The Good Kill

by Kurt Brindley

  Killian looked at his superior officer. “Thanks, boss,” he said softly. “Tell the guys I said hey.”

  The commander gave the side rail two quick taps with his large Naval Academy class ring announcing his departure. “Roger that, shipmate,” he said, and then turned and left the room.

  Killian’s eyes returned to the ceiling and once again locked onto the water mark shaped like a bullet wound.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  So, what does he do with all his babes when he’s through with them?” Henderson asked as he pulled the Escalade into its reserved parking space. He powered off the ignition and turned in his seat to face McKnight with the look an inquisitive child might have when inquiring about the mysteries of the Easter Bunny.

  McKnight unbuckled his seatbelt and sighed impatiently. “Why are you always talking about DeBlanc’s girls? Jesus, Happy, use your imagination. The man’s a billionaire. He can dispose of them any way he sees fit.” He opened the door. “Besides, you’ll see how it works soon enough. He grows tired of them fast.” He exited the SUV and began to give it a walk around to ensure its shine was still intact after the ride home from the car wash.

  Henderson hopped out of the car and nearly ran into his partner at the corner of the back bumper. McKnight grumbled at him and continued inspecting the vehicle.

  “Well, for one thing,” Henderson said, following in behind McKnight, “Little Louie isn’t a billionaire. His daddy is. And for another thing, it makes me sick to my stomach that the only reason all those hot babes are with that little mother fucker instead of me is because of his daddy’s money.”

  McKnight could tell Henderson was working himself up into another one of his longwinded and inane diatribes. It wasn’t the first time since taking him on as his partner that McKnight had wished Lazlo hadn’t fucked up the way he had. Unlike Henderson, Lazlo didn’t talk nonstop about the most stupid bullshit. In fact, Lazlo hardly ever spoke at all, often working entire shifts without saying anything more than what was necessary to complete their assigned tasks, which usually only required one or two-word responses. McKnight missed that.

  Henderson continued. “I mean, what is it about money that makes us humans behave so irrationally, so counter to our basic human nature?”

  McKnight remained silent as he stepped up onto the sun-bleached, wooden-planked walkway that led to the private pier.

  Henderson continued on with his point after realizing McKnight wasn’t going to offer a response. “Hell, if it wasn’t for money and the entire societal construct centered around an arbitrary concept of right and wrong fabricated centuries ago in the guise of (here he raised up his hands and air quoted with his fingers) “civilization” for the singular purpose to protect the rich and all their fabulous riches—”

  “Look, Happy, I’m all for you going to night school to better yourself and all that. But that doesn’t mean I want you to barf up your latest required reading assignment all over me after each class.”

  Henderson took the criticism in stride. “Yeah but, if it wasn’t for civilization with its rule of law and all that other bullshit, each and every one of those beautiful honeys DeBlanc has purchased would have, as evolution has dictated in every species without a thinking brain, been unable to resist guys like us because they instinctively know that we are the alpha males of the pack, the ones best equipped to protect and to further propagate our species.”

  McKnight reached the end of the pier and stopped. He turned around to face Henderson and gave him a What the fuck are you talking about? look. He then turned back around to take in the grandeur of the setting sun and the gulf’s color-splashed tranquility.

  Henderson stood next to McKnight and continued to harp on his point, unaffected by the richness of the natural wonders erupting before his eyes. “But instead of all these babes following the natural order of things, civilization, working hard at the behest of the rich, has reprogrammed them to respond sexually, not to the most virile, physically attractive men like us with the biggest muscles and…” he gave McKnight a nudge and a nod of the head, “…the biggest babymakers, but to the so-called men with the biggest wallets.”

  McKnight took out his binoculars. The yacht was still anchored far off in the distance, its helicopter idle on its helipad. He brought his sights in closer. The boat reserved as a shuttle for the executive staff had just gotten underway from the resort’s private, executive staff pier.

