Chapter 1 - Sunday

 

John Callen turned to face the cemetery and shivered despite the balmy heat of the late afternoon.

The past few days had been in the low eighties, indicating a sudden burst of Indian summer for the Ohio Valley, even though October was just around the corner.

John knew why he shivered. As he thought about it, he found himself shivering even more.

Death.  It's following me again.

It lost the trail when I was shipped home but somehow picked up the scent again after all these years.

Then he remembered that his aunt was standing beside him, gazing longingly at the grave.

"I really feel bad about not seeing Uncle John for so long, Aunt Meg," he said, putting his other feelings aside. "He was, after all, my dad's only brother.  I was even named after him.  And with both Mom and Dad gone, there's no one left.  Just you and me."

The slender, white-haired woman smiled.  Her smile, as always, made her deep-blue eyes sparkle like rare gems.  "He understood, Johnny. He always thought the world of you, and since we couldn't have kids of our own, we considered you our own." 

"I've always known that.  But…leaving me the deed to your house?"

"That's what he wanted. I certainly can't take care of it anymore. Not at my age. I have trouble moving around, my sciatica's getting worse, and I really don't have the desire to keep a place looking spotless. You’ll find that when you reach my age, your priorities change drastically. You can always sell it, you know.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Once I’m gone, I won’t care. And I can’t say as I would blame you. We both knew you wouldn’t want to relocate up here, so..."

John turned to his uncle's marker and realized again how utterly revolting such a stone was, serving as the solitary reminder of someone's death. The more he stared, the more he realized how revolting they all were, no matter how fancy you tried making them. Or what kind of stone you chose.  Or how many flowers you used to decorate them. 

A marker was simply a marker. No matter what you stuck on its face, it served only as a sad hint that the remains of someone lay beneath it.

And it didn't help seeing his name on its polished face.

 

JOHN EDWARD CALLEN

Beloved Husband of Margaret

 

"You're flying back to Orlando tonight?"

He had wanted to head home and get back to his software business, but inwardly he was debating whether he should visit his old friend, Buster Norton. 

Buster, who John hadn't seen since Iraq, lived in Bern, Ohio—just two hours west, on the Interstate. Buster had stepped on an IED about three months after the chopper had dropped them onto enemy soil and was shipped home immediately. While he and Buster had corresponded for a while before drifting apart, John always felt guilty about not visiting his old friend after being discharged.  John had been in the Pittsburgh area several times during the last couple of decades on business and to see his relatives but had never taken the opportunity to call or visit Buster. And despite the times he reminded himself of his duty to check on his former sidekick, something had always come up to change his plans.

John fully knew the reason he kept putting it off, and it was this reason alone that would forever keep them apart.

"I…have a friend in Bern," he told his aunt.  "We were in Iraq together."

"How long since you've seen him?"

He gazed into the deep blue orbs. It was always difficult, lying to this woman. Her eyes and her vulnerable, delicate-boned face made you want to bare your soul.  "Fifteen years," he said, his voice constricted.

"Why so long?"

He couldn't tell her the whole story. It was too horrible, for one thing; and he didn't think this gentle soul should hear such sadness so soon after the passing of her husband. 

She knew John had spent six months in Walter Reed. That much she learned from John's mother. However, the exact nature of his injuries had been carefully locked away—not only in the files of the U.S. Army, but also in the darkest recesses of John's brain.

"I always found it painful to relive Iraq. Buster was blown up not long after the chopper dropped us off over there.  He went home.  I stayed."

His aunt shivered. "How badly was he hurt?"

"Lost a leg. But he was lucky. When he got out of the hospital, he started working at the post office. He’s also been receiving full comp from the Military. He'll probably be in good shape financially when he decides to retire."

Aunt Meg took his arm. John couldn't help noticing how small and fragile it felt. How her hand seemed to disappear in the crook of his elbow. He remembered how strong and robust she was when he was little, picking up bricks and heavy lumber when she and Uncle John were having their house built.

The same house that would soon be his.

They walked a short way in silence. Then she said, "Your mother told me about your trouble. She was vague, of course. Probably because what the Army told her wasn’t that much. But she knew whatever had happened was bad. Very bad. Your father had already passed, of course, so he never knew what you went through.  But your mother did, and she told me how difficult it was, trying to be your mom once again after they sent you home."

