“You do?” That surprised him. Gwen hated his big band music. “Downloaded it on iTunes just before I left.”
“And I like your little place, Mr. Turner.”
“Mister?” he said. “I can’t be that much older than you, am I?”
“I’m sorry. I only meant—”
“Please call me Jack.”
She walked through another doorway leading back to the kitchen; the bathroom was on her left. She stopped for a moment. “I love those old tubs with the cute little feet.”
“You sure you can’t stay?”
“Professor Thornton said we needed to give you some space.” She walked back into the kitchen. “You’ll find everything you need here for a nice lunch.”
“I’d like you to stay,” he said. “If you can. Looks like plenty of food for two.” What was he saying? She had just given him an out.
She hesitated a moment. “I really should go.”
“You can go right after we eat, how’s that?”
“All right,” she said. “Here, you have a seat and I’ll finish putting this together. Won’t take me five minutes.”
“Are you warm enough? I can take your coat. You drink coffee? Just made a fresh pot.”
“I had some on the way here. Have any tea?”
“Some iced tea. I could put it in the microwave, try and reverse the damage.”
“I can drink it cold. By the way, I really enjoyed your Pearl Harbor lecture. Can’t wait to hear the next one.”
Jack walked over to the fridge, poured her a glass. “I’m just going to use the restroom for a minute.”
“Should be all ready when you get back.”
Jack closed the bathroom door and took a deep breath. Pearl Harbor. Why did she have to mention Pearl Harbor? Without warning a flashback of the men running across the field toward Halemakai Barracks rushed to his mind. Once again, Jack watched the bullets mow them down. Once again, saw them twisting and turning as they fell. Once again, the screams. He shook his head and opened his eyes, then stared at himself again in the mirror. “You were never at Pearl Harbor,” he whispered aloud. “It was just a dream.” He flushed cold water on his face.
Why was the spell of this dream so hard to break? The memories were nothing like dream memories. More like he’d really been there. Like the day after must have felt for the guys who survived the attack. He had to get back in control. His headache began to pound again. After a few deep inhales and exhales, he straightened up and came back out. The hoagies were made, the table set.
“I didn’t know what you like on yours, so I made the standard Italian. You like mustard or mayo?”
“Both,” Jack said. “Rachel, it’s really nice of you to come over.”
“Well, I’m a nice person. Lettuce and onions?”
Jack feigned a smile. She really was nice. And so beautiful.
“Are you alright? You don’t look so good.”
“I had a bad headache before you came. It went away for a few minutes, but now it’s back.”
“Have anything for it?”
“Not really.”
She reached into her purse. “Let me give you some ibuprofen.” She fished them out and handed them to him. “I really should go then, and let you get some rest.”
He paused a moment. “I feel bad. You coming over here like this, making me lunch.”
“Don’t. It’s not your fault you got a headache. I wasn’t going to stay anyway.”
“At least stay and eat. I can rest after you go.”
“No, we can catch up some other time.”
“At least take your sub with you.”
She smiled. “No, I’ll just wrap it up, and you can have it tomorrow. I didn’t put anything on it yet to make it soggy.”
Within a few minutes, she had the second sub in the refrigerator, her coat and gloves on. She smiled as she walked out the door. Jack walked onto the landing as she made her way down the steps. He was almost tempted to follow her and keep the conversation going but reminded himself he hadn’t come back to Culpepper to get sucked into another relationship.
He watched her get into her car. “Thanks Rachel,” he shouted. “Sorry about this.” She looked up and smiled, but he thought he detected a slight look of regret in her eyes.
Maybe it was just wishful thinking.
“See you in class on Wednesday,” he yelled as she backed out of the driveway.
