They just smiled as they ate their French fries.

  “So, where were we?” Titus asked with no sign of emotion.

  “What you did in the army,” Logan stated, showing disbelief in what he was previously told, “You didn’t learn that behind a desk.”

  “You’re right. I started martial arts as a freshman in high school. I got pretty good at it before I joined up.”

  “Do you have any other amazing talent I should know about?”

  “Ah, come on. That would spoil the fun.” Titus took a huge bite of his burger.

  The pair ate in silence until the three girls stopped for a brief moment at their booth.

  “Thank you for coming to our rescue”, Yemeena said softly. “This is not the first time this has happened. I have to admit, this was a bit over the top.”

  “A bit.” Titus smiled. “Ignorance seems to increase with fear. I’m sorry it spoiled your lunch.”

  “Hardly!” Aaliyah interrupted.

  Sydney stepped up to the side of the booth seat next to Titus. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

  “Forgive me. This is Logan Connor, man about town, and my new roommate.”

  “It is nice to meet you. Are you as chivalrous as your friend?” Sydney’s smile would have melted the Danish snowpack.

  “I would like to think so, but I’m afraid his moves are something I don’t have at all.”

  “So, you are a lover, not a fighter.”

  Logan felt like his face would burst in flame. He tried to smile but he was finding it hard to keep Sydney’s gaze. “I’m more of a diplomat.” Not wanting to show himself as embarrassed and terrified of Sydney’s attention, he continued. “I probably could use a few lessons in the lover department.” Logan chuckled nervously.

  “Oh, so modest.” Yemeena offered, coming to his rescue. “As handsome as you are, I’m sure you are very popular with the girls at Chamberlain. Shall we let our hero and his friend eat in peace?” Yemeena moved toward the register.

  “Thank you again. God protect you.” Aaliyah followed Yemeena.

  “I hope we have a class together. But I’m sure we will bump into each other on campus, it is not very big after all.”

  “I would like that.” Logan smiled and looked Sydney directly in the eyes.

  “Thank you, you are my American hero.” Sydney bent and gave Titus a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, bye.”

  Logan couldn’t help himself, he watched Sydney all the way to the register.

  “Do you have any other amazing talent I should know about?” Titus teased Logan with his own question.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you always have that effect on women?”

  “Never. I mean, no, I’ve…”

  “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

  “Truthfully? No.”

  Titus laughed softly, “Then to bright days ahead.” He lifted his Coke to toast and Logan, a bit slow to react, clinked his glass and smiled.

  When classes started on Monday, Logan was still unsettled as to a major, and even more frustrated. In his first class, he almost totally missed the comments of the professor as he prattled on about the syllabus. His second class, Survey of American Conflicts of the 20th Century fared no better. Logan loved history, always did, but he needed purpose. He lacked direction. Would these credits count? Should he declare as a History major? What would he do with that degree, teach? Heavens no! He thought, flipping through the handouts the teaching assistant provided. His mind wandered.

  He was haunted by the comments and demeanor of the police at the Varsity. As they went to the register to pay their bill, Titus was approached by the two policemen.

  “Mr. Crow, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience, we would appreciate your coming to the station to give a formal statement.”

  His inconvenience? Logan thought, what cop talks like that? Strangest of all, they called Titus “sir”. Not in an institutional, “ma’am and sir” kind of way, but they were showing respect outside their normal exchange with a citizen.

  Logan felt so uncomfortable sitting in the class he quietly left. Outside Monroe Hall, he found a shady spot under a huge Sycamore and laid down. Using his backpack as a pillow he watched the fat billowy fall clouds drifting across the azure sky. For the first time, he thought of leaving school.

  The academic world seemed to him at this point to be a self-serving snake eating its tail. Classes with no particular application, his classmates getting degrees in disciplines they will never put to use. It was a factory, a machine that fed itself on false necessity. The product was a sense of pride for parents and the few graduates who didn’t see the futility of four wasted years.

  There are of course accountants, lawyers, physicians, and other specialized fields that required accumulated knowledge to achieve their goals and provide the services of their chosen profession. But, the rank and files, the everyday kid who came from high school or a community college just wanted a degree so they could get a job.

  The more he watched the clouds the more lost Logan felt. His resentment burned hotter and hotter as the minutes past. The clouds grew blurred and indistinct as he felt hot tears of anger rolling down his temples and tickling his ears. Logan wiped his eyes and cleared his throat.

  Is this what it is to be an adult, he questioned. I hate it. He closed his eyes and thought of his father. He worked. Never complained. He seemed to be a happy guy. He provided for him and his mom. How did he decide what to do in life? Was it all intentional or just a series of accidents, connections, advice, coincidences or just grasping at straws? The strange thing Logan realized, he never asked. All the kitchen table chats about school, college and what direction he would take, Logan never once thought to ask how his dad made his own decision.

  Logan opened his eyes and looked at his graduation watch. Three more hours until dad got off work. He would call him as soon as he knew he would be home. He closed his eyes again and sighed deeply.

