"Everybody knows you, Terry. You're a war hero; a famous mercenary."
"Bullshit 1 This nation lionizes football players, not war heroes. There aren't three people in this city who know who I am."
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"Oh, I know lots of things about you, Terry Kovak. And don't draw any conclusions from that knowledge."
"I stopped drawing conclusions years ago, Brandy."
She laughed in the wet night. "It seems we both did a little checking on the other. You know my name. I'm curious to know why."
"It isn't important. I asked someone about you once. I do know you're married."
"A regrettable but not insurmountable problem, We're separated . . . for the moment."
"If you regret it, why did you marry?"
"It seemed the thing to do at the time. All my friends were getting married."
"What a stupid reason."
"Yes, wasn't it."
Terry moved closer to her. Now only a few feet lay between them; along with a few million dollars, ten years in age, and their alien social worlds.
Brandy made no move to back off as this rough-looking man inspected her in the dim light from a corner street lamp. About five, six and slender. A good figure. Light brown hair worn shoulder length, framing her face. Her breasts, under her jacket, were high and full. Terry could not see her eyes in the dimness.
"Do you like what you see?" she asked, her voice low and throaty.
"Yeah, very much."
She wheeled about and walked away, head high. She called over her shoulder, "I've done
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enough slumming for one evening, Kovak. Perhaps well meet again."
"Only if you want to."
She stopped and slowly turned to face him, a dozen yards separating them. She behaved as if she did not really want to leave.
"Would you like to know my husband's name?"
"Is it going to impress me?"
"I doubt it," she giggled. "I really do."
"So?"
"J. A. Cater," she smiled through the distance.
Terry began to laugh, softly at first, no more than a chuckle, then it rolled from his belly in booming waves, bouncing around the buildings surrounding the parking lot. Infectious, the laughter caught and held Brandy, until she, too, began to laugh. She walked back over to Terry.
They stood just a few feet apart, the rain coming down harder now, drenching them, holding them in its silvery chill, plastering their hair to their skulls.
**J. A.!" Terry wiped his face and flipped the water from his fingertips. "That sorry ass.**
"Terry, even after all these years, he's never forgiven you for taking Bess away from him in high school, or for whipping him that night—years ago."
"He told you all that?" Terry had forgotten the fig^it.
'Terry, I know lots of things about you,"
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Brandy stood in the rain, looking at him, up at him, her eyes serious. "I know about you getting Clarissa pregnant years ago."
"What?"
"It's true—you have a son. J. A. heard about it and spread it all over the city. He despises you, Terry. He's told all our friends the big, bad, brave war hero is now pumping gas for a living."
"What's wrong with pumping gas? It's a good, honest living. Well, honest, at least."
She laughed. "But you could do so much better, Terry. Ill be honest with you: I've wondered for months just how to go about meeting you, but this," she waved her hand at her crippled car, "was a pure accident. I mean that."
"I believe you." Terry stepped closer to her, only inches apart. He looked down at the woman, then touched her face. "You're going to catch cold out here."
"Where is your car?"
"At my apartment, about two blocks from here." He thought of his apartment: barren and spartan-like, and thought, too, of the worlds that stood between this woman and himself.
Too far apart, he cautioned his mind. Worlds—eons apart.
"Will you take me home?" she touched his hand, touching her face.
"If that's where you want to go."
"We'll go to your place first, then we'll go to
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the lodge out on the lake. I want you to see it. I know you'll love it."
"Taking a chance, aren't you?"
"No, Terry. I know you far better than you think."
"We'll pick up some dry clothes at my place. We'll be soaked long before we get there."
"We can if you want to, but for what I have in mind ..." she completed her sentence with a smile.
