by R. D. Power
“You’re telling yourself you’ve made a ghastly mistake. It’s so obvious you love each oth—”
“I have patients to see!” she yawped as she hurried off.
Losing his daughter and Kristen was all Robert could take. He decided to call General Turnbull to get him to disabuse the media about the mountebank. He’d retired two years earlier, so Robert had to track him down. It took a few days, but Robert found his whereabouts and called.
“Good to hear from you, son,” said the general. “What’s up?”
“Have you not heard that some clown named Patrick Rocha is claiming to be the soldier who helped Hendrix get the news about the smallpox out?”
“What?”
“It’s big news up here. The media are making a big deal out of him.”
“But hasn’t anyone denied the story?”
“No. In fact, Canadian politicians are falling over themselves to try to hog some of the limelight. He’s Canadian and was in the U.S. Army then, and says he was in Baghdad that night. Everyone believes him, including the only people I care about. My ex-wife actually took my daughter from me because of it. The woman I love thinks I’m the phony and is marrying someone else. My son … I don’t know. No one trusts me anymore. This thing is ruining my life! Please help me, General.”
“I’ll take care of it. Very few people knew of your involvement, so it may take some time.”
“Thank you, sir. Um, if at all possible, I still don’t want my name released. You should’ve seen how those idiots in the media swarmed over him. That’s exactly what I wanted to avoid. Oh, and, sir, could I possibly get a replacement medal? My son lost the one you gave me.” The general said he would see to that. “One more thing, sir,” said Robert. “Can I possibly have a copy of the recording of Hendrix’s phone call?” The good general said okay, but it would take some time to get it to Robert.
Chapter Eleven
The Glorious Rocha Comes to Town
Mark Loftus, local hero and candidate for Parliament, thought it would be grand to associate himself with Patrick Rocha, the newest national hero. Seeing the two heroes side by side, the voters could only conclude they were from the same mold and recognize what a splendid Member of Parliament he would make. Patrick was just starting a lucrative speaking tour. Mark and Kristen worked together quickly to set up a candidate’s fundraiser with Rocha as the guest speaker. The timing was impeccable: the federal election was widely expected in April or May. Bookings were going quickly, and Mark wanted to strike while the iron was hot. They chose Rocha’s first opening, the next Thursday, giving them just six days to make all the arrangements.
The idea worked magnificently. Nearly 750 people attended at a hundred dollars a head, leaving almost forty thousand dollars for Mark’s campaign after paying Patrick’s twenty-five thousand-dollar fee and the expenses for the fundraiser. Not only that, the local media showed up as well. What a coup! Television cameras recorded the two, hands clasped with arms above their heads and broad smiles: the new generation of Canadian heroes. No terrorist would ever strike Canada with those two at the helm.
When Patrick arrived, Kristen, anxious to make his acquaintance, introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Kristen Taylor, and I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“And I’m always real happy to meet a babe, too,” said Patrick.
“I’m Mark’s fiancée,” Kristen hastened to point out. His smile disappeared. She resumed: “I’ve heard all about what you did, and, of course, I’m impressed. I wanted to ask you if you met someone I know while you were in Iraq. Bob Owens?”
“No, that don’t ring no bells.”
“That’s odd because he was in Delta Force and was in Baghdad that night.”
“Uh, well, I was just regular Army and didn’t know none of them supposed hotshots.”
“When you were with Hendrix, was there any other American soldier around?”
“I didn’t see no one else. Anyways, I have to get ready for my speech, so—”
“I understand. I’m looking forward to your speech. Thank you for coming tonight.” Patrick went on his way, and Kristen furrowed her brow.
Mark made the first speech, stating with passion and certitude his platform. Besides healthcare—and you can never spend enough on that in Canada—he plied voters with a law and order theme. Normally, that would be a low priority for an election campaign in Canada, but London had recently suffered some well-publicized motorcycle gang violence. Rival gangs had been killing each other, doubling London’s murder count this year. Some innocent bystanders had been killed or injured as well. Just the week before, a jury member for a murder trial of one gang leader had been strangled, causing a mistrial.
