Recall (8 page)

The presence returned and entered him. The room—the same one where he had stitches in his forearm after a knife fight. A raid on one of PCC's drug compounds in Brazil. The Cartier on Jim's wrist—a gift from a grateful Italian model turned spy.

Warmth grew at the base of Red's neck, spreading up from the rear of his skull to the top of his head. Then it flowed down past his ears and jaw. Down his spine, along his arms and legs, all the way to fingers and toes. It shot inward, as if filling his entire being. His body tensed and straightened in the bed. The warmth subsided.

Jim was pinning his shoulders to the bed. “You in there, buddy?”

The handle of Jim's KA-BAR stuck over the side of the bed. He'd always carried one on his hip. Too damn predictable. Red grasped a wrist and twisted hard, pinning the arm behind. He dropped a knee over Jim's bicep, locking it in place. Jim swung with his other, but Red dodged the blows. A couple fell on his ribs, but from the awkward position they were mere taps. The IV bag hit the far wall. Blood sprayed in quick bursts from the puncture in his arm. The vital signs monitor landed on the bed. Dr. Genova cowered in the corner, elbow over his head.

Jim grasped at Red's hair, but he pinned that arm as well and slipped the knife from its scabbard. Red was piggybacked across Jim's shoulders now, one hand gripping his forehead and a knife across his throat. Jim turned toward Genova, who glanced at the panic button on the phone, but Red tightened his grip on Jim's skull.

Jim smiled wide. “We got him back!”

Red dropped off his shoulders, then tossed the knife and caught the blade, handle toward Jim. “Like your mother, slow and sloppy.”

Jim was busy working his arms loose. “Damn. Arms went numb. You almost dislocated a shoulder.”

“And still a bleeding whiner.” He flipped the blade again, grabbed the handle, and slid it into its sheath.

Genova stuttered as he pushed off the floor, black leather loafers slipping beneath him.

Red put his thumb over the puncture in his arm, stemming the oozing flow. “Just playing, doc. Never seen a couple guys wrestle?”

Genova pushed on a shaking knee and straightened, sweeping flat his white lab coat. “I had two brothers in Chennai. We wrestled. Not with knives.” He stooped and brushed his calves. “‘You won't see any combat. We'll pay off your med school bills,' they told me. Wish I never signed that paper. I could be making just as much in a legitimate practice.” A brightness returned to his eyes as his goatee turned up again. “What do you feel?”

“Hungry.” Red grabbed a white square and tore it open with his teeth, then pressed the cloth to his forearm. “Anxious to get going. The op planned?”

“No,” Genova said. “What I mean is do you remember anything?”

“Yeah. Jim owes me a hundred fifty bucks in winnings.”

Genova scowled. “We have a lot to go through before I clear you.” He made a note on a pad, then snapped on a glove and wiped a drop of blood from the page.

“That'll wait.” Jim reached to his belt and snapped a leather strap around the handle of his KA-BAR. “We don't have time. He's on the op.”

Genova scoffed. “Colonel, you don't even know if—”

“The first two went fine. Red'll be just like 'em.”

“I had two months before I cleared them.”

Jim rolled his shoulders forward, wincing, then slapped Red's chest, hard enough to be a right cross. “A lot's happened since you went under. Intel has some solid info. Wheels up at 0830 tomorrow. Got to get you briefed.”

On the op? Could he do that? “I kinda agree with the shrink,” Red said. “Sure, I feel good, but you can't yank me out of retirement and expect me to be operational.”

Jim stomped to the door. “You're coming. Always been a quick study.” He turned back with a smile wide enough to reveal a gold molar. “What you did at Walmart, that was gorgeous. You're ready.”

“Not till I see the kids. I've played by your rules, but I've been gone two nights. They're scared. I'm seeing them before wheels up.”

Jim dropped his head, as if looking at his boot strings. “I'll allow it. Be back by 2200,” then he stepped out the door.

R
ed pushed through a heavy, blue-painted door with
ARMORY
bolted overhead, the letters protruding from a thick steel plate in shiny welded beads. He stepped through a bathroom-size entry with a checkout log splayed open on a metal machinist's table, into a tight room with tall blue and green equipment lining a wall. He stood behind a wrinkled, white-haired man twisting a clamp below a drill press. He tapped the mechanic on the shoulder. “Gunny, I need to check out a sidearm.”

The operator's head jerked up. He turned with a start, grasping the bold assembly of an M4. He shook metal shavings from his hands, like chopped tinsel at Christmas. He pushed up jeweler's goggles and blinked. Then again.

“Red?”

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

“They told me you were dead.” He stared into Red's eyes, then shook his head as if coming from a daydream. “I'm sorry, what did you want?”

“Just a sidearm.”

“Jim said there were two new guys coming in. To get them fit with Det issue. He didn't tell me one was you. I'd have gotten your weapons set up the way you like 'em.”

“Just a sidearm for now.”

“I can do better than that.”

Here we go. Gunny hasn't changed
.

