The Red Gloves Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  Near as he could tell, the missing man—a Mike Conner—was the girl’s uncle, someone she’d been very close to as a little girl. “I’ll see what I can do,” he told her. And now he felt stymied in every other way until he could at least point her in the right direction. It wasn’t so much that she was Jack Roberts’ daughter. It was the catch in her voice when she’d finished her request:

  “If I can’t find him, I’ll spend the rest of my life looking.”

  McKenna sighed loud and hard. He shoved the paperwork on his desk to the side and grabbed a notebook. The details weren’t much. Mike Conner from Pismo Beach, joined the Army in 1994.

  He picked up the phone and called one of the top officers in the Army. He had contacts all over the country, and this was one of them. “Jennings, McKenna here. I need you to run a check on an Army man for me.”

  The sound of rustling paperwork came over the line. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Mike Conner. Joined in’94.”

  It took less than a minute for Jennings’ answer. “We got a couple of Mike Conners. One joined in ‘65, and another one in 1973. Two last year. Nothing even close to ‘94.”

  “Any of them from Pismo Beach?”

  “Uh … the one in ‘73 was from San Francisco. That’s the closest I’ve got.”

  McKenna pinched the bridge of his nose. “You sure about the date?”

  ‘Yes.” Jennings sounded rushed. “The guy got a discharge. Hurt his leg, it looks like.”

  “Hmmm.” McKenna doodled the name Mike Conner at the top of his notepad. “Okay, thanks. Maybe the information’s bad.” The phone call ended and McKenna tried every other branch of the service before tossing his pencil on the desk. He’d put in one more call—to a reporter contact at the Washington Post. Then he’d let it go. He wasn’t a miracle worker, after all.

  That territory belonged to Someone else altogether.

  Hannah hung up the phone with the congressman and stared at the piece of notebook paper she’d ripped from her binder. The congressman had a few details, the first one enough to take her breath away. There was no sign of a Mike Conner in the Army, just a few other men with the same name, including someone who’d left with an injury.

  So why couldn’t the congressman find her father? He had to have been there at one time or another; her mother had been sure about that detail.

  It was the congressman’s last bit of information that gave her hope. Apparently he had a connection at a national country music television channel. Through the holidays they were running messages to soldiers serving in the war efforts in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Hannah might’ve been at the top of her class, and she might’ve had a better vocabulary than most adults, but even she wasn’t sure what a “war effort” was. War, yes. That she understood. And if her dad was in the war, then she had no time to waste. She had to get word out that she was looking for him.

  Assuming he was still in the Army.

  But here was the best part of all. Even if he wasn’t in the Army or anywhere overseas, he still might watch the country music channel. And if he did, then there was a chance he’d see her message.

  She took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and called the channel. She wouldn’t tell the man about her connection to Congressman McKenna or to Jack Roberts. No need. He was the one who took requests, and this was one request she didn’t want linked to her political ties.

  “Do you have a loved one in the service, miss?” The man was friendly.

  Hannah felt herself relax. He wouldn’t know who she was. And with all the people who watched the station’s music videos, her father might just see her message. “Yes.” She closed her eyes. “My dad.”

  “I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “I’m sure you miss him a lot.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, then, what do you want to tell him?”

  ‘You mean … ” Hannah opened her eyes and stared out the window. It was raining, and the temperatures were colder than they’d been all winter. Snow was forecast before the end of the week. “You’ll put it on the air? For sure?”

  “Absolutely.” There was a smile in the man’s voice. “If your dad’s watching, he’ll see your message.”

  “All right, then.” She’d written out what she wanted to tell him. Now she pulled that piece of paper closer and studied it. “Tell him this:

  “Daddy, this is Hannah. Mom showed me the pictures, the one with you and me reading and the other one, with you and your surfboard. I’m trying to find you. So if you see this, call the station, and they’ll tell you how to reach me. I love you, Daddy. I never forgot you.”