Mark declared his frustration with laws that seemed to protect the gangs and tied his hands as police chief to bring them to justice. “Elect me, and I’ll push for legislation to stop these animals. If it were up to me, I’d lock them all up forever. That fiasco last week when the bikers murdered the young lady on the jury must never be repeated. I swear to you, I’ll get them. The murderers will not get away with it! The integrity of our justice system is at stake.”
As Robert Owens, who was one of those who came to see Patrick, listened, he became distinctly uncomfortable with this bluster from the police chief. The gangs had shown no hesitation to strike hard when they perceived a threat, and Loftus was definitely a threat. Robert worried that Kristen might be caught in the next crossfire.
Patrick took the podium to raucous cheers. His speech was uninspiring except for his rousing account of the scene with the tank. He described how, dressed in the enemy’s uniform, he knelt between Hendrix and the tank to give him time to get the critical message out. He told of the tank and soldiers from the south approaching, and how imminent their death was. The audience was spellbound. He finished the tale with his running to cover, firing at the approaching soldiers, and assuming Hendrix was following. Much to his shock, Hendrix stayed behind.
“The poor guy was blown up by the tank,” news that everyone knew yet, in context, it saddened the crowd. “We can all thank God he got the message out, though,” he finished to cheers.
Reporters were given the first opportunity to ask questions. They posed questions he’d answered a hundred times before. He answered them again to applause. TV crews then packed up to give them time to prepare the story for the eleven PM broadcasts.
Then the audience was given a chance to ask questions. A microphone was provided to those interested. A lady was given the first opportunity, and she declaimed, “I simply wanted to say thank you.” Patrick smiled, and the crowd cheered. “You may have saved everyone in this room.” Robert screwed his eyes skyward and grabbed the mic from her. “Ignorant asshole,” she labeled him.
He asked Patrick, “Were you scared at all?” Kristen looked and scowled upon seeing Robert and realizing what he would try to do.
Patrick had answered this many times and had his stock answer: “When a dude’s in the middle of something that intense, your adrenaline gets a-going, and you forget your fear. I really didn’t feel no fear.”
That riled Robert, who’d been terrified in that circumstance, but he calmly stated, “Hm, I would’ve thought anyone in that peril would be petrified, that the real courage consists of overcoming the fear because your friend and your country are depending on you.”
Some muttering began around him.
Kristen, who’d worked feverishly to make the night a success, was angry over his spiteful conduct. She went to him and begged him to stop. “I know why you’re doing this. Please stop it. This evening is crucial for Mark’s future.”
He ignored her and directed another question at Patrick. “Why didn’t you get a medal if you did what you say you did?” That spawned hissing and shouting from the audience. He has the nerve to question our national hero?
A few people shouted, “Shut up!”
Patrick also had a ready answer for that one. “It’s true I didn’t get no medal, probably ‘ca
use I wasn’t offed, but a couple a politicians just admitted this was a big time screw-up, and told me I’ll get a Canadian medal, maybe even the, uh, something Cross, you know?”
“The Victoria Cross, and he deserves it!” Mark declared. The audience cheered. “I’ll work to see he gets it when I’m elected.” More applause.
Now Robert was furious. “Good men gave their lives that night in earning their country’s highest medal, Rocha. How dare you dishonor them by presuming to deserve the same honor. You’re a goddamn liar! You weren’t with Hendrix that day!”
Patrick’s face went white, and a chorus of boos erupted.
Kristen grabbed Robert’s arm and implored, “Stop it. You’re ruining everything!”
He yanked away his arm and continued, “Where were you, Rocha? Hiding in one of the buildings there?” The crowd persisted in jeering him. Patrick stood there in stunned silence. Robert challenged, “Why didn’t you help? You could’ve helped save him. He died because of you!” Robert knew this was unreasonable, but it felt good to make the imposter squirm. People cursed at him and shoved him.
