Afghanistan-you know, right after nine-eleven, when we were turning up the heat on the country. Not that it actually needed any more heat.”
He attempted a laugh, but this time quickly gave up. No matter what, there was simply nothing amusing about the place.
“That’s where you met Dr. Nick Fury? In Afghanistan?”
“Yeah,” Roach said. “Only his name wasn’t Dr. Nick Fury. It was Dr. Nick Garrity. ‘Fury’ was just a nickname one of the grunts gave him because of his first name, and it sort of stuck. He was like a water bug over there-all over the place, teaching Marines some basic combat medicine techniques that saved lives in the arena, volunteering at the local clinic, working more shifts at the hospital than assigned. The Energizer Bunny. Didn’t have a patch on his eye, like the comic book Fury, but man, he sure was tough like him. Can you pass me the ketchup, please?”
Jillian slid the bottle across. Roach reached for it with his left hand. It was then Jillian noticed a long, jagged scar running from the tip of his index finger down past the base of his thumb and disappearing into his sleeve.
“What happened there?” Jillian asked.
“Well now, that there is my permanent reminder of Dr. Nick Fury,” he said, speaking between bites. “Crushed my hand in a tool press. Fury was on duty. Spent hours repairing it.
“I do. So where is he? And why do you think my sister would be interested in him?”
Roach shook his head.
“No idea. I don’t stay in touch with the old crew much. You see, something bad, real bad, happened on FOB Savannah where we were stationed.”
Jillian saw the pain in Roach’s eyes intensify. He set his fork down. Instinctively, she reached across and set her hand on his.
“Can you talk about it?”
“One of the locals turned out to be a terrorist-a suicide bomber. The guy’s cover was running a health clinic for the people just outside the wire. Fury was always helping him out with supplies, volunteering his off-hours to treat Afghan patients and such. Some thank-you he got.”
“What happened? Did the terrorist kill Fury?”
“Well in a way, maybe.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“This bastard drives his truck onto the base. Checkpoint has no problem letting him in. He’s a regular. But once inside, he plows his rig right through the front doors of the hospital. Blows himself and the truck to kingdom come. Garrity was there, right on the running board of the truck from what we heard, trying to break the window and get at the guy. He survived, by some miracle. I heard that one of the guys he worked with saved him somehow. The hospital was leveled. Most of the others didn’t make it, including his fiancee.”
“Oh, my God.”
Jillian wasn’t certain she could continue the conversation. She sipped some water and stared at the wall behind Roach, suddenly spent. Images of Belle at her vibrant best flashed through her thoughts. She wondered what Nick Garrity’s fiancee looked like.
“You okay?” Roach asked.
“No.”
“Oh, I understand.”
“I think you do. Any idea where Garrity is now?”
“Like I said, don’t keep in touch with the old crew. But I wanted to give you this. Thought it might help you to track him down. It’s been in my bureau drawer since he sent it to me.”
Roach fished into his pocket, withdrew a folded newspaper clipping, and passed it across. It was an article from
“Nick mailed this article to me a few years back,” Roach said. “He was trying to raise money to keep this RV on the streets. It’s like a roving clinic, helping down-and-out folks get decent medical care. That’s Nick.”
“I’ve heard about this program-even thought about volunteering at one point.”
“I sent him what I could. A hundred if I recall right. I would have sent more if times weren’t so hard.”
“I’m sure he appreciated any amount you could manage. Is the RV still in operation? Do you think Garrity is still in Washington?”
“It’s possible. Like I said, haven’t been in touch with him since.”
“I wonder what the connection between Garrity and Belle could be. She left D.C. right after she graduated. I can see her volunteering on something like Helping Hands, but she wasn’t licensed yet when she left for-”
Jillian stopped mid-sentence when her cell phone began ringing.
“Excuse me,” she said, retrieving her flip phone from her purse. Her brow furrowed when she didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
The reception was weak and between the bad connection and the din of the diner it was hard for her to hear.
“This is Scott Emberg.”
“Who?”
“Emberg. Scott Emberg,” he said louder. “I’m the president of our Oak Grove Condominium Association.”
“Oh, jeez. Scott, yeah. Is everything all right?”
“Not exactly. There… um… was a fire last night. A big fire.”
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “Is everybody okay? Was anybody hurt?”
“Everybody is fine, thank goodness. Two units suffered minor damages, but I’m afraid yours was where the blaze started. Much of it was destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
“Yes, especially the first floor. The fire inspectors are going over it now. I’m really sorry, Jillian. I would have called you sooner, but the cell phone number we have wasn’t the right one. I had to wait until I could get it from the management company. I didn’t see the second floor, but there’s nothing left on the lower level. Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER 11
Jillian’s heart sank as she stared in disbelief at the devastation that for six years had been her condominium- the first place other than her parents’ that she had ever owned. The front door to her unit had been hacked away and the entryway marked off with yellow plastic ribbon.
She leaned against the scorched brick to keep herself from collapsing. If it weren’t so tragic, condo association president Scott Emberg’s assessment of the damage would have been laughable. The walls weren’t blackened, as he had described. Most of them, on the first floor at least, were simply gone. Only the support struts remained, though those were transformed into something akin to the logs burned nearly to charcoal and ash in a fireplace.
Mountains of dark soot, littered with unrecognizable forms, created an alien landscape across the living room. Jillian’s throat tightened as she gazed at the large pile of debris in the center-Belle’s things, packed in carefully labeled cardboard cartons, and now just so much soot.
“I’m sorry, baby.” Her words were a muffled whimper. “I’m so sorry.”
Jillian’s nostrils filled with the acrid stench of burnt plastic and vinyl. Her lungs felt raw. Bile percolated into her throat. For five minutes, she knelt on the ash and sobbed. Finally she rose and took several cautious steps