Terry had never seen such luxury as this. It seemed to him to be almost a waste. There was too much of everything for his military mind to accept at first glance. The furniture was low and expensive, leather and soft velvet, with subtly matched drapes and thick carpeting. The paintings were original, with impressive signatures. Terry, dressed in worn jeans and denim shirt, wandered from room to room, taking it all in. Suddenly, he recalled his unspoken promise to his mother—years past—that she, too, would someday have a home such as this; although Carolyn Skelten's home could not in any way compare to this opulence. For a moment, guilt lay heavy on his mind. He hadn't been much of a son, and Terry knew that everything that had happened to him had been his own fault. He could place the blame nowhere else.
Brandy followed him on his stroll through the huge and richly furnished lodge, watching his expression. She did not regret her impulsiveness for inviting him. Although they
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had just met formally this evening, Brandy felt she knew Terry well: from* J. A.'s cursing him, to the Private Investigator's report on him, paid for by Brandy—on another impulse. She felt no man could be as bad as J. A.'s claim.
Terry's past was checkered, she couldn't deny'that, and much of it in shadows; a tight security blanket where even the experienced PI had backed away from. The fact that Terry had been a mercenary intrigued her. Terry was not what she envisioned a mercenary to be. For all of his violent past, he knew about the classics, fine art, good food, and good music. Brandy wondered where he had learned it.
They stood in the hall and she said, "You have a curious expression on your face. What's wrong? Do you see something you don't like?"
"I was thinking of my mother."
"Your mother?"
"Yes, and of an unspoken promise I once made. Years and years ago."
She swept the surroundings with a wave of her hand. "That you would build her something like this?" she smiled.
"How did you know that?"
"Don't most sons make promises like that at one time or the other?" Her eyes were a soft brown as they studied his face.
Terry shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I guess so. I sure have failed in my promise, though."
She took his arm as they walked down the, hall. "You haven't run your course, Terry. Not yet."
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His eyes turned strange, almost, it seemed to Brandy, omniscient, as if he could see behind the veil that screened life from the grave. "Yes, I believe I have, Brandy."
She did not pursue that. In the den, she fixed them drinks; she was sure Terry was a bourbon and water man, and she was right. She switched on the radio as an old tune was playing: The Poor Side Of Town.
Terry smiled. "That's an appropriate song for this occasion."
Brandy spun the dial to a classical music station. Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. One, selections from the Nutcracker Suite: Tonight We Love.
"Now then," she faced him, "isn't that much better?"
"Why, Brandy?"
"Why? Why what?"
"Why me? At this time? Do you do this often?"
"Pick up men?"
"Yes."
"I've never done it before. You're the first. Do you believe that?"
"Yes, but that doesn't answer my question."
She carried the drinks across the room and sat on the couch, Terry standing over her. "I've been married six years—six of the longest years of my life. I've listened to J.
A. curse you all that time. You became an obsession with me, did you know that? Yes, Terry, people know you're in town. Didn't you read the
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article in the paper about you last year? Famous war hero turned mercenary living in Atlanta?"
Terry shook his head. "No."
"Well, that's when I decided I wanted to meet you. I said you were an obsession with me, but you're also an obsession with J. A. He hates you. I wanted to see you, meet you, that's all."
"Now that you have?"
She looked up at his tanned, hard face. "I ... don't know, Terry, and that's an honest answer. I don't regret inviting you here, if that's what you mean, and it probably isn't. I'm certainly not afraid of you, but I think J. A. is. I know he's jealous of you."
"Jealous?" It was hard to believe.
"Yes. Terry, you've done everything most men only dream of doing. You're a national hero—the real kind—you've fought wars, been a Soldier of Fortune, traveled the world at your leisure."
"And I haven't got much to show for it, except for a lot of scars and a little money and a mind full of memories."
"But you've proven yourself, Terry. In life and death situations, and you've stood firm. In our macho society, that means a great deal to men, whether they'll admit it or not. Are you going to tower over me all night or are you going to sit down?"
Beside her, he sipped his drink, conscious of her watching him. Abruptly, he rose and
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walked to the huge picture windows and looked out at the lake, being pocked by a heavy rain.
