by Jack Slater
“That’s all?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the deputy replied.
Had he hesitated a little with that second word, Trapp wondered. What did the deputy really think of him – the jackass who had allowed his boss’s daughter to end up in an intensive care bed, only kept alive by the tube pumping oxygen down her throat and into her lungs?
He decided he didn’t really want to know the answer to that. He opened the cruiser’s door and stepped out onto the shale driveway without another word.
The Graysons’ house was empty, though he had known it would be. Someone had left a bunch of flowers on the front porch, along with several square envelopes, the kind that might contain a get well soon card. Some were addressed to the Grayson Family, others to Shea herself. All were hand-delivered.
This was a community that pulled together. And Trapp felt like a charlatan as he gathered the items up before stepping through the front door, since he was the one who had arrived in this town and brought this evil into their lives with him. He had no right to touch these things, which he set down as quickly as he could.
He went upstairs and stripped out of the hospital-issued sweatpants and T-shirt. The clothing had been fished from a donation box and had patently seen years of service before they made it to him.
Trapp stood naked in the bathroom, inspecting his torso in the mirror above the sink. Most of the left side of his body was stained a dark orange, almost brown, and initially he mistook it for dried blood, though in reality the smell gave its true purpose away: disinfectant.
He picked up the T-shirt from the floor, soaked it with cold water, and began wiping the chemical stain from his skin. It came away with a little scrubbing, the color transferring over to the white cotton, and from there down the drain, a constant flow of cold water never allowing much of the coloring to build up in the basin.
Trapp rested his forehead against the mirror, the cool glass a welcome relief against his burning skin. He closed his eyes and tried to simply clear his mind of everything that had happened in the past 24 hours.
God, had it been that long? It felt like only a minute ago that he’d set out for his first real date with Shea, a moment which had felt imbued with such promise. How had everything going wrong so quickly?
The answer, of course, was simple. It was his fault. He hadn’t meant to bring down this hell on the Graysons’ lives, but it wouldn’t have happened without him. If the sheriff had never pulled him over, if the old man had simply issued him a ticket instead of seeing in him something that needed fixing, then all this could have been avoided.
But you didn’t know anyone wanted to hurt you…
The voice at the back of Trapp’s mind attempted to make itself heard, but the anger and the guilt and the confusion and the self-pity that was swirling around inside like waves whipped by a tropical typhoon drowned out that little voice of reason. The reality was simple: he might not have known that those thugs intended to pay him a visit, but when they did – he failed the test.
The image of Shea Grayson lying in her intensive care bed flashed across his vision, as it had the whole way home. The plastic pipe that descended into her throat, secured in place by medical tape so that the flow of oxygen went on uninterrupted. The IV lines that fed into the back of her left hand, the pulse oximeter attached to her right index finger, all of it made that beautiful girl look like Frankenstein’s monster. The machines were keeping her alive, but it all felt so wrong.
A single tear leaked from Trapp’s eye, and the hot liquid burned a path down his right cheek.
When he came to his senses, he didn’t know how long he had stood there, water running in the background, salt drying on his skin. A sense of unreality pervaded, as though this might all be a dream, like the one he’d woken up from in the hospital.
But there was no awakening from this.
He finished cleaning himself up, resisting the urge to peel back the damp bandage that swathed a section of his side and check on the wound underneath. A small red spot of blood sat at the center of the fabric, reassuring him that while the stitches were bleeding, it wasn’t serious.
Trapp went downstairs, taking the steps slowly, since there wasn’t much to rush for. The house’s emptiness cast its own spell on him, reminding him of the life that wasn’t there, the smells that didn’t waft, the laughter that didn’t chime.
Still, there were some routines that followed their own inexorable path, and one of those was his own appetite, which reared its head, growling a reminder that he hadn’t eaten anything of substance since the sandwich with Shea.
Though he briefly toyed with denying himself the pleasure of food, he discarded that idea almost instantly as empty symbolism. He opened the refrigerator door and found a bowl of pesto pasta salad, sealed with an upturned plate. He grabbed a fork and ate it from the same container, swallowing without tasting in a rush to get calories inside his body.
Finally sated, he set the bowl back down on the worktop and noted that he’d left the refrigerator door open. He stepped over, pushed it shut, and was instantly pulled up short.
A Minnie Mouse fridge magnet, chipped from repeated falls over many years, was mounted upon a faded photograph that had previously escaped his notice before. In fact, even now his eyes almost skipped over it, but something about it attracted his view. The orange glow of the sunset in the background was still there, though diminished by time and light to more resemble a dark brown.
But the girl’s face was unmistakable. It was Shea, taken perhaps a decade and a half earlier, when she was only about five years old. She was sitting on her father’s knee as Ron Grayson crouched down, a broad, proud smile on his face. His mustache had still been brown back then, and the lines on his face not so deep, but it was still recognizably him – but in one of those moments the old man thought the others around him didn’t see, when he was looking at the grown-up Shea, and still seeing his little girl inside.
