Kyle's Return

by L. P. Dover

  I pick at the threadbare couch that I chose to sit on. It looked more comfortable than the chair in front of her. It’s royal blue, or at least it used to be. I think at one time it was probably soft, plush and very comfortable, and people didn’t have a problem lying back, closing their eyes and letting all their worries flow from their mouths. You would think that with the many people that come through the door, a new couch could be purchased. I may be wrong in my assumption. I likely am. This couch holds secrets that no one ever wants out, and it’s about to know mine too. Maybe that’s why she keeps it this way.

  “Why am I here today?” the words are a whisper on my lips. I can barely hear them myself and know she can’t hear me. Clearing my throat, I keep my eyes downcast and away from her face. The last thing I want is for her to see the pain in my eyes. That’s for me and me alone when I stare in the mirror, asking myself how and why.

  “I’m here so you can fix… this.” The words are bitter and angry. I spread my arms out wide, and my knuckles scrape the side of the worn out armrest. I pull my right hand to me, examining my fingers for any signs of damage. A sliver maybe, something to cause pain, anything to make me feel. I have nothing.

  I lean forward, determined not to cry. I don’t know why I’m here. I healed. I moved on. We moved on. Life was good, not better, but manageable. We were happy. We laughed and loved and we missed him terribly, but we woke up each day determined to make a new happy memory. But then life—no, I take that back—the military made that all change.

  If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d say this was all planned, but honestly, what do they care about my life? Nothing, that’s for damn sure. They don’t care that they’ve ruined the last six years of my life because of some clerical error. “Sorry,” is all they could be bothered to say.

  They’re sorry.

  I realize now that I’ve spoken, the floodgates are open, and I can’t get my words out fast enough. She, the one who sits behind a desk taking notes, doesn’t have a clue as to what I’ve been through, but I’m about to tell her.

  “I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not sure a session or a million sessions can fix my life right now. People have told me that time heals all wounds, but they’re full of shit. I think when that saying was coined, they meant a scratch or a bump, not a hole in the middle of your chest that you’d have to put back together piece by piece. A hole so big that when you breathe in, it burns and makes you ache all over. One that makes you beg for someone to show you mercy, even if no one will because they all feel the same way as you. And was I ever really healed, or did I wake-up one morning and decide that I needed to move on?”

  “It does take time to heal, Ryley, and everyone has to do it at their own pace.”

  I laugh out loud and adjust the way I’m sitting. I wish I hadn’t worn a dress today, but Lois insisted, and I’m at a point in my life where I just do as she says, so I put on a yellow sundress and pulled my hair into a blue ribbon. That’s as good as it gets for me right now. But sitting here, I want to be in sweats. I want my white socks covering my bare toes, and I want to be buried under an oversized sweatshirt. I want to hide.

  “Time is my enemy. Time is the one thing I don’t have and can’t afford to lose. Time…” I shake my head and look toward the window. I bite my lip and close my eyes. My mind is blank. I refuse to see their images. I don’t want to look, or remember. “I need to find a way to stop time or reverse it.” I nod. “Reversing time would be ideal. If I could do that, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. My life… it’d be on the path that I created, that I worked hard for, but it’s not. I’m standing in the center of the Interstate with traffic coming at me from both directions waiting… desperately waiting for someone or something to change everything that has happened in the last six years. So no, time doesn’t heal anything. It just prolongs the hurt and pain.

  “It sounds like you’ve had a lot to deal with, maybe more than others. Do you find solace in your friends?”

  I shake my head. “I have two very close friends. One is from high school, she and her husband moved down here once the twins where stationed here. The other is a military wife. Any other friends I had bailed. I’m sure they didn’t bail because of me, but because of the military. You move on, ya know? They don’t want to associate…” I stop and think about that word. “Associate isn’t the correct word; it’s fear. They see what I went through and fear rips through their bodies, and they do what their bodies tell them: fight or flight. They all chose flight because they’re all afraid they’ll go through the same thing one day.”

  “What else do you experience from your friends and family?”

  Easy question. “Pity. I got so sick and tired of the hugs and the pats on the shoulder. The looks—those were never-ending. I didn’t need to see the pity in their eyes as they went from looking at me to looking at my belly. Everyone is sorry, but what exactly are they sorry for? Are they sorry that they voted for the people who sent our military to war? Are they sorry that their children aren’t out defending our country? What are they sorry for?” My voice rises with my last question. I want to know. What goes through someone’s mind when they tell you they’re sorry that your loved one has died?

  “I always want to ask why. Why are you sorry? Did you do something that I’m not aware of? Did you pull the trigger or supply the enemy with equipment to do harm? No, I didn’t think so. Thing is, all the pity looks are back and each one brings me to my knees because guess what? They’re all sorry again, and this time it’s not going to matter what decision I make. Someone will be hurt. For that, they can be sorry.”

  “Ryley, I’m going to ask you again why are you here today?”