12
One hour later, a man in a gray jogging suit stepped out of a rented car parked along the roadside, a block from the Whispering Hills condominium complex. He wasn’t there to jog, nor did he need to. Nigel Avery already knew Professor Thornton wouldn’t be home. Lifting the cottony hood of his sweatshirt over his jet-black hair, he tied the drawstring in a loose knot beneath his chin. He wore a pair of inexpensive sneakers, purchased at a nearby Wal-Mart because their tread patterns matched the sneakers of several hundred other cheapskates around town. He wore black leather gloves to ward off the cold. And fingerprints. He reached through the driver-side window, picked up a pair of sunglasses, and put them on. Ostensibly, to shield his eyes from the glaring afternoon sun.
Feigning a few stretching exercises to make sure he was alone, he jogged down the sidewalk. Just before reaching the stone wall that bordered the property, he darted into the woods. The dense shrubbery closed behind him like saloon doors.
Once in the woods, he stopped running. Even walking, he soon came to where the stone wall cut through the forest. The wall was icy cold, about eight feet tall, covered with dark ivy. He was over it in seconds, standing safely inside the perimeter of the complex. It was a brief detour but necessary. It served to spare the life of the aging security guard monitoring the front gate, who undoubtedly would not have allowed him to pass through in his car.
The hair, the padded suit, the sunglasses, and of course the southern accent, were simple components of his disguise. All designed to give Avery an altogether forgettable appearance. For two decades Avery had been a contract employee for the CIA. Then two years more with the NSA. But neither agency could lay claim to his loyalty now. Avery was for Avery. Money mattered some. The thrill mattered more. The more complex the job, the better.
So far, this job was falling woefully short of expectations.
He stood a moment in a grassy strip between the stone wall and parking lot, then jogged along the asphalt, crossed between two cars, then along the sidewalk, panting profusely to keep in character. He nodded to a nearby maintenance man in soiled green coveralls, lazily filling up a trash bag with wet leaves. Thornton’s building was just ahead. Getting through the locked glass security booth would prove only a minor inconvenience. It amazed him that people in condos and apartments derived any sense of security from these things.
A young boy walked toward him carrying a small backpack over one shoulder. The boy turned into the booth in front of Thornton’s building. Avery jogged right behind him, taking out a set of keys for appearances, after the young man produced his own. The boy opened the lock to the second door with his keys, while Avery stood closely behind, studying the digital menu next to the security phone, confirming Thornton’s apartment number.
“You coming?” the boy asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” Avery said, putting his keys back in his sweats.
The boy nodded and smiled shyly, then walked away.
Avery quickly turned and continued jogging in the opposite direction. He ducked inside the first hallway. He leaned up against the wall, pretending to catch his breath. A quick look verified he was alone again. He walked straight to Thornton’s front door.
Thornton had only locked the front door using the doorknob, ignoring the deadbolt. A man who’s never been robbed, he thought. A few surgical tweaks with a credit card and he was neatly inside. He stood in the darkened hallway a couple of seconds allowing his eyes to adjust. He took a few cautious steps forward until he came to the kitchen doorway on his right.
Several dishes were stacked in the sink. On the stove
were four opened boxes of Chinese food, two with spoons sticking out the top. A newspaper sprawled across the dinette table beside a bowl of flakes which had coagulated into an indiscernible mush.
Moving to the living area, it was no better. Clothes were lying about, glasses and silverware left out on the dining table, stacks of files on the coffee table. He noticed the wall of bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. Then the miniature TV Thornton had propped on a wooden stand. No DVD. No surround-sound. Thornton was definitely not into movies or sports.
He glanced through the sliding glass doors to see if any neighbors lurked outside. The coast was clear. He moved catlike along the edge of the fireplace and then around the wall facing the outside. He closed the vertical blinds, making the living room as dark as the hallway, but still enough light to accomplish his task. He could wire this place in his sleep.
He walked from room to room taking inventory and was just about to pop the phone next to the bed in half when his ears picked up the faint sound of jingling keys.
He froze. There it was again.
Now the keys were in the door.
The door opened.
Thornton was supposed to be gone until late afternoon. He hadn’t altered his schedule once the entire time Avery had watched him. Without a sound, Avery set the phone back on the stand, grabbed a pillow, tiptoed around the bed, and retreated into the darkness of a walk-in closet. He backed into a rack of dress shirts then reached for the holster strapped to his leg. He pulled out a small-caliber handgun that he’d bought for sixty dollars in Atlanta. Its former owner was some kid no older than fifteen. Avery was certain ballistics would match any bullets taken from this gun to a host of drug-related crimes or drive-by shootings.