"How did she know?  I never told her.  I always tried keeping things –- “

Aunt Meg smiled.  "She could see it in your eyes. She was your mother; she could feel what had happened to you."

John didn't reply; he was remembering the past. How his mother had aged so quickly after he'd returned home. Aged, then died just a couple of years later.

She saw—felt—what was in my head and knew she couldn't cope with it.

Can't blame her. 

Hell, I couldn't even handle it.

"I never liked telling others what to do."  Aunt Meg stood with her arms crossed over her tiny chest, looking at him. "But let me say this. Life is too precious and too short to spend it alone.  You know that; you probably knew it years ago. Turn around and look what's left of your uncle."  She sighed. "A cold stone marker. A chunk of granite, some flowers that will die in a day or so, and a mound of dirt." Her eyes filled, making them glitter. "And I'll never get another chance to tell him how much I loved him."

They hugged one another. 

Moments later, she recovered. Her eyes still sparkled.  She pulled away and looked at him. "Go see your friend, Johnny. You're not getting any younger.  None of us is.  Go see him so you can tell him how you feel.  Why you stayed away. Celebrate the fact that you’re both still alive and well."

"I…don't know if I can..."

"You can, believe me.  And no matter what happened back there, it's over now. It happened in another part of the world and in another lifetime, and you made it back. Now go see your friend and tell him what I just told you."

John studied the twinkling blue eyes, saw the hope in them, and the love that would be forever lost on the man lying beneath the stone marker just a few yards away. She would never again hug the man she loved for more than half a century.  And she wanted her beloved nephew to bury the past.

By bringing it back.

He suddenly realized how right she was. How incredibly, horribly right.

"I think I understand," he said, giving her one last hug and feeling a coldness that made him tremble down to his toes.

***

The Murphy twins sat in the front seat of the beat-up tan Ford pickup and eyed the blonde coming out of the rest stop bathroom.

"Sharp." Ron sat behind the wheel, finishing the tuna sandwich they had picked up along the way. "I like the way her ass fills those tight jeans."

"Wanna do ‘er, Ronnie?" Rich sipped some Coors. "Just bundle her up and stick her in back. For later. I don't think she'd put up much of a fuss. She might like it rough."

"You know better'n that." A scowl wrinkled his brother’s fair features.  "Got a job to do, and you know how much it's payin’.  Ain't no piece of ass worth that much jack."

The blonde unlocked the door of the shiny black Camaro two spaces down.  She bent her slim frame and slid inside. 

"Just thinkin’ out loud." Rich suppressed a belch.  "You know how long it's been since I been laid."

"Sure do.  Don't forget—you don't get laid, I don't get laid. But when we're through with this job, we'll get ourselves some top-quality stuff."

Rich grinned and sat back. He felt the familiar twitch between his thighs.

Pittsburgh chicks were about the best. Especially the ones working the Hilton.  They cost a bundle but were well worth it. Those bitches really knew how to treat a dude.

Ron switched on the ignition, put the truck in reverse, and backed out of their space. They got back on the Interstate and headed east, where they would soon earn a shitload of money for one night's work.

***

As John Callen headed west, he couldn't shake the icy feeling that had settled in the back of his neck.

This just didn't feel right.

Not at all...

But something kept him going, nonetheless.

Maybe it was the hope that, once he saw Buster again, everything would be fine. That whatever had happened back then remained dead and buried. And that the joy of seeing an old friend would overcome any old wounds.

He and Buster had met at Fort Benning, for Advanced Sniper Training.  John had taken Basic at Benning, while Buster had been shipped in from Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Benning had been seven weeks of pure hell and, although they all knew their ultimate destination, they'd celebrated their graduation with the same enthusiasm as a kid leaving home to be on his own for the first time in his life.

John was selected for sniper training. Though he'd not had much experience with firearms before his induction, he quickly proved to be a crack shot, and could hit just about anything up to one hundred and fifty yards without a scope.  At sniper school, he'd done near-perfect scores with the 7.62mm Knight’s Armament M110 rifle, the M2010 in .300 Winchester Magnum, and the Barrett M107 in .50 BMG., and was promptly shipped to Iraq, where he was attached to a squad of scout-snipers working the same infantry unit Buster had been assigned to.

