Second Chances

Pt. 02

by G. Lawrence

Jack joins a rescue mission

This novel is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: In an alternate timeline from our own, Jack Lawrence was accused of shooting President Edward Blair, though he had no memory of it. Jack was a decorated combat medic, but he had also participated in classified missions behind enemy lines, so his war record was kept secret. Suffering from PTSD and blackouts, Jack feared conspiracy theories would tear the country apart, so he accepted blame and went to prison. But many, especially in the FBI and Secret Service, didn't believe he was guilty. The Blair family in particular came to doubt the official version, with former First Lady Patricia Blair and her children Bob and Jenny becoming advocates for Jack's release. Now, after seven years, Jack has been freed from Federal custody and taken a teaching position at Skylla College in New Hampshire.

* * * * * *

Palmer Publishing

Mr. Daniel Palmer

New York, NY

Dear Mr. Palmer,

Thank you for the kind note. Though sales of Jack's memoir are exceeding expectations, it cannot make up for the sadness we feel. Jennifer is taking his loss particularly hard. As for what Jack may have thought of his book's success, I find it difficult to judge. He was a very private person. Sincerely yours, Patricia Blair

__________

Chapter Two

624 SUMNER DRIVE

I spent my first few days in captivity in a dark room with only a small crack in the wall for light. My hands and feet were kept bound, though I was fed twice a day and allowed to relieve myself in a bucket. The food was not bad. One of my captors was Iraqi, the other Saudi. They didn't speak to me, and I didn't speak to them. If they thought the isolation was going to break me, they'd picked the wrong victim.

I finally got an explanation, of sorts.

"John Henry Lawrence, you are more famous than I realized," Kassan Abari said, an afternoon sun shining through the open door behind him.

Abari was dark, tall and lean, as most Saudis in this part of the world tend to be. He wore khaki fatigues and a Russian Tokarev TT-30 holstered on his hip. He smiled with white teeth.

"Have you decided to shoot me?" I asked.

"Don't need to. You are already dead," he replied.

He knelt down, pulled a smart phone from his thigh pocket, and activated a video. It was my mock execution from three days before, though the way it was framed, it appeared I had really been killed.

"Broadcast on Al Jazeera last night. Tashad has taken credit," Abari boasted. "The great American hero is slain in the name of Islam."

He showed me the press reports. John Henry Lawrence murdered. Hero of Thanksgiving Eve prey to terrorists. I shrugged.

"This sick game of yours has nothing to do with Islam," I complained. "What is it you really want? Why not leave my body back in Syria?"

"You still might prove useful. Maybe one day, we will announce you are still alive and then kill you again. Wouldn't that be a wonderful joke?"

"Or?"

"Or maybe we will sell you to Rakmanistan, if the price is right."

"Be sure to protect your investment," I advised, for my health wasn't likely to remain good under these circumstances.

A day later, I was packed up in a flatbed truck and taken deep into the eastern mountains. The few times they took the hood off, I saw trees and birds. There were moments I considered making an escape attempt, but in unknown territory, the odds were steep. I hadn't survived the urban jungle of my youth to die foolishly in a desert.

As we reached a village, they took off the hood. It was a nice spring day near a blue lake surrounded by thin trees. The altitude must have been fairly high. There was a score of stone houses with thatched roofs, a storehouse, a granary, and a colorfully tiled plaza with a fountain. Fields below the lake looked good for farming. The people were not Kurds. Probably Sunni. The villagers were dressed in a mixture of traditional and secular styles, as I had seen in the free regions of Afghanistan. And I noticed quite a few children. Wherever I was, it had escaped the worst of the civil war.

"You will be here for a time," a Tashad militia captain said in Arabic.

He cut the ropes off my feet, then tied my hands in front of me, which was a relief. My clothes were looking tattered, which couldn't be helped. The beard that I'd kept trimmed in Syria was now shaggy.

"I am Ma'amet. Kassan Abari has charged me with your care," a village elder said, a short, distinguished gentleman in his early sixties with almost no hair. "If you attempt to escape, I am to chop off one of your feet."

"I would not like that, Mr. Ma'amet," I said.

"Just Ma'amet," he replied. "We will get you better clothes. And food. You are thin."

"Thank you, Ma'amet. May I have books to read?" I requested.

"We have no American books."

"I read Persian and some Arabic. With practice, I will read better."

"The schoolmaster has books. I will find some," he promised.

I bowed my head, for I wanted no trouble with my new captor.

____________

A few days after the Worcester Thanksgiving disaster, I mailed Pat a card apologizing for my outburst at her sister-in-law's house and included apologies to Bob and Jenny. She sent me a nice note and we began corresponding again. Much to my relief.

By the time classes resumed in early December, I was actually beginning to sound like a teacher. But I still planned to spend the Christmas break working on my lesson plans. The basics were not alien to me. Though I hadn't majored in English in high school, preferring biology, I had been a straight A student. At Windhaven, I had used my experience writing after-action reports to tutor aspiring authors like Rafael Martín and Bobby Blair. My techniques were good.

Dr. Frost sat in on several sessions, gave me pointers, and generally thought I was doing well. My students were calling me Mr. Lawrence with genuine respect. Mike was able to be my assistant instead of correcting all my mistakes. In time, I thought, maybe I'd start taking classes and get a teaching degree.

I found the faculty meetings a little awkward, but they were an invaluable source of advice. Most of the professors in my department had doctorates. A few, not as well respected, had multiple master's degrees. I, of course, had my newly awarded high school diploma.

"There is a female student named Caitlyn who is beginning to trouble me," I admitted. "She sits in the front row in a short skirt, waits for me in the hall, and makes more appointments than she needs. She may have a crush on me."

"Half the young women in the English Department have a crush on Sarge Lawrence," Mrs. Frawling said.

"Just keep it professional. And leave your office door open," Mr. Buckner advised. "Try to keep your teaching assistant nearby until Caitlyn gets over it."

"How long will that take?" I asked.

"For you? About twenty years," Mrs. Frawling laughed.

I hoped they were teasing me.

___________

"You look decked out," Emily said as we sat together in the football stadium.

"They're not the Eagles, but they are our team," I said, wearing a Skylarks knit cap and a new wool jacket.

It was the last game of the year. The Skylarks were not very good, having only won one game the entire season, and Boston College was taking them to the woodshed, but it was still fun. I waved my blue handkerchief and cheered in support when they made a first down.

