by J. T. Baier
Long Way Home
Matthew Riker Book 3
J.T. Baier
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Author’s Note
1
Matthew Riker had only been back in his hometown twenty minutes before he got into a fistfight. It hadn’t been his intention to get involved in a conflict. In fact, he’d done everything he could to avoid the situation. But the man with the scar over his left eye hadn’t wanted to take no for an answer, leaving Riker little choice in the matter.
It had all started because of a little curiosity. Riker had walked past the Suds and Grubs Tavern hundreds of times during his first eighteen years, but he’d never set foot inside until that night. He’d been too young to order a drink the last time he’d been in Kingsport, Iowa, and he wouldn’t have had enough money to order one even if it had been legal. So, on a whim, Riker decided to pull his car over, walk across Main Street, and go inside.
The place was brighter than he’d expected, and the faint scent of greasy food hung in the air. The crowd was sparse, as one might expect at eight o’clock on a Thursday evening. A couple of old-timers sat at the far end of the bar, and their eyes lingered on Riker as he entered, as if maybe they recognized him. It wasn’t exactly surprising, he supposed. He’d made quite the memorable exit so many years ago.
Riker made his way to the bar and ordered a glass of whatever domestic beer was on tap. As he waited for the barkeep to draw his beverage, his eyes wandered, and that was when the trouble began. He hadn’t been looking for anything in particular, just taking in his surroundings as was his unconscious habit. His eyes settled on a scene in a corner of the bar lit only by an old Pabst neon sign. A man in his thirties took a folded stack of bills from a boy who Riker suspected was not of legal drinking age. Then the man passed the boy a plastic bag filled with something white.
Riker wasn’t close enough to make out what was in the bag. Could have been pills or powder or even a rock. Didn’t matter. Riker had seen enough to know he was watching a drug deal go down. His eyes lingered just a little too long, and the man spotted him watching. Even in the dim light from the neon sign, Riker could see the man’s face redden. Riker didn’t look away. That would have been a mistake. Instead, he kept his face slack, disinterested, as if he were staring off into space.
The man whispered something to the boy who nodded and made a beeline for the exit. Then he stalked over to Riker.
“You watching me?” the man asked without preamble.
“Nope.” Riker regarded the man. He was big. Solid. Like he probably worked for a living. And there was a large scar over his left eye.
“That’s funny, cause it seems like you were watching me.”
“I wasn’t.” Riker considered his next move. He could either stay stoic and silent or try to make nice. Maybe it was the nostalgia of being back in his hometown for the first time in so many years, but he decided to take the latter option. “How about I buy you a beer?”
It only took a moment for Riker to realize that had been the wrong move. The man’s hands clenched into fists and he leaned toward Riker. “I don’t want a beer. What I want is for you to mind your damn business.”
“Fair enough.” Riker turned away from the man and took a sip of his beer. It was watery; not at all the magical beverage he’d spent his teenage years imagining flowed from these taps.
The man took another step toward him. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”
“Thought you wanted me to mind my business.”
“It’s too late for that. I’m your business now. Who the hell are you? I’ve never seen you in here before. You a cop?”
Riker sighed and set down his beer. “No. Look bud, I honestly don’t care what you were doing in that corner. Whatever you’ve got going on here, it’s got nothing to do with me.” It was the truth, too. Riker had come to Kingsport, Iowa, for one purpose, and he intended to carry it out quickly and quietly. Small-time drug dealers operating out of the local drinking establishment were none of his concern.
Still, the man with the scar didn’t appear ready to let it go. “Bullshit. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have been staring. I’ll ask again. You a cop? Statie? DEA? Some shit like that?”
“And I’ll answer again. I’m not a cop. I’m just a guy drinking a beer.” Riker paused. If he’d stopped there, maybe things would have played out differently over the next few days. But he had just spent sixteen hours driving halfway across the country, and he was in a sour mood, so he spoke again. “Piece of advice. You go up to every stranger you meet looking for trouble, one of them just might give it to you.”
The man flinched, surprised to be talked to that way. Then a slow smile played across his face, and he turned as if to go. It was a clumsy, obvious move, and Riker wasn’t surprised in the least when he spun back around, swinging his right arm in a wild haymaker intended to catch the side of Riker’s head.
Riker was ready, and he jutted forward, slipping inside the arc of the man’s arm. He drew back his own right hand and brought it forward, delivering a sharp jab to the man’s rib cage. The punch wasn’t hard enough to break anything, but it was enough to let the man know that Riker meant business and wasn’t in a trifling mood. The sharp pain that would accompany every breath for the rest of the evening should serve as a reminder for the man.