  She took a slow breath. “Is that good?”

  The man didn’t say anything at first. Then he made a coughing sound. “Honey, you mean you don’t know where your daddy is?”

  “No, sir.” Her throat was thick. She touched the wings pinned to her sweater. “I haven’t seen him since I was four. My mother said he’s in the Army.”

  “Well, then let’s get this message on the air today.”

  She left her phone number with the man, and he promised to get back to her if he heard anything from her father. The message she’d left was still playing in her mind when the phone rang.

  Without checking Caller ID, Hannah answered it on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Hannah Roberts, please. This is Kara Dillon from the Washington Post.”

  The Washington Post? Hannah pulled up a bar stool and leaned hard onto the kitchen counter. “This is she.”

  “Okay, then.” The reporter hesitated, and in the background Hannah could hear voices and the tapping of computer keyboards. “Congressman McKenna told us you were trying to find a long-lost relative.”

  “I am.” Hannah was up off her seat. This was exactly what she needed; help from the media. “I haven’t seen my dad in eleven years and now I have his name and his picture but no—”

  “I’m sorry.” The woman didn’t let her finish. “Your father? I thought your father was Jack Roberts, the politician.”

  Fear grabbed her around the throat and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Could she do this? Could she go public with something no one else knew? In the time it took her heart to thump out a handful of beats, she remembered her mother’s note. It said nothing about keeping quiet on the issue.

  So what if Jack Roberts wasn’t her biological father? She swallowed and forced the words in a single breath. “Jack Roberts married my mother when I was four, and he raised me as his daughter, but my real dad is Mike Conner from Pismo Beach, California, and now he’s in the Army, but there’s no record of him.” She grabbed a quick gulp of air. “He’s the one I’m looking for.”

  “I see.” The reporter took a minute, maybe writing down this new information. “Does your … mother know you’ve gone public with your search?”

  Hannah bit her lip. “Not really.” What’s the worst thing the paper could print? And whatever headline might run, the fallout would be worth the possibility that her dad would see it and find her. She walked out of the kitchen and dropped into a suede recliner in the den. “But I don’t think she’ll mind. She’s the one who told me about Mike Conner.”

  “Well, then.” The reporter sounded overly happy. “I think it’ll make a perfect Christmas story. Let’s go ahead with the interview.”

  The questions went on for nearly an hour—questions about her childhood and the memories she held of her early years with Mike Conner. Once Hannah started opening up to the woman, the answers came easily. Not until she was brushing her teeth that night, after cheer and dance and a long conversation with Kathryn about which guys might be worth going to the prom with, did she feel a hint of remorse about agreeing to the interview.

  Her mother wouldn’t mind, would she? Whatever the paper printed, it was bound to help her find her father, right? Besides, her mother hadn’t exactly told her no. But only then, hours after the fact, did it occur to her that maybe—just maybe—she hadn’t only answered the reporter’s q
uestions because of her deep need to see her dad.

  But because of her need to see her mother, as well.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mike Conner trudged through the tent to the food line, took a plate of hot chicken and gravy and a slab of bread, and found a folding chair near the television set, ten yards away. Usually he sat at one of the tables, sharing talk with the guys. But tonight he had nothing to say to anyone.

  The mission was in twelve hours.

  An old western played above the distant conversations—John Wayne telling somebody where to get off and why. Mike settled into his chair. The television was set up in the dining tent, as far away from the blowing sand as possible. This tent was bigger than the others, a makeshift cafeteria tucked away at the back of their temporary base. In it were a couple dozen folding chairs and rows of aluminum tables, usually filled with weary soldiers and chopper crews catching a quick meal between assignments.

  Mike took a bite of the chicken and shifted it around in his mouth. Too hot, like always. After a few seconds he swallowed it and stared at the television. He rarely watched it. Life on the outside was no longer real to him, no longer something he wanted to see or be a part of.

