Sweepers (40 page)

“Your boss is a most devious boss,” Hiroshi observed, getting up. “I will release the night dogs now. When will you leave in the morning?”

Around ten or so. I’ll need time to go over my plans with Commander Lawrence. And I badly need some real sleep.”

Hiroshi nodded again. “This woman has no husband?” he asked. “He died about a year ago-She remains sad.”

Hiroshi cleared his throat. “What?” Train asked. “Kyoko says not that sad.”

Train eyed the old man. “Don’t you start, Hiroshi.”

“Kyoko says Train-sama must open his eyes. Hiroshi says Kyoko is interfering old woman. Hiroshi says-“

“Hiroshi says good night.”

There was the barest hint of a smile on the old man’s lips.

“Hiroshi says good night, Train-sama.”

Train smiled to himself as the old man closed, the double doors behind him. Kyoko had been after Train to get a wife for’about ten years now, and old Hiroshi had probably been threatened with severe chastisement if he failed to pass along her message about Karen. Not that sad. He chuckled.

Then he put in the diskette and forced his weary eyes to focus on the screen. He had to enter a standard NIS access code and then his personal security identifier code before the file would open.

The file began with a biographic history. John Lee Sherman. Lee and Sherman, now there was an interesting apposition of last names. Born in San Diego, California, January 1967. Parents William Taggart Sherman, Marcia Kendall, aka Beth Sherman. There followed a laundry list of residences tracking the admiral’s duty stations, and a schools list, which terminated in 1986 With graduation from Washington -and Lee High School. A homeboy. Right here in the Washing I ton area.

The military service section picked up the bio. Enlisted in the Marines at Quantico, Virginia, on 5 December 1987.

Four months of basic at Parris Island, three months of advanced infantry training at Lejeune, and then joins the recon battalion. Well, well, well. The recon battalion was the Man . the Corps version of Special Forces troops. Kid must have done exceptionally well to be picked up right out of the training pipe. When Train had been in the Corps, you couldn’t even apply for recon until you’dserved successfully in the Fleet Marine Force for at least a year. And yet his father had said the kid got into the Corps via what the recruiters euphemistically used to call “a judicial referral.”

That didn’t square with the elite recon assignment. So, young Jack must have had either a unique skill set or a unique personality. Train was ready to bet on the personality. He scrolled down to the discharge info.

Hello. A bad conduct discharge in January 1990. That meant a special courtmartial and something relatively serious.

He scrolled up and checked out the last physical description in the bio: five-seven, black hair and brown eyes, 155 pounds. That was still pretty accurate, even now, except for that scraggly beard. He yawned and hid to blink his eyes to keep them focused. Got to get some sleep.

The physical description dated back to Jack’s graduation from boot camp.

A little guy, by Marine Corps standards.

And yet his pack and-gear would have weighed more than one-third of his own body -weight, so a. very strong little guy. Little was the wrong word; wiry better described it. He paged down to the section on criminal records, which was in two parts, preenlistment and then the subsequent civilian entries. Sure enough, there was his teenage track record, with three arrests, one for breaking and entering, one for drunk and disorderly, one for possession. But no convictions. Three arrests in two years, but no convictions. A snitch maybe? His father said he ran with bad company.

Maybe a gang. He windowed further into the arrest record and looked for adjudication codes. PB-plea bargain on the last arrest, the B and E beef. Off to the county boot camp.

the police boot camp to the Marine boot camp, which explain why he had done well. Already knew how to say, “Sir, yes, sir!” at the top of his lungs, “What’s the right answer, maggot?”

“Sir, anything you say it is, sir!”

A genius-level recruit by Corps standards.

He sat back from the screen. A high school grad, but with marginal grades. Three arrests, lowlife punk type, goes to police boot camp.

That in itself was a little strange, given his age, which had to have been around nineteen. Then he gets into the Corps. Thirty years ago, he could have accepted that on face value. But this had happened in 1987, and things had become a whole hell of a lot more selective by 1987. Even with his old man pulling a few strings, this just didn’t sound like the kind of guy the Corps -wanted.

