Threshold (3 page)

Had the man’s baritone scream not been contained by the thick metal and glass of the classic car, anyone who heard it might have mistaken the cry for that of a local moose. As it was, no one heard the man, or saw him, again.

TWO

2010

“JACK SIGLER, PLEASE
take the stand.”

Jack Sigler, call sign King, sat down on the stand next to the Honorable Judge Samantha Heinz, who had been staring at him with distrust since he walked into the courtroom. It was an unfortunate circumstance that most military child-custody cases involved the active-duty father losing his family for one unsavory reason or another. Ultimately, King knew most of the soldiers were not to blame—combat tended to do awful things to those not wired for it. And most people weren’t. He looked at the judge as she stared down at him over her thick glasses.

As the bailiff swore him in, King thought about the path that had brought him, one of the world’s most elite soldiers, to a custody hearing. Six months earlier he had been summoned to the Siletz Reservation in Oregon by, he believed, his lifelong friend and the former fiancé of his deceased sister, George Pierce. But the message turned out to be phony, and when King arrived at the reservation he had found it in ruins. The town was in flames. Thousands of people were dead. And mysteriously, a little girl appeared in the backseat of his car with a note pinned to her:

King—this one is for you. I’ve gone after the rest.

The symbol belonged to Alexander Diotrephes, a man King believed to be the historical, and living, Hercules. His team had first encountered the man two years previous while searching for a way to stop the Hydra—one of Hercules’s ancient foes reborn by modern genetics. Alexander had been aloof and mysterious, commanding a loyal following he called the Herculean Society and strange creatures they deemed wraiths. Before disappearing he had provided them with the means to stop the Hydra’s ability to regenerate its body and to kill it. But he hadn’t been seen since, and all efforts to track him down led to dead ends. The symbol on the note was the only proof they had that the man still existed.

Believing the girl was in grave danger, he took her to Fort Bragg where she could be under constant supervision and protection, not just by the team, but also by the thousands of Special Forces troops stationed at Bragg. Short of a nuclear missile strike, there was no safer place on earth. But that did not satisfy North Carolina’s Division of Social Services office, who could not accept that a twelve-year-old orphan could be raised successfully by a team of Delta operators.

King looked around the oak courtroom, smelling the dry, dusty air. The room was essentially devoid of people, with only a child welfare representative, the bailiff, court reporter, and judge present.

The judge cleared her throat. “Mr. Sigler, as you know, this hearing is really just a formality. You have the support of some very impressive people, not the least of which is the president of the United States. That you will receive temporary custody of Fiona Lane is a foregone conclusion. However, I do not lack resources of my own, so if I feel for a moment that you are being facetious or dishonest with me, I will make such a stink that even you will beg for mercy.”

She didn’t know exactly who King was, but she knew his line of work, that he was close to the president, and that all other details of his professional life were classified.

“I understand,” he said.

“Good.” She straightened some papers on her desk and stared at them for a moment. “Then I have a few simple questions for you and you can be on your way.”

King nodded.

The judge smiled. “You know, almost every single time I’ve said that to a soldier, the response has been ‘fire away.’”

“Happy to disappoint.”

“Fiona Lane. Interesting name for a Native American.”

There was no question in the statement, but King thought the woman might be testing his knowledge of Fiona’s past. “Many Native Americans adopted more English-sounding names. Her grandfather renamed himself George Lane. Her grandmother became Delores Lane. Her father was also named George and her mother was Elizabeth. But Fiona’s middle name is more traditional. Apserkahar. It means Horse Rider.”

She gave him a good squint and then asked, “Is Fiona Lane in danger?”

“Absolutely,” he replied.

“From whom?”

“That’s classified, ma’am.”

“‘Your Honor,’ thank you. Is she safe?”

“As safe as she can be, Your Honor.”

“Is she safe with
you
?”

“I would give my life to protect hers.”

The judge’s eyes widened a bit. “I’m not sure I buy that.”

“It’s what I do, Your Honor. I would give my life to protect yours as well.”

That got a genuine smile from the judge. “Is this what you do in your line of work, Mr. Sigler? Risk your life to save others?”

“It’s the duty of every enlisted soldier.”

She looked back down at her desk, mumbling an affirmative but noncommittal “Mmm.”

“And what about her special needs?”

This brought a confused look to King’s face. The term “special needs” instantly made him think of people with developmental disabilities, but Fiona certainly didn’t fit in that category. She was brilliant, funny, and because she insisted on participating in many of the team’s training exercises, was more active than the average twelve-year-old girl. “Excuse me?”

