by Peter Telep
“Imagine I’m this Russian spy.”
“No, you’re just crazy.”
“So I’m this spy, and I get arrested, and now everyone knows that Johnny Johansen was no Marine. He was a traitor. How would you feel?”
Elina eyed him as though he were a teenaged boy. “What do you want me to say, Johnny? I’d feel terrible. I’d be embarrassed, I guess. Then I’d go on the talk shows and make money so I could pay all your legal bills.”
“Imagine that. Would you forgive me?”
“I would have to forgive you.”
“Why?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because I love you.”
Johnny took enormous comfort in that, more than she would ever know. “You’re a good woman, Elina Johansen.”
She leaned in for a kiss.
Chapter Eleven
“Not all prisoners are behind bars. The war on terror made some Marines prisoners of their wounds or prisoners of what they saw. For them, there ain't no easy day.”
—Johnny Johansen (FBI interview, 23 December)
Johnny’s friend Matt Bowlin had an acoustic guitar balanced on one knee as he strummed and sang one of his original songs: “Jim Beam In My Canteen Cup.” Matt’s lively baritone filled the entire chapel, and everything about him, from his thick black hair to his handlebar moustache to his snakeskin boots, said cowpoke. He had already released an album that was selling well on iTunes, and he was a co-star on the PBS reality show Utopia Joe about an Oklahoma artist and his wife who created amazing projects.
Before his rise to music and television stardom, Matt had been a battalion ammo chief and Color Guard Sergeant who had put together shooting packages for Johnny and Willie when they took their platoons out for training. He was a real class act who had earned the battalion many awards and honors. Johnny had not seen him for years, and then one day out of the blue he ambled into Buddy’s Crab House and Oyster Bar near the pier on Topsail Beach. Matt was barefoot and wearing board shorts, a rash guard, and a bandanna. He apologized for looking like a hippie and getting fat, and he reminded Johnny that he used to get his bang-boom-pow for his teams. He invited Johnny and Elina to watch him play at several local clubs, and Johnny could hardly believe that this once shy Marine was wearing a dusty white cowboy hat and aviator shades and that he could belt out tunes like Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and George Strait. They rekindled their friendship and remained close ever since.
After Mass, a group of over two hundred moved in an unwieldy caravan to the gravesite next door at Sea Lawn Memorial Park. It was another unusually cold day, the temperature hovering in the upper 30s, but the sky was so clear and blue that divine intervention must be at work, or at least Johnny thought so. He glanced up, tilting his cheek toward the sun. He took in a long breath through his nose, and it smelled as though it might snow. As the caskets were lowered into the ground, Matt sang, “How Great Thou Art,” his voice as thick as honey and booming above the wind.
* * *
Eight hundred miles north of Wilmington, at York Cemetery in Toronto, a much smaller casket than those used to bury Daniel and Reva was positioned above a rectangular hole. Instead of two hundred mourners, a mere twenty stood in a broken semi-circle around the gravesite. While dozens of employees, clients, and business partners had expressed their condolences and desire to attend the funeral, Edward Senecal and his wife had allowed only the immediate family.
Nicholas Dresden and his wife Victoria were there, of course, standing beneath their umbrellas in the freezing rain and listening intently to the priest:
“Lord God,
source and destiny of our lives,
in your loving providence
you gave us Emile
to grow in wisdom, age, and grace. Now you have called him to yourself. We grieve over the loss of one so young
and struggle to understand your purpose. Draw him to yourself
and give him full stature in Christ. May he stand with all the angels and saints,
who know your love and praise your saving will.
We ask this through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
Dresden could barely meet the gazes of Edward and Mimi, whose faces could not be more stricken. He had not seen his partner since that night at the hospital, and their only communication had been a few text messages regarding business or the funeral details.
Afterward, on their way back to the cars, Senecal waved him over. Dresden braced himself and crossed the wet lawn, tilting his umbrella into the wind.
Pale and with bloodshot eyes, Senecal seized Dresden’s hand and said, “Nick, what can I say? This is the worst day of my life.”
Dresden groped for a reply. “It was a beautiful service, and Victoria and I want to express our deepest condolences.”
“Thanks. We need to talk.”
“Here?”
“Absolutely. So what do we have, Nick? We have an administration running wild with executive orders. We have an election coming up that could tank our businesses. I can’t click on a news site without wanting to throw my phone across the room. Everything I see and hear tells me we’ve made the right decision.”
“Eddie, we shouldn’t talk about this here, and not today.”
“I just spoke with our friend in Washington. We’ll need good coordination with UXD, EXSA, and Smith to keep things rolling.”
Dresden’s heart sank. “It was just a crazy idea. That’s all it was.”
“Come on, Nick, don’t you remember our plan to change the world?”
“I remember. But this isn’t about business anymore.”
“What happened to my boy is symptomatic of the problem. And we have the will and the means to correct that problem.”
“You can’t use rhetoric to deny what this really is, and what’s at stake.”
“All we’re doing is opening the public’s eyes. They’ll cry for us and our friends to protect them, like we always have.”