He screened up the military record. the Page Thirteen showed assignments and promotions. Boot camp. Advanced training. He had joined the recon battalion in the fall of 1988. Promoted one pay grade June 1989. BCD seven months later. The Page Thirteen had an entry listing the special courtmartial but not the charges and specs. JAG records ought to have that. Maybe Karen could get them on He thought about it. If a guy didn’t work out in the rec force, he’d be shipped back to the FMF until his hitch was up. But this had to involve more than just a misfit. A special courtmartial, and a poisonous discharge paper that he would carry around for the rest of his life.

And there was the post-enlistment civilian arrest record.

Possession of marijuana. DUI and speeding on a motorcycle.

A second DUI charge that was later dropped due to contested evidence. An assault charge, dropped because the complainant had failed to appear in court. Regular pond slime, our boy Jack. But all low-level stuff.

Train considered the current address. Most of the Cherry Hill area overlooked the Potomac, separated from the river itself by the main north-south line of the railroad that serviced Washington.

He closed the file and shut down the PC. He rubbed his eyes and then looked at his watch. It was well after eleven.

Suddenly, he was very sleepy. He tried to conceptualize a pattern out of the file on Jack Sherman, but nothing surfaced. The admiral had told them he divorced his wife in 198 1, when Jack would have been just entering high school.

Mother a drunk, kid in the full emotional flame of male adolescence, and Pop bails to save his career. Good recipe for producing a bent kid.

Yeah, like you know anything about. Still, Sherman had achieved the pinnacle of his profession, admiral’s stars, while his wife ended up eating a gun and his only son was probably hustling pot to the riffraff who hung around the main gates of the Quantico base. And even those brand-new stars hadn’t saved Sherman the moment there was a whiff of scandal. That exclusive club he’d been dying to join for so many years was apparently ready to deep-six him.

Or were they? Carpenter had assigned Karen Lawrence and Train von Rensel to run some cover for him, or at least until Karen’s abduction. The tasking had become ambiguous, as if Carpenter was suddenly scared of something more than just bad press for the Navy. Now Sherman was apparently missing, but Carpenter and company didn’t seem very concerned about that. There had to be something they knew-some bits of privileged information flickering around that, famous flag-protection circuit-that Carpenter, for some odd reason, wasn’t going to share with them.

He stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace while Gutter snored quietly in the comer of the study. The hot coals swam in and out of focus. This whole case was being expertly steered into a box canyon of some kind. Surely Mcnair and the Fairfax police had access to the same kinds of information NIS did. So why hadn’t they found Jack?

Who was telling them to back out, and why were they so willing to go along? Local cops hated federal interference.

And there was the FBI, fence-sitting, trying to decide between helping out and letting the agency they loved to hate get another political black eye.

He kept coming back to Carpenter. What did that wily old man really want them to do?

e stretched at his desk, then immediately regretted it. shoulder muscles were sore as hell from the helo hoist, and his right leg had the makings of a really good charley. horse. Then another thought struck him: If they weren’t supposed to go after Galantz, did that perhaps mean Carpenter expected Galaitz to come after them? Take Karen somewhere safe. And do what? Wait. Wait for Galantz to come to them. And when he does … what? Were they bait now?

He shook his head. He was missing something here. But more than anything, he was too tired to think. it was time to climb up in his tree and get some desperately needed sleep.

He got up to close the screen and glass doors on the fire, considered going upstairs, then flopped down on the big leather couch instead. His last thoughts before drifting off were about Karen.

Karen woke up, to find herself actually out of the bed and standing in a comer of the guest room, her heart pounding.

She couldn’t remember the dream, other than having a desperate desire to run. She listened for signs of life downstairs, but the house was silent except for the occasional creaks and cracks of an old house’s bones. Her nightgown was soaked with perspiration from the nightmare. She took it off P and went into the bathroom, where she used a wet washcloth to sponge away the film of fear. She appropriated a terrycloth bathrobe hanging on The back of the bathroom door and went back to sit on the edge of the bed, where she stared through the sheer curtains covering the window. There appeared to be. a heavy fog or mist outside that hid even the big trees surrounding the house.

She wondered where Train was.-Down the HAII9 She had been so sleepy at dinner, but now she was afraid to go back to sleep, even though her eyes were aching. She recalled his words at dinner: that there are worse men; there are better men. She would never QTWIL the bitter coil of anger at the fact that Frank had cheated on her. And yet, as a philosophy for the rest of her life, the “better men” thesis would be a hell of lot more productive.