"Soft music," Brandy spoke from the couch, "rain, the two of us alone: the perfect setting for romance, and you haven't even tried to loss me. Should I change my deodorant or am I just not your type?"
Terry faced her, lightning from the storm giving him a much more menacing appearance flashing behind him. He smiled, and his eyes softened. "I'm wondering where all this is going to lead."
"Does it have to lead anywhere?"
"At this point in my life, yes. If it doesn't, then what is the purpose?"
"My God! The man's a philosopher."
Her words carried him back in time, to an African veldt and an ex-man of God turned mercenary, for his real or imagined sins. Charles had once called him a philosopher— just before Abby was killed. Terry wondered where all those men were at this point in time? He wondered if the wild dogs had dug up Abby and eaten her?
"I've lost you again," Brandy said, her voice soft against the drum of rain on the roof.
Terry crossed the room and sat beside her. "You never had me."
She touched his face, leathered by years of harsh sun and hot winds. Her cool fingers touched the scar on his forehead, another on his cheek. "Take me to a bedroom and make
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love to me, Terry."
There was sadness on his face and in his eyes. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
The stormy night stretched on toward morning, the rain continuing to fall, battering the lodge. Lightning ripped the sky. The bed sheets were damp and rumpled, the lovers just awakening from a sex-induced sleep. Brandy kissed his face, touched his body.
"That's the first time sex had been good for me in a long time. It turned really bad with J. A."
Terry lit them cigarettes. "How long have you and Cater been separated?"
She glanced at him, humor in her eyes. She blew smoke to cover her smile. "One day."
Terry sat up in bed. "One day?"
"Yes. I have to warn you: my parents probably won't like you very much."
"I wasn't aware I was going to meet them," he said.
"Oh, yes, Terry. Certainly, you are. There is a small get-together at the club tomorrow evening. Cocktails from five to seven. Dinner at eight. I'd like you to escort me."
Terry was speechless for a few seconds. When he found his voice he said, "You've been separated for one day and you want me to date you? Have you lost your mind? Take me to a Country Club? Brandy, look at my
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hands—I've got callouses on top of callouses. I'm a working man, for years a professional soldier. Hell, I don't fit in with those people."
"You fit in very well with me," she smiled in the dim light.
"You know what I mean."
"You've made up your mind you won't like my friends. How do you know you won't?"
"I don't like pretension and I don't like candy-ass men. I'll bet seventy-five percent of the men there would be selling pencils on some street corner if it wasn't for their father's money."
"Well," she snuggled closer to him, "you're right about that." Her nakedness was warm against him. "Do you own a suit, Terry?"
Her words threw him back in time, to a Memphis street, when another woman asked him the same question. He thought of Paula and wondered how she was getting along? And how his daughter was doing? She would almost be grown by now, and he had never seen her. Now the news that he had fathered another child: a son. Damn, I'm sure leaving a string of woods* colts around the country.
"No, I don't own a suit, and you're not going to buy me one, either."
"Male pride at work," she laughed, her breath hot on his bare shoulder.
"Perhaps."
"First thing this morning, I'd like you to buy a nice dark gray pin-stripe suit, vested. And all the accessories to go with it. Conservative
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clothes. Will you do that for me?"
He nodded in the dim light of the bedroom.
"Good. You're the type man who can buy clothes off the rack and look wonderful in them/'
"Yes, dear."
She laughed at his words. "You already sound like a married man. Better get used to it, Terry. I have plans for you—for both of us."
He did not reply. Suddenly he was very tired. He'd been tiring more easily of late and it worried him. He'd always been such a powerful, virile man. If these sudden bursts of fatigue continued, he'd have to get a check-up.