  All existence centered around the sandy base, the endless desert, and the enemy. Wherever he might be. Bombing missions came up every few days, some that never made the papers back in the states. Insurgents acting up or strategic military sites belonging to start-up terrorist groups. The Air Force handled strikes, but the choppers came in before and after, dropping supplies or men to aid in the attack. Air attacks made up a routine part of their work.

  Always there were dangerous missions. And that Sunday, December 11, two weeks before Christmas, the mission that lay ahead was the most dangerous of all.

  In the end, the conversation had been short. He had gone in to see his commanding officer, determined that he wouldn’t leave the man’s presence until he’d been granted permission to man the mission—the one that would have him hovering over an insurgent compound for eleven insane minutes.

  “Sir,” Mike had stood at attention, his hands at his sides, chin up. “I request permission along with CJ to crew the chopper for the mission.”

  His superior had mumbled something profane and leaned back in his seat. “I can’t afford to lose you, Meade.”

  “You won’t, sir.” Mike kept his shoulders straight, his voice even. “Ceej and I can get the job done.”

  “What about the others? Wouldn’t one of them work?”

  Mike had held his breath. Some men were dispensable, right? “Sir, the others have much more to lose. CJ and I, we don’t have family, sir.”

  “Fine, Meade.” The colonel swore again. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the desk and tapped it. “Listen. I didn’t ask for this mission, and I can’t say I agree with it. The command came from higher up, so someone’s got to do it.” He snatched a cigarette, slipped it between his lips, and stared at Mike. “But no unnecessary bravery, got it? If you have to pull out and come back, do it. Just get the job done and get out.”

  Mike could still feel the fire inside his gut at the victory. He stifled a smile. “Yes, sir.”

  “And follow orders.” The man’s voice was louder, gruff. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deep. The smoke curled out from the corners of his lips. “The first order most of all.”

  “The first order, sir?”

  “Yes, Meade.” He lowered the cigarette. “Come back alive.”

  Now Mike took another bite of chicken. It was cooler. He studied the picture on the TV screen. The Duke was on horseback, charging ahead, rifle at his side. The movie was just starting to look familiar when one of the chopper pilots walked up and flipped the channel.

  “Hey.” A soldier jumped up. His coffee spilled, soaking into the dirt. “I was watching that.”

  “Tough.” The man at the set pointed to the man’s coffee and laughed out loud. “Looks like you got enough trouble all by your lonesome.”

  The soldier kicked his coffee cup and stormed off. Mike looked at the airman again. He was still flipping channels. Mike thought about saying something. The Duke was about to do in a few bad guys, after all. But he stared at his chicken instead. TV didn’t matter. He needed a clear head if he was going to get the mission underway and come out breathing.

  “Country videos?” The soldier was back with a new cup. He sat down and kicked his feet out. “What’d you go wussy on us, man? Come on! You turned off the Duke!”

  “Look,” the pilot raised his hand in the air. “None of yer bellyaching now, y’hear? I’m country folk myself, and my sweet little wife back in Alabama has a message comin’ to me on one of these videos.” He grinned, and a few of the guys seated around the television chuckled and muttered under their breath, guessing at the content of the message. The pilot waved off the comments. “We’re watchin’ country videos until I see the message. Period.”

  The soldier made a face and sipped his drink. “Wussies, all of you.”

  Another round of laughter as the pilot found the right channel. He turned the volume up and took the chair closest to the set, arms crossed, expectant.

  Mike laughed to himself. Stations running those sorts of messages had hundreds on every day. He took another bite and shoved a chunk of bread into his mouth. Probably the last full meal he’d have for twenty-four hours, by the time they debriefed after the mission.

  Across the tent the pilot was talking to the television. “No, not that message, man! Come on! My wife’s got the best message of all. Now, please … put hers on the stupid screen, y’hear?”