Though the stadium was not crowded, our area on the fifty-yard line was filled with students and faculty. The weather was cold, ready to snow. I was drinking beer. Emily had warm tea.

"You've sure gotten popular," Emily mentioned. "There are so many new students applying, I hear Dr. Johnson wants to give you extra classes next semester."

"It's a celebrity thing. My classroom presentations are so dismal I've been forced to tutor some of the students during office hours," I explained.

"That's what you're supposed to do," Emily said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Weren't you ever tutored in school? Given special attention?"

"Not that I remember. I used to sit in the refectory at St. Mary's and memorize the textbooks," I replied.

"You memorized the textbooks?"

"During my younger days living on the streets, I would spend whole winter days in libraries. Reading. It was a good way to stay warm."

The Skylarks scored a touchdown, causing everyone to jump up and shout. They had closed the gap to 21 points.

"Mr. Lawrence, did you play football in college?" Marissa Simmons asked, one of my brighter students. She had just sold her first article to Mission Magazine.

"Played a little in high school, and some in the Army," I said.

"What position?" Emily asked.

"Middle linebacker. I liked being the team enforcer," I answered.

"Maybe you could coach the Skylarks?" Johnny Barnhart suggested in a drawl, being the nerdish son of a Texas millionaire.

"Not football. Baseball, maybe," I said, wondering if Coach Bowen would want an assistant in the spring.

The game mercifully ended just as snow flurries swept through the stadium. We bundled up and retired to the Greely Tavern where there was already a proliferation of Christmas decorations.

"Dad's not doing well," Emily said as we found seats at the bar. "I want to take him home, but he likes the care center. It's where his friends are."

"It's good to die among friends," I agreed.

"I don't know if that's a sentimental remark or not sentimental," she replied.

"During the war, I had friends, buddies, and strangers die in my arms," I sadly recalled. "Some had a chance to say goodbye. Most didn't. I told many they would be okay, knowing they wouldn't. I don't have any family, so I can't speak to that. But I would like to die among friends when my time comes."

"Dad likes visiting with you. It reminds him of his service in Iraq."

"We'll spend Christmas together," I promised.

The holiday was quiet. I bought a small tree to decorate with popcorn strings, but did not join in any of the campus festivities for fear of the press. I did play some guitar at the long-term care center, behind closed doors, remembering the carols that Old Da taught me. During my two years with the ancient vagabond, the holidays were always our best times. He bought me my first turkey dinner.

Emily's father died in February. I helped take the body back to Buffalo, and wasn't surprised when she decided to live with family for a while. Though I stayed on my medication, I could be moody and self-absorbed, especially when working on my memoirs. I was no substitute for the love Emily needed at such a time.

Bob visited over the President's Day Weekend. I gave him a tour of the campus, introduced him to the Roasted Duck, and we discussed his new book. He was still curious about the Battle of Lavanna Valley, which had finally been declassified. He was particularly interested in my rescue of Corporal Fuentes. We talked in one of the red leather booths with a few veterans joining in, for they had been pressing me on this, too. I made Chubby pay for the beer.

"Lavanna Valley was a tactical operation that went bad," I recalled. "The Entrenchment had held our perimeter around Kandahar for sixteen months and Central Command wanted a breakout. Lavanna Valley was on a known enemy supply route from Turkmenistan. They thought that seizing the village would force the Coalition to counterattack on unfavorable ground."

"Did they?" Chubby asked.

"We never reached the village. Our attack was repulsed, forcing a retreat to the debarkation area."

"Where you jumped out of a helicopter and ran back down the hill?" Bob asked, taking notes. "Under heavy fire?"

"I didn't actually get into the helicopter," I remembered. "The squad had just climbed in when Mathers saw Fuentes was still a hundred yards behind, apparently wounded. I grabbed a weapon and went back for him."

"While the enemy was shooting at you?" Big Solly said, gulping his whisky.

"It was my job. All of the officers were dead or wounded, leaving me in command. And I was a medic. I retrieved Fuentes and brought him back as far as I could."

"As far?" Bob asked, waving for the bartender to refill our shot glasses.

"Just as I reached the last helicopter, I collapsed. The guys in my squad dragged us both to safety."

"Why did you pass out? Serious wounds?" Big Solley asked.

"Not that serious. Not like I'd got at Point Cinco and Sirputa. But enough to run out of blood," I said. "That was my last mission with the 144th Infantry. A few weeks later, I was reassigned to the 104th Rangers."

"Fowler brags about that. A lot," Bob said.

"Good, because I'd rather not. The Army couldn't decide whether to give me a medal or court-martial, so they did neither."

"Court-martial?" Chubby asked, butting in.

"I warned Major Walker not to go down into the valley. Rather rudely. And then I disobeyed his orders and went with the advance. If they had charged me with insubordination, I would have been found guilty. Fowler pulled me out of a complicated situation."

"Sounds like the whole operation was fubared," Dwayne said.

"Eighty of us went down into Lavanna Valley," I said. "Sixteen were killed, forty-eight wounded. But living or dead, we didn't leave anybody behind."

"Not even Corporal Fuentes," Bob said, realizing the significance.

"Nobody. We retreated under heavy fire, but we did it one step at a time. Everyone helping someone else. Or carrying someone else. We didn't run," I said, remembering that part of the defeat with pride.

Bob stayed over that night, sleeping on my couch, and left the next morning. He seemed surprised that Emily and I had broken up.

____________

The spring quarter was proceeding better than the winter term. The new classes were going well, my colleagues provided helpful advice, and the press grew bored trying to follow me around, for I made a point of never doing anything interesting. But once again, fate intervened to put me back in the headlines.

"Okay, everybody. Listen up," Sheriff Walters said as volunteers gathered at the Rawling Street Community Center. "Those with cars can drive. The rest will take the bus. The search parties will meet at the Lowell Park Recreation Center for their assignments."

Thirty townspeople and students moved out. I lingered behind, for Walters and I were driving together in his Chevy Suburban.

"Generous of you to help. I know you've been busy with your students," Jeff said, letting me ride shotgun.

It was Palm Sunday. There had been a series of missing girl reports northwest of Boston, and the latest one set off a full-scale search. Several communities, including Skylla Falls, were asked to help.