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BOOK FOUR
EIGHTEEN
The women in the room—most of them—felt drawn to him in a peculiarly sexual manner, both drawn to him and repelled by him. The man with Brandy moved like a big cat, totally sure of himself. His eyes took in all the men in the room, and one by one, checked them off his hidden"danger list. In case of conflict, none of the males present would pose any problem, for they were soft without necessarily being fat—mentally soft. He doubted any of them had ever heard a shot fired in anger. If they had ever fought, it had been the: step-over-the-line-and-Ill-punch-you-type. None of them, Terry was sure, had ever had to prove themselves to the breaking point.
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Terry dismissed them all.
The men in the room did not k*kexhim. Whether they would admit it or not, Terry made them feel slightly uncomfortable, causing them to move a bit closer to their wives: the mother-longing. Breast feeding. Security. To many of the men, Terry reminded them of their drill sergeants in the Army, and he always made them feel like idiots. No, the men in the room did not like Terry—not at all.
For those who have just a bit of worldliness in them, and know what to look for, professional warriors have a certain aura about them. Women pick up on that aura much more quickly than men, perhaps because women are the more mercenary of the species.
"Who is he?" Brandy's mother leaned close to her husband and whispered the question.
"He works at a gas station across from my office building," Louis Cooper said the words flatly, and his wife looked at him with something akin to horror in her eyes.
"My God, Louis!" she touched his arm. "You are joking, aren't you?"
"No. I did a little checking this afternoon, after Brandy dropped the news in my lap. I will admit I was rather stunned for several moments. His name is Terrance Kovak. He was a career soldier—quite a hero—until getting severely wounded in Asia. Then he was a mercenary for a number of years, in Africa. Mr. Kovak does not have to pump gas for a living, and I rather doubt he w
ill after
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tonight. He has an abnormally high IQ, speaks several languages, and when aroused, has the disposition of a Pit Viper. He graduated from high school up in Bishop, Georgia. You may recall this is the Terry that J. A. hates so."
She looked at Terry. "I doubt Mr. Kovak loses much sleep over that."
"Brace yourself, dear, we're about to be introduced to our daughter's new love. Brandy says she's going to make an honest man of him—whether we like it or not."
Mrs. Cooper studied Terry from across the room. "He does carry himself well, Louis ... in a tough sort of way, and he is attractive. We may as well make the best of it, don't you think?"
Louis Cooper glanced at his wife and si:
Brandy's parents didn't like him, Terry picked up on that immediately and was not at surprised by it. Hell, why should they like me? he thought. They're big-deal society folks and Fm just an ex-mere turned laborer.
His eyes fascinated Mrs. Cooper. So cold and utterly void of expression. Such a pale, icy blue. They've seen most of what the world has to offer, she thought, and been disappointed or disillusioned by it. He's out of place here, but conducting himself with grace. She took his offered hand. A hard hand, but gentle with hers.
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"Mr. Kovak," Louis said, shaking his hand. "I've heard J. A. speak of you often."
"Yes," Terry smiled. "I'm sure you have."
"Brandy tells me you are ... ah ... employed in the gasoline industry?" He was uncomfortable after the question, not because he may have made a socially unacceptable blunder, but because of the hot look shot at him by his daughter. He glanced at his wife and there was anger in her eyes as well.
"You mean, I pump gas at a small service station?" Terry laughed.
The father met him head on. "I won't back away from it, Mr. Kovak. But the point is: you do. The question, at least to my way of thinking is: why?"
"Call me Terry, Mr. Cooper. As to my job, well, it's a living."
"A poor one at best, and my daughter is worth a great deal of money."
Terry's smile was tight. "She looked me up, Mr. Cooper. Not the other way around."
The other guests at the Club stayed away from the tight circle of Mother and Father, Daughter and Interloper, none of them wishing to utter what-might later be taken as a social faux pas. If there were sudden and hot words among the quartet, then the guests would pick the Interloper apart with arrogance and ostracism. If he was accepted, social codes demanded that they, too, accept. Terry was standing in the center of a mine Held: a perfumed, coiffured, cologned, dinner-
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