With Patrick unable to defend himself, Mark apologized for the “ignorant fool,” and ordered his officers to eject Robert.
“We have a right to free speech in this country, Mr. Loftus. You have no right to kick me out just because you don’t like what I have to say,” he screamed at Mark. “Are we supposed to elect someone who is so cavalier with our constitutional rights? Are we supposed to vote for a dupe who advocates for the country’s highest honor on behalf of a cowardly charlatan?”
“Robert! Shut up!” a fuming Kristen bellowed. Mark, who never liked Robert in the first place and was infuriated with him at that moment, repeated his order. An officer came up to him, took away the microphone, and escorted him out. Robert waited in the parking lot for Mark.
Mark and Kristen emerged twenty minutes later. She saw Robert and went on the offensive. “Your behavior this evening: You ruined everything! You undermined the man I love. You caused a ruckus. You insulted our guest of honor. Are you satisfied?” He said nothing.
Then Mark said, “You destroyed a perfect evening that could have locked up the next election for me. You did this because you’re jealous that I got Kristen, right? But you had no right to do that to me. I’ve been completely civil to you.” Robert merely glowered at him. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” Mark demanded.
“It’s going to come out, you know. Think of how you’ll look when the media play back the tape showing you kiss the ass of that national disgrace. I swear to you, you’ll regret endorsing the crusade for getting him the Victoria Cross.”
“Robert Owens!” Kristen shot back, “I’m ashamed of your conduct tonight. You’re a great disappointment to me.” That upset him and it showed. Considering his behavior vindictive and calculated to hurt both her and her fiancé, she’d wanted to convey her anger, but his reaction troubled her.
He left.
•
“Gertrude,” remarked Mr. Carlton, “some asshole from London embarrassed us all last night by shitting all over that hero from I-raq that saved us all from the chicken pox. I hope he gets chicken pox and dies.”
Chapter Twelve
They Have It Out
The next weekend, as Kristen and Mark walked together on campus, she spotted Robert in the distance talking to a man; the same teenage girl she’d seen in his office was with them. Kristen halted when she saw them. “What’s the matter?” said Mark as he looked up the path and saw Robert. “Is that his teenybopper girlfriend?” he asked. She nodded slowly. “Christ,” Mark continued, “she can’t be any older than fifteen or sixteen.”
“She must be at least seventeen if she’s a student here.”
“I doubt that. Anyway, he has no business dating a student.” The girl left the two men and strolled toward Kristen and Mark. When she approached, Mark said, “Excuse me, I’m Mark Loftus, Liberal candidate for Parliament. May I ask you if you are of voting age?”
“No,” she said with a giggle. “I’m only fifteen.”
“Oh,” said Mark, with an A-ha! glance at Kristen. “Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.” The girl went on her way. Mark said to Kristen, “That son of a bitch. If he’s you-know-whating her, that’s statutory rape. I’ve got the son of a bitch now!”
“No!” Kristen screeched before she controlled herself.
“What?” rejoined her surprised fiancé. “Why would you not want that? I thought you hated him.”
“I simply meant that we’re jumping the gun. We have no idea what relationship they have, if any.”
“It was you who said he loved her. Anyway, I’m going to find out.” He called over the radio for two officers to come to his location. They arrived within three minutes. “You see that man up there with the baseball cap. Take him to the station for questioning concerning a possible sexual relationship with a minor.”
“Mark, is this really necessary?” Kristen asked.
“Kristen, don’t question me in front of my officers,” he scolded. “What is it with you and him, anyway? I can’t figure this out at all.” He reiterated his command, and the officers obeyed.
Kristen observed as the officers went up to him and talked to him. Robert reacted with shock—Kristen heard him yell, “You’re full of shit!”—but he accompanied them. As he walked toward Kristen and Mark, Robert noticed the couple and frowned. He gave Kristen a look of indignation that cut right through her. And that was nothing compared to the look he gave Mark.