"Spent two years with National First Responders. I have experience looking for missing persons," I explained.

We drove south on the 93 into Massachusetts, then west on the 495 to Lowell. The gathering in the community recreation center had attracted about two hundred volunteers. A big map was tacked to the wall.

"Teams will be scouring these woods," Police Chief Jeb Michaels announced, a big-bellied man in his late fifties. "We will also be searching these rural roadsides, drainage pipes, and the rock quarry."

I raised my hand.

"Are you convinced Debbie Palmer is dead?" I asked.

"We need to cover all the bases," Michaels replied. "Miss Palmer has been missing for six days. The other women have been missing several weeks."

I noticed two FBI agents standing in the back of the room. Neither appeared to be a profiler, which surprised me. I considered giving Sandra Livingston a call, then decided not to tell the FBI how to do their job.

As the meeting broke up, I waved to the volunteers from Skylla Falls, gathering them before the map. I motioned for the FBI agents to join us. I didn't know them, but they'd heard plenty about me.

"I don't know about you folks, but I didn't come here on a cold day to look for bodies," I said. "If the kidnappers still have Debbie, they are in a house. Probably on the seedier side of town. My guess is somewhere between Louise Street and the Plummer Canal."

"The police already canvassed that area," FBI Agent Liv Aiyana said, a dark slender woman in a black business suit.

"Then we should canvas it again," I urged. "How about teams of three? Each can take a ten-block section."

"You might be wasting your time," Agent Sam Alston warned, a trim middle-aged veteran with the demeanor of a bureaucrat.

Agent Aiyana made notes from the map. Agent Alston assigned the teams. Jeff, Chubby and I would be canvassing near the old factory district.

"We could have been searching a nice green forest instead of these filthy streets," Chubby complained as we began our quest, which was going to take several hours. "Can we stop for a beer?"

"No," Sheriff Jeff said, much to my disappointment.

We started on South Seward Street, knocking on doors and passing out flyers. Debbie was seventeen years old, medium height, with long dark blond hair and brown eyes. She was a freshman at the University of Massachusetts, discovered missing after a picnic at Lowell National Historical Park. Three other women had gone missing in the last two months under similar circumstances.

After an hour of canvassing our area, I approached a run-down house on Sumner Street, knocking on a door with peeling green paint. A skinny white man about thirty years old answered. By his posture and tattoos, I immediately recognized him as an ex-con. He hadn't shaved recently. His thinning yellow hair looked like it was made of straw. Through the partially open door, I could see a sawed-off shotgun propped against the wall, and far to my left, at the back of the house, I got the fleeting sense of something being wrong. A door hastily closed. A second man, older, thicker, darker and dirtier, approached from the rear hall.

"Have you seen this girl?" I asked, giving the younger man a flyer.

"Nope, ain't never seen her," he said.

"What about your friend?" I inquired.

"My brother ain't seen her, neither," he said.

The older sleaze came to the door also adorned with prison tattoos. I was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, decreasing the chances of being recognized.

"What the hell do you want?" the fat older brother said.

"I'm looking for--"

"Get your fucking ass off my porch," the rude fellow said, slamming the door in my face.

I went to the next house where an elderly couple lived, asking about the neighborhood, and caught up to Jeff at the end of the block.

"Something's wrong back there," I said.

"What?"

"I don't know."

"Did you see something?" Jeff pressed.

"Not exactly. But I need to check it out."

"You have no probable cause. We'll never get a search warrant."

"I'm not a cop. I don't need a search warrant," I said.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"The couple next door seems nice. I'll ask permission to go in their backyard, hop the fence, and look in the windows."

"Trespassing? You can get arrested for that. And with your felony record, they might send you back to prison," Jeff warned.

"I've been in prison before," I said. "You and Chubby stay close enough to observe, but don't let them see you. If nothing is wrong, I'll jump back over the fence and be out in two minutes."

"And if you're not?"

"Then you'll know I'm trespassing on their property. That will give you probable cause to investigate. But be careful. They have a shotgun behind the front door."

"Jack, do you know how crazy this is?"

"Six years ago, I disguised myself as a goat herder and walked into an Afghan village guarded by sixty Tashad to rescue a handful of hostages. That was crazy."

"You aren't backed up by a battalion of Army Rangers this time."

"No, I've got you and Chubby."

"If you're not out in two minutes, I'm calling for backup."

"You're the sheriff," I said.

I walked back down the street casually, as if I'd dropped something, and returned to 620 Sumner Drive where the elderly couple lived.

"Excuse me, ma'am, may I ask a favor?" I said, taking off the sunglasses.

"What would that be, young man? Wait, aren't you--"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, removing the baseball cap.

Her husband came to the door. Both were in their late seventies, gray-haired, and keeping fit. I should be so lucky.

"What do you need, Sarge?" the old gentleman said.

"I fear your neighbors may be hiding a bad secret. I would like to climb over your fence and find out."

"Those boys are nothing but trouble," the old woman said. "I told their Momma to keep an eye on them, but she doesn't listen."

"Then it's okay?" I asked.

"Can only give you permission for my yard, not theirs. But good luck," the aging gentleman said, shaking my hand.

"Ma'am. Sir. If I'm right, there may be trouble. You might want to stay away from that side of the house."

They led me through their modest home, letting me out the kitchen door into a tidy backyard. I peeked over the fence, seeing a junk-filled driveway, a garage to my left, and the old wood frame house straight ahead. I presumed the backdoor led into the kitchen. The suspicious bedroom was just beyond.

Here goes, I thought, stepping on a stone bench and crawling over the redwood fence. I did wonder, briefly, if this was a smart thing to do. And knew it wasn't. But I'd learned that in rescue operations, sometimes you just need to trust your gut.

The rear bedroom had two windows, both covered by iron bars and filled with cobwebs. I couldn't see a thing. I backtracked to the kitchen door and cautiously peeked inside. The two brothers were at the front window, looking out toward the sidewalk. Both holding shotguns. They were nervous about something. The older brother was whispering, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. I gently shoved the door open, glad to find it unlatched, and quietly crept inside.

A floorboard creaked, causing me to pause, but they didn't notice. I guessed they weren't good housekeepers. The sink was filled with dirty dishes and the walls were caked in grime. Cockroaches dashed away as I approached. I turned left into the hall for the rear bedroom door, moving as quietly as possible.