The judge looked at a sheet of paper, head turned up, eyes looking down so she could read through the lower half of her bifocals. “It says here that she has type one diabetes.”

King tried to show no reaction and thought,
Since when is diabetes a special need?

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said.

“Tell me about it.”

“Her diabetes?”

“Yes.”

“As you said, she has type one diabetes. It presented three years ago. While on the reservation she managed it with insulin shots. We now have her on an insulin pump.”

The judge nodded and made a note. “Last question, Mr. Sigler.”

He looked up at her, thankful that the experience was almost over. Accustomed to fatigues or T-shirt and jeans, the suit he wore—bought specifically for this occasion—was uncomfortable and hot. His black hair was neatly combed, rather than its typically slightly unkempt state. And the smooth skin of his face, usually covered in a thin layer of scruff, highlighted his strong jaw while revealing a few small scars.

She leaned over, looked him dead in the eyes, and asked, “Will you be a good father?”

King froze. It was not a question he’d been expecting. His own father had left when he was sixteen, three months after his sister, Julie, died in an air force training accident. And before he left the man had been far from a model father. As a result, King had never pictured himself having children of his own and dreaded the idea of being a father. If the rest of the team hadn’t backed out of the job, if someone else had recovered Fiona from Siletz, if she had not bonded to him so quickly, or if there were anyone else he felt could protect her as well, he would not be in this courtroom.

“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I will.”

The judge looked at him for another moment and then sat back. “Very well. The court finds that Mr. Sigler is fit to be the foster parent of Fiona Lane and grants him temporary custody of her, effective immediately.”

“Your Honor.” The child welfare representative stood up. “The state would like to request visiting rights so that we might be able to keep detailed progress notes on Ms. Lane’s education, home life, and an accurate appraisal of her safety inside the confines of Fort Bragg. When the powers that be determine that Fiona is safe to live outside the protection of Fort Bragg and Mr. Sigler, we would like to find her a permanent home with a stable adoptive family.”

The judge turned to King. “Is this acceptable to you?”

King nodded. “Yes.”

Two knocks sounded as the judge brought her gavel down twice. “Court adjourned. You’re free to go, Mr. Sigler.”

“All rise,” the bailiff said loudly.

As King was the only person seated, aside from the court reporter, he stood and watched the judge exit the room swiftly. When she was gone, he stepped down from the stand and walked toward the back of the courtroom, not looking anyone in the eye as he did so. If he had, they might have seen the guilt that took all his effort to hide from the judge.

He’d lied under oath.

He dreaded the idea of being a father and knew it was one job he was not qualified for. But there was no choice. Fiona had to be kept safe; not because he cared for her as a father should, but because she was the only lead they had in the investigation of an event that took thousands of American lives. Solving
that
problem
was
his job, which made Fiona his job as well.

For now,
King thought.

*   *   *

KING HAD SEVERAL
meetings after the hearing and then went out for a drink. He told himself he needed to think, but the truth was he was afraid to go home. King, leader of the most elite Special Ops team in the U.S. military, was afraid of a twelve-year-old girl. His mind was a tangle of thoughts as he tried to figure out how he would handle this new, very foreign responsibility. Could he raise a child, even for a short time? He could protect her, sure, but could he give her all the other things a kid needed? Education? Affection? Love?

As he sipped his Sam Adams he decided the first thing he’d do was have only one drink. Wanting to get his mind off his worries, he turned his attention to the TV. CNN was covering, as usual, the rants of one Senator Lance Marrs of Utah—who looked like a wrinkly Pillsbury Doughboy with slick hair and angry eyes. After losing the last election to Tom Duncan, Marrs had made a career out of spouting fear-based propaganda that blamed President Duncan for everything from 9/11 to the nation’s financial woes that began two administrations ago. And the cable networks ate it up, adding a thick dose of bias and regurgitating it for the masses.
I’ll stick with PBS,
King thought, before requesting the channel be changed. He nursed his beer for another hour, giving up on it when the brew reached room temperature. He left the glass half empty and headed home, knowing Rook, who was babysitting, would be eager to start his Friday night.

Good-bye Friday-night drinks,
King thought, as he pulled up to his modest two-bedroom ranch home at Fort Bragg.
Hello Saturday-morning cartoons
.

King opened the front door. The air inside smelled of popcorn and spray paint, which was odd but not unexplainable. What bothered him was that all the lights were out.
Why does Rook have the lights off?

Rook, who was a natural with Fiona thanks to his many sisters, usually had her in bed by nine and waited for King’s return in front of the TV. King looked into the open concept kitchen. Not even the microwave clock was on. A quick glance outside at the lit streetlights confirmed his fear. Only
his
power was out.