“But how we get there is the problem.”
Senecal raised his brows. “We both know our history. The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots.”
“You’re going to invoke Jefferson to justify this?”
“Think about it, Nick. There’s no more bold statement than one written in blood.”
Dresden’s pulse quickened. “Eddie, you need to slow down. I want you to stay away from the office, and in a few days we’ll have a long conversation about all of this, weighing our options before we do anything. It’s not too late.”
“You have to admire one thing,” Senecal began, ignoring Dresden. “You have to admire my long term thinking. I could exact short term revenge, but I can see the big picture. I see a new America and a new Canada.”
“I see the inside of a jail cell.”
Senecal chuckled under his breath. “We’re all prisoners of our own mortality. And so we do this for future generations.”
“Eddie, I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching.”
“Really? I thought we’d already sold ours years go.”
“Eddie, listen to me. I can’t involve any of my companies in this.”
“Sure you can. No more hedging those bets. You want to believe in something? Believe in this: we’re the only ones audacious enough to pull this off.”
“Don’t do anything else without me.”
“The ball’s in play. We’re moving fast. I don’t want to hang a scandal over your head or threaten you into this. That’s ridiculous. You’ve thought about it as much as I have. You wanted it as much as I do. And besides, I have a surprise for you.”
“What’s that?”
Senecal smiled tightly. “You’ll see. Now come on. They’re waiting for us.”
Dresden fell in behind his partner, feeling the bile rise at the back of his throat. Yes, Eddie probably did have enough evidence to hang a trading scandal or two over his head, in which case he would wind up in jail anyway. And what was this surprise? Given his partner’s state
of mind, Dresden feared the answer. He imagined a car accident on the way to the brunch, with Senecal’s limousine t-boned by a tractor-trailer, killing everyone. He shuddered over the thought and climbed into his car.
* * *
Johnny walked from the gravesite to a pair of oaks, where he and Elina shook hands with and hugged their guests. Reuniting with so many old friends reminded Johnny that his life had not been wasted, that years spent putting people together and making shit happen really meant something to them. To him. It took more than thirty minutes for him to say good-bye to those not coming back to the house for brunch, including Mark Gatterton.
“I was hoping to stay, Johnny, but I’ll need to catch a flight out. My schedule for next week got messed up.”
“That’s okay. I appreciate you coming.”
“It was good to see you.”
“We’ve known each other for what, fifteen years, maybe more?”
“At least.”
“That’s a long time.”
Gatterton narrowed his gaze. “I’ll ask you one last time: what’s going on?”
Johnny shrugged. “You still play with those prepaids?”
“I do.”
“Here’s my Burner number. Get one and call me on it.”
Gatterton’s eyes widened. “Roger that.”
After a brief hug, Johnny watched the man shouldered his way through the crowd of dark suits and dress blue bravos.
* * *
Back at the house, Josh removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and helped Jada, Ivonne, and Lindsey set up for the brunch. They had brought in catering orders from several different restaurants, and Josh was lighting up the Sterno with a promise that he would not set fire to the house. When he glanced up, he caught Johnny staring at the tattoo on his forearm: I am my brother’s keeper. He smiled and asked, “You hungry, Johnny?”
“Starving.”
“Me, too.”
Johnny winked. “That was a good service.”
“Matt did an awesome job. He’s out on the pier right now, getting set up with the band. It’s warming up outside.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Josh lowered his voice. “You hear anything else from the police? I saw Schneider there, but I didn’t want to ask.”
“Nothing. They’re hoping the guy hits another house.”
“If he’s smart, he’ll lay low after this. I had a theory. Guy’s a junkie. That’s what made him so desperate. But we don’t have to talk about that now.”
Johnny agreed, and then he got roped off by Elina, who wanted him to roll the beer cooler onto the porch. Willie and Corey slipped up beside Josh, and Willie asked, “How is he?”
“He seems okay, but he’s got a weird look on his face.”
“What do you expect?” asked Corey.
“No, his mind... you can almost see the gears grinding. Something’s going on, but I don’t know what.”
“He’ll talk when he’s ready,” said Willie.
* * *
By 1400 most of the guests were departing, and by 1500, it was just the immediate family and the guys. Corey and Willie were transferring bulging trash bags to the bin in the garage, while Josh went down to the man cave to collect the dozens of empty beer cans he had arranged on the bar like bowling pins because of his OCD. Josh checked the office, then went out the door and inspected the driveway. Johnny’s truck was gone. He sent off a text, and Johnny replied: be right back.
Another hour went by, and Josh grew more concerned. Playing a hunch, he drove over to Daniel’s house, where he found Johnny’s car parked in the driveway. He tried the front door: open. He stepped in, crossed into the kitchen, then heard some scuffling from the garage. There, he found the attic staircase open. He mounted the stairs, reached the top, and found Johnny, sweaty and covered in fiberglass as he tore insulation from the roof.
“Yo, Johnny, what the hell are you doing?”
“The girls will own this house, and I guess the home inspector will check out this insulation when it comes time to sell.”