“I've got something special.” Placing the bolt beneath a silver fluted bit, he shuffled toward the armory door, a four-foot-wide steel slab, hinged open. His feet slid across the floor with a hissing sound, like a mini-locomotive struggling down tracks. One hand steadied his wobbling body as he stepped over an extension cord. He fidgeted with a combination lock to a metal cabinet in the far corner.

“Come on, Gunny. I'm not going to be gone long. There're three over there on the table.” He pointed to a low shelf with three SIGs, slides removed. If Gunny wasn't there, he'd grab one and leave. But the man had been a father he'd never had in Tom. His old, strong hands struggled with the dial.

“Gunny, you're inside a vault. Why another locker?”

The white-crowned man gave no reply. The lock gave way and he withdrew a spotless SIG Saur housed in a worn, bottom-access, concealed carry holster. “Here you go.”

The weapon was light, but the barrel fatter. “You guys switched to 45 cal?”

“No. 9mm like always. The barrel's made of laminated ceramic and steel. That's why it's so thick.”

“Ceramic?”

“Awesome stuff. Need it for the new propellants. Corrosive and got higher temps. Plus, it doesn't wear.”

Red pulled his sweater over his head and strapped on the weapon. The fit was perfect. “You kept my holster?”

“They turned it in and said your sidearm was taken. I couldn't get rid of it, and it didn't seem right to be empty. I made the pistol years ago. Just like your old one, but with a few new tricks.” His feet scooched closer. “I never believed what they said. That you were killed.”

Red stared at the weapon, barrel resting atop two fingers. His eyes started to tear, so he laughed. “You're still a senile bastard.”

“You're welcome,” the old man huffed.

Red strapped it in, then turned and started out of the vault. “I'll bring her back.”

Gunny pointed a fat finger at him. “You better not. She's yours. Got a dual stage recoil spring so you can—”

Red held up a hand. “I've got to run.”

He didn't know how he'd connected with Gunny, but there it was. Maybe because everyone else just saw a weapon. He tried to see it through the old smith's eyes. A life's passion, a creative outlet, an art. To Red, it held purpose, a reason for being, an instigator of momentum. Maybe that's where they connected, in the art.

“One more thing,” Gunny called back. “I've kept a box for you.”

“What?”

He leaned in. “I don't know. That one in your locker. I left it there.”

Red tried, but couldn't remember, so he walked to the cabinet from which Gunny had just pulled his sidearm. A small white cardboard container about the size of a paperback book sat on the top shelf. It seemed vaguely familiar, but contained only a single page, folded in half, with Lori's handwriting.
Pick up the leaf on your way home. Mount one over the headboard. Burn the rest.

It made no sense. He stuck the paper in his pocket and walked out the door.

Gunny followed him again. “Don't forget to name her.”

“I won't.” He smiled at Gunny's superstition. The machinist believed operators kept better care of weapons if they named them. That much made sense. But he also claimed a named weapon took better care of the operator.

Walking to Jim's office, he felt the pistol's bulk under his arm. It seemed to balance his stride, as if he'd been nursing a limp without knowing it. Jim pulled a lockbox containing several stacks of IDs and passports from his desk drawer. “While you're stateside, use this. U.S. Marshal. It's one of your old ones, but you haven't aged much. We'll get new photos for you later. May need it to get around with a weapon.”

He pointed at Red's shoulder. “Almost scared to ask, but what'd you name her?”

Red checked the lock strap under his armpit. “Same as always. Lori.”

“Why always after your wife?”

Red's hand slipped back into his pocket around the paper. “She'll kick your ass when you're not looking.”

* * *

Red swiped his phone's screen: 14:28. He'd told his parents to let the kids know he'd arrive around three, so he had a few extra minutes. He set the parking brake in front of St. Andrew's Catholic Church and jogged up the stairs, through black double doors, beneath an aged-white steeple. Father Ingram was in his office, bent over a legal pad filled with blue ink scrawls. Guess the padre still couldn't type. He lifted his head, stood, and stretched out his arms. “The prodigal returns! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Red admired the priest's humanity, but never understood his reserved nature. After a two-handed shake across the desk, Father Ingram came around and sat next to him.

“Anyone told you what happened to Lori?” Red asked.

“No. Saw it on the news. You doing okay? Kids?”

“I'm going to be gone for a few days, father. I really need God on my side right now.”

Father Ingram tapped a pen on his knee, mouth open. “You know God doesn't work like that. The most important question to ask isn't of Him, but of yourself. Are you on God's side?”

The priest always had a way of pointing out the one thing Red had overlooked. “I guess so.”

He clapped his hands together. “Well, then there's nothing else to be said. You already have His blessing. I will pray for your faith and Lori's safe return.” He bowed his head and prayed quickly, never one to mince words.

At the
Amen
, Red shot up. “Sorry for the brief visit.” He pushed back his cuff. Still had fifteen minutes. “Mind if I have confession?” he asked, walking out of the office toward the booth.

Funny, really. Why did he feel comfortable with confession in the booth, but not Father Ingram's office? Something about the concealment, the anonymity, a division between sinner and saint, made it easier.