  “And what has happened to guys like us in the process?” Henderson asked rhetorically, for he had no expectation now of McKnight making any significant contributions to the discussion. “Well, of course, we have become effectively neutered, our balls snipped right the fuck off. And now, just like all of DeBlanc’s babes, we are ourselves purchased, our muscles and our might serving to protect him and his riches. We, too, are complicit in the propagating of this most unnatural and emasculating capitalistic system.” He put his arm around McKnight’s broad shoulders. “You and me, Big Mack… nothing but high-paid eunuchs, prostituting our services to the highest bidder.”

  McKnight pulled the binoculars away from his eyes and gave Henderson a look that was easily understood to say, Get your fucking arm off my shoulders.

  Henderson quickly obliged the look.

  McKnight put the binoculars back to his eyes and returned to scanning the horizon. He had previously spotted a speck through the evening haze that he made out to be a western-bound oil tanker, but now he had lost it.

  Henderson ran his fingers through his long hair and smoothed out his ponytail. “All I’m saying, Mack, is that Jesus was right when he said that the meek will inherit the Earth. But what he was wrong about was how their ascendancy would go down.”

  McKnight sighed. “Dude. Seriously, give it a fucking break. You act like we’re doomed as a species all because raping and pillaging has fallen out of custom.”

  Henderson nodded his head while giving McKnight’s response serious consideration. “Well, it’s not just that… But to finish my point, where Jesus was wrong was in the execution. He supposed the pacification of the strong would come about through a religion founded in his name. The way I see it, it wasn’t even close. Sure, Christianity had a role in taking away men’s balls, and so did the other major faith-based religions. But the real pacification of warriors like us, and the real obliterator of the universal concepts of survival of the fittest and might makes right, concepts coded into our DNA by Natural Law, was through the codification of the unnatural Rule of Law, a religion established to worship and protect the God of Coin. It was weak man’s love of the money, not his love of Christ that enabled the meek to inherit the Earth, which eventually castrated and subjugated warriors like us into ballless slaves whose only purpose now is to serve our capitalistic masters…”

  McKnight picked up the tanker again. It was too far off the coast to see what flag it was flying under, but it was certain to be headed to a Texas refinery, probably Port Arthur. He followed the ship, fondly recalling the days of his youth before joining the army, when he would spend his summers working his uncle’s shrimp boat. He hated shrimping, but he loved it out there on the water and always wondered why he decided to enlist in the army and not the navy. He had to laugh to himself when realizing the answer. Probably because he wanted to live the life of a warrior whose demise Happy was now mourning over and wouldn’t shut up about.

  Their shuttle was only a few hundred yards from the pier now. McKnight put his binoculars away and turned to Henderson and, despite his better judgement for he knew it would only egg the annoying pedant further on, said, “So, you’re trying to tell me that all the benefits to mankind that civilization has brought us is a bad thing? Unnatural?” he asked as the two men walked toward the landing.

  Henderson scoffed. “Obviously it’s unnatural. All you have to do is watch a nature show to see how might always makes right in the animal kingdom. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not necessarily saying a civil society is all bad.”

  The two large m
en said their hellos to Watkins, the shuttle helmsman, as they hopped onto the boat, a thirty-five-foot Formula 350 Sun Sport. The craft pitched from their weight and they had to grab hold of chairbacks as they made their way aft. Watkins pulled away from the pier and arced back around toward the resort. McKnight plopped down on the bench that ran the length of the stern. Henderson plopped down next to him and picked up his point right where he left off.

  “What I’m saying, Big Mack, is that sometimes it takes everything I have to hold back from knocking the shit out these little thin-armed capitalists who think they can own me.” He had to holler to speak over the wind and the three, roaring 350-horsepower outboard engines.

  McKnight spread his arms over the back of the bench. “DeBlanc may be a prissy little prick,” he said, “but he takes good care of me. I have no complaints.” His deep voice was consumed by the noise.