His memories of the nocturnal hunts were sketchy, at best. Keeping the nauseating stench of lingering death from penetrating his pores had been nearly impossible. Despite what had transpired after being dropped off in the Ramadi desert in the middle of the night, he managed to avoid insanity, though even now he couldn't remember how he'd actually accomplished that amazing feat.

He recalled endless days and nights of lying on hard sand for hours, covered in burlap and shattered kindling, his .50 Barrett cradled tightly in his arms. Staying in the same position for forty-eight hours at a stretch, listening to the nearby babbling of the insurgents as they searched the terrain for the evil infidel who had savagely invaded their homeland.

Now, as he headed off for Ohio, John couldn't shake the mixed feelings muddling his mind. Feelings of anxiety for seeing his old friend again. Of utter dread for bringing up the shattered past—which was inevitable.

The closer John got to the small Ohio town of Bern, the more these cold feelings of apprehension ate away at him.

He knew what would happen soon after they saw each other again. 

Buster would undoubtedly ask him what had happened to their mutual friend, Bill Sebastian.

Like it or not, this would bring back the nightmare.

In bloody technicolor.

***

At six o'clock, Erika Larson checked the roast.

Looking good.

Now, if Paul doesn't come home late again, it might just prove to be an enjoyable evening.

The roast had been a sort of bribe to make sure the man came home, instead of spending half the night, as usual, in his Wheeling offices. It was his very favorite meal, and Erika had been careful to select the finest cut of meat, as well as his special brand of claret, to ensure the meal would be something very special.

Sipping her port, Erika tried remembering when their marriage had started showing signs of trouble. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced her two miscarriages had been instrumental.

The first had taken place five years ago, after they had celebrated their second anniversary. 

Paul had recently started up Larson & Associates, Ltd., and began spending long days at the office, making sure the software company was given the opportunity to take off.

Within two years, L&A did enough business to warrant a major move from its two-room office on the second floor of the Bern National Bank, to half a floor on Market Street in downtown Wheeling. Not long after, it was employing three other associates, establishing itself as a full-time business venture.

In just three years, it had made over three million dollars, expanded its operation to an entire floor, and boasted more than a dozen associates, producing software packages nationwide and gradually becoming one of Wheeling's top software distributors.

Erika suffered her second miscarriage last year. 

She came back from the hospital, spent three melancholy days in bed, and tried desperately to forget –- or, at least, accept -- her ordeal. 

Two days later, Paul flew to Tampa for a series of seminars. After a few half-hearted attempts to console Erika, he obviously preferred directing his efforts to his work rather than waste his valuable time struggling to help heal his ailing, despondent wife.

Erika longed for his support. She wanted to talk about their loss, their plans for the future. 

Perhaps his detachment was, in essence, what had started the deterioration. And, the more Erika thought about it, the more she realized that this strained silence had been like the slamming of a door.

She tried, during the past few months, to pry the door open. To push their relationship back where it had once been. While her efforts were sincere, she realized, almost at once, that she had been nudging a dead horse.

Their marriage had run its course. 

Now, as she sipped her port and contemplated the evening ahead, she told herself that, despite everything, she was going to give it yet another try.

She truly believed their marriage deserved at least that much.

***

The Murphy twins stopped in Zanesville and gassed up at a 7-Eleven just off the Interstate.

Ron was filling the tank when Rich strolled over.  "Wanna have some fun with the clerk?"

Ron shook his head.  "Got a schedule to keep.  Don't think we oughta –- "

"He's Indian," prompted Rich, a devilish smile on his handsome young face.  "Saw ‘im through the front window.  Haven't done one of them in a while."

"You sure about that?"

Rich grinned.  "Looks just like that sucker on The Simpsons.  Shit-colored skin?  One eyebrow?"

Ron tilted his blond head.  They hadn’t done in a foreigner in a while.  He thought of the stupid spic bitch that had cut them off in traffic a few months ago, back in Westerville. He clearly recalled how they'd followed her to the K-Mart and did her in her own car, Rich standing by the opened passenger door, gripping her ankles, Ron on the driver's side, crushing her windpipe with one powerful hand.  Watching the people going by, smiling politely as he did her in.

It had been fun, watching her kick and thrash in the seat...

"Guess we got a few extra minutes to kill," he said with a chuckle.

Grinning, the twins ambled to the front of the brightly lit store.