The Recruiter (A Thriller) (17 page)

Can it get much more pathetic than this?

After nearly two hours of tossing and turning, Julie Giacalone has gotten out of bed, thrown on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, poured herself a tall glass of whiskey and soda—heavy on the whiskey—and is now reading Samuel Ackerman’s service folder.

Next to all of the basic information—birthdate, social security number, etc.—is a small photo probably taken at one of the administrative offices. It shows a slightly younger Samuel Ackerman, wary but comfortable, looking into the camera with an expression that is difficult to gauge.

It is hard to tear her eyes from the image.

Even though she’s sickened by the memory of that look on his face, it still hurts. But the reason she feels so pathetic tonight is because, even though she knows he feels that way about her, she’s still turned on by the sight of him. She looks at his picture and goddamn if she doesn’t remember the coarse feel of his hands on her body.

Stop it!

She takes a long drink from her whiskey glass. Her hand shakes slightly as she brings the glass to her lips.

Her eyes are immediately drawn back to the picture. Ordinarily, the photos tend to make people look worse than they really are. Bad expressions, shitty color, poor exposures, the perfect recipe for high-school-yearbook-quality pictures.

But not Samuel.

Somehow the gritty black-and-white seems to etch his face in an even stronger light. It almost gives him a timeless quality. Like a gritty World War II photograph.

She takes another long drink. World War II photograph? Who is she kidding, besides herself? He’s not a god, for Christ’s sake.

So what is he?

Who
is he?

Julie leans forward and taps the keys on her computer. She watches as the screen tells her the computer has made its connection to the Internet. She navigates away from the home page—the Navy’s recruitment website of course—and accesses the Navy’s personnel records by giving her user ID and password.

She enters Samuel’s information, and his service record appears. It’s a very basic document, which shows his movement through the Naval ranks. There is little information other than his assignment history. Julie stares at the information, processing what little there is. She takes another drink of the whiskey and closes her eyes. What is it she thinks she’ll find? Samuel seems like every other kid the Navy brings in as an enlisted man—from a somewhat poor family, a high school diploma if he’s lucky, and a need for discipline and order, usually because they have none of it at home.

Julie clicks on Samuel’s ASVAB results. Armed Services Verification Ability Biography tests measures intellectual capacity.

Samuel’s score is high. It shows him to be a quick thinker with equal strengths in creativity and strategic execution. He also scored high in linguistic and analytical categories.

Julie closes the ASVAB section.

Suddenly, the real question, the real reason Julie Giacalone is looking at Samuel’s record at two in the morning, pops into her mind.

Why has he been made into a recruiter?

Julie has no illusions about her profession. It’s not the most highly valued position in the Navy. Granted, some very wonderful people are made into recruiters. They’re the first-class. Heroes in the Gulf War are often made into recruiters. People with extraordinary charisma and superior people skills are often made into recruiters too. But the fact is, there’s a second tier, another group of people who are made into recruiters for one simple reason: they’ve failed everywhere else. And in some cases, they are such giant fuckups that Navy command wants them as far from actual military operations as possible.

Which group is Samuel in?
Julie wonders. On a note pad next to her computer, she has jotted Samuel’s progression through the Navy. Basic training in South Carolina. His first deployment on the U.S.S.
Alabama
as a seaman. A rotation back home, assignment to Pensacola. A second deployment on the U.S.S.
Michigan
. Another rotation back home for his request to take BUD/S training. He failed to pass that, then was rotated back to Pensacola for ordnance. And then transferred back to Michigan for recruiting duty.

Julie looks back over the record. A lot of movement for a sailor, but then again, nothing terribly out of the ordinary. Sailors are constantly being moved and rotated and deployed. It’s a nomadic life.

Still, Julie looks back at the information before her. Two questions immediately jump out at her. One, why such a short time in ordnance in Pensacola? And two, why did he drop out of BUD/S training? The latter is easily explained. She has heard the numbers—over half don’t make it through the incredibly difficult SEAL training. But Samuel’s sheer physicality seems to preclude the issue of strength and endurance. She remembers his body, as firm as chiseled granite. If he did break down, it wasn’t from a physical failing. It was probably mental. But even that doesn’t sit right with her. He’s so calm. So confident. So assured. Something must have gone terribly wrong for him at BUD/S training. So what was it? What made him drop out?

She jots down the name of Samuel’s CO in Pensacola, as well as the name of the BUD/S instructor in charge during Samuel’s training.

The last name strikes a chord with her.

Larry Nevens.

She drains the last of the whiskey in her glass, shuts down the computer, and walks back to her bedroom. Her eyes are already half-lidded as sleep beckons her. A last thought flashes through her mind before sleep overtakes her.