  Henderson pointed to his left ear and shrugged his shoulders. He then leaned in close to McKnight’s mouth and McKnight repeated himself. Henderson then shifted his mouth over to McKnight’s ear and said, “That’s exactly my point, Big Mack. We’re both being well-kept by Petite Louie. He takes care of us, just as he does Ruby Black and the rest of his babes.”

  “So, you’re calling me a whore now,” McKnight said into Henderson’s ear.

  “That’s just it,” Henderson said back at McKnight’s ear. “Capitalists have made whores out of all of us.”

  McKnight threw his head back and laughed. He then looked at Henderson and said, “Didn’t they pin a Silver Star on your chest for defending our American Way of Life and its capitalistic system over in Afghanistan? Since when did you become such a fucking communist?”

  Henderson, unsmiling, leaned back into McKnight’s ear and said, “To be honest, I don’t know what I am, Mack, except a whore for our corrupt and oppressive system. One of these days I’m going to be the motherfucking man and then, let me tell you, there’s going to be some hell to pay.”

  The boat docked at the resort’s staff-only slip and both men patted Watkins on the back as they hopped up onto the pier.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BEFORE

  Diego was never fond of having to leave his retreat, The Better Angels of Gettysburg. Established by him after he left the priesthood in 1991, initially as a secluded and safe place where victims of sexual assault committed by Catholic priests, at the time a relatively small cohort of unfortunate souls courageous enough to seek treatment, could find peace, solemnity, and healing. But gradually, through government grants, generous donations, word of mouth of the retreat’s efficacy, and growing awareness of the issue of sexual assault, not just within the Catholic community, but throughout all walks of life, the mission, staff, and property of The Better Angels had grown significantly over the years to where now all victims of sexual crimes were accommodated, regardless of religious affiliation. And as the retreat grew, so too did Diego’s attachment to it and his duties as its director and lead spiritual advisor. Which was why he was not fond of having to spend time away from his life’s mission; he was even less fond of having to leave it when it involved him having to cross the southern border into Maryland and having to drive anywhere near Interstate 270 or the Capital Beltway.

  Growing up in Mexico on a small family farm in a rural village on the outskirts of the Chihuahua Desert, Diego, a short and slender man, but one whose presence exuded a powerful sense of peace and serenity, never did become accustomed to the aggressive and unpredictable drivers found in the U.S. Normally, he wouldn’t make two trips a year down to Maryland, so the fact that he was making his second trip down that way in such a short span of time was a testimony to how important Killian was to him. Still, his devotion to the wounded warrior didn’t make the trip from Gettysburg to Bethesda any less stressful on his sixty-five-year-old, ill-conditioned heart.

  Consequently, despite the purpose of his visit, he was greatly relieved when he finally pulled his old Honda Civic into the parking lot of the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. After he parked his car and powered down the engine, he sat back in his seat to gather his nerves, not just from the stressful drive, but also for the strength he needed to deliver the unhappy news that he had been unable to deliver during his last sad visit to the hospital.

  Killian was lying in a fetal position facing toward the door. A pang of sorrow shot through Diego’s heart as he saw the pained expression on his friend’s sleeping face. What horrors were haunting him, Diego wondered. He closed the door behind him and, with a heavy heart, walked quietly to the bed, wanting to be as close as possible to his longtime friend, to sit beside him and pray as he slept. However, the guest chairs against the wall by the door were unavailable. One had a full duffel bag lying across it, and the other had a large cardboard box setting on it filled with what looked to be military-related items – a lacquered wooden plaque in the shape of a shield, a decorative wooden box with a folded American flag and military medals set beneath glass, and several white binders and blue folders, among several other items unknown to him. He had no choice but to sit in the recliner next to the window instead. When he sat down, careful not to make any noise so as not to wake Killian, he found the view out the window to be uninspiring. The hospital was undergoing major renovations so the view, set amidst the backdrop of low, gray clouds, was consumed by scaffolding, cranes, large trucks, and heavy-booted construction workers plying their trade and stirring up large wafts of dust.

