I felt myself being drawn into Crystal’s problem, like water circling a drain. I didn’t want to become involved, but I knew I might not have a choice.
“The cop knew Crystal’s name?” I asked.
Chester shook his head. “He didn’t seem to, but he gave an accurate description. And he said he saw her come in here last night.”
“Did you know him?”
“I didn’t.”
Chester knew all the cops from his police district, I knew that for a fact. That meant the cop was either from another district, or he was new to this one. Or, perhaps, he wasn’t a cop at all.
“Did you ask for ID?”
“No, I didn’t think to. Darn!”
“Don’t worry about it. If he wasn’t a cop, he probably had a fake ID that would pass inspection. Did he give a name?”
The priest nodded. “Barry... something.”
“Barry what?”
He looked away, then back. “I can’t remember. What do we do now?”
“I have a friend with contacts in DPD looking into similar murders.”
“And Crystal?”
“If they’re looking for her, I guess she couldn’t be much safer than with me, for now. Particularly if there’s a cop involved. Still, I’d like to eventually get her situated somewhere else—maybe out of town.”
“She said she doesn’t have anyone,” Chester said.
“She told me the same thing.”
“Maybe I can find somewhere for her. I know a number of pastors out of Denver who might be able to set something up. At least for a while.”
“That would be good. What can you tell me about her?”
“Just that she comes in for the lunch about half the time. I tried to get her into a drug rehab program in October, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with it. And I gave her a coat and gloves a couple days ago.”
“She didn’t have either last night when she came to my door.”
“She had them when I saw her. Probably sold them for drug money between here and your place.”
I nodded. “By the way, what’s her last name?”
“I don’t know. She never would tell me.”
“Is Crystal even her first name?”
Chester shrugged. After a few seconds, he said, “I guess you’ll be around for the holidays.”
“I guess so.”
“Can I count on you to help with Christmas dinner again this year?”
“I’ll be there, unless something comes up.” Each year on Christmas, Chester served turkey and all that goes with it to two thousand of Denver’s less fortunate. He provided toys for the kids, and soap and other toiletries for the adults. The past two years I’d helped out on the serving line.
“Good. Is there anything else, John?”
I got to my feet. “No, I don’t think so.” Then I said, “Yes, there is something. I passed a guy in the hall coming out of Father Groff’s office.”
Chester gave me a blank stare.
“Tall, large, light gray suit, curly white hair and beard.”
“That would be Senator Arnold Hogan. He’s donating three hundred high-end ski parkas to the church for distribution to the poor, everything from small children to large adult—just in time for Christmas.”
It made sense that Groff would talk to the senator about his donation. The assistant pastor handled the money side of the parish business, while Chester did the hands-on, people stuff. Groff would take possession of the coats, making sure they were inventoried and properly written off. Later, Chester would hand them out to those who needed them.
“That’s a fine gesture,” I said.
“It is. But there’s a stipulation on his donation. Several groups of people can’t receive them. Certain undesirables.”
“Undesirables?”
“He doesn’t want the parkas going to gays or drug addicts.”
I nodded.
As I went through the church I wondered if Crystal would receive one of those high-end coats. I doubted it.
I put a couple dollars in the poor box on my way out.
#
I’d heard Crystal tossing and moaning the night before. I knew she needed sleep, so rather than go home immediately from the church, I stopped at a Starbucks on the Sixteenth Street Mall and had a large latte while watching the crowd build as lunch hour began and the offices around the mall emptied.
It was shaping up to be a fine day. Although it wasn’t particularly warm, the sun was out and shining brightly, and the snow from the storm the night before had nearly melted away. I’d read somewhere that Denver was blessed with more than three hundred sunny days in the average year. The sun somehow made everything tolerable.
It was too early to contact Frank Nelson. Besides, I don’t own a phone—cell or landline. Of course, I knew his number and I could use a pay phone along the mall, but I didn’t want to do that this early. He needed time to meet with his contacts in the Denver Police Department, and I knew I’d see him tonight, at the hotel bar, as I had the night before.
I left the coffee shop as it began to fill with office workers looking for lunch. There was a new sandwich shop two blocks east and one north that the office workers didn’t seem to know about yet. The crowd there would be lighter, and they made a great turkey on sourdough with avocado. I ordered a sandwich and a cup of water.
I sat gnawing on the sandwich, thinking about what Chester had said this morning. Although I didn’t want to admit it, he was probably right. I undoubtedly did need help getting past all I had faced in the three years since returning home from Afghanistan. What happened there that last op had scarred me—not just physically, but also mentally. And then, what I learned when I returned to the States, about my wife and our unborn daughter....
I’d started group therapy for PTSD at the veterans’ hospital when I first got back to the States, to get over my anger and gain at least some control of my violence addiction, but I left the group less than a month into the sessions. My thoughts were still in Afghanistan back then, as they were now, only to a greater extent. I was still too close to the bloodshed and the fear, and I couldn’t wrap my head around what waited for me at home. The last thing I’d wanted to do was talk about those things with a room full of strangers.
So I internalized it all, brooding on it. And my addiction to violence grew like a fungus in my mind.
At the same time, I came to realize I was not fit for any sort of civilian job. The SEALs had taught me how to move stealthily and how to kill proficiently, but not how to bake bread or manufacture car parts. And in my present state of mind no one would hire me and train me to do those kinds of things. I was out of place in the civilian world. I didn’t know how to act or re-act, and it was only a matter of time before I hurt someone.
I knew I should return to therapy, but there was something approaching punishment in my decision to again refuse Chester’s offer of counseling. Living with the horror and guilt was part of my atonement for what I had done.