  For Titus Crow, his classes held a whole different meaning. He had a career. He didn’t need a degree as such. He was trained by the best in the world in his field. An alphabet behind his name was never needed or required. He lectured, on occasion, at West Point on the ethics, meaning, and necessity of intelligence gathering. He was never asked for his collegiate pedigree.

  So, sitting in class with a room full of kids years his junior gave him insights and understanding they were years from. In his International Law class, he felt almost sorry for the kids around him. The kindergarten level of information pertaining to the ways things worked saddened him. He began to realize the roots of the political climate the country found itself in. He saw how the shading and outright poisoned angle of the information presented would lead anyone, especially the young, naive, and impressionable to think that the world was being abused by the America’s Industrial/Military power. There was no mention of the myriad of enemies, international and domestic, fighting an unseen war to destroy the very way of life that let them sit in an air-conditioned room in their flip flops and listen to lectures by people with their own vaguely veiled agendas.

  During the professor’s introductory remarks, Titus nearly interrupted to put him right on an unfounded and inaccurate point he was making, but that’s not why he was here. So, he spent the class watching the faces of his classmates. The lack of attentiveness was only matched by the number of laptops hiding cell phones, texting as fast as thumbs could punch in the message.

  At the end of class, a woman, the same age or older than Titus, made her way down the aisle where he sat. Not even pausing she smiled and stuck a post-it note to his textbook and smiled. The scented pink sticker bore her phone number, a heart, and the words Call Me! Titus smelled the lavender paper, then wadded it up. “You could get into real trouble around here,” he said aloud. In the din of excited students, no one hea
rd.

  Outside in the warm autumn air, Titus tried to decide what to do until his next class. As he walked, he spotted a familiar figure under the wide limbs of an ancient Sycamore tree. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to sleep in class?” Titus said kicking the bottom of Logan’s sneaker.

  “Hey, Titus what’s going on?” Logan sat up and smiled.

  “Just finished International Law. You?”

  “I walked out of Survey of American Conflicts of the 20th Century.”

  “Not a fan of military history?”

  “No, I love it. Always have. It’s just I can’t see the end game. I mean what am I doing all this for? You’ve got a goal, a purpose. Criminal Justice and International Law, I have no idea what you do with it, but you have a goal. I got nothin’. It may be time to call it quits.”

  “Remind me not to nap under this tree of knowledge.” Titus threw down his backpack and sat down in the grass.

  He couldn’t put his finger on it but there was something about this kid that was special. What may sound like whining to others was a sincere, deep cry for direction to Titus. He was learning most kids would stay in school as long as their parents or the government would pay for it. A lot of the kids in his classes he spoke with changed their major half a dozen times. Logan was different, he sought definiteness of purpose. He wanted, needed, a goal.

  “Tell me something. What is your passion?”

  “How do you mean?” Logan frowned.

  “What gets your juices flowing? What makes you happy? What matters to you most?”

  Logan picked at a small hole on the side of his backpack. “I like to know why,” He said not looking up.

  “Why?” Titus knew what he meant but wanted more.

  “Yeah, like, well, when you look at pictures of the Pentagon after 9/11. Why is there no wreckage of a plane? It was the first thing I noticed. I was just a little kid, but the Towers dropped debris on the ground, the wheels and landing gear, stuff like that. The plane in the field? There was crap everywhere, even the whole tail. The pentagon had nothing. The wings should have ripped right off. The hole in the building is taller than the plane. If the jet fuel from the other planes could take down the Twin Towers why was one side of the hole uncharred? Stuff like that makes me crazy. I’ve been trying to figure it out for sixteen years.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a plane?” Titus offered.

  “The point is that kind of stuff makes me nuts. Why do we have to be so nice when we fight a war and the other guys don’t play by any rules? Why do people who are healthy and able, get welfare? Why don’t they have to get a job, work for the state, something? See, I get all riled up when I think about this stuff.”

  “Why don’t your classmates give a flying fig about anything but beer and babes?” Titus grinned. “What?”

  “I thought you were being serious.”

  “I am. Sorry. So, how do you put this inquisitive mind of yours to work?”

  “That is the big question.”

  “Well, I may have the answer.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Now let’s talk a bit about your mother.”

  The interview with the psychiatrist entered its third hour. The room was quite stark; Institutional green walls. White tiles in a white metal T-bar drop ceiling. The fluorescent lights were bright and harsh. There was not the slightest hint of therapy, healing, or making one comfortable.

  “Which one? I was adopted.”

  “Either.”

  “My biological mother was a teenager. My father was killed in an accident.”

  “You speak of her in the past tense.”

  “She might be dead by now,” Logan said without feeling.

  “Or in her early forties.”

  “Or in her forties,” Logan repeated. “Either way it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She gave me away. I went to a good family. Biology doesn’t make a family does it?”

  “Some would say yes.”

  “Then they would be wrong,” Logan said without emotion.

  “Does this subject make you angry?”

  “Not in the least. It is a subject my adoptive parents explained to me. Case closed.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with your adoptive mother?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “No conflict?”