  For the first time since I walked in the door, I look at the therapist. Her hair is cut short, framing her face. It’s brown, but muted. There’s no vibrancy to her color. It’s dull and outdated, much like her couch. Her white, long-sleeved shirt is buttoned high, as if it wants to choke the life out of her. Her cat-like glasses perch on the edge of her nose, and she reclines in her chair with her pad of paper resting on her lap, her pen poised to write down my words at a moment’s notice.

  “I’m here because six years ago I lost the love of my life, but now he’s back from the dead, and in a few weeks I’m set to marry my best friend. His brother.”

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  Please enjoy a sneak peek at Resist Me –

  a standalone book one in the McCoy Raven Brothers series

  by author A.O. Peart.

  Ethan

  The shrill of the fire alarm and flashing lights jolted me up from my bed at Firehouse 8. Swearing, Jack got up too, followed by the other members of our team. We were pulling night rotation shift. The proximity of our firehouse to downtown Portland practically guaranteed us to be dispatched to a fire at least once a week. But tonight was different, and I felt it in my gut. This wasn’t someone’s fireplace choking a little with smoke. This was a big job.

  A call came in over the PA system, informing us about an incident on Daltona Street in the commercial district. There was an explosion in one of the old warehouses. Jack and I were trained in chemical hazard and explosives, so it came as no surprise that my team was ordered to arrive immediately. And that was all we knew for now. The dispatcher had no other details available.

  We raced to the lockers, pulled our turnout gear on, and soon the firetruck, the tanker, and the paramedics’ rig drove through the slowly waking streets of Portland. The firetruck’s lights and blaring siren warranted us free pass through the sparse 4 a.m. traffic. Cars and busses pulled to the sides of the road, letting us through.

  Jack blasted the horn and swore angrily, stomping on the brake pedal. A heavily bundled homeless woman started to cross the street, an old shopping cart in front of her. The cart was filled to the brim with all kinds of junk—probably containing all her possessions. Jack swerved the truck to the side, swiftly turning the steering wheel.

  The woman stopped in t
he middle of the street as if surprised at the approaching firetruck with its lights flashing and horn screeching. She watched us, motionless, waiting for the vehicle to pass.

  “Come on, lady! Move back!” Jack roared, although she wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway.

  “Relax, bro. She’s probably deaf. Or doesn’t get it,” I said. I was normally a laid-back type, while Jack’s temper flared at the slightest reason.

  In addition to being one of many cousins, he was also my best buddy. The guy had a heart of gold, despite his apparent anger problem. We both had served in the Marines, and then he had followed my path to become a firefighter.

  Jack spat through his window. He shot me a glance and grinned. I snorted, shaking my head. The dispatcher updates chirped through the radio.

  “What the hell is that about? An explosion?” Jack hollered over the siren.

  “Must’ve been a gas leak.”

  “Or some asshole dragged his barbecue inside again. Like last month, remember? Shit for brains.”

  “Hard to forget,” I said.

  I watched the sidewalk to my right. A small group of homeless people sat together, leaning against the building and smoking cigarettes. Two blocks farther, another two slept on the ground, wrapped in old, tattered sleeping bags.

  “The cops are on their way too.” I nodded to my side mirror.

  Jack glanced in his own mirror. “There is also a black unmarked car in the other lane, driving head-to-head with the cop. Someone’s asking for trouble. Wait, they just put a beacon on the roof. What the hell?”

  By the time Jack finished his sentence, three black sedans with tinted windows accelerated past us, their beacons flashing red-and-blue.

  “Cops?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. Looks more like one of the agencies.”

  Jack looked at me. “Wonder which one. This job ain’t a barbecue accident.”

  I frowned. “No, doesn’t look like it is.” I lifted the microphone and pressed the button to speak to the dispatch. “Give me more info on that explosion.”

  She came on the line, “Not much left from the structure. All leveled down. Looks like a crapload of explosives were used.”

  “Motherfucker.” Jack hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Which gang was it this time?”

  “We might find out soon.”

  Jack shot me a glance.

  “What?” I asked.

  He smirked.

  “Oh, that tells me a lot, bro.” I laughed. I knew that look—he was about to give me shit about something.

  “Where the fuck did you disappear last Friday? You were supposed to meet me and Julio at Black Pelican.”

  Black Pelican was one of our hangouts that I lately decided to avoid. A certain feisty redhead bartender chick and I had too much of a past. I wasn’t interested in making it a future. But she was.

  “I told you I might go if you two morons chose to get shitfaced somewhere else and not at the Black Pelican.”

  A small, red sedan swerved onto our lane. Jack turned the siren on for a moment, and the car scooted away over two lanes to the left.

  “Rita wasn’t there last Friday. You should’ve seen the new girl.” He suggestively wiggled his eyebrows. “Tits like melons, man. And those eyes. I fucking get a hard on just thinking of her.”

  “Tell her that, not me, asshole.”

  He burst into laughter and punched me on the arm. Hard. The guy didn’t know his own strength. I tipped my chin toward the scene ahead of us.