Seeing the intent in Robert’s furious eyes, Kristen pleaded, “Bobby, please don’t resist!”
He submitted, and the officers took him away.
Mark said to Kristen, “Let’s follow them downtown, and have this out. You can make a statement of what you saw between the two. With any luck, he’ll never bother us again.”
Mark was now treading on parlous ground with her, though he didn’t sense it. She was a boiling cauldron of emotions inside. Mark could only pressure so far before her love for Robert would blow off the lid and knock him aside.
“I can’t,” she said. “I have to get back to work.”
“I thought you said you could take the rest of the day off.”
“I just need to check on a patient I’m worried about.”
“Are you afraid of him? That’s it, isn’t it? He beat you or something, right? If he did, just tell me, and I promise you I’ll deal with him personally.” She glared at him. “I’ll protect you from him, don’t worry. Come with me, Kristen. If he’s taking advantage of a child, he has to be stopped for her sake.”
She accompanied him to the police station. On the way, Mark asked her how he knew they were lovers.
“I know no such thing,” she said. “All I saw was her looking at him as if she was in love; that’s it. That’s why I said you’re jumping the gun.” She omitted what she’d heard Robert say in his office: “I love you so much,” and later, “I’ll pick you up Friday at seven.”
When they got to the station, she insisted on speaking to Robert alone. Mark reluctantly agreed.
Upon entering the interrogation room that held him, Kristen saw he was sitting at a table with his head resting on his arms, face down. He tilted his head up to see who came in. She expected him to scream at her, but he seemed more hurt than angry.
On the verge of tears, he said, “You helped him set me up with a bogus charge of statutory rape, didn’t you?”
“How can you possibly think I’d do that to you?”
“That you’d have a hand in sending me to jail for something I didn’t do?” He smirked.
She sat next to him and said, “I’ve spent twelve years regretting that; I’d rather die than do it again. I have no intention of testifying against you or telling them anything, but I need to know, are you really in love with her?”
“With who?”
“That young girl I saw you with.”
“First of all, I don’t know what the h
ell you’re talking about. Second, it was you who pointed the finger at me. Do you hate me that much?”
“No, you don’t understand. I didn’t want any of this. It was just the offhand remark I made when I was angry with you at the pub.”
“About the teenybopper I supposedly love? What the hell, Taylor?”
“Standing outside your office a while back, I heard you say that to a girl who was far too young for you.”
“My daughter?”
“No. A cute fifteen-year-old girl, the one who—”
“You saw me tell a fifteen-year-old girl that I love her? You must’ve been dreaming.”
“I wasn’t dreaming. It was more like a nightmare. I was standing outside your office. I couldn’t see you, but I heard you say ‘I love you so much.’ I saw this cute girl with short, light brown hair standing at your desk, smiling, the one who was talking to you today. You said you’d pick her up Friday at seven. Then at the pub you said you tried to fake her ID.”
“Melissa? Oh, for Christ’s sake, Taylor! Are you bonkers? She’s my babysitter. I was going out that Friday evening and was making arrangements for babysitting. Melissa’s the dean’s daughter; she always babysits—babysat—for me. My daughter was sitting on my lap. I was telling Kara I love her. And at the pub, I thought you were talking about Kara when you asked about my girl. I was joking.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m here under suspicion of statutory rape, and you’re sorry. That’s just swell, Taylor. What did you tell that bastard you’re marrying?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing. He just jumped to the conclusion when he saw you with her.”
“The same conclusion you jumped to?”
She lowered her head. “I never meant for this to happen. You know me.”
“No, I don’t, not anymore. What happened to the Krissy I loved?”
“She’s … I’m petrified of you, petrified that you’ll break my heart again. I can never go through that again. That’s why I’m so guarded with you.”