  He turned from the window and sat forward in the chair, folding his hands together and placing them on his lap. After taking in a deep, relaxing breath and releasing it slowly, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and prayed to God, asking Him for guidance and the strength to deliver his message to Killian with clarity and compassion. He prayed his hardest when asking God to heal Killian, to remove his pain and suffering and replace it with His blessing and grace. Afterwards, Diego leaned back into the chair and once again took in a deep breath in an effort to breathe away the tension in his forehead and shoulders that had accumulated from the weight of his burden.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Diego woke with a start in a room silent and dark. Not knowing where he was, he looked out the window next to him as he gathered his bearings. Night had fallen, leaving the clouds visible now only as bruised patches of purples and blacks. The construction site was shadowed and still, the scaffolding looking skeletal against the hollow shell of the partially-built building. Remembering where he was, Diego looked toward the bed. Killian was staring at him through the dark.

  “Killian, oh my. I’m sor— I…” Diego struggled to stand up from the deep, comfortable chair. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He reached to turn on the lamp near his chair.

  “I prefer you didn’t turn the light on,” Killian said without emotion.

  Diego’s hand hung in the air for a moment, as if it were uncertain who to obey. Finally, he dropped it to his side and walked over to Killian’s bed. With his heart racing, he asked, “How are you feeling, son?”

  Killian stared straight ahead and said, “Pretty fucked.”

  Diego had never heard Killian swear before. The vulgar response, sounding ugly and raw, confused him at first, leaving him unable to understanding its meaning. “I-I see… yes. Yes. I’m sure things must be—”

  “All the meds they have me on, they fuck me up.” Killian said as he looked at Diego. “But that’s not why I’m fucked. Do you want to know why I’m so fucked, Father?”

  Diego shifted from foot to foot, not knowing what to say. He pointed to the chairs next to the bed. “Do you mind if I move this duffel bag? Maybe lean it against the wall? I’d like to sit down.”

  “It’s a seabag,” Killian said.

  “Excuse me?” Diego asked quickly, Killian’s dark mood already having him on edge.

  “You said you wanted to move the duffel bag. In the navy, we call it a seabag. So, yeah, go ahead and move it.”

  Diego laughed nervously. “Oh, okay. I see. The seabag.�
�� After leaning the seabag against the wall, he slid the chair next to the bed and sat down. “There we go. That’s better.”

  Killian stared at Diego a long time before asking, “Are you going to answer my question, Father?”

  Diego didn’t know what to do, what to say. He had never seen Killian behave like this. Like the Stoics of the West, or the Zen Masters of the East, Killian, even in his youth, always had a moderate temperament, never allowing his emotions to run strong in any direction. Diego never saw nor heard of Killian intimidating or bullying anyone like it seemed he was doing to him now. It was if Killian were someone else, someone whose heart had grown cold and bitter, someone who didn’t know Diego or understand how much Diego cared for him.

  Even though Diego knew that Killian’s odd behavior was the result of either his physical injuries or a psychological trauma, or both, he still had a hard time managing his own reaction to it. As a former priest and as a longtime spiritual advisor, he had been in many similar situations where he had to provide comfort and counsel to someone who had recently suffered a severely traumatic experience and who was not yet receptive to outside help. Yet, never had he been so close personally to any of the suffering individuals he had counseled as he was with Killian. Yet he knew he had to take control of the situation immediately or it would soon, once again, devolve beyond the point to where Killian would be able to process effectively what it was Diego had to tell him.

  “Killian, listen to me. I really want to understand what it is that is troubling you, but I’m afraid before we discuss that, I need to tell you something that is going to be painful for you to hear, something which has been heavy on my heart for quite some time.” He shifted in his chair and then slid it closer to the bed. “Killian, your father… there’s been a—”