Fade (2005) (4 page)

"What's your mom up to?"

"Dunno. Strawberry People, I think."

"Still?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's late. Have you had dinner?"

She pointed to a pizza box lying in the corner.

"More health food, huh. You're gonna waste away to nothing eating tha t stuff."

He leaned his head on a stuffed moose and focused on his wife again.

She was still staring at the computer screen, bobbing her head a bit a s she absorbed what was coming through her headphones.

Five years ago, in what could only be described as a wild contortion o f fate, he'd married the woman Spin magazine had called America's mos t gifted songwriter. She'd been only twenty-five at the time, playin g guitar in no less than three bands to make ends meet, and he'd been a thirty-three-year-old CIA operative.

Since then, there had never been a dull moment. She'd finally put a band together that had the right chemistry and their notoriety ha d begun to swell. Her last CD had been named to a number of alternativ e top ten lists and a few of her songs had recently been used in th e sound track of a reasonably successful independent film about a homicidal bass player.

Of course, none of this really translated into money. Her career wa s break-even at best. Not that he really cared about that any more tha n he cared that everything she'd recorded sounded like cats fighting t o him. She was the most amazing person he'd ever met and he stil l couldn't understand why she'd even lowered herself to talk to him.

He refocused on the ceiling, trying not to allow his mind to take th e obvious path of comparing his life with Fade's to see that warped , empty house and the car rusting away in the dirt out front. Thei r backgrounds really weren't all that different. Why had everythin g turned out so right for him and so wrong for Fade?

He reached out and tugged at his daughter's hair, trying to put Fad e out of his mind.

"Quit being so immature!" she said, swatting at his hand. She'd jus t learned that word and it had quickly become her favorite.

His wife's eyes suddenly unglued themselves from the computer in he r lap and a broad smile splashed across her face. They had been mor e than a year into their relationship before he'd gotten used to th e almost schizophrenic way she could go from startling intensity t o easygoing grins.

"Hard day?" she said, pushing off her headphones.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because it's nine o'clock and you're staring off into space with a milk mustache and a bunch of pie all over your face."

"That's gross, you know," Kali chimed in.

"I don't have to take that from someone whose diapers I changed."

"You did not!"

"I guess you're right. I've had better days."

"Ready to be cheered up?"

"Very."

She slid off her beanbag chair and lay down on the floor next to him.

"The song I wrote for Madonna is going to make it. They're putting i t on the record."

"You're joking."

"Swear to God. I got the call today."

Egan looked over at Kali. "Did you hear that, honey? Four years o f male, white corporate indoctrination is all but paid for. If there's a dance mix, maybe even graduate school!"

That got him a hard poke in the ribs from his wife.

"Smart-ass. I wouldn't get your hopes up. There's no telling whethe r it'll ever get radio play."

"Still, though .. ." He almost said "congratulations," but stoppe d himself. The whole "selling out" thing was quite a stigma in th e circles she ran in. But eventually you got to a point in life wher e there were certain realities.

"I know how hard it was for you to do that song, Elise."

"It's no big deal."

There was about thirty seconds of silence before he spoke again. "It'
s the best thing you ever wrote, you know."

She laughed, knowing full well he was completely serious. Hi s proclivity for ABBA and KC and the Sunshine Band were well known t o her, but she chose to ignore them. Among other things.

"How's Strawberry People coming?"

She had been bogged down for weeks in the last song for her upcomin g CD, A Long Night with the Strawberry People (whatever the hell tha t meant). Deadlines were looming and things were starting to ge t desperate.

"Done."

"Is that a joke?"

"The answer was right in front of me."

"Really? What answer?"

"It's a country song."

"A country song?"

She nodded excitedly. "You wouldn't believe the sound you can get fro m a pedal steel guitar if you run it through a cheap distortion pedal an d let it feed back.. .."

Hank Williams was undoubtedly rolling over in his grave to retrieve hi s earplugs. "Well, this certainly calls for some serious celebration."

She rolled over and propped her head on his stomach. "Seriou s celebration."

Elise, full of cold pizza and warm beer, had fallen asleep more than a n hour ago, but Matt Egan was still lying in bed wide awake. Finally, h e slid his arm out from beneath her pillow and padded quietly out of th e room.

The cramped den at the back of the house contained a small refrigerato r and before sitting down behind his desk he pulled out a beer that wa s going to put him well into hangover territory. Determined to ge t crocked enough to drown the memories swimming around in his head, h e opened the bottle and drank half of it, still clearly able to remembe r the first time he'd heard the name Salam al Fayed. He'd been workin g for Military Intelligence at the time and Fade was halfway through Hel l Week the brutal program used by the Navy to qualify SEAL candidates.

Fade's boat crew hadn't slept for more than two days and had endure d countless miles of running, hours of live fire exercises, and an ocea n swim in hypothermia-inducing temperatures. Two of his team had alread y quit and the others were so exhausted and cold that Fade was concerne d they wouldn't make it through the upcoming obstacle course. He'
d started telling jokes to try to boost their morale and, when tha t didn't work, he decided to perform an elaborate striptease right ther e on the beach. By the end of it, everyone, annoyed instructor s excepted, was energetically humming along to his gyrations.

Not sure what else to do, the instructors had put him up against a wal l and aimed a fire hose at him. Before they opened the hydrant, though , he yelled, "Wait!" and produced a pink bathing cap covered in brigh t yellow ducks from his fatigues. When, after fifteen minutes of bein g repeatedly knocked down by the icy flood, he went on to nearly set th e record in the obstacle course, people began to speculate that he wasn'
t human.