With grim satisfaction, I'd been right. The girl was lying on the bed, spreadeagle and naked, her hands tied to the headboard and a cloth gag in her mouth. She looked up at me, and in that moment, I doubt my presence gave her comfort. I probably looked like another thug.

I closed the door and dragged a dresser over to block it. Then I knelt beside the bed. There was a hunting knife on the nightstand that I picked up. She started to squirm, attempting to scream.

"Be still," I whispered, taking off my hat. "I'm Sarge Lawrence. I've come to take you out of here."

She looked at me in disbelief, and then suddenly with recognition. Her fear melted away, replaced by eager hope. I found a blanket to cover her, removed the gag, and cut the rope off her hands and feet. She sat up and started to speak, but I put a finger over her lips, shushing her.

"We need to be quiet," I said. "The police will be here soon."

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"I'm not really sure," I answered.

I checked the windows to see if they could be opened from the inside, but I'd need tools I didn't have. Sneaking out without being noticed didn't seem likely. Sheriff Walters was my best hope.

I heard heavy footsteps coming our way. I picked Debbie up and put her on the floor in the closet, then knelt against the dresser, using my weight to keep the door closed.

"Zek, it's the cops!" the younger brother shouted from the living room.

The footsteps turned in the other direction, allowing me to let out my breath. I found the hunting knife and clutched it against my chest, though in all my years on the docks and in the Army, I'd never used one. And I didn't have a cell phone to call for help. I hoped my aversion to common technology wouldn't cost Debbie her life.

There was noise from out front. And then a bullhorn.

"This is the police. We are searching this area for a criminal. Open your door and come out with your hands up," a voice demanded.

Nothing. The brothers were evaluating their options, and the best was to use the girl as a hostage. I braced myself again, knowing they'd be coming in my direction.

"Damn it, Razor, I told you not to answer the goddamn door," the older brother complained.

"I'll take care of this," the younger villain said, stomping toward us.

The doorknob turned, but I'd locked it. He turned harder, then shoved. It was an old door but holding. I dug in my feet, bracing my shoulder against the dresser.

"The fucking door won't open!" Razor shouted.

"Blow it open," the fat brother said.

I ducked just as a shotgun blast tore a hole in the door, ripping the doorknob away. I felt something hit me on the side of the head, but couldn't spare a hand to check it out. Razor shoved again, still finding his way barred. He looked through the hole, unable to see me, but able to see the bed.

"Zek, she's gone," Razor said.

"She's in there somewhere. Drag the bitch out," Zek commanded.

Razor pumped the shotgun and fired again, blowing out the middle door panels, but I was crouching lower this time, avoiding the shards. Most of them.

"What the hell is this?" Razor said, reaching through and trying to get the dresser out of the way.

The police had taken note of the gunfire. I heard sirens, a helicopter, and more demands for entry. Razor retreated to the living room. I got up far enough to see them kneeling at the windows, guns ready. I hoped Jeff was being careful.

I pushed the dresser flush against the door again and put my back against it, holding the knife and praying I wouldn't need to use it.

"What's happening?" Debbie said from the closet, poking her head out.

"Everything's okay, Miss Palmer. Get back. Stay close to the floor," I said.

"You're bleeding," she observed.

"It's nothing. The police will be here any minute," I said hopefully.

And they were. Suddenly tear gas was fired through the living room windows, glass shattering, and a battering ram flattened the front door. The brothers hesitated, unsure what to do as SWAT officers stormed in. The culprits were quickly thrown to the floor and handcuffed, cursing while an officer read them their rights. Jeff Walters and Police Chief Michaels came down the hall in my direction.

"Jack? Jack?" Jeff called out.

"Back here," I said, peering through holes in the shattered door. "Debbie Palmer is here. She's okay."

"Are you okay?" Jeff asked, seeing blood pouring down the right side of my head.

"It's nothing," I answered, though I actually had no clue. It didn't hurt all that much, though my sweater was getting soggy.

I went to the closet, made sure Debbie was securely wrapped in the blanket to protect her modesty, and lifted her onto the bed. Other than rope marks, I didn't see any wounds.

"How are you, honey?" I asked.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," she said, starting to cry.

Jeff and Chief Michaels got the shattered door open, clearing some of the debris.

"Son of a bitch, Jack. You were right," Jeff said.

"Yeah," I answered.

"We've called an ambulance. You may need it more than her," Chief Michaels said, taking a look at my wound. "Do you have a hard skull?"

"Probably," I said.

"Good, because it looks like something bounced off it," Michaels observed.

The Police Chief took off his jacket, ripped the sleeve off his white dress shirt, and tied it around my head to stanch the blood flow. Generous of him, but I was low on money again. I hoped he didn't expect me to buy him another shirt.

The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. Michaels leaned over to pick Debbie up.

"No, I want Jack to carry me. Only Jack," Debbie protested, wrapping her arms around my neck.

I cradled her in my arms and walked down the hall. The living room was filled with SWAT officers, the suspects lying on their bellies. I saw Zek and kicked him in the face, possibly breaking his nose.

"Sorry, must have tripped," I said, giving him a cold stare.

I took another step. Razor rolled back out of my way. We went out through the broken front door, discovering the street filled with a dozen squad cars. Officers were holding back a gathering crowd, and a media truck was recording the event. We crossed the yellowed lawn and I set Debbie in the ambulance before stepping back.

"You come, too," she said.

"I'll get the next one," I replied.

"No. You get in. Now," she insisted.

I looked at Jeff, who nodded, and I climbed in next to Debbie and the EMT. The doors closed and the ambulance took off, siren blaring. Which was a bit excessive. Neither of us had critical injuries.

It didn't take long to reach Lowell General Hospital. Debbie was put on a gurney and wheeled in, surrounded by doctors and nurses. She was going to be okay, physically. For the rest, only time would tell. Then the orderlies came after me with a gurney, and with the press taking pictures. Having an image to protect, I walked in under my own power, though admittedly, I was getting a little dizzy. Blood leaking through the bandage looked worse than it was. I needed a stiff shot of bourbon but wouldn't get one here.

They sat me on a trauma room table as the doctor removed Chief Michael's torn sleeve, now well soaked through. A nurse pulled off my bloody sweater and t-shirt, checking for additional injuries. There was blood all over by pants, socks, and shoes. A splinter from the door was stuck in my thigh. They stripped me completely looking for additional injuries. It was embarrassing, but as a medic, I understood the necessity. At least they gave me a sheet for modesty.