But I could do nothing about all that now. Afghanistan was a world away, although in my nightmares it was closer than my skin. The cops had no leads on what happened to Sylvia, beyond the suspicion that it was some sort of gang initiation, and there was no way I could chase leads down on my own. I had to depend on Frank Nelson and what information he might be able to gather from the San Diego Police Department, through his contacts in the Denver PD.
Those thoughts chased themselves around in my mind with no hope of resolution. Before I knew it, it was three in the afternoon. I went home to check on Crystal.
#
As I had thought she would be, she was still in bed. Again, she was sleeping restlessly, but at least she was sleeping.
I put the .44 in the closet, on the high shelf. I wanted it there in case I needed it—not just to take care of anyone who might come looking for Crystal, but also in case I needed it for myself, for my unfinished business. I didn’t think I would take my life now, without deciding what, if anything, I’d do about Crystal’s problem. But I wanted the weapon close at hand, for either option.
While in the closet, I made sure my funds were intact. The coffee can bank hadn’t been touched.
Careful not to bump the futon, I went to Angel’s cage on the shelf beyond where Crystal slept. The rat was in her igloo-shaped plastic house. I took some pellets from the bag on the floor and placed them in the rat’s food bowl, then took three or four sunflower seeds from a smaller bag and put them on top.
Angel came out as I turned away. I turned back and rubbed her cheek through the wire bars.
“How is it going, John?” she asked.
“Better than last night, I guess.”
“Then you won’t be doing what you’d planned last night?”
“Not right away.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” the rat said. “I’d miss these conversations.”
“I’ll bet you would.”
I went back to the other side of the room and collapsed onto the chair. I was tired—too damned tired. The nightmare had been with me again last night, just as it had been nearly every time I tried to sleep since I’d returned to the States. I had again been in the rugged mountains of northern Afghanistan, battling enemy forces. My SEAL team was far behind enemy lines.
#
I walked point. As a lieutenant I was in charge, and couldn’t expect one of my men to do something I wasn’t prepared to do myself. My primary weapon was an M4A1 carbine, tricked out with an AN/PVS 14 night vision sight. My secondary weapon, in a special holster on my hip, was an MK23, a .45 caliber pistol. Not only did the handgun possess excellent knock-down power, but it was fitted with a KAC sound suppressor, in case silence was needed.
Directly behind me came a tall red-haired young man from New Orleans, Rubin Shavers, an expert in most marshal arts, who had at one time tried out for the Olympics. His M4A1 was fitted with a Trijicon Reflex sight, allowing rapid acquisition on close targets. His handgun was a nine millimeter M11 Sig Sauer.
Third in line was the team’s radioman, Warren Oldfield, thin and prematurely bald. He wore night vision goggles and carried two sets of communications equipment—an extra in case the primary was disabled. He also carried an un-modified M4A1, and a M11. He was from New York City.
The last man in line was Emory Hawley, a large raw-boned black man from Detroit. He was our M60 gunner, carrying the MK43 Mod 0 variant and its belt-fed ammunition. His handgun was also a M11.
All three were enlisted men.
My SEAL team made its way silently toward the caves spotted only hours before near the top of the mountain by an unmanned Predator aircraft. Intelligence had indicated that tonight one of those caves would host a meeting of high ranking Al Qaeda and Taliban operatives.
Our objective: to capture as many of those operatives as possible for eventual interrogation.
I knew we would never get them all. There would simply be too many, and those we could not take we must kill. Still, I had hopes we would bring at least a few of the enemy in for questioning. My team was one of the SEALs’ finest. We were trained to a sharp edge of perfection.
But in order to bring the operation off successfully, we would have to be at the cave within half an hour—without being spotted. And there was sudden movement on the trail ahead.
Cautiously, silently, I advanced my team toward the movement on the trail. The lack of a moon made it impossible to tell who was there, even with our night-vision capability. But that also worked in our favor, hiding us from the enemy.
I knew for certain that it wasn’t animals ahead—I could hear soft voices, although I couldn’t understand what was being said. The voices were speaking in one of the many native dialects.
In only a few minutes we were near enough to see that we were faced with an Afghan villager, his wife, and their infant child sleeping in its mother’s arms, coming down the trail toward us. This was not good, particularly since another group, somewhat louder, was coming down the trail nearly fifty yards behind the villagers. That would be the operatives we were hunting.
The look of shock on the Afghan villager and his wife’s faces said it all. They knew they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I gave them a thumb-up gesture, one known as a sign of friendliness to the Afghan villagers, then motioned for the man to raise his tunic to show he wasn’t hiding a weapon. The man did that and I motioned him and his wife off the trail, into the dense brush.
We crouched there beside the trail, listening—SEAL team, villager, wife and infant—as the enemy approached. The enemy was talking loudly and laughing. I put a finger to my lips, making sure the villager and his family remained silent. Everything depended on maintaining the element of surprise.
Suddenly, the infant became restless. It wasn’t crying—not yet. But it was obvious it soon would be.
I took the infant from its mother’s arms, held it gently and placed my large hand over its nose and mouth. Soon, it was quiet. I handed the infant back to its mother.
We closed on the enemy and the fighting was bloody and fierce. They would not give up without considerable resistance.
The battle quickly became hand-to-hand, and one of the enemy slashed my face. A blaze of excitement flared in my mind filling me with blind rage. I fought like a wild animal, allowing no quarter. Had any of the enemy wished to surrender, they would not have been able to. I saw to that.
No prisoners were taken for interrogation that night.
And it wasn’t until after the firefight that I realized the infant was dead.
#
When I woke I knew that I had fallen asleep and relived the nightmare of my final op. And then the memory of what I had faced when I returned to the United States filled my thoughts.
My wife had been raped and brutally murdered, and our unborn child had died in her womb. I hadn’t been there to stop it, and the killers had never been caught.
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