Sarah was there too, standing up, smiling at the camera. She was wearing a set of mouse ears, just like Mickey himself, and didn’t care a jot how they made her look.
They were so happy.
For Trapp, it was like looking through a window into a life that he had never known. His own parents had never taken him on a trip like this; even if they could have afforded it, it simply would not have crossed their minds. His father’s, at any rate.
That was it.
They were just so obviously happy, two parents in love, and a mother and father who cared for their little girl more than life itself. They had given her everything, and heck, it had worked, hadn’t? Shea Grayson was the kind of woman any parent would dream of raising. Kind, caring, hard-working and most of all, funny.
Until you came along.
Without consciously meaning to, Trapp reached out and removed the photo from the fridge magnet that held it in place. He slipped it into the front pocket of a thin plaid shirt that the sheriff had given him, and with that, his decision was made.
He had to leave this place. He’d done enough damage to these poor people, intentionally or not, to last them a lifetime. Hell, it wasn’t even certain whether Shea would pull through yet.
If someone was looking for him – whoever they were – he couldn’t risk bringing more harm to this family. Every second, every minute he lingered, he was putting them in more danger.
They would understand that, wouldn’t they?
Still, whether they would or wouldn’t, Trapp knew what had to be done. Sometimes you got orders you didn’t like, and you sucked it up and carried them out anyway. And sometimes you gave those orders to yourself.
This was one of those times. It had to be.
He spun on his heel, ready to propel himself out of the kitchen and climb up the flight of stairs that sat just outside it, when he saw the red light blinking on the telephone handset, indicating there was a new voicemail message.
Trapp held his breath, knowing that it wasn’t his place to listen, but hoping that the
message carried with it some news of Shea’s condition. Maybe it was even for him, Sarah wanting to keep him updated. It would be okay to listen to it, wouldn’t it?
He pressed the button.
The message started playing an instant later, first a quick intake of breath, then a short silence, and then a man’s voice. But not one that Trapp had expected.
“Jason, it’s Ryan, you there? Hey, I got that name you were asking about. A location too, but no address. The file clerk wouldn’t give me that, not without good reason, and it’s not like you gave me one.”
The gears in Trapp’s mind screeched as he tried to remember why his friend had called. And then everything fell into place.
Trapp refocused and listened to his friend’s voice. “His name’s Alex Woods. Lives in Compton, California. Like I said, I can’t get you any closer than that. Listen, buddy – you need to come down to Georgia. I know your last tour didn’t work out, but I know some people who would be real happy to meet you. No pressure, but if you’re looking for something to do, just let me know, okay?”
The voice died away, as though Price was waiting for him to pick up the handset and start talking. The silence lasted a few seconds before his friend finished, “I guess that’s all. Like I said, I’m always here for you, Jason. You know that, right?”
Click.
He had a pretty good idea what kind of job Price was offering him. Special forces, Delta, something like that. Ryan had put himself forward for selection a year earlier, and though he couldn’t say much, it was obvious that he’d taken to it like a duck to water.
But by that point, Trapp was burned out by war. Not as a concept, exactly, just the way this particular one was being fought. He had lost too many of his buddies to preventable deaths, only for their sacrifice to be ignored on the nightly news. It was hard to stay dialed in, so in the end he’d just dropped out.
The offer was tempting now, if only because it represented a way out, now that he’d given up on this life he’d begun carving out himself in Texas. But the appeal was nothing compared to the lifeline that his old friend had thrown him, without even knowing it.
The question was, what lay in Compton?
Those men had come to kill him for a reason. They had located him somehow, probably by looking out for his name on police databases. When Sheriff Grayson called in a license plate check for his bike a couple weeks earlier, that must have triggered an alert.
That alert had led them to Goodmorning, and ultimately it had put Shea in the hospital.
All of this was his fault, he knew that, but it was theirs too. And Trapp now suspected he knew exactly who was behind the attempt on his life.
Odysseus. It was the only thing that made a lick of sense.
Trapp scribbled a note to the Graysons, thanking them for everything they had done for him and apologizing for leaving like this, hoping they would understand but understanding if they didn’t. He felt like an ass for doing it. It wasn’t the manly way to leave, but all he hoped was that maybe one day they would understand why he had to do it.
He climbed the stairs, grabbed his duffel bag, the one full of cash, and stuffed a few items of clothing into it. He pulled the faded family photograph from the pocket he’d stashed it in and placed it carefully in a compartment at the side of the bag, where it wouldn’t get damaged.
He strode back out of the front door without looking back, knowing that if he did so, he might falter. A gentle evening breeze brushed his face as he walked to the end of the Graysons’ drive, and part of his mind grieved for the chance at the life he was leaving behind.
But only a part.
Because the rest of him was consumed with rage. Rage not just that he was losing his last, best chance at that existence, but because it was being taken from him.
And finally, rage that when they came for him, they had seen an innocent woman through their sights, and opened fire anyway. Most of all, that was what they would pay for. And they would pay.