"I'm Dr. Pushkin. You've got a deep laceration here," the doctor said. He lifted a piece of my scalp, dabbing the wound with disinfectant.

"We'll need to sew this wound up and take X-rays," Dr. Pushkin concluded.

"Sewing should be fine for now," I said.

"We need the X-rays," Pushkin insisted.

"No money, doc. My health insurance plan has a three-thousand-dollar deductible and I've only got four hundred dollars in the bank," I explained.

"We can make arrangements," a nurse suggested.

"Just the sewing kit, ma'am. I'll get X-rays if there are complications," I answered.

The doctor shook his head but stopped arguing. After cutting off chunks of matted hair, he had my torn scalp half sewed up when an orderly called for his attention.

"Excuse me, back in a minute," Pushkin said.

"I'm going to need clothes, sir," I said, pulling the sheet tighter. I noticed more splotches. I peeled the cover back and gingerly pulled out a splinter from the top of my thigh. It looked clean. The wound would require stitches.

The nurse departed, too, leaving me blissfully alone. I wanted to look in a mirror, hoping the head injury wasn't too bad, but couldn't find one.

"Excuse me," a middle-aged man said. He was broad-chested with receding light brown hair and angry hazel eyes. He wore an expensive dark blue suit.

"Yes, sir?" I said.

"John Henry Lawrence, it had to be you," he remarked, walking into the examination room. I felt embarrassed, sitting there naked with a needle and thread dripping over my ear.

"Here, I guess you've earned this," the man said, handing me a certified check.

"A million dollars?" I asked, squinting to read the numbers.

"I'm Daniel Palmer, president of Palmer Media, and that's the reward I offered for my daughter's safe return."

"I didn't know there was a reward," I replied.

"Yes, I'm sure it never occurred to someone like you," he snarled.

"There were hundreds of volunteers out there looking for Debbie," I responded, thoroughly offended. "Church groups. Kids from the college. Off-duty cops. Give them your damn money."

I tore the check in half and handed it back to him. When he hesitated, I tore it into quarters and dropped the pieces on the floor. One landed in a pool of blood. The doctor returned.

"Excuse me, Mr. Palmer. You're not supposed to be here," Dr. Pushkin said, having the orderly escort the media mogul out. Palmer stooped to pick up the remains of the check before leaving.

"You could have used that money," Pushkin nonchalantly remarked.

"I'll never need money that bad," I said.

The nurse had to shave more of my head where a shotgun pellet had cut through the scalp. I'd been lucky. Another half inch and it would have penetrated the skull above my ear. They finished sewing up the tear, trimmed off some frayed skin, and applied a wrap. Then, embarrassing but necessary, they laid me down and drew off the sheet looking for additional injuries. There were a dozen or so tiny holes in my neck, shoulder, and arm. Nothing disinfectant and bandages couldn't fix. The leg wound only required a quick stitch. The nurse injected me with a painkiller that felt really good.

"Found this for you," the orderly announced.

It was a pink sweatshirt with a stupid-looking cat on it. If the press took that picture I'd never live it down. I requested a blanket to drape over my shoulders. They found sweatpants and slippers, so at least I wouldn't be barefoot. What happened to my tennis shoes? They appeared on eBay a month later.

"Mr. Lawrence, Debbie Palmer is asking for you," a nurse said, looking in from the hall.

"What's wrong? Is she all right?" I asked.

"I don't know. Only that she's asking for you."

They found me a wheelchair, which was appropriate, for I was a bit unsteady on my feet, and rolled me down the corridor. There were cops and FBI loitering around, but no reporters. Agent Aiyana intercepted me.

"That was great work, Lawrence," she said, shaking my hand. "Those of us out in the field, we've always wondered why the Washington office indulged you. Seems you've taught us a lesson."

"Not looking to teach anyone lessons, Miss Aiyana. Just looking for a lost girl. What's wrong with Debbie?"

"You'll see," she cryptically answered.

They pushed me into an examination room where a bed was surrounded by a closed curtain. Debbie's parents and two female doctors were present. The older of the doctors, a round fluffy haired woman named Cynthia Sechler, knelt down and whispered to me.

"Miss Palmer won't consent to the rape examination. She wants to talk to you," Dr. Sechler explained.

"Is that appropriate?" I asked in surprise.

"The exam is important for her health. She trusts you."

"Get me out of this wheelchair. Find me a stool, and get ready for the exam. And ask her parents to leave," I said, struggling to get up.

"I should be with her, not him," Mrs. Amanda Palmer said.

I placed Amanda in her early forties, somewhat tall, with long wavy brown hair that hadn't been combed in a while. I sympathized with her, but Debbie was more important.

"It's what your daughter wants," Dr. Sechler said.

The parents slowly left, but lingered just outside the door where they could keep an eye on things. I slipped inside the curtain, sat on the stool next to Debbie's bed, and took her hand. She was dressed in a hospital gown. Someone had taken a moment to comb her long reddish-brown hair.

"This won't be so bad. The worst is over now," I said.

"How can you bear it?" she asked, her big brown eyes looking at me with aching emotion.

I understood now why she wanted me there. It was rumored that I'd been raped by gang members while an inmate at Northfield Prison. A calculated attempt to break my spirit that had nearly been successful. Having been knocked unconscious, I couldn't be sure of the truth.

"It's hard, at first," I said, leaning close so I could speak softly. "But I had no family. I thought my friends had abandoned me."

"What did you do? You know, to--" she asked, trying to form the words.

"To forget? You won't be able to forget, but in time, other things will fill your life. And for you, those are going to be wonderful things. Can I give you some advice?"

"Yes," she agreed, gripping my hand tighter.

"Don't let what's happened define you," I urged. "Be the person you want to be. Be a fighter. And don't be afraid to reach out. I was for too long, and I was only hurting myself."

"I want to be brave. I tried and tried the whole time."

"You are brave. I've seen it in your eyes."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss Palmer. I'm sure."

We spoke for twenty minutes, holding hands. Of her ordeal. My time in prison. What future boyfriends might think of her. What her family would think. Things said and unsaid. I was on firm ground here, having dealt with the same fears.

