Love Is the Drug (23 page)

“Okay, man. But I gotta tell ya, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

Jason rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin. “Later, man. I’ll go straight from there to Vegas to meet with our new clients.”

“Yeah, that’ll work. I’ll call you later to cement the details.”

Jason agreed.

After hanging up with Paul, he called and booked a flight to Beirut for the next day and then a flight to Dallas on Thursday. That’d give him a night to recuperate from the travel and the jetlag before he saw Julie again—and faced the rapist’s mother.

* * *

By ten o’clock the next morning, Jason was well inside the Rafic Hariri International Airport in Beirut. Amid the chaos of last minute arrivals swooping past; the shuffling of luggage; the scuffling of feet; the slightly fuzzy sound of a directive given over the intercom in a staccato feminine pitch; the surround-sound of jumbled voices in a myriad of tones, tempos, and volume; and the distant wail of an infant, Jason moved toward the wall of windows.

For a very long moment, he studied the panorama of asphalt and cement, of runways and buildings, of cars and airport employees bustling about down on the tarmac, just in his view.

It was a little surreal. So different from the online images he’d seen of the area, taken over twenty-five years ago.

There really wasn’t anything left that resembled the place where the barracks originally stood. It was as if it had never been there. Swallowed whole by the ten-year airport expansion project completed a few years back.

His insides shook, but his hand was surprisingly steady as he used his cell phone to quickly capture digital images and video through the mezzanine-level windows of the airport. It was the best that he could do, because, after getting here, he was a little concerned that it might raise suspicions if airport security saw him wandering around outside, taking pictures of the grounds.

After he’d hung up with Paul last night, he’d spent a bit of time searching the net for information about the bombing.

That, along with re-reading the card sent by the rapist to his mother on October twenty-second—only one day before his death—served to mellow, very slightly, Jason’s thoughts about the young man—boy—who’d committed such violence against Jason’s mother.

They Came In Peace
. The words still haunted him. They had been, ever since he’d read them last night. The phrase had been found on a wreath left at the site not long after the bombing and now was engraved in the marble wall of the permanent memorial in Jacksonville, North Carolina.

The troops had been brought here on a peacekeeping mission in the conflict between the Christian and Muslim factions. At first, it had seemed to work—to stabilize matters. But then things went south pretty quick and Muslim factions started thinking of the peacekeeping forces as their enemy. That led to some aggression directed toward the troops; which, of course, was answered in like kind.

Things started heating up.

And then, about half-past six on the twenty-third morning of October, a suicide bomber, carrying the equivalent of six tons of TNT, plowed into the U.S. Marine barracks that the rapist—the kid who fathered him—was in.

The building collapsed, killing the kid, and killing well over two-hundred other U.S. servicemen.

Now, standing here, seeing the place and remembering the stories he’d read of the other men who died that day, Jason felt humbled. And grateful to them for their dedication and bravery.

* * *

On Friday morning, Luke shot out the front door of the farmhouse and bounded down the steps toward Jason as he was making his way toward it.

“Jason! Guess what? My mom said I could stay the whole weekend here with you!”

“That’s great, sport.”

“And look what I have—see?”

“Is that an anole lizard?”

Luke nodded. “Yeah—his name’s Godzilla. Gabe named him. I didn’t like it at first, but I do now that Mike showed me the movie.”

“You watched
Godzilla?
”

“Yeah, it was good! My mom got real mad at Mike though. She didn’t think he shoulda let me see it.”

“
It didn’t scare you?”

Luke shrugged and looked down at his lizard. “Naaa.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. But only a little—ask my mom! I didn’t cry or anything. I just kinda wanted her to keep the light on in the hall.”

“Hey, sport, you did better than I did, then, the first time I saw that movie.”

This, clearly, made the kid feel better because he grinned. “Really—did you cry like a little baby or somethin’?”

“Yeah. And that was the least of it. I wouldn’t even sleep in my own bed for a week afterward.”

Luke cackled and pointed at him. “You
were
a chicken!”

Jason grinned at Luke, but his eyes were drawn back to the front door when Julie stepped out onto the porch. His chest filled with a height of happiness he’d never experienced—ever—before. God, she was beautiful. He couldn’t wait to hold her, have her body pressed against him again.

He felt strange. Good, but strange. It was as if he’d been operating on backup-power for two weeks and now he was juiced with rocket fuel or something. Maybe this is what people meant when they said they didn’t feel complete without their mate?

“Hi Jason,” she said and leaned against the railing.

* * *

That afternoon, Julie wrapped her hand around Jason’s palm as they stood together at the white storm door of the 1950’s blue-shuttered bungalow. It was one of those cute little houses where the door faced the driveway, not the street, and behind them on the cement porch were two Adirondack rockers and several clay pots filled with bright red geraniums.

She knew she was feeding his misconception about the state of their relationship by taking his hand, but at this moment what he needed most was her support. She would deal with the other later—after the interview.

“She does know you’re coming, right?” she asked after the second round of knocking went unanswered.

He glanced down at her and then back up at the door. He was fidgety. “No.”

Julie dropped his hand and stepped back. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He glanced behind him. “There’s a car in the drive. I’m going to give it one more go and then I’ll leave the photos for her and we can get the hell out of here.”

“That wasn’t—”

“Yes? Who’s there?”
The voice that came from just the other side of the door sounded a bit frightened.

Jason’s shoulders visibly tensed. “Jason Jörgensen, ma’am.”

“Jason?”
The door swung open and in the doorway stood a very sweet-looking septuagenarian. Her gray hair was cut in a short bob and her eyeglasses were metal framed ovals. She wore sharply creased lavender slacks and a deep purple knit top with kittens appliquéd on the front. Her lipstick was dark pink and her mascaraed eyes were the same shape and color as Jason’s.