Growing up, Red had never considered himself religious. But Lori attended mass and took the kids. She invited him, but didn't hold it against him for not coming. Three years ago he'd gone with them once, then again, and eventually joined the church. Now he looked forward to unloading at confession every once in a while.

He closed the dark-paneled door and sat on a thin-legged wooden stool. Father Ingram's shirt rustled from the other side of the screen, The moving shadow meant he was crossing himself. Red did the same.

“Bless me, Father, for I've sinned. It's been three weeks since my last confession.”

“There is forgiveness and grace from God for those who ask.”

“I've killed two hundred and thirty-six men.”

Silence. Red looked down and brushed his foot in a circle on the sandy floor. Looked like the last person in the booth had stopped by on the way back from the beach. “Father?”

“I . . . What did you say?”

“I've killed two hundred and thirty-six men.”

“Since your last confession?”

“No. That's not what I meant.”

A sigh of relief came through the screen. “Good. I was thinking that was a bit much.”

“It's only been two since then.”

Silence again. The booth
rreeek-reeekkk
ed as Father Ingram shifted in his seat. His knee slapped the divider wall. “I . . . You pulling my leg?”

“No, Father.”

“I don't understand.”

“It was several years ago. Probably eight by now.”

“Why haven't you confessed this before?”

“I didn't remember.”

“You forgot?”

“Yeah.”

“You forgot to confess the killing of over two hundred men?”

“No. I forgot I'd killed them.”

“How?”

“It didn't happen all at once. I did it over a couple years.”

“Well shit, Red . . .” Father Ingram's shadow waved across the screen as he crossed himself again. “I mean . . . that doesn't make it any better.”

“I told you before that I was in the Air Force, right? I'd cross-commissioned into the Marines before. Volunteered for a special assignment. Ended up getting involved with . . . exceptional people. I think it was two hundred and thirty or so. But I didn't do it all myself.”

“That's a bit much for one man.”

“I did my share. Their blood's on my hands.”

“But you were ordered. It was part of your job. Right?”

“Yeah.” With his foot, Red drew the sand on the floor into a line.

“And it was to save lives of others, I hope?”

“Yes, Father. But since then I've joined the church. You've said you're not supposed to kill. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers' and all that shhh . . . stuff.”

The shadow leaned forward. “Listen. God didn't make Christians to be limp-wristed.”

Red kicked, cutting across the sand line. “Father?”

“There will always be wars, till He puts an end to them. In the meantime, He doesn't expect you to roll over and play dead. He's given you a family and expects you to protect them. If He puts you in the military, He expects you to obey your authorities best you can.”

Red tried to straighten the sand line back out, but it was jagged, like a serrated edge. “I'm back in. On a team to get her. You saying it's okay if I kill to do it?”

“Red, I can't tell you what's in your heart. That's above my pay grade. But if you've got to kill to get Lori back, be good at it.”

Red pushed his cuff back again, then slapped his knees and stood. “Thanks.”

“Not so long between visits.”

Red was out the door. Halfway down the nave Father Ingram called, “Tell Jim I said ‘Hello.'”

Red stopped.
How does he know Jim?
He continued down cement stairs striped with grip tape. Maybe his memory wasn't all back yet.

* * *

Penny was the last one to tuck in. She had her own room at Red's parents' house. The two boys shared another, like at home. Red couldn't help but smile at the pink walls in a pearlescent sheen, painted two-tone in a large diamond pattern. His mom had it done when Penny was only five, a special paint applied by air gun in multiple layers, the whole effect costing far too much for Tom's taste. “They grow too fast,” he'd complained. “In a couple years she'll be too grown up for it.”

Penny gazed up at Red now, eyes wide. “You're going to pick up Mommy tomorrow?”

“Going to try, sweetheart.” He stroked her fine blond hair.

“Did the police take her?”

“No, peanut. They're trying to find her. Someone else did.”

“Did they take her because you killed those bad men?”

He remembered wiping blood from Penny's face after the fight at Walmart. The enormous relief that none of it had been hers. He pushed back her hair with a knuckle and tucked it behind her ear, against the pillow. “No, nothing to do with that. Some different bad guys took her.”

She frowned, as if the thought of how many bad guys there might be in the world worried her. “When will you be back?”

“I don't know. Maybe a few days.”

“Will Mommy be with you?”

The nightlight cast small rainbows on the wall through a cut-glass push-pin at the corner of one pink diamond. Lori had stuck it there. A fuchsia band fell across a ballerina music box on the dresser. Last month the entire family had gone to Penny's ballet recital. Lori had glowed for days, pretending to dance around the house to the music in her head, proud of her daughter. “Wouldn't come back without her.”

“Will she be okay?”

Wow. How do you answer that one? “I'm going to make sure, sweetheart.” He hoped he could keep that promise. “Remember when you lost your watch—the one Grandma gave you that belonged to her mamma?”

Penny's mouth fell open. “That was scary!”

“And how we looked and looked until we finally found it—between your headboard and mattress? Well, Momma's worth more than a million of those. We won't stop looking till we've found her.”

“Won't the bad guys try to stop you?”

“Maybe. But we've got more bad guys on our side than they do.”

“You mean you're working with Uncle Jim again?”