Larry Nevens.

Why does that name sound familiar?

Peter is sitting outside Beth’s house at four thirty in the morning.

It feels like the height of stupidity.

He is stretched out in the third row of seats at the back of the Explorer—the same bench seat on which he and Vanessa had gone at it. He rests his head back and closes his eyes. That had been one hell of a night. A night he’ll never forget. He’d called Vanessa afterward, but she refused to return his call. He’d tried a couple more times then given up. He guessed that his reaction to Beth leaving had been a major turnoff for Vanessa. He could see how it might have ruined the moment; the sight of him running across the parking area with his pants around his ankles. Not exactly an image you’d see on the cover of a romance novel.

Peter closes his eyes.

He thinks about the upcoming summer. He’ll only have a month, month and a half, before he heads out to Milwaukee and Marquette University. Training camp starts early.

Even with the fair amount of upperclassmen returning to Marquette, Peter knows he’ll get some good playing time, some good opportunities to show everyone what he can do. And then in his sophomore year, there should be no question that he’ll be made a starter—

The sound of a car slowing and turning into Beth’s driveway rouses him from his half slumber, half vigil.

He swings into a sitting position and peeks out the Explorer’s window at Beth’s driveway. He’s parked a block over, shielded by thick Dutch elm trees lining the boulevard, which are spaced just wide enough for him to get an unobstructed view of Beth’s driveway.

He doesn’t recognize the car.

He glances at his watch.

Four thirty.

Pretty late, Beth,
he thinks.

Peter studies the car. It looks like a Taurus. It’s white. He can make out two shapes: one in the driver’s seat, and a smaller shape, Beth, in the passenger seat. From here, all he can make out are silhouettes.

Peter makes his way to the front seat of the Explorer, turns the keys in the ignition and starts the truck, all without taking his eyes from the car in Beth’s driveway. It appears that they’re talking. About what? Jesus Christ, it’s four thirty in the morning! What more is there to say to each other than good night?

Now, Peter sees movement in the front of the car.

They’re kissing.

He can see the shapes pressing against each other. A long, hard kiss.

Peter has a jealous anger burgeoning in his stomach. He realizes that he has no right to be jealous, not after his tryst with Vanessa. But still, he’s only human.

Suddenly, the sinking feeling in his stomach turns to rage. At himself. At Beth. At whoever’s behind the wheel of the white Taurus.

He slaps his hands against the Explorer’s steering wheel.

And then it all comes together at once.

The car. It looks like a government vehicle. Who the fuck would drive a white Taurus by choice?

It’s a Navy vehicle.

And the driver is the recruiter.

The goddamn, low-life, scum-sucking recruiter. It isn’t bad enough that he wants to screw with Beth’s future. He has to screw her in the process.

The passenger door of the Taurus opens, and Beth gets out. Peter sinks down behind the wheel, but she doesn’t look in his direction. Peter’s eyes consume her, the way her face looks pale in the faint glow from the Taurus’ headlights.
Does she look different?
Peter wonders.
Like a girl who just had sex?

Impossible to tell.

She goes to the front door of the house, pulls her keys from her purse, and unlocks the door. She reaches for the door, puts her hand on the handle, and then slowly, purposefully, she turns and looks directly at Peter.

His breath catches in his throat.

Blood rushes to his face as his heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t duck, doesn’t want to create movement. Does she see him? For just an instant, he’s terrified that she’s going to let the door swing shut, pivot, and march directly to him, and then curse him out for spying on her. Make a fool of him in front of the recruiter and whoever else happens to be awake at this time of night.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she turns, seemingly unfazed by the sight of Peter’s Explorer, if in fact she saw it at all, and steps inside the house. When the door closes, the backing lights of the Taurus light up, and the car reverses out into the street, turns, and drives past Peter.

Peter raises back up in his seat and gets a good look at the face of the driver. The dark, handsome face of the driver.

The guy who just took from Beth that which she’d kept protected from everyone, even Peter.

Her virginity.

Peter feels a fury so deep and so profound that he can barely breathe.

As the Taurus passes, Peter drops the Explorer into gear, waits a few moments to put some distance between them, and then pulls out onto the street.

It’s time he and the recruiter had a little chat.

Samuel pulls away from Beth’s house, intoxicated by her smell, her taste, the very
feel
of her.

He never imagined this feeling. It is a complete surprise to him that here, of all places, goddamned Lake Orion, he would meet somebody like Beth.

He pulls up to a stoplight and looks at the empty streets. It’s impossible to believe. He’s been with lots of women, women from different parts of the world, but they all lacked something.