"The doctors can come in now," Debbie said with a heavy sigh.

I started to get up, but she grabbed my arm with both hands. I stayed and talked to her during the examination, recalling stories of my youth working in St. Mary's infirmary. She smiled several times at my tales of harried doctors and cranky patients. The time a supplicant went into labor and I needed to deliver her baby, terrified the entire time. Debbie laughed.

"We gave her a mild sedative so she can sleep," Dr. Sechler whispered as I prepared to leave. "I heard what you said. You should consider a career in counseling."

"Thanks, but that's not a story I want to repeat," I replied.

I'd had enough of the wheelchair, stepping into the corridor. Daniel Palmer was gone, but Mrs. Palmer was talking with a nurse, then looked at me with a dark frown. I was considering my best escape route when she marched right at me, trapping me against the wall.

"What's this about the X-rays?" Mrs. Palmer said.

"Sorry, ma'am, but that's really none of your business," I replied, trying to slip sideways. She grabbed my shoulder, then poked the bandage on my head. I yelped and brushed her hand away.

"And when you topple over from a brain hemorrhage, what do I tell my daughter? That I let you walk out of here without getting the proper care? How do you think that's going to make her feel?"

"I'm fine," I protested.

"Daniel told me what happened in the exam room. I'm sorry you felt insulted. He's not always the most tactful man. But I see how Debbie is depending on you. I won't see her hurt again. Now let's find that X-ray."

Two hours later, they had me in a bed. Doctors were looking at charts, talking nonsense. They'd done X-rays, an MRI, and reopened the head wound to remove a metal sliver. If not for the morphine, I'd have detached myself from the machines and made a run for it. Mrs. Palmer stayed with me the whole time, watching like a hawk. And she found me a nice blue collared shirt without a cat on it. Her husband finally returned.

"I was an ass. I apologize," Palmer said, offering to shake hands.

"Mrs. Palmer must really have slapped you around," I replied, hesitating before accepting the gesture.

"You are invited to my house for Easter. Debbie and Amanda want to make sure you're okay," he insisted.

"I really don't feel the need, sir," I declined.

"The doctors tell me there are lots more tests they can run, and Amanda will make you take them all," Palmer threatened. "Or would you rather have my wife slap you around?"

"Where do you live?" I asked.

I wasn't out of the woods yet. First it was the doctor.

"Mr. Lawrence, want to tell me what you've been doing to your brain?" Dr. Pushkin asked, flashing the MRI around for all to see.

"I've already been diagnosed, and I'm being careful," I said, for Juliet Nichols had warned me back at Northfield that I needed to stop fighting.

"How is having a bullet bounce off your skull being careful?" Pushkin said, discussing my business in front of the Palmers.

"It was a pellet, not a bullet, and whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?" I inquired.

"You almost made me discharge you with a concussion," Pushkin responded. "If not for Mrs. Palmer, I would have. Don't start lecturing me on my Hippocratic Oath."

"Why? What is it?" Mr. Palmer asked.

"This MRI looks like a spider web," Pushkin said, flashing the chart.

"I've been examined by doctors at Walter Reed," I responded. "It looks more serious than it is."

"I want the name of your regular doctor, and I'm prescribing a regimen for you," Pushkin insisted.

"Yes, sir," I agreed, for there was no point in arguing in front of so many witnesses. "But let's be clear, Mr. Palmer, this is not showing up in your newspapers. Or anything else you hear in this room. Are we agreed?"

"We agree," Amanda said, poking her husband.

"I agree," Palmer grunted, knowing he'd lost a great story. Small satisfaction for me, but better than nothing. And the story he would have had was about to get better.

"Jack! Oh my God," Jenny Blair shouted from my doorway.

Her shock was understandable. They had me hooked up to machines. My head was wrapped in a big bandage. X-rays of my skull were on the monitor screens. Two doctors and a nurse with nothing better to do were loitering around gossiping about me with the Palmers. They all turned, surprised to find the late President's daughter with her stricken expression.

Before I could explain, Jenny jumped on my bed and kissed me full on the lips, causing the entire audience to draw back.

"Take it easy, sweet stuff," I quietly urged.

"I saw you on TV. All of America saw you walking out of that house with Debbie Palmer in your arms, blood all over," she reported. "They said you were shot in the head."

"It's only a scratch. I'll be out of here in half an hour. Isn't that right, Dr. Pushkin?"

"If you promise to follow instructions," Pushkin agreed. I was being held hostage. Again.

"I promise," I replied.

Dr. Pushkin chased everyone but Jenny out of the room so an orderly could help me dress. Jenny kept hold of my arm as we entered the hallway. Mrs. Palmer was smiling under bent brows.

"Send me the hospital bill," I said to her husband.

"That will be a cold day in hell," Daniel said, extending his hand. "Remember, Easter. Be there after church."

"Yes, sir," I acknowledged, worn down by too many strong personalities.

"God bless you, son," Amanda said, kissing me on the cheek. She had tears in her eyes.

Debbie was not rescued a moment too soon. The police were finding bodies in the crawl space under 624 Sumner Drive. Three missing women so far. Though it had been blind luck that saved her, I felt a great deal of satisfaction. I was also making some mistakes.

"There he is!" a reporter shouted as I emerged from the hospital.

"Jack, how did you find Debbie Palmer?" another asked.

"Were you shot in the brain?" a third reporter wondered.

I had completely forgotten about the media coverage, walking right into the lion's den. There must have been twenty reporters trying to push in close. One obnoxious idiot pressed so hard I almost decked him. Jenny jumped in front of me, her hands raised.

"Mr. Lawrence is recovering from serious injuries," she said. "Send your contact information to me at the Devon Agency. I will get answers to your questions. Now please, step aside."

If Jenny's request wasn't enough, half a dozen State Troopers suddenly surrounded us, pushing the reporters back to make a path to the street. Sheriff Walters had his Suburban waiting. I gratefully climbed in the back seat, and we drove off.

"Wow, that was crazy," Jeff said, trying to avoid reckless spectators.

"That happens to Jack a lot," Jenny said. "If he wanted to start endorsing products, he could make a fortune."

"Smith and Wesson?" I said.

It was a terrible thing to say, especially to Jenny. But I was tired. Drugged. Weary of being a celebrity. It was still no excuse.

"I'm sorry. I am really, really sorry," I said, kissing her hand.