The man staggered backward, his eyes wide, and the bar fell silent. Riker suddenly realized he’d made another error in judgment. The bar wasn’t crowded, but there were probably a dozen men in the place. And every one of them, from the old guy at the end of the bar to the bartender, appeared fully prepared to defend the honor of the man with the scar above his eye. Riker suppressed a curse. He’d made the rookie mistake of fighting with a man with more friends than him. He should have just taken that haymaker and been on his way. Now, there would be blood; some of it likely his own.
The man with the scar stood up straight, wincing, his hand on his ribcage. But the look in his eyes was one of delight. This stranger had hit a local, and now he and his friends had every right to make that stranger pay the price.
Riker was considering his options when the door to the men’s restroom swung open and a man with a shock of chestnut hair and a thick beard stumbled out. The newcomer took a look at the situation and shook his head.
“The hell is all this?”
“This guy hit me, Luke,” the man with the scar said. From the tone of his voice, it was clear that he saw Luke as his superior.
&
nbsp; But Riker barely noticed that. He was busy staring at Luke, trying to see past the beard and shaggy hair to see if he recognized the face underneath it all. And Luke was staring right back at him, his eyes just as searching.
After a moment, Luke’s face broke out in a wide grin. “It’s okay, Scott. This asshole can’t punch worth a damn, anyway. You get him on the wrestling mat, that’s another thing entirely.
Riker couldn’t help but smile just as widely as his old friend. “Luke Dewitt? Is that really you?”
“Afraid so.” He approached, hand extended, and the two men shook.
At the touch of their hands, the tension seemed to dissipate in the bar, and everyone but the man with the scar seemed to exhale at once. The bartender went back to fussing with the ice maker and the old man at the end of the bar turned back to the TV.
The man with the scar looked on incredulously. “This guy punched me.”
“You probably deserved it,” Luke said. He turned back to Riker. “Welcome home, Matt. Jesus, it’s good to see you.”
“You too,” Riker said, and he meant it. He hadn’t told anyone he was coming back to town, and he’d planned on socializing as little as possible on this trip. But he had to admit that seeing his oldest friend felt pretty damn good.
Luke’s face grew serious. “I guess I don’t have to ask why you’re back.”
Riker shook his head. He swallowed, surprised at how hard the emotions were hitting him. He’d had three father figures in his life, not counting his biological father who didn’t rate anywhere near the other three men in Riker’s mind. Edgar Morrison, his former boss at QS-4, was the most recent. Before that, it had been James Halder, his commanding officer during his time with the SEALs. But Riker’s first real father figure was the man whose memory he had returned to honor. His wrestling coach, Oscar Kane.
“I heard it was a carjacking,” Riker said.
Luke grimaced. “Killing a man for a ten-year-old Nissan. That’s just about the coldest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Riker had seen men killed for far less, but he simply nodded.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Luke continued. “I would have called to tell you myself, but I didn’t know how to get hold of you.”
“Yeah. I haven’t exactly been great about staying in touch.”
“Understatement of the year.” Luke nodded toward the bar. “How about we have a beer?”
Riker glanced down at his half-empty glass. “I’m way ahead of you.”
“Good man. What do you say we toast to the old man?” Luke gestured to the bartender who handed him a beer.
“Absolutely.” Riker raised his glass. “To Coach Kane.”
The two men clinked glasses, and Riker downed the rest of his drink in one go. As the cold liquid ran down his throat, he thought about the man with the scar passing the drugs to that kid. And how the man with the scar spoke to Luke as if Luke were his boss.
He pushed these thoughts away. He was in Kingsport for one reason and one reason only: to mourn Coach Kane. Whatever else was going on with his old friend Luke had nothing to do with him, and he wouldn’t get involved. He promised himself.
He set down his empty glass and ordered another, the hollow sound of his empty promise echoing in his mind.
2
Riker parked his truck on the street in front of a small ranch house and stepped out into the crisp night air. He took a deep breath, smelling the freshly cut grass and faint hints of the barbeques from earlier that day. He imagined that detergent companies had spent millions trying to replicate that scent.
The porch light cast a welcoming glow, but nothing about the moment felt welcoming to him. Even after the five beers he’d drank with Luke, his heart was racing, and he felt a drop of sweat slide down his back underneath his shirt. He was used to kicking down doors with warriors behind them, but he found the part of his past behind this door far more unnerving.
