“I know this ain’t the time for this, but it’s weighing on me and I’ve got to kill time until I hear from Church-”
“Don’t apologize. Just tell me.”
“Okay… tomorrow is the anniversary of Helen’s suicide.”
“Oh,
“I dreamed about it last night, man. I dreamed about her sister Colleen calling me, saying that Helen hadn’t answered the phone in days. I dreamed about going over there. Every single detail, Rudy, from picking up my car keys on the table by the door to the feel of the wood splintering when I kicked in Helen’s door. I remembered the smell in the hallway, and how bad it got when I broke in. I remember her face… bloated and gassy. I can even remember the bottle of drain cleaner she drank from. The way the label was torn and stained.”
“Joe, I-”
“But here’s the really shitty part, Rude… the worst part.”
He was silent, waiting.
“In my dream, when I walked over to her body, knowing that she was dead and had been dead for days… when I stood over her and then dropped to my knees and pulled her into my arms…” I paused and for a moment I didn’t know if I was going to be able to finish this.
“Take your time, Joe…,” he said gently. “It’ll hurt less once it’s out.”
“I… don’t think so. Not this time.”
“Why, Joe? Tell me what happened when you held Helen in your arms.”
“You see, that’s just the thing… I picked her body up and held it, just the way I did back when it happened. And her head kind of flopped over sideways just like it did. But… aw, fuck me, man… it wasn’t Helen I was holding.”
“Tell me…”
“It was Grace.”
Rudy was silent, waiting for the rest, but there was no more. That’s where the dream had ended.
“I woke up in a cold sweat and I never went back to sleep. Stayed up all night watching Court TV and reruns of the Dog Whisperer. Anything to keep from going back to sleep.”
“Joe, this isn’t all about strength. It’s obvious you have feelings for Grace, and both of you are in a highly dangerous line of work.”
“Shit, I knew you wouldn’t get it,” I snapped, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry, Rude… belay that. What I meant to say is that I knew I couldn’t explain it the right way.”
“Then tell me what the right way is, Cowboy.”
“I…” My voice trailed off as I drove aimlessly through the streets. “I… know that having, um, ‘affection’ for Grace is ill advised. Got it, got that filed away. But there was something about this that felt weird and dirty and wrong. Wrong in a guilty kind of way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like… I failed her. The way I failed Helen.”
“Joe, we’ve been over this a thousand times. You were not responsible for Helen’s life. You were not her protector. She had been rehabilitated back into a lifestyle where all of her doctors agreed she was capable of taking care of herself. You visited as often as you could, more than anyone else. More than her own family.”
“But I took the job with the Homeland task force and that kept me away for days and even weeks at a time. Don’t try to tell me that I wasn’t aware of how that job would impact my regular visits to Helen.”
“Which still doesn’t make it your fault. You don’t rule the planet, Joe. And even if you lived with her, if she wanted to end her life-as she clearly did-she’d find a moment when you were asleep or in the shower and she would do what she ultimately did. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”
I didn’t feel like going down that road with him again, so I switched tack. “So why did I see Grace in the dream last night? Are you saying that I feel responsible for her?”
“I hope not.”
“It’s not like we’re in love,” I protested.
Rudy said nothing, and then his phone clicked. “It’s Mr. Church calling me, Joe. I’d better take this.”
“Okay.”
“But Joe…?”
“Yeah.”
“We need to come back to this.”
“Sure, Rude… when the dust settles.”
I closed my phone and drove, aware that I was driving myself a little crazy.
Chapter Thirteen
Wilmington, Delaware
Saturday, August 28, 9:09 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 98 hours, 51 minutes
It was a routine pickup, a classic no-shots-fired thing where the afteraction report would be short and boring. Only it wasn’t.
First Sgt. Bradley Sims-Top to everyone who knew him, and second in command of Joe Ledger’s Echo Team- was on point at the door knock. Like his two fellow agents he was dressed in a nondescript navy blue government- issue suit, white shirt, and red tie. Flag pin on his lapel, a wire, and sunglasses. The motel hallway was badly lighted, so he removed his shades and dropped them into his coat pocket. He might have been NSA, FBI, or an agent of any of the DOJ’s domestic law enforcement agencies, maybe a middle-grade agent in charge of a low-risk field mission. He dressed for the part. He had FBI credentials in his pocket, though he’d never so much as set foot in Quantico. He also had badges for the ATF and DEA in the car.
The Department of Military Sciences did not operate under the umbrella of the Department of Justice, nor did it fall into the growing network of agencies under the Homeland charter. The DMS was a solo act, answerable to the President of the United States. They didn’t have their own badges. They weren’t cops. The credentials Top Sims carried, however, were completely authentic.
He knocked on the door. “FBI!” he announced in the leather-throated roar of a lifelong sergeant. “Please open the door.”
Out of habit he stepped to one side so that the reinforced frame rather than the door was between him and whoever might be inside. Cops did that; so did soldiers. Top had been a soldier since he enlisted on his eighteenth birthday, and that was twenty-two years ago and change.
Both of the agents flanking him were bigger and younger than Top. They looked like a pair of giants. To his left was Big Bob Faraday, a former ATF field man who stood six-five and had massive biceps that strained the fabric of the off-the-rack blazer. To Top’s right was Bunny-born with the unfortunate name of Harvey Rabbit-who had joined the DMS after eight years as a sergeant in Force Recon. Bunny was two inches taller than Faraday and though he was also heavily muscled, his build was more appropriate to volleyball, which until recently he’d played at the Pan American Games level. His service in Iraq had kept him out of the Olympics, but he didn’t hold a grudge.
There was no answer at the door.
“Maybe he ain’t home,” suggested Bunny.
“It’s Saturday morning,” said Big Bob. “Guy’s got no job, no friends. He’s here or he’s at Starbucks.”
“Maybe I’ll just knock louder,” said Top.
He did. No answer.
“Let’s kick it,” Top decided.
“I got it,” said Big Bob, moving past Top to front the door. Big Bob had thighs like bridge supports and could bury the whole rack on the Nautilus leg press. Twice now he’d kicked doors completely off their hinges. He wanted a hat trick.