So after all his travels, all of his years fucking around, he comes back to Lake Orion and falls in love.

No. He’s not in love.

The half smile on his face falls gently away.

He can’t be in love.

Now’s not the time for love.

He’s got to ship Beth out.

Kiss ’em and ship ’em. That’s the motto, right?

He turns the Taurus onto Water Street, headed back toward his apartment. The streets are deserted and a thin sheet of ice has appeared on the road, free from the constant pulverizing action of countless tires. He handles the car easily and cautiously. He’s in no hurry.

Samuel parks, gets out of the car, feels the bite of the chilly wind, and starts to walk toward his front door.

He hears the sound of the car pulling to a stop and doesn’t bother to look back until he hears the car door slam and the voice call out.

“Hey.”

Samuel turns slowly, already knowing who it’s going to be.

The ex-boyfriend. Samuel feels a range of emotions, but admittedly, one of the more powerful ones is sheer smugness. What kind of complete idiot would fail to see what he had in Beth?

“We have to talk.”

“Who are you and why are you telling me we need to talk at four thirty in the morning?” Samuel says.

The ex-boyfriend comes up and stands close to Samuel, too close. They stand eye to eye, but Samuel is thicker, more solid, even though the ex-boyfriend has an athletic build.

“I’m the one who’s going to tell you to leave Beth alone. She’s got no business going into the Navy. You’re fucking up her future just so you can get another bonus point with your superiors. That’s how it works, right?”

Samuel’s mind comes alive with the logistics and plans and ramifications that this punk’s confrontation could lead to. He makes his decision. It’s the only one he really can make.

He forces an easy smile on his face, holds his hands wide. “I’ve got no plans to pressure Beth into doing anything with her life she doesn’t want to do,” Samuel says. “But why don’t we go inside and talk so the neighbors don’t call the cops.”

The kid starts to protest and grabs Samuel’s arm, but Samuel turns on his heel, wrenches his arm free from the kid’s sudden grasp, unlocks the front door, and steps through. If the kid wants to continue talking, he’s got no choice.

The kid follows Samuel inside.

Samuel flicks on the lights. His apartment isn’t much to look at. A living room with beige carpet, a cheap furniture set, and a small eating area just off the kitchen.

“Want a beer?”

“What do you mean you won’t pressure her? That’s the biggest line of bullshit I’ve ever heard. You’re a fucking recruiter. You have to recruit a certain number of people or you…don’t get fired…but you get—”

“Reassigned,” Samuel lies easily. The truth is, he’s on the eve of being dishonorably discharged if he doesn’t come through with these recruits. But he’s not about to tell the punk. He’s going to have to finesse this one. He’s taken enough chances already. Now’s not the time to make a mistake. Even so, he feels the pain in his temple begin to throb. He’s tired. The kid better not push it.

“Did you—” the kid asks suddenly.

Samuel exhales. Patience, he tells himself. “Look, why don’t you ask her?”

“I’m asking you, asshole. And I don’t know why, because I don’t believe a word you’re saying. You’re after her to recruit her and then to move on.”

“Why are you so worried? She told me she’s not seeing anyone.”

The kid shuts his mouth.

“She said she was dating someone who turned out to be an asshole,” Samuel continues, a smile on his face, and glee in his heart. “I assume you’re the asshole?”

“Fuck you,” the kid says. He gets to his feet, his hands nearly shaking, his face flushed with rage. “I’m putting a stop to this,” his voice rises in volume. “I’m telling you, stay away from Beth. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure she doesn’t get taken in by your bullshit. Move on, you fucking prick.”

“Too late.” An icy chill has crept down Samuel’s back. The pain in his head is pounding but his vision is clear. He feels strong and invincible.

“Too late for what?”

“Too late for her not to be taken in.”

“What? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means the answer is yes.”

“Yes? To what?”

“Yes,” Samuel says, the words coming softly and coated with sugar. “Yes, I fucked her. Several times, in fact.”

The kid comes at him, incredibly quick, far quicker than Samuel thought he would move, but Samuel, sitting, already had his hand on the knife strapped around his ankle. It’s out in a flash, and Samuel rises, ducking inside the wild punch, ramming the knife home. It sinks into the kid’s chest, and Samuel rips it up, cutting a swath through the internal organs. The kid gasps, as if he’s been sucker punched, and staggers back. He drops to his knees.

Samuel darts to the kitchen table, pulls the vinyl tablecloth, sets it on the floor, and pushes the kid onto it. The blood pools onto the vinyl cloth.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her,” Samuel says.