“Dinner looks wonderful, Rachel.” I kiss her and hold her chair out for her.
“I hope you like it. The pork was a new recipe.”
As we’re eating dinner, I say, “I have to go back to the office tonight.”
“You do?” Rachel reaches over and catches Garret’s cup before he dumps it on the floor. “Why?”
“I have a meeting first thing tomorrow morning and I wasn’t able to get all the materials ready before I left tonight.”
“You should’ve just stayed. We could’ve pushed dinner back a few hours.”
“Yes, but then it would’ve been past Garret’s bedtime. I wanted to see him before he goes to bed.”
She smiles. “So how long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“Probably a few hours.”
She doesn’t question me any further. We continue our dinner and have dessert. Then we put Garret to bed and I head out.
The assignment is taking place at a bar in New Haven so it’s a bit of a drive. On the way there, I pretend I’m someone else and not the man who just had a nice dinner with his wife and child. I don’t know who I am right now. A hit man? A mobster? I really don’t know. There’s no term for it. Jack would say it’s my dark side, so I guess that’s what I’ll call it. But I don’t want a dark side. I hate that side of me.
I drive to an area of town that isn’t far from the homeless shelter where Rachel used to work. I’m relieved she’s not working there anymore. She keeps saying she’s going to go back there some Saturday for a visit, but so far she hasn’t.
When I reach the bar, I pull around the back and park behind a dumpster. They need to give us different cars if they’re going to make us do this. I don’t exactly fit in driving a Mercedes. But I have to drive the approved vehicle. It’s a rule, mainly for our safety because the car has bulletproof glass and a stash of weapons in the trunk, hidden in a locked compartment.
I open the trunk and unlock the compartment and take out my gun and attach the silencer. Then I take out another handgun and lay both guns on the floor of the trunk. I slip my wedding ring into my pocket and scrunch the fabric of my shirt to wrinkle it, then head inside.
The bar is crowded because it’s a Monday night and football is on. It’s loud, with men yelling at the TV and each other, and beer bottles clinking together as the waitresses dole them out. There’s a fist fight going on near the pool table but nobody seems to care.
I take a seat at the bar and order a whiskey. I down it and order another.
“Rough day?” the bartender asks. She has short, jet black hair with red streaks in it and piercings in her nose and eyebrow.
“Yeah,” I say, dropping a twenty on the table. “Give me two more.”
She smiles and winks, then turns her back to me and leans over to reach for the whiskey bottle. She purposely aims her ass in my direction, bending over enough that I can see her red thong underneath her very short black skirt. I look away.
The guy next to me nudges my arm. “What’s wrong? You don’t like a hot ass?”
I don’t look at the guy. I focus on the TV above us. “She’s not my type.”
“An ass like that is everyone’s type.”
She comes back with the two glasses of whiskey, then leans over the counter, putting her breasts on display in front of me. “Haven’t seen you here before.”
“I’m new in town,” I say, swigging my whiskey.
“Where are you from?”
I nod toward the TV. “I’m trying to watch the game.”
She slowly retreats back behind the bar and waits on someone else.
“What the fuck, man?” the guy next to me says. “That chick would’ve gone home with you. Did you see how she looked at you?”
“I told you. She’s not my type.”
“You got a girlfriend? A wife?”
I’m not here to talk, so this man is really getting on my nerves. I finally turn and look at him. “No. She’s just—” I stop when I realize that this is him. He looks just like the photo. Bald head. Dragon tattoo on his right arm. This is the man I’m supposed to kill. He wasn’t supposed to be here for a half hour.
“Why isn’t she your type?” he asks.
“I don’t like piercings,” I blurt out.
“You don’t know what you’re missing. Piercings are fucking awesome. I was once with this girl who had—fuck!” He whips around to see who just hit him in the shoulder. The man is about six foot two and three hundred pounds of pure muscle. He walks off, not even realizing he bumped into someone. The guy next to me turns back and drinks his beer, then says, “I would’ve beat the shit out of that guy if I hadn’t just got out of prison. My parole officer would send my ass right back there if I got in a fight.”
If he’s that afraid of going back to prison, he may not take me up on my offer. But I have to at least try.
“If you want to take down a guy that big,” I say, “you need more than your fist.”
“Yeah, no shit. But the cops took my gun when they raided my place.”
“So get another one.” I drink the last of my whiskey. It warms me, but I don’t feel the least bit drunk.
“You know someone?” He doesn’t look at me as he asks. We’re both facing forward, our eyes on the TV.
“In the back parking lot,” I say. “Cash only.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred.”
“What kind?”
“Nine millimeter. Brand new.”
“Two hundred. That’s all I got. I can pay you the rest in powder.”
I assume he means cocaine.
“Meet me out there in five.” I step off the barstool and go back outside. And then I wait. I’m not even nervous. Why am I not nervous? I feel like this isn’t me. Like I’m just watching this happen, like a scene in a movie.
Five minutes later he comes out the back door. He sees me and makes his way over to my car.
“A Mercedes?” he says. “What the fuck kind of business you in?”