He hadn’t planned on killing anyone today, but it wasn’t an emotional decision. Dying is part of life. Just happens to be the last part. Avery was an ambassador of fate, hand-picked by the Grim Reaper to usher selected souls into the eternal abode. He’d sent so many there over the years, more than he could count. Perhaps today was Thornton’s day.
He waited a few moments in the closet, gaining control over his emotions and reflexes. As the door slammed shut, he heard a woman’s voice singing in the hallway.
“Ama-zee-ing grace, how sweet da sound.” After a few more bars, she began to hum. She took a few steps into the kitchen and said, “Oh Professor, choo are such a slobe. And why ees it so dark in here?” He heard her roll back the vertical blinds. “Dats better.”
Obviously, it was Thornton’s maid. How could he have missed this?
He continued to listen, trying to conjure an image for each move she made. If she came near, the last thing she’d hear on earth would be a muffled popping sound through a bed pillow. But what if she ignored the closet? How long would it take her to clean up this pigsty? Was her life worth waiting in this stuffy closet for an hour? Two?
Avery was not a patient man.
After she had spent almost thirty minutes on the kitchen alone, Avery was about ready to walk out in broad daylight and blow Ms. Hispanic away. He was burning up in this stupid disguise. It wouldn’t be the first time someone walked into a burglary and paid for it with their lives. That’s how this could go down. He’d given so many local homicide detectives routine burglary-turned-sour investigations to conduct. It was not a sophisticated MO, but none had ever come back to haunt him.
He smiled as he thought about the way hit men were depicted in movies. All kinds of hi-tech, complicated methods. But there was no need to kill fancy, not with so much killing going on now over drugs and ex-girlfriends. Innocent people always got caught in the crossfire. The thing now was too make your hits look like anything but a pro did it. You had to think like a young punk who just got disrespected, maybe somebody looking for a little extra cash. Leave a trail that points the cops back to the hood. Quickest way to get them to move the case to the unsolvable bin. Or else they’d wind up arresting somebody who had it coming anyway.
If it came to it, Avery would simply off the cleaning lady, grab a few valuables, drive one town over, put everything in a trash bag, and throw the bag in a dumpster. What was that—a thirty to forty minute delay?
The cleaning lady walked from the kitchen into the living area. “Guess I’ll get started on da laundry,” she said, groaning. Avery imagined her bending down to pick up a pair of dirty socks from the carpet then walking around the living room snatching one item after another from wherever Thornton had shed them.
Avery glanced down at an overflowing hamper against the back wall of the closet. She’d be coming here soon. It was perfect. Perfect angle. Perfect location. The insulated walls of the closet would even help muffle the gunshot. She’d never even see her assailant, or mercifully, feel a tinge of fright. She would simply bend over to pick up the hamper and slip through the boundaries of this life to the next.
A few moments later, he heard the soft depressions on the living room carpet heading for the master bedroom. He heard her soft humming as she crossed the threshold. The same tune as before—Amazing Grace.
“Look at dees, dark in here, too.”
He heard the sound of the drapes swing open, as light from the window invaded the closet through the louvered doors. His presence was still shrouded in shadows. Through the slats, he saw a stocky feminine shape toss a collection of dirty clothes on the floor next to the unmade bed. Casually she began to sort them. She had no idea these monotonous, meaningless tasks were buying her precious moments of life. He heard bed sheets being rustled from the bed, the corners of the fitted sheet snapping in the air as it pried loose. He lifted the barrel of his nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol slightly upwards and shoved it into the pillow.
“Da hamper! I almost forgot.”
Here she comes. She grabbed the doorknob and pulled the closet door open. He moistened his lips, took a deep silent breath. He felt her presence inches away. A cell phone rang, sounded like from the living room. She stopped. It rang again. She pulled back. “I’m coming. I’m coming. Hold choor horses!”