Julie liked her on sight.

“Come in, come in,” the older woman said. She kept her gaze on Jason. Her cheeks lost a bit of color and it looked to Julie like she wanted to say more, but didn’t know how to phrase it.

When she opened the storm door for them to enter and
Sweet Honesty
, her mother’s favorite fragrance, wafted like a spring breeze into Julie’s consciousness—through her heart and through her very being—the affection was cemented for life.

“I’m sorry we didn’t call first—let you know we were coming,” Julie felt compelled to say—she gave Jason a quick, shame-on-you glance and then settled a more pleasant one on their hostess.

“This is my wife, Julie,” Jason said.

Julie nearly swallowed her tongue. She shot him a wild-eyed look. Then, she plastered a smile on her face and held out her hand in greeting to the older woman. “Hello, Mrs. Dillon,” she said. The woman’s hand was warm, soft,—almost fragile. “I hope we aren’t keeping you from something?”

“Oh no, my dear. Nothing that can’t wait. I was only going to the grocery store.” She escorted them into a small living room. The walls were paneled in dark wood and the furniture was old—maybe seventies or eighties vintage—but well taken care of. It reminded Julie of the furniture in her own living room.

“Would you like something to drink? I just made a fresh batch of iced tea.” Mrs. Dillon looked from one to the other of them. When Jason just stood there like a stoic, clam-jawed, with his arms crossed over his chest, Julie answered her. “Yes, ma’am. That sounds real nice.” She stepped closer to Jason and put her arm around his waist. “We’re both a little thirsty after that drive.” She pinched him. “Aren’t we, Jason?”

He leveled a glare at her, but said, “Yeah. Thanks.”

Mrs. Dillon fluttered her hands. “Sit down you two. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

“Where are the photos?” Julie said the minute the woman was out of earshot.

Jason uncrossed his arms and unfurled the rolled-up manila envelope in his hand. “Here.”

Julie nodded and led Jason over to the sofa. After they were both seated, she said, “I know this is hard for you—I do—but you can’t just sit here without talking to her, okay? That wasn’t the point of this trip, remember?”

Jason didn’t answer—his eyes were glued to something across the room. Julie followed the line of his gaze.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” he said.

* * *

It was a military photograph of a young man. He was in his dress uniform—white peaked cap and midnight blue coat with red trim. There were other photos as well. School photographs, it looked like, from elementary on up to high school. Only the latter gave any indication of the hoodlum the boy had become. Jason felt Julie’s hand settle around his again and, as it had been doing each time she’d done it since they left the farmhouse on this godforsaken journey, the tightness, the unbearable tension in his chest lessened.

“Yes, it must be,” she answered softly. “Good lord, Jason, he looks just like you. I didn’t expect that.”

The anxious feeling built again at her words. Moisture, hot and damp, formed under his arms, in his palms. “I don’t think so.” Then a rough bark of pained laughter exploded from his throat. “My mom did always say I looked like my dad, though. ‘ Course, I thought she meant
Gabe
.”

Julie’s hand wrapped around his cheek and she forced him to look at her. “
She
thought she was talking about Gabe, too, Jason.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“First and foremost, because you and Gabe look a lot alike, too. But also, because Gabe let me read your mom’s diary. And I know you read it, as well, so you should know this.” She squeezed his hand. “Yeah, maybe it was wishful thinking on her part—but it makes sense to me: She and Gabe had been trying to get pregnant for months. There was much more likelihood that Gabe fathered you.”

Jason’s jaw clenched.

She stroked her fingers across his cheek. “Yes, she stuck her head in the sand, and yes she should have told Gabe, maybe even you, too at some point, but as a woman I can totally see why she didn’t.”

This pissed Jason off. He straightened and pushed her hand back into her lap. “Yeah—and why’s that?”

“Jason.”
She took his hand again and wouldn’t let it go. “Because she was ashamed of her helplessness, scared that she would be judged, mortified by what happened to her. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, I’m sure.” Julie ran her tongue over her lower lip and tucked her hair behind her ear. “She just wanted it to all go away, not think about it. She wanted to believe you were her husband’s child. Don’t you see?”

* * *

Before Julie could get an answer from Jason, Mrs. Dillon walked back into the living room. “My, I am sorry this took so long,” she said. “I had to wash a few glasses first—me and my old age! I forgot to turn the dishwasher on this morning.” She held a tray of glasses filled with iced tea in her hands, but Julie noticed instantly that the older woman’s eyes were damp and red-rimmed. Clearly, this wasn’t an easy meeting for her, either. Julie nudged Jason in the side. When he gave her a blank look, she said, “I believe Mrs. Dillon needs some help with that tray.”

Jason’s cheek got a tick in it, but he rose to his feet and strode the three steps over to the older woman.

“Oh, no, dear that’s—”

He took the tray from her. “Where would you like this, ma’am?” His voice was strained, like he wanted to yell something, but was just barely keeping himself from it.

Mrs. Dillon’s hands fluttered first to her hair and then down to her sides. “On the coffee table, is fine.”

After Jason put the tray down and settled in his previous position next to Julie, Julie said, “We were just looking at your photos, Mrs. Dillon. Is that your son?”

Mrs. Dillon looked in the direction of the photos and then back at Julie. “Yes. That’s my Will.” She bent down and handed each of them a glass and then settled into the sky-blue velvet upholstered chair next to the matching floral-printed sofa.

Neither Jason nor Mrs. Dillon said anything further. The only sound, the ticking of the cuckoo clock. Julie decided she’d have to be the one to get the ball rolling. She sat forward and clasped her hands together over her knees. “You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”