She brushed a portion of hair back from my forehead that hadn't been shaved off and kissed me with an urgent passion.

"When I saw you on TV, I was so scared," she said. "I grabbed a cab to La Guardia and found a private flight."

"Isn't that expensive?" I asked.

"When I told the pilot why I needed to get here so fast, he wouldn't take my money."

"We should find him. Make sure he gets paid," I said.

"With what, Jack? You've got about a hundred bucks to your name," Jeff said.

"How much?" Jenny probed.

"I've had debts to pay, but I get another paycheck at the end of the month," I assured her.

"Damn it, Mom wants to pay you back. We owe you seventy-five thousand dollars," Jenny complained.

"And I told Pat I'm not taking her money," I replied.

Jenny stayed with me for two days, respectfully, sleeping on my couch. She made meals, fetched anything for me except beer, and paid my bills when I wasn't looking. She put me on her phone with Pat and we talked for an hour.

"I've written out all of the doctor's instructions," Jenny said when it was time to leave, for she still had a job waiting for her in New York.

Chubby was giving her a ride to the train station in Manchester, for I did not own a car and didn't plan to. I didn't even have a driver's license. I did have a class to teach, needing the money more than ever. We had a nice kiss before Jenny got in the car, but we didn't talk much. The separation was harder than I expected.

_______

The following Sunday I took the Skylla Falls bus to the train station in Manchester, and the train to Cambridge where the Palmers lived. They owned a stately manor on Memorial Drive overlooking the St. Charles River. It wasn't far from Harvard University, another school I never expected to see. I walked from the train station, not wanting to waste money on a cab.

I passed a Catholic Church on the way, busy with Easter Services, and stopped in for a few minutes. It felt good to offer prayer and light candles. Many of the parishioners recognized me, some ignoring my presence, others asking to shake hands. I did my best not to make a bad impression. The priest asked if I wanted Confession, but I declined.

The driveway up to the Palmer's mansion was a bit steep, leaving me winded. I hadn't been able to exercise much, spending too much time reading term papers. And I needed not to aggravate the head wound, knowing as well as anyone that complications should be avoided.

Before I could knock on the door, it was thrown open. Debbie rushed to greet me, hugging me like a long-lost lover.

"Careful, there. I don't want to get arrested," I said.

"Don't worry, Jack. I know you're too old for me," she replied.

We held hands going back in the house. She looked great, appeared happy, and had a bounce in her step. I was sure she was getting the best professional counseling, an advantage of having wealthy parents, but it also showed her strength of character. It made me wish I had gotten counseling after coming back from Second Afghan.

The Palmer's house made Cecily Blair Forrest's mansion look like a bungalow. The entry was huge, with a grand staircase, trophy cases filled with awards, and wide arches leading into a gallery. It would have made a good museum.

"Jack, you made it. I wasn't sure you would," Daniel said, emerging from an oak paneled library. He shook my hand with genuine warmth. Amanda followed, kissed my cheek, and took my jacket.

"I didn't have much choice, sir," I said. "You did blackmail me. Come to think of it, I get blackmailed a lot. I must be an easy mark."

"There are people who care for you. More than I thought," Daniel said.

"Addie Wagner says hello," Amanda mentioned. "She's a fan, too."

I had met the First Lady on several occasions and she always expressed gratitude for saving her grandchildren from the flaming wreck of National Flight 13. But I had just acted on instinct, as any first responder would do. And I didn't learn the little waifs were the President's grandchildren until later, not that it would have mattered.

"I hope she's well," I said. "The President is going to have a rough reelection campaign."

"Are you going to vote for him?" Daniel asked.

"I've never lived in one place long enough to vote for anyone," I said. "I'm not even sure if New Hampshire allows ex-convicts to vote."

"Promise to vote against the son of a bitch and I'll make sure you get registered," Daniel said, presumably joking.

"We're having a late lunch. Are ham and cheese sandwiches okay?" Amanda asked with a twinkle in her eye.

"You've been talking to Patricia Blair," I said, for ham and cheese sandwiches were our special lunch together.

"We've been talking to everybody," Amanda revealed, leading me through their opulent dining room to a kitchen that was bigger than my entire cottage.

"Off the opiates?" Daniel asked.

"Yes, sir. Doctor's orders," I replied.

"How about a Squirrel Nut?" he offered.

"Wow, you've been doing your research," I said, impressed. It made me sorry I hadn't spent a few hours on the Black Web investigating his secrets.

We sat in a comfortable leather booth near the window overlooking a flower garden. A cook and a butler rushed around fetching food and drinks. I was not accustomed to such service but tried to take it in stride.

"How are you?" Debbie asked, peeking at the bandages.

"I wish they hadn't cut off so much hair," I complained. "I'm going to look lopsided for months."

She giggled at my joke, appearing relaxed. I would speak with her privately, later, just to make sure. Sometimes a person will confide in an acquaintance rather than family members.

"We have a guitar for you, and I play the piano," Debbie said. "Let's record some songs this afternoon."

"That sounds like fun," I agreed.

Normally I would have said no to being recorded but I didn't want to discourage her. Daniel was watching as if reading my mind.

Being a media mogul, Daniel was quite the political junkie, wanting to talk about a wide range of issues over beers. I had little expertise in taxes or trade, but I knew a lot about the military. And the criminal justice system. He asked my opinion.

"We agree more often than not," Daniel concluded with surprise.

"Most servicemen tend to be a little conservative," I explained.

"Do you really see yourself as a criminal?" Daniel asked.

"I don't know. I did for a long time, but people I respect keep saying otherwise. It's complicated."

"Harold Rasmussen speaks highly of your ethics," Daniel said. "He says that when the chips are down, there's no one he trusts more. That's quite a compliment coming from a deputy FBI director."

"Mr. Rasmussen has always been generous to me," I responded, for it was true.

Debbie and I sang songs through the afternoon, mostly pop music and Broadway tunes. Her playing was superb, making me a little jealous. The butler recorded our sessions and was apparently using a sound mixer. I hadn't realized domestic help needed to be so versatile.

On doctor's orders, I took my medication and a short nap before dinner, being given a luxurious bedroom filled with modern art. It reminded me of my visits to the White House, though Mr. Palmer didn't stomp around throwing things the way President Wagner did. I took a shower and spent a few minutes in quiet meditation, clearing my head. The last time I was in a mansion for a fancy meal, things had not gone well.