Shortly thereafter, Egan had left the army and gone into th e operational side of CIA, taking a position overseeing operations tha t weren't strictly legal but were seen as becoming increasingl y necessary. There, he'd kept tabs on the young al Fayed with the ide a that he was someone the CIA might be interested in after he'd prove d himself under fire.

It hadn't taken long. Fade's first live mission had gone downhil l fast. The helicopter his team had been in took a hit and one of hi s comrades had fallen out in hostile territory. Against orders, Fade ha d grabbed some weapons and jumped out into the dark after him. He la y there in the rocks with a broken leg and defended his unconsciou s friend for ten hours. By the time they were finally extracted, Fad e had managed to completely demoralize a force estimated at over a hundred. A spy plane flying overhead had confirmed that Fade wa s hitting people as far out as nine hundred meters despite the darknes s and wind.

Not surprisingly, Egan had recruited him right there in his hospita l bed. After that, Fade had spent almost three years operating in th e Middle East before being stabbed by that damn little girl. The n everything had gone in the toilet. In the end, all Egan had been abl e to do was offer his friend the pick of any instructor position h e wanted. Not surprisingly, Fade had refused. As he saw it, he had bee n betrayed. And he was right.

Chapter
Four.

The saw blade caught at the edge of the board and splintered it , sending a chunk of wood into Fade's bare shoulder.

"Damn it!"

He looked over at the half-finished set of kitchen cabinets he wa s working on and threw the board into one of the doors, leaving a dee p vertical gouge. The only thing he'd managed to accomplish since Mat t Egan and that other asshole had left that morning was to destroy mor e oak than he could afford. Everything he'd been so carefully maskin g with a combination of willpower, diversions, and drugs was now closin g back in on him. He reached for a drill but the strength had gone ou t of him. Suddenly, it felt almost impossible even to put one foot i n front of the other as he wandered out into the darkness and collapse d beneath a tree.

By then his breath was coming fast enough to make him dizzy and he pu t his head between his legs, concentrating on calming down.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. He'd been the best at what he did.

And that was supposed to have translated into a great career. A wife.

Kids .. .

None of that had materialized, though. Now at thirty-three he had nex t to nothing: some tools, a failing business, and a few deterioratin g personal possessions. He'd given up on relationships years ago. Ther e was no way he was going to leave a family and friends tethered to hi m by guilt when the shrapnel in his back finally paralyzed him. Th e thought of lying there motionless watching the slowly shrinkin g procession of people from his former life drip pity on him drove hi m even more insane than he already was.

All he did now was survive. He'd tried going the self-hel p psychologist route for a while but had given up when he'd come to th e conclusion that it was just a bunch of bullshit for people who ha d problems that either existed only in their minds or were easil y solved.

The only solution to his particular problem was death. But for som e reason he hadn't been able to coax himself into suicide. So now he wa s a hypocrite. He'd never had a problem killing anyone else.

Maybe this was his punishment. The sentence: to be buried alive in hi s own body. But even that wasn't a fair analogy. People who were burie d alive died in hours. With a little luck, the horrors of twenty-firs t century medicine might keep him alive for decades.

Now, to top it all off, there were a bunch of people at Homelan d Security trying to figure out how to screw him over even worse. Th e American government could be infinitely vindictive when it didn't ge t what it wanted a trait that would only get worse as the country fel t increasingly threatened by uncontrollable outside forces. Strand woul d be back and that son of a bitch Matt Egan would be standing right ther e alongside him.

Fade pulled a wood-carving knife from the pocket of his overalls an d held it up so he could see it in the dim light bleeding from the ope n door of his workshop. One last mission. When Strand and his goon s came back determined not to take no for an answer, they'd find what wa s left of him rotting in the sun the same way he'd left so many others.

He sat there for a long time, finally pressing the knife to his wris t hard enough to break the skin. The blood flowing down his arm looke d black.

It was a beautiful night: warm, a sky full of stars, the sound o f crickets hovering on the breeze. There would never be a better time. A l ittle more pressure and the dark trail moving toward his elbo w thickened.

He concentrated harder but it just caused his hand to shake. Finally , he just sunk to the ground, dry eyed, but with his chest heavin g uncontrollably. He could no longer remember a time that he'd actuall y been able to cry, though there had been so many occasions he shoul d have. People said that it helped and maybe it did. What other purpos e could it have?

He didn't know how long he lay there like that long enough for th e stars to progress noticeably across the dark sky. Finally, he pushe d himself to his feet and started toward his house, anger replacing th e solitary hopelessness that normally swallowed any other emotion tha t dared try to surface. He washed the dried blood from his arm and woun d a gauze bandage around his wrist before going into the living room an d rummaging through a stack of woodworking books. He finally found wha t he was looking for under the sofa: a catalog of small servos and motor s used in the construction of entertainment centers.

He'd lost count of the brave and dedicated men who had died trying t o kill him and there was no way he was going to roll over for tha t pissant Hillel Strand. It would be like spitting on the memory of al l those men who'd fought so hard and lost.

The climb into the attic started his wrist bleeding again, but no t badly enough to worry about. He threw open a battered footlocker , filling the air with ancient-smelling dust, and emptied it of th e weapons it contained. He'd assumed he'd need them again one day, bu t hadn't guessed where the threat would come from.

At the bottom he found a handful of old pictures: him and his ol d teammates skulking around dive bars, photographic evidence of th e elaborate practical jokes he used to put so much effort into. When h e looked at himself in those old photos, it was like looking at a dea d relative who you hadn't known all that well. Vague recognition colore d with an even more vague sense of regret.