  The videos were numbing. Tim McGraw crooning something about a bull ride, and Rascal Flat singing about today. The songs blended together and Mike helped himself to a second bowl of chicken. He was halfway done when Lonestar kicked in with their classic, Already There.

  At that exact moment something caught his eye.

  The pilot was shouting at the TV again, telling the screen to get it right, get his wife’s message up. But this message was from a child. That much was obvious because it started out, “Daddy … ”

  The next part made his heart slip all the way down to his dirty boots.

  In plain text along the right side of the video, the message read:

  Daddy, this is Hannah. Mom showed me the pictures, the one with me and you reading and the other one, with you and your surfboard. I’m trying to find you. So if you see this, call the station and they’ll tell you how to reach me. I love you, Daddy. I never forgot you. Hannah.

  Mike lifted slowly from his chair and stared at the television. Hannah? His Hannah? Could it really be? He read the message again, the part about the girl’s mother showing her pictures, and how they read books, and the surfboard. The video ended then, and without taking his eyes from the screen, Mike tossed his plate. He reached the pilot near the television in three giant strides. “What station is it?”

  “Huh?”

  “The station,” Mike pointed at the TV. “What station is it?”

  The pilot rattled off the name. Mike was gone before the last word was out.

  Hannah remembered him.

  He had to call. Colonel Whalin was at his desk when Mike walked in, breathless. “Colonel … “ He straightened, at attention. “I need a favor.”

  The man was between cigarettes. “Don’t tell me.” He gave a wry grin. “You want out of the mission?”

  Mike hesitated. If it was his Hannah and she was looking for him, then … He pressed his shoulders back some more. The mission was his, no matter what. “No, sir. I need to make a couple of calls to the States.”

  His commander was lenient with stateside calls. The regularly scheduled ones came often—especially for the family guys. He slid the phone across the desk. “You know the codes?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mike only knew them from checking on his house in Pismo Beach. Personal calls didn’t happen.

  “Go ahead.” The officer stood, stretched, and headed out the tent door. “I n
eed fresh air, anyway.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Mike worked fast, his first call to a buddy back at the base stateside. He’d need to use that number if Hannah was to call him. She’d call the base, talk to his buddy, and be patched in to the colonel’s office in Baghdad.

  Next he found the television station’s number. It had to be her, didn’t it? How many Hannahs had a lost father who surfed? His palms were sweating by the time a person finally answered at the station. “Hi… ” He was short of breath. “I’m looking for the person who takes the messages, the ones for servicemen.”

  “Just a minute, please.”

  Mike gripped the phone, his posture stiff. Was he crazy? Had the desert heat and sand finally gotten to him? Or was it the mission? He’d looked for Hannah all those years. What were the odds he’d get his first clue the night before the most dangerous job he’d ever taken?

  He braced himself against the desk. Come on … Someone pick up …

  His commander was talking to a few men just outside the tent. He didn’t have long by himself. Mike tapped his foot. Come on and—

  “Hello … this is the message department, can I help you?” The woman on the other end sounded busy.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He raked his fingers across his short cut hair. How did he say this? “Okay … I’m an Army chopper pilot in Iraq, and I just saw a message on one of your videos.”

  “Good.” Her voice softened. “You’re the reason we have the messages. How are things in Iraq?”

  Details of the next day’s mission flashed in his mind. “Fine. Just fine.” He worked the muscles in his jaw. “Listen, ma’am, a minute ago the message … It was from a girl named Hannah. She’s looking for her dad.” He paused. There was no turning back now. “I think she might be looking for me.”

  “Really? Let me write this down.”

  “Yes, if you could.” He only had a few minutes of privacy left. “My name’s Mike Meade. I’m stationed outside Baghdad in Iraq, and I’ve been looking for my daughter, Hannah, for eleven years.” He waited. There was no sound of typing in the background. He turned around and rested against the desk. Was she scribbling it on a scrap piece of paper? “Got that, ma’am?”