The Palmers invited a few friends to join us, causing me some concern. But everyone proved friendly, eager to meet me, and asked questions about my many adventures. And interestingly, none of them asked the questions that always got me mad or nervous. It was as if they'd been coached in the do's and don'ts of Jack Lawrence.

After a delicious dinner of lamb chops and asparagus, Debbie and I replayed some of our afternoon songs for the guests, who applauded with enthusiasm. I don't know if we were good or if they were being polite. As the Palmer's guests left, I was stationed at the door, shaking hands and exchanging hugs. They had organized a lovely evening and executed it with perfection.

"Dears, Jack and I need to talk," Daniel told the ladies once the house was cleared. "We'll be back in a few minutes."

He took me into a study that looked like something out of a Sherlock Holmes movie. There were old books, a carved marble fireplace below an oil portrait of Palmer's grandfather, and lots of small statues.

"Dinner went well, don't you think?" Daniel asked.

"You've certainly gone to a lot of trouble, sir. Is there something you want from me?"

"Is that your background in military intelligence speaking?"

"I was a street kid before that. Where I've come from, nothing is free."

"Fair enough. I hear you like straight talk."

"To a point," I confirmed.

He went to the bar and made Manhattans using an expensive rye whiskey. Then we sat down in big leather chairs. I almost expected him to pull out Cuban cigars, but there was no scent of them in the room. Daniel paused, building a sense of suspense.

"To the future," he said, offering the toast.

"The future," I said, knowing that could mean anything.

"Okay, son, here it is. I'm a very rich man, and it's information that's made me rich. For the last eight years I've been bashing you. In public, in private, in my newspapers, on my cable network. Then you got shot saving my daughter, and though you don't have bus fare in your pocket, you threw a million dollar check back in my face. For a man in my profession, that raises a lot of questions.

"So, I've been asking around about you. Using my contacts. Talking with everyone who's worth talking to. It turns out I've been wrong about you, and I don't like being wrong. I also don't like being in debt and not allowed to pay it back."

"Sir, I--"

"Jack, I already know what you're going to say. I've heard it from Patricia Blair, and Addie Wagner. And I've heard it from Alex McGuire. Save your breath."

He finished his drink, waited for me to finish mine, and made two more. I began thinking that I could get to like this.

"I know you won't take money from me. Amanda and I heard what Jennifer Blair said about the money you gave her mother. But I can help you make money."

"Sir, I already have a job. And I like it," I said.

"A job that pays less than I spend on my shoes, but that's all right. I'm not asking you to quit the college. I'm hosting a meeting of the Publisher's Guild in New York, the second Saturday in May. I want you to be the guest speaker. It pays sixty thousand dollars."

"Sir, I don't know anything about public speaking," I protested.

"And that is where you're wrong," Daniel argued, pointing his finger at me. "I watched your appearance before the House Select Committee on Military Affairs. I saw the live interview you did with Nutter Cisco. I studied how you interacted with my guests tonight. And you're a teacher. By definition, that is public speaking."

"Sixty thousand dollars is a lot of money," I was forced to admit. In fact, it was a staggering sum.

"Not in my world," he answered. "Now you are going to accept this proposition. It will reassure Debbie that you're okay. It will get Amanda off my back. It will help assuage the guilt I feel for misjudging you. And you're at an age that you need to be thinking about the future. You might want a girlfriend or a wife someday. You might want kids."

"What would this Guild expect of me?" I asked.

"That will be up to you, but I think you've got a unique view of celebrity, from the underbelly to the heights. As publishers, celebrity is our bread and butter. Everyone will be interested in what you have to say. And if this goes well, I'll find more speaking engagements for you. If you start making enough money, I might even take a cut as your agent."

I had to laugh at that. A millionaire many times over finding me work.

"Okay, sir. I'll give it a try," I agreed. "For Debbie's sake, and someone else I've been thinking about."

"That's the spirit. Any help you need, just let me know."

"Well, now that you mention it, I could use an advance to buy a new suit. And maybe get some advice on what sort of suit to wear."

"My man Jervis will go with you to Neiman's. And I'll get you a company credit card."

"Really? His name is Jervis?"

"As far as I know," Daniel said with a grin.

It was getting late, and I didn't want to overstay my welcome. I asked if I could use a computer, sitting in the office to look up the train schedules. My original 9 o'clock train was long gone, and it was a holiday.

"What's that?" Debbie asked, taking a seat next to me in the study.

"It's called the internet," I said.

"I know that, dummy. Why are you looking at those schedules? Where's your car?"

"I don't own a car."

"How did you get here?"

"My usual way. The bus, and then the train, and then I walked."

"Daddy!" she yelled.

I had not intended to create a family emergency.

"You'll stay here tonight. Jervis will give you a ride home in the morning," Amanda insisted, everybody sitting at the kitchen table over cookies and ice cream.

I would have said no but discovered there were no more trains going to Manchester or buses back to Skylla Falls. My planning had been poor.

"If it's not too much trouble," I reluctantly agreed, embarrassed to become such a burden.

"Pat Blair and I have spent a lot of time talking about you, young man. And she's right," Amanda said. "You need taking care of."

____________

May arrived. Classes were winding down and my students had done well. Several aspired to be professional authors, which is more than I would ever be. Though I was making progress on my memoir, it felt rambling and unfocused. On a Friday afternoon, I stopped in at the Roasted Duck, had a couple of beers with the guys, and used my secret route back to the cottage. An elderly gentleman, Mr. George Washington Taylor, was kind enough to let me cut through his walled estate.

It was a pleasant day. The head wound was healing, my health was good, and I was looking forward to the summer recess. I hung my new suit in the closet, took another Squirrel Nut from the refrigerator, and sat at the kitchen table looking toward the valley. It was green and beautiful.

There was a knock on the door, which usually meant Jeff, Dwayne or Chubby had information for me, as I still refused to own a phone. I pulled on my sweats and went to answer. It was Jenny Blair.

"I'm tired of waiting," she said, pushing her way inside. "I've waited for a year. I'm not waiting anymore."

And then she started taking off her clothes.

* * * * * *

This story was originally published 10 years ago. I am using this opportunity to repair typos and tighten the narrative. For readers who are enjoying this story, please give it your support. Thanks.