“You got the money or not?”
“Yeah.” He starts taking wads of cash out of his pockets. “My ex is going to kill me. This money’s supposed to be for fucking child support.”
“How many kids?” I shouldn’t have asked. It only makes this harder.
“One. A girl.” He counts the money and hands it to me.
Fuck. I’m taking a father from his daughter.
I can do this. I can do this. He’s not a good father. He was in prison. He committed a crime. But so have I, and I’m about to do it again. Am I really that different from the man standing before me?
“You gonna give me the gun, or what?”
I wake from my thoughts and see him staring at me. “I think you promised me something else.”
“Yeah. Got it.” He reaches down and pulls a small plastic bag from inside his sock.
I have to do this. I don’t have a choice. It’s not me. It’s someone else. It’s not me.
He hands me the plastic bag and I stuff it in my pocket. I thought he’d ask to see the gun before he paid me for it, but he didn’t so I don’t show it to him. I open the trunk and reach in and pull out my gun with the silencer attached. I aim it at him.
“Hey, what the—”
He crumples to the ground. It’s done. I shot him in the chest. Right in the heart.
I toss the gun back in the trunk and get in the car and drive off. I take out my Dunamis phone and dial nine for the clean-up crew. Someone answers and I leave the address.
“Hurry up,” I tell whoever I’m talking to. “People keep coming out of the bar. Someone might find him. He’s behind the dumpster.” I hang up and shove my phone in my pocket.
After I’ve been driving for a half hour, I pull over at a gas station and go into the restroom, taking the cocaine with me. I flush it down the toilet, then stuff the plastic bag in the trash. When I come back out, a police officer holds the door for me as I exit.
I smile at him. “Thank you, offic
er.”
He nods and goes inside.
I get back on the road, and a half hour later I’m home. I park the car in the garage and pop open the trunk and store the guns back in their compartment along with the wad of cash. Then I go inside, straight to the bathroom to wash my hands. My shirt reeks of smoke and beer so I take it off and stuff it in the washing machine, but I’m worried Rachel will take it out and notice the smell. She has a pile of Garret’s clothes sitting there, so I add them to the washer, add some soap, and start the machine. Tomorrow I’ll tell her I spilled something on my shirt and had to wash it.
It’s after ten and Rachel must’ve gone to sleep because the house is quiet and only the light above the stove is on. I go upstairs and hear Garret in his room, babbling to himself. I go to check on him and see that he kicked his blanket off. I go to cover him up, but he sees me and reaches out to me. “Dada!”
I take him from his crib and hold him against my chest. And suddenly, the emotion I’d shoved deep down inside me breaks to the surface, washing over me like a tidal wave, drowning me in guilt. I shot a man. I killed him. It wasn’t self defense. It wasn’t because he had a gun pointed at my wife or my child. I just killed him. I know I had to. Dunamis didn’t give me a choice. But still, I took a life. A man is dead because of me.
I look down at Garret, who’s falling back to sleep on my shoulder.
“I won’t let them take you,” I whisper. “I won’t let you become me.”
“Pearce?” Rachel walks in wearing her robe. “Is everything okay?” she whispers.
“Yes. He woke up, but he’s asleep now.” I lay him back in his crib.
Rachel and I go into the hall and down to our room.
“Did you just get home?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
“I spilled soda on it. I put it in the wash.”
“You don’t drink soda.”
She’s right. Why did I say that? I try to explain. “For some reason, I had a craving for soda so I stopped and got one. But it spilled and got all over me. I think I’ll take a quick shower.”
“Okay.” She gets back into bed as I go in the bathroom.
After I shower, I slip into bed, trying not to wake her.
“Goodnight,” she whispers, her back to me. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” I put my arm around her waist and pull her closer, holding her against me.
It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. I keep repeating the words in my head.
I’m not the man who did that. I’m not a murderer. That wasn’t me. It was someone else. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I can’t live with myself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Five Years Later
RACHEL
“Mom, did you see me?” Garret asks, out of breath and wiping the water from his eyes.
“Yes. You were super fast,” I say, taking a towel from the stack. “We need to get going, so can you help me clean up?”
“Okay.” He climbs out of the pool.
I teach swim lessons on Tuesday afternoons and every other Saturday. Garret always comes with me. He loves swimming. He could stay in the pool for hours. He’s a really good swimmer and I’m not just saying that because he’s my son. He really is good.
I wrap the towel around him and kiss his head. “Great job, today.”
He looks up at me. “Can we come back tomorrow? I don’t want to wait until Saturday.”
“I don’t know if we’ll have time. You have a busy week. You have football practice tomorrow.”
Garret loves sports and wants to play all of them. Right now, he’s on a little kids’ football team. He’s only six but he takes it very seriously. He even draws out plays in a notebook and then practices them with his dad in the back yard. Garret also plays soccer, basketball, and baseball, and when he’s not doing those things, he swims. I don’t know where he gets all his energy.
“Honey, could you pick up the other towels?” I ask Garret as he tosses his towel in the bin. I just taught a bunch of five-year-olds and they’re not always good at picking up after themselves.