“What’re you talking about? Why are you pulling it away from the roof? Are you looking for something?”
“What would I find up here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hey, you realize Band-Aid never showed up at the funeral?”
“Why are you changing the subject?”
“Look, I don’t know what I’m doing.” Johnny lowered himself onto one of the crossbeams and wiped dust from his forehead.
“You think your brother hid something?”
“Who knows?”
“Why don’t you come home? You’re going through some shit. Better to work it out where there’s beer.”
“Roger that. Let me ask you something, man to man. You be honest with me. What did you think of my brother?”
Josh opened his mouth.
“Wait,” Johnny said. “I’ll let you off the hook. You guys thought he was a pussy. Definitely not a warrior.”
“I wouldn’t call him that,” Josh said. “When I first met him, I thought it was funny that you two were brothers, because you were opposites. It was like the brains and the brawn. I thought your brother was a smart man and a good father. He was very well spoken. I liked talking with him. He knew a lot about politics. He told good stories about you guys growing up. And he never made me feel dumb.”
Johnny cupped a hand over his eyes.
“Aw, dude, I didn’t mean to...”
“It’s okay. Let’s get down.”
They descended into the garage, where through watery eyes Johnny glanced around and said, “You ever see a garage with no tools? He didn’t fix shit. He always paid for someone to do it. I tried to teach him, but he wouldn’t listen. You’d be lucky to find a goddamned screwdriver around here.”
“Not everyone is mechanically inclined.”
“I don’t know. Some things are just man skills, and Dan didn’t have a knack for any of them. He was always with his nose in a book or banging on a computer.”
Josh ran a hand over Reva’s BMW, which they had moved into the garage. “What are you doing with the cars?”
“Don’t know. His lawyer should be calling me soon. I know he had a living will and a trust for the girls.”
Josh nodded. “I’m driving up to Washington tomorrow, but I wish I wasn’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I feel like I’m bailing on you.”
“You’re not. We need you up there.”
“Okay. So, you’re not lying to me about anything?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“It’s me. Josh. I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. You know how to deal with death. You’re not losing your mind. You’re pulling down that insulation because you know something. You think that whatever Daniel wanted to tell you is the reason why he was killed.”
“You trying to call my bluff, son, or what?”
“I just know what I see.”
“Look here, I tore up this house. I even looked under all the drawers, and I didn’t find anything, so there you go. My theory is shot. Imagine that.”
“But if you find something, you’ll let us know.”
Johnny’s grin was tentative at best. “Oh, yeah.”
“You found something already, didn’t you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s why you’re here. You got a lead.”
“I got nothing, dude.”
“The girls tell you something?”
“Forget it. Let’s go.”
Josh sighed. “Are you sure?”
“Look, if I had something, we’d be all over it like a fat kid on a cupcake, right?”
Josh allowed himself a smile. “Yes, we would.”
“All right, then.”
As they left the garage, Josh thought, You’re lying to me, Johnny. I wish I knew why.
* * *
Elina came out of the bathroom and slipped into bed with Johnny. H
e lay there, with an arm draped over his forehead, just staring at the ceiling.
“How are you, Johnny?”
“I’m here.”
“Somehow we made it through.”
“We did.”
“So you went back to the house...”
“Yeah, I was just looking around for anything that... I don’t know.”
She slipped in closer and wrapped her arms around him. “We’ll be okay.”
“I guess they had a good run, right? Just... God, they weren’t even fifty.”
“They were too young. Anyway, the girls will stay here until the end of the month. They’ll go back to school in January.”
“All right.”
“We have an appointment tomorrow with the grief counselor.”
“You know how it is. I’ll go for you.”
“You need to get it out.”
Johnny took a long breath, then closed his eyes. “We got that big flagpole out back. It’s the biggest one in the entire neighborhood. It’s like a beacon. I buy the best flags. People around here, they know who I am. Twenty-three years in the Marine Corps. That shit is real.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, who knows, by tomorrow I could go from he-ro to ze-ro.
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, who knows what I’m saying anymore.”
“Stop thinking so much. You’re scaring me. Tomorrow, we’ll stay home with the girls, and we’ll go see the counselor, and we’ll have a nice lunch. Maybe we’ll go over to Buddy’s. Or I’ll twist your arm so you take us to the Thai place.”
“It’s all good. I just have one errand to run in the morning.”
Chapter Twelve
“We own the night by limiting the number of variables. We plan, we rehearse, and we use familiar gear. You train as you fight. Even tactards like you know that. So when that shit went down in Detroit, I knew exactly what we were looking at.”
—Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)
Johnny drove up the gravel driveway of Sattler Marina and its neighboring dry stack facility in Hampstead. He parked and hopped out, clutching his olive drab ball cap lest it fly off his head. Black Mud Channel, which lay behind the main repair shop, churned hard in the gale, and the American and POW/MIA flags atop the tall poles out front were rattling to the high heavens. As he neared the front door, the whining, humming, and buzzing of multiple power tools rose like rock guitarists warming up before a show.