He exhaled slowly but kept every other muscle in focus. As soon as she was off the phone, she’d be back.
“Hello?” A brief pause. “Juan? What’s wrong? Roberto? What’s wrong with Roberto? Can’t you peek heem up? I’m working. I can’t leev now. What? An interview? With who? Oh, Juan, thass wonderful! Well, for dat I will be happy to get heem. Let me see, I can be there in fifteen minutes. Perhaps, if I bring him back here I can still feenish on time. I know he will hate it, but I have no time to drop him home first. Jest go and get that jobe, you let me worry ‘bout Roberto. Yes, bye.”
She hung up. “Oh, Jesus, plees let Juan get dees jobe.”
He heard the sound of car keys jingling and hurried footsteps heading down the hall to the front door. The door opened abruptly and closed. Then silence. He lowered his gun and came out of the closet. He tossed the pillow on the bed, walked out into the dining area, then replaced his gun in its holster. He wasn’t relieved nor disappointed. He didn’t want to kill the woman, nor care if he did. He calculated he had twenty more minutes of work before she returned and that would be plenty of time to do his job and be gone.
He glanced at the uncovered windows and decided to close the blinds again while he worked. He had all the telephones hooked up inside of ten minutes, then gave the apartment a good once over to make sure there were no more hiding anywhere. He placed a few more devices in strategic spots throughout the living area, then walked through the hall to the front door and opened it slowly. Good. No one in the corridors outside.
The blinds.
The cleaning lady would remember if she came back to them closed. He quickly reopened them, then slid along the walls of the apartment to the front door. Once outside, he picked up his earlier jogging pace, making sure to huff and puff in exaggerated tones. In short order he was back over the stone wall, through the woods, and standing next to his rental car.
As he drove off, Avery looked in his rear view mirror and s
miled. Finally, this assignment had yielded a few moments of excitement.
There had better be more.
Then an idea. Maybe before the afternoon ended he should check on that dinner guest Thornton had over last night. Turner, Jack Turner. Avery had found out where he was staying.
Though he doubted anything would come of it.
13
Jack walked gingerly along the banks of the Chambers River, careful to avoid slipping on the smooth stones. The temperature had continued to drop as a cold front moved in. He jammed his gloves in the pockets of his jacket and glanced back at the bridge less than a block away. A man in a jogging suit stood at the midpoint, leaning over the rail staring in Jack’s direction.
Jack continued walking; he wanted to be alone. Up ahead, the river made a turn.
Years ago, he loved coming to this spot to think and clear his head. Between the scenery, the solitude, the gently flowing stream, about a half-mile was all it ever took. Today it might take a mile, maybe two. He thought on the drive over, he’d be coming here to sort out his emotions about Gwen. An event that big seemed to warrant at least a few moments reflection. Oddly enough, it felt like he was already over her, mostly.
Still her betrayal stung. How could she treat him with such indifference? Two months she was seeing this other guy. Taking Jack’s gifts. Letting him pay her way on dates. When she finally fessed up, she acted like there was something wrong with him, just because he was starting to get serious. What was so wrong about getting serious anyway? Didn’t girls mock guys now for running away from commitment? Jack wanted a committed relationship. Weren’t there any women left out there who believed in such things?
Maybe Rachel did. She was a general’s daughter. She was probably raised conservative. But she was older now, out on her own. Maybe she had chucked all that.
A gust of wind and a loud crack interrupted his thoughts. He looked up in time to watch a limb from a nearby oak fall into the creek, so close Jack had to jump back to avoid the splash. The sky toward the west was growing darker from a building storm. The brunt of it was still miles away. But as he looked toward the other end of the cloud mass, he noticed a dark formation rising high like columns of smoke. It reminded him of the USS Arizona receiving her mortal blow at Pearl. Suddenly, he could see it all again. The explosions, Sal, the mess hall, the B-17’s…all there in full color. The headache had finally left, but the emotions generated by The Dream were alive and well.
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