She eased the bedroom door open and went downstairs, walking on tiptoes past the other bedroom doors along the hall on her way there. There was a single night-light on in the main hall, and light showing through the open study doors. She was halfway into the room when she realized Train was asleep on the couch. He was on his back, his massive hands folded on his chest. She walked over to the’ couch, silent as a ghost in her bare feet, and watched him for a minute. His face looked younger in repose, the lines and furrows in his face less pronounced. She spied the brandy decanter across the room, walked over and poured a small measure into a snifter, took a sip, and made a face.

Strong stuff, whatever it was.

She went back, sat down on the floor next to the couch, and breathed in the aroma of the Armagnac. So what are we doing here? she asked herself.

You know full well what you’re doing here. You’ve had the stew scared out of you and now you want a man, a big strong man, to hold you and love you and make it all go away, if only for a while.

That2s silly. That stereotype went out the window a long time ago.

Oka-a-y-y, so maybe he’d like someone to hold him, love him, and make it all go away. Look at the lines on his face, the bags under his eyes. The poor beast is exhausted. Hell, we’re both exhausted.

She smiled to herself in the darkness. All these rules.

You’re forty-four years old. Just exactly how long do you plan to abide by other people’s rules? Frank is gone. They had had ten years, and if he had been unfaithful, he’d at least been discreet about it. And he’d been a pretty good provider. This Sherman mess was going to come to a head f some kind, probably behind some closed flag office doors, and then what? She would be leaving the Navy and the career and all the rest of it.

She watched him sleeping, then just let her thoughts wander for a while-about her life, choices made and avoided, her ten years with Frank. She thought about this mess with Sherman. Behind the applause of flag selection, what a shambles that poor man had made of his life. Some things of value. It was ironic that Galantz seemed to have a better appreciation for which things really were of value in this life. She looked back at Train, and was surprised to find him awake and watching her.

“Did you swipe my Armagnac?” he asked.

“Not uilty. Fetched my own.”

“Anything else I can do for you, Counselor?”

She looked right at him, touching him with her eyes, and then he’was swinging himself off the couch and up into a sitting position, lifting her to him, kissing her hard, no more control now, just a hungry wanting that lit her up from one end to the other like a tungsten filament. They kissed while working hurriedly on each other’s robes, and, then he stretched out full length on his back and pulled her up onto his body.

She arched her back as he explored with his hands and his lips, and then she did some exploring of her own, stopping, almost alarmed, when she realized how big he was. She swallowed hard.

He pulled her knees forward, lifting her hips, kissing her breasts, letting her labia rub along the full length of him, keeping it flat against his belly until she started to tremble uncontrollably with her own desire.

“You do it, Karen,” he whispered. “Go slow.”

She leaned all the way forward and reached behind her to guide him in, moaning when she felt his heat begin to fill her up while she lifted and then pushed backward, slowly, but seemingly forever, her belly fusing finally with his. He didn’t move, just let her absorb him without discomfort, and then he was unfolding her legs backward, stretching her out full length on top of him. And then he did move, slowly, carefully, until she responded, and then, the first time, it went fast, very fast, her fingers clawing at the leather of the couch, his hands bouncing her hips harder and harder as she climbed the mountain, until she stopped, her breath caught in her throat, her whole physical being suffused with the power of her climax.

She collapsed over him; muscles humming, the edges of a cramp in her legs, her breath shuddering out of her in sobbing gusts until she was able to get it under control. He was still inside, still hard, and she was almost afraid to move. But then he was pulling her knees up again, gently lifting her into a straddling position on his hips, his big hands on her breasts, massaging them, rolling her nipples through his fingers while he moved inside of her, going deeper, the flat, hard muscles of his groin pressing harder and harder against her own, summoning the fire again. As she felt him rising to his own climax, she took over, driving the rhythm while watching him through slitted eyes, her hair damp and hanging down over her forehead, the taste of sweat and his hot kisses in her mouth as she rocked above him, locking him in and going faster, feeling his hands go weak and then his breath catching, his hips lifting up in one werful deep thrust that felt as if it would split her in two PO as he came, filling her belly with an intense warmth.