Steadying himself, he crossed the distance to the porch. He raised a finger and pressed the doorbell. It wasn’t long before a silhouette darkened the shaded living room window and the door opened a crack.
The woman staring out at him was eight inches shorter than Riker, and her dark hair flowed down several inches past her shoulders. Her brown eyes inspected Riker from top to bottom, her expression one of disbelief.
“Matt?”
In Riker’s mind, he still pictured his cousin Megan as the eight-year-old girl she’d been the last time he’d seen her. It took him a moment to recognize that girl’s features in the woman before him.
“Megan?”
“Holy shit, I can’t believe you’re actually here.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while.” Riker realized how silly the words sounded the moment he said them.
Megan laughed. “That’s one way to put it. Another way to put it is you’ve been gone for eighteen years, and that everyone, including me, thought you were dead.”
Riker smiled. “There were a few close calls over the years, but I’m still standing.”
She reached out and poked him in the chest. “Looks like you’re still flesh and blood. Come on in and tell me where you’ve been for half a lifetime.”
Megan’s house was neat and clean. The hallways were lined with pictures of Megan standing among smiling friends. The images showed restaurants, houses, beaches and dozens of other locations. Megan was in each one, but the people around her varied with some duplication.
She led him to the kitchen and poured a cup of tea for each of them. Then she took a seat across from Riker and gave him a piercing stare.
“Okay, where have you been for the last eighteen years?”
“I was in the Navy for a while. Then I worked as a consultant for a security firm. Now I am a beekeeper in North Carolina.”
Megan sat waiting for a full minute in silence. “That’s it? That’s eighteen years?”
“I’m afraid so. No wife, no kids, no pets. I’m a pretty simple guy.”
She took a sip of her tea. “Fine, keep your secrets.”
“What about you? You were a kid the last time that I saw you.”
She gave him a crooked smile. “You don’t know? I assumed you’d been reading my emails. Why else would you be here?”
Riker’s gaze fell to the floor. She was right, of course. Every Thursday for the past eighteen years she’d sent an email to his ancient AOL account, the one he’d had since high school. Riker never responded—for years he hadn’t been allowed to—but she continued doggedly sending them. Usually, the emails contained life updates and minutiae, things that Riker had no reason to be interested in. And yet, the emails served as a sort of tether to his old life, and he looked forward to them.
He knew all about her life from those emails. She’d gone to college on a softball scholarship. After graduating with a teaching degree, she traveled the world for a year before moving back to Kingsport. The energy and joy with which she told tales of both her world travels and her daily life as a teacher at Kingsport High School always made Riker smile.
Over the years, the emails had morphed into a kind of journal for Megan, it seemed. They were written to a man she wasn’t even certain was still alive, and she’d had no way to know if they were being read. He got the sense she was writing more for herself than for him.
But the tone of her most recent email had been different. Riker had been at home on the farm in North Carolina when he’d read it, only back from his adventure in California for a few weeks and finally settling into his old routine. The contents of the email had changed all that.
Matt,
I have some hard news that I think you need to hear. Oscar Kane was killed two nights ago. The police are saying it was a carjacking gone wrong.
I don’t know if you’re even getting these emails, but I thought I’d let you know just in case. I know how much Coach Kane meant to you.
If you are able to attend the funeral, you are more than welcome to crash at my place.
Love,
/> Megan
At the bottom of the email had been a link to the obituary with details on the funeral and burial arrangements. Riker had hopped in his truck and started the sixteen-hour drive back to Iowa the next morning.
Riker looked back up at Megan, his voice suddenly earnest. “I read your emails. Every one.”
“Too much of a hassle to respond?” There was a glint of a smile in her eyes. This was a mystery she’d wanted solved for a very long time.
“No, it wasn’t that.” He paused, considering how to explain honestly without raising too many questions in her mind. “The line of work I was in… I had to be careful. I was dealing with highly classified situations, and I believe my communications were monitored. I didn’t want to put you on their radar. And after I got out of that life… I don’t know. Kingsport felt so long ago. I guess I wasn’t sure how to even begin.”
“Hi Megan, it’s your cousin Matt, one of your few living relatives.” She spoke in a low voice, doing a passable impression of Riker. “Just wanted to let you know I’m not dead. Talk soon!”
Riker couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, I get it. I’m a dick. I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “Lucky for you I always liked you. And seeing as we’re family, I guess I have to forgive you.”
They shared a moment of comfortable silence, each sipping their tea. Then Riker spoke.
“So, a carjacking?”