  Plums of thick, dark-gray smoke puffed above the spot where a small warehouse used to stand on the corner of Daltona and Warren Streets. Red-and-yellow fire licked the scattered chunks of concrete and fragments of broken timber strewn all over the area. The buildings around were badly damaged as well.

  Jack pulled Rescue 8 to the curb. I opened the door and jumped out, my boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. I quickly scanned the area, trying to locate the Incident Command. I spotted Chief Holton talking with two dark suits. FBI?

  The Chief was pointing to the screen of a small laptop in his hand. Both dark suits nodded and exchanged a silent glance.

  “Ethan!” Chief Holton saw me approach but made no introductions.

  “Chief.” I nodded.

  The dark suits wordlessly walked away.

  “Feds?” I asked.

  “Yep.” His bushy eyebrows pulled together, deepening the permanent crease between them.

  Chief’s eyes were puffy and red, the skin on his jowls sagging more than normal. He was pushing sixty, and his health was failing. Diane, one of my good friends, worked in the clinic where Chief Holton had his annual physical done for the past ten years. She didn’t think he should be working in such a physically demanding job.

  He turned the laptop screen toward me and indicated the blueprints of the building. “Look right here.”

  I leaned closer, but there wasn’t anything out of ordinary at the spot he alluded to. “What am I looking at?”

  “A panic room,” he said under his breath.

  “In a warehouse?” I sounded incredulous even to my own ears.

  The Chief glanced around. Rescue 12 and 18 were laying hoses. Jack and the rest of my crew were getting our firetruck ladder extended and positioned by the adjacent building. One of the Rescue 18 Battalions was taking care of setting their ladder to the next-door building.

  When the Chief looked back at me, our eyes met. His stare was hard when he quietly said, “This isn’t… wasn’t a regular warehouse.”

  “I figured that much already.” I nodded toward the feds.

  He followed my stare. “Yeah. I don’t know a whole lot about what’s going on here. They aren’t exactly the chatty type. But they want us to get to that panic room right away.”

  “There can’t be any easy access after the whole structure has been blown to pieces. We need the drilling equipment and the excavation unit to get here,” I said.

  “Yeah. They’re here.” He pointed behind me. The special units had just arrived. “That room isn’t on the blueprint filed with the city.” He gestured to the computer screen. “But the feds claim it’s there and insist that we find it quickly.”

  “There is someone in there.” This wasn’t a question. I didn’t have to ask. Four years of deployment in Afghanistan with the Marines equipped me with the ability to put two and two together fairly quickly. “Someone important enough that the feds are swarming all over.”

  “They’re hidden well, whoever they are.”

  Two police cars, with their beacons flashing, pulled into the site. The KOTS News Station van arrived right behind them. The doors slid open, and Anne Fischer, the morning news reporter, stepped out, pulling down on her tight mini-skirt. She had the best legs ever, but that wasn’t all I liked about her body. Anne was one of those lean but deliciously curvy women that looked amazing in and out of clothes.

  I exhaled and felt my brows bunch together. Anne and I had a thing in the past. Nothing serious, just pure, adult fun. Hell, I haven’t had anything serious with any woman since tenth grade, which was purely by my own choice. Relationships were not for me, despite my mom desperately trying to hook me up with her girlfriends’ daughters.

  Now Anne was here—at my workplace, so to speak. I never mixed work with pleasure, so seeing her at the incident site didn’t sit well with me. She was at her work too though, so I couldn’t hold that against her. I just didn’t want her to notice me.

  I walked fast to my team to coordinate the operation. They knew what to do without me babysitting them, but I was their captain and my place was with them now. Besides, I wanted to avoid Anne. Damn, I wanted to avoid too many chicks lately.

  “Rescue 12 and 18 are about to start.” Jack pointed to the groups of firefighters from the other two houses. They were almost finished with laying their hoses.

  The ladders were up, extended all the way to the upper floors of the two neighboring buildings. We were to extinguish any in
terior fires, right after Rescue 12 and 18 took care of the exterior flames.

  “Our hoses are ready?” I asked.

  “Yeah, all is ready, Cap,” Jack said.

  “Okay, we move in as soon as the interior fires are snuffed.

  By the time the flames on the outside were doused, the drilling and excavation teams operation was already in full swing. Chief Holton came up behind me right before I went with my guys into the building on the left while Rescue 18 went into the right structure.

  “Ethan, Jack, come here, you two.”

  I looked back at him in surprise. “Sir?”

  Jack stood beside me. He was a big guy, even taller and bulkier than me. At six-foot-two I towered over most of my buddies and coworkers. In our heavy fireproof coats, pants, and bunker boots, we looked like giants next to the short and plump chief.

  Chief Holton glanced back and to the sides, as if making sure nobody can overhear us. “Jack, take the battalion lead. The Captain stays here. I have a special mission for him.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack nodded and rushed into the building, no questions asked.

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