I put the equipment away as Garret gathers the towels and adds them to the bin. He’s so helpful. He helps out at home too. I couldn’t ask for a better kid.
“Bye, Mrs. Kensington!” Alyssa waves at me as she walks out of the locker room.
She’s one of the little girls in my swim class. She’s only in kindergarten but acts older than that. She loves fashion and tells me she’s going to be a designer someday. She wears these crazy outfits that she puts together herself. Today it’s a denim skirt with pink-and-white striped tights, a pink shirt with hearts all over it, a white sequined headband in her hair, and furry white boots on her feet.
“Bye, Alyssa.” I wave back at her. “I’ll see you next week.”
I notice her eyeing Garret as he picks up the towels. Then suddenly she slips on some water around the pool and falls.
“Alyssa, are you okay?” I hurry to get to her but Garret gets there first.
“I got it, Mom,” he says, helping her up.
I stand back and watch the two of them.
“Thank you, Garret,” Alyssa says, tilting her head and smiling at him.
“You shouldn’t wear those boots.” He points to them. “That’s why you fell. You should wear sneakers.”
“The boots go with my outfit.” She sticks her hip out to the side and poses for him. “Don’t you like it?”
He shrugs. “It’s okay, I guess. But it’s too much pink.”
I cover my mouth as I laugh. This is too funny.
“What is she up to?” I turn and see Leah, Alyssa’s mom standing next to me, holding Alyssa’s pink coat.
“I think she’s flirting with my son,” I say.
Leah laughs. “Sorry about that. She has a huge crush on him. She talks about him all the time.”
“That’s funny. I guess I never noticed how much she liked him.”
We stand there watching them.
“He’s a very cute little boy,” Leah says. “I can see why she likes him.”
“He looks just like his dad. And he’s probably going to be just as tall as him. He’s already the tallest boy in his class.”
Alyssa is still talking to Garret and he’s starting to look bored.
“Why not?” Alyssa yells, sounding both angry and offended. She puts her hands on her hips.
“Because I don’t want a girlfriend,” he says, walking away from her.
Alyssa is now pouting as she watches Garret pick up the last two towels.
Leah nudges me and smiles. “I’ll have a talk with her. I’ll see you on Saturday.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
Leah leads her away, and as they go, I hear Alyssa mumbling, “Boys are stupid.”
Now that they’re gone, I laugh.
“I’m done,” Garret says, meeting me by the locker room doors.
“Thanks for your help, honey. Go change and I’ll meet you out front.”
I always worry about him being in the men’s locker room alone. He’s not really alone. There are other kids and adults in there, but he’s only six so I worry. But he kept insisting he could change in there by himself so I let him try it a couple weeks ago, and so far, there haven’t been any problems.
He’s mature for his age and looks older than he is because he’s tall. It kind of makes me sad because I don’t want him to grow up. I want him to be six forever. I said the same thing at five, and four, and three. Time goes way too fast.
I go in the women’s locker room and quickly change, and when I get to the front entrance of the gym where I always meet up with Garret, he’s already there, in his jeans and a white polo shirt, looking just like his dad. It’s really amazing how similar they look. He’s a miniature version of Pearce.
Garret’s talking to Brady, the guy who works at the front desk. He’s a college student and loves sports so Garret always talks to him.
“My dad took me to a Yankees game last summer,” Garret tells Brady. “And he might take me to a Patriots game. My dad played football in high school. I’m going to play too. I’m going to be quarterback.”
“What about your swimming?” Brady asks.
Garret shrugs. “I can do both. I have to get better at swimming. I’m not as good as my mom. She’s really good. She’s so good she was on a swim team. I want to be on one too, someday. My dad can swim but he’s not good like my mom.”
Hearing him talk about Pearce and me makes me smile. He’s still at the age where he thinks his parents are cool, especially his dad. I’m sure in a few years he’ll think we’re not.
“Ready to go?” I come up behind Garret and put my arm around him.
“Yeah.” He looks at Brady. “See ya later.”
“Bye, Garret.” He smiles at me. “Bye, Mrs. Kensington.”
“Bye. Tell your mom I said hi.”
His mom and I were on a committee I chaired for an auction held last month to raise money for lung cancer research. I learned all about lung cancer when Holton had it, so when this opportunity came up to help with the auction, I volunteered.
I started volunteering a lot more once Garret began kindergarten. I’m now on several committees for different organizations. I also give talks on American history to school groups. It’s not the same as working at a museum and giving tours, but it at least lets me use my history degree and knowledge.
“Which store do you want to go to?” I ask Garret. We’re on the hunt for a Halloween costume. It’s Tuesday, and Halloween is on Thursday, but Garret couldn’t decide on a costume so we didn’t get one yet.
“Jared got his at the mall. He’s gonna be a fireman.”
“What do you want to be? Have you decided yet?” I turn onto the road that takes us to the mall. We don’t have a mall in our small town but there’s one that’s not far from the gym we just left.
“Maybe a football player,” he says. “Or a baseball player.”
Protecting Her Page 15