  “No.”

  “How would you describe her?”

  “Five eight, a bit on the plump side, fifty-five years old, blonde, great smile…”

  “You know what I mean,” The psychiatrist said with a slight hint of frustration.

  “Charming, funny, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, loving, responsible, Christian, patient, and on occasion, aggravated with my father.”

  “How so? Aggravated, I mean.”

  “Opposites attract. He’s a bit of a slob. Clothes on the floor, dishes on the coffee table. He hates to do the gardening and she has to nag him to mow the lawn.”

  “Why didn’t you do it?”

  “My mom had a cousin or somebody who lost a foot in a lawnmower accident. She wouldn’t let me.” Logan chuckled.

  “That’s funny?”

  “Only because it was OK for dad to lose a foot, but not me.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “He’s the best.”

  The interview went on for another hour. They talked of anger, phobias, Logan didn’t have any, violence toward women, race, religion, being bullied, lying, impulse control, and reading others. It seemed the questions would never end.

  “Are you afraid to die?” The question came from deep in left field.

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  “I do the questioning. We have danced around the subject for some time. You have never addressed the subject directly. The actual term would be avoidance.” The psychiatrist said firmly.

  “Alright. I would prefer not to die.”

  “Ever?”

  “Now, later, never if you wish.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I’m afraid. Happy?”

  “I sense a great deal of hostility in your answer. You, up to this point have been humorous, snide, sarcastic, even rude a couple of times. This is different. You are angry. Why is that?”

  “Because you are trying to push my buttons. I’m hungry, tired, and bored. I don’t like the thought of dying. I don’t know what is beyond. I don’t want to end what I know. I don’t want to miss anything. I don’t like pain. I hate the dark. Let me see, what other reason could there be to die? Oh yeah, going to hell.”

  “You do realize that I can wash you out of this program with the stroke of a pen.”

  Logan stared at the psychiatrist, his scarred brown leather notebook, and gave a slight grin.

  “Are you sure you want this job?” the psychiatrist continued.

  “No,” Logan said without the slightest emotion.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I was invited.”

  “That’s it?”

  Logan sighed. “I was unhappy where I was. Titus Crow came along and offered something new.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “I didn’t think it would mean all this kind of stuff,” Logan responded.

  “Do you find it intrusive?” The psychiatrist crossed his legs the other direction.

  “Intrusive, meaning none of your business, yes.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “If I am to be an intelligence gatherer, a spy, and capable and willing to kill the enemies of the United States, my fear of dying, relationship with my parents, and my attitude towards women has little relevance. What matters is am I willing to kill rather than be killed. Concentrate on the job at hand, and do it regardless, of sex, age, race, religion, or nationality. I am, I can, and I will, given the assignment. Are we done?”

  “What do you think about me?”

  “After I leave this room I won’t. You have a job to do. You answer to someone who makes decis
ions. You will make your report and I will continue or not. Either way, it is not the end of the world for me.” Logan stood.

  The psychiatrist closed his leather-bound binder and smiled at Logan. “You sure you don’t want my job?” he said standing.

  “Not in a million years. After a few days of this, I would be the mentally unfit one!” Both men laughed, shook hands, and parted company.

  The physical training was more to Logan’s liking. He was young, strong, and not afraid to throw himself wholeheartedly into all forms of situations he was called upon to prove his ability to compete. He showed no apprehension regarding the removal of anyone he saw as competition or a threat to his status in the selection process.

  In hand-to-hand martial arts training, he projected the focus of one who lived or died by what happened in the paired practice fights. Where others pulled their punches, Logan was in full combat mood. He took no quarter and soon the other recruits yielded rather than face his onslaught of punches, kicks, and slams to the mat.

  The reverse of this coin was his willingness to take blows meant to bring on his surrender. He took punches to the face, kicks to the ribs, and repeated slams to the mat, only to respond with a more determined measured attack on his opponent. The punishment and bruising that sent others to the showers, and even the medic, were shook off to the amazement of his adversaries and trainers alike.

  At night in his bunk silently aching, Logan would sometimes go through an hour or more self-examination before sleep. Who was he becoming? What did this program mean to him? Where was this core of strength and willingness to overcome pain, injury, and abuse to come out the victor coming from?

  He found himself conflicted. His self-talk often challenged and contradicted his actions. He lied to himself when he said he would not think of the psychiatrist when he left that examination room. On the contrary, he thought of him often. Was his aggressive kill-or-be-killed response to physically threatening situations what the psychiatrist was looking for? He drifted to sleep physically aching and mentally drained.

  The recruits sat along the wall waiting for their instructors to arrive. It was the day of cuts from the program’s field agent class. Logan stood across the small chairless room back to the wall. Alpha and Beta, as recruits were told to call them, came through the heavy metal doors to his left. Logan saw them exchange last-minute remarks through the large windows above the exit bars. Neither looked his direction. They carried three folding chairs and a small folding table. In the center of the room, they opened the chairs and each laid several folders in a variety of colors on the table.