The acrid edge of his anger had faded a little by the time he reached the side of the road, though it still smoldered inside him. He suspected that if he failed in the task he’d set himself, he would hold the embers inside him for the rest of his life.
The first 20 cars blasted past without stopping. The twenty-first pulled over a little ahead of him, throwing up a cloud of dust behind him that coated Trapp’s tongue and left him gasping for air. Thankfully, when he made it to the expectant driver, he didn’t recognize the man.
“Where you headed?” the driver asked.
“California.”
The man laughed. “I ain’t going that far, but I’ll take you as far as Amarillo. You can get a bus from there.”
“Works for me.”
24
One week and a few hundred miles later, Trapp found himself on Alex Woods’ doorstep, his knuckles raised and ready to strike. He didn’t get the chance. The door opened a crack, and a male voice emanated from inside, laced with a faint Mexican accent. “Who the fuck are you?”
“You’re Alex?” Trapp replied, taking a step back so as not to crowd the man. “Alex Woods?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Jason. Jason Trapp. We’ve never met.”
“I know that,” came a harsh reply. “You trying to sell me something?”
“No, no,” Trapp answered quickly. “Nothing like that.”
Woods’ neighborhood wasn’t a good one. It was the urban equivalent of the kind of place that Jason himself had been raised in. Even out in the country, his family had been forced to suffer the attentions of door-to-door salespeople, always hawking the next big thing, which never lived up to the lofty expectations raised. So he doubted it would be any different here, and the last thing he needed was for his only lead to close the door on him without giving him a chance.
“So what do you want?”
That was a question, wasn’t it? Trapp had tried to answer it on the journey up, but the truth was, he didn’t really know what he was expecting to gain from this meeting.
“I just want to ask you a few questions, okay?”
“About what?”
Trapp went with the blunt, honest approach. “Iraq. What happened to you there.”
There was a long pause before Woods replied, and he started to wonder whether he’d blown it. Maybe he should have tried the small talk approach.
Yeah, right. Like you’re any better at that.
“You a reporter or something?” Woods said suspiciously.
“No, I’m just a guy,” Trapp replied lamely. “I’m a vet, too. Just got back a few months ago. Now, hell, I don’t know what I am now. I just had a few questions about what happened to you out there, you know?”
“What unit?”
“Rangers.”
Woods whistled. “Real tough guy, huh?”
Trapp shook his head, wishing he could see more than the whites of the man’s eyes through the gloom visible through the tiny crack in the front door. “Nothing like that. Just a kid who signed up to get away from a frying pan and found himself in the fire.”
“It sure was hot,” Woods replied, his voice softening.
He opened the door a little more, flooding the entranceway to his house with light. There was a thump as he set the shotgun he’d been holding down on the floor and leaned it up against the wall. “Sorry about that. It’s a rough neighborhood.”
Trapp wondered if that was all it was. Maybe the guy was paranoid. Hell, after what had happened to him, anyone might be. Maybe he’d be the same way if someone shot him up and murdered all of his friends. Still, it seemed a little bit overkill in the middle of the day.
They went for you and Shea while it was light, didn’t they?
“No worries,” he said, getting his first real look at the man behind the door. His eyes widened at the sight, though a second later he wished he could haul the reaction back.
“Not real pretty, huh?” Woods remarked dryly. “I sure won’t be winning any bea
uty competitions anytime soon.”
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean –”
“Forget about it. I know how I look. I’m used to that reaction, ese, believe me.”
The worst of it was, Trapp knew that Woods was right. The scars that marked his head, preventing large patches from ever again sprouting hair, were still angry and pink against his tanned skin. The way he was holding on to the door for support, he probably didn’t have close to full mobility, either.
Still, Trapp had seen men like this before. His own buddies, even. He knew better than to react like that.
“I’m sure. Doesn’t make it any better, though, does it?”
“No sir, it doesn’t,” Woods said. “Least you recognize it. Now, how can I help you?”
The man spoke guardedly, and Trapp could understand that. After everything he’d been through, probably the last thing he wanted was for a reminder of his past to turn up on his front door and dredge up old wounds all over again.
Unfortunately, that was exactly what he was here to do.
First, though, he stuck out his hand. “Guess I should at least introduce myself properly.”
Woods stretched out his right and shook Trapp’s with a surprisingly firm grip. “Jason, right?”
“Yeah. But everyone calls me Trapp.”
Woods grinned, reaching across the open doorway and producing a polished wooden cane from the other side. “Everybody calls me Chino. Then again, I don’t see too many people these days. Why don’t you come inside? I can’t stay standing too long, you know?”
Trapp followed him in, eyes scanning the interior of the man’s house. The place was tidy, and it was evident that Chino took great care in keeping it that way, but still he was shocked at the paucity of the place.
“It ain’t much,” Woods continued, thankfully facing away from Trapp so he was unable to read the expression on his guest’s face a second time. “But I’m proud of it, and I guess that counts for something.”
