Second Chances

Pt. 06

by G. Lawrence

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: Jack's origins as a baby kidnap victim and street waif have been exposed after his aunt appeared before a grand jury. The publicity and criticism from the press may be getting to him.

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now that each chapter begins with Jack being held prisoner by a terrorist organization in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines will eventually come together.

* * * * * *

Mr. Daniel Palmer

Palmer Media Building

New York, New York

Dear Mr. Palmer,

In retrospect, it should not be a surprise that Jack reacted to events as he did. Having spent his life avoiding attention, he was suddenly thrust into a media storm from which there was no escape. Perhaps, one day, I will be able to write about our friendship, but it's still too soon. Respectfully, Alex McGuire, Senior Agent, United States Secret Service

* * * * * *

Chapter Six

DREDGING THE PAST

The winter in Sar'ret was hard. The nightmares were back in force. Heavy gunfire. Torn bodies. Walking dead. I'd wake up soaked in sweat, sometimes bruised from thrashing around my cell, afraid to go back to sleep. It made me wonder when Abari was coming back. How much longer did I have? Every time a truck came up the mountain road, I knew it was the end.

My deteriorating condition was not a secret. When Khillan and Ishan escorted me to the fields, they'd notice me staring into the distance with a growing sense of detachment. I rarely ate. My weight dropped. Those in the village who cared about their prisoner were worried. Ma'amet was so concerned that he moved me from the storage room into his own home where Lalia could feed me. When the coldest of the winter arrived, I was sleeping on cushions before his fireplace.

"These are for you," Ma'amet said one morning, sitting next to me on a bench among the trees overlooking the lake. He handed me a bottle.

"Cyanide?" I asked, not bothering to read the label.

"It is your medication," Ma'amet said.

I squinted, able to make out some of the Persian letters. It was my prescription for PTSD. Or something very much like it.

"How did you find this?" I asked.

"We sent to Baghdad."

"This drug is rare in this part of the world. Wasn't it expensive?"

"We were able to trade. It was a fair bargain," Ma'amet said.

"I don't understand."

"There is little we can do for you, my friend. But this we can do for you. Everybody agreed."

"Your people are generous, Ma'amet," I said.

I took a pill, then sat under a tree, attempting to meditate. That night, I had better sleep than I'd had in months. As my way of saying thank you, I helped prepare the fields for winter wheat and carried baskets for the women. Ma'amet was pleased, my behavior rewarding the risk he'd taken.

A few weeks later, it was Christmas Day. I bathed early in an icy creek, mended the fur gloves generously donated to me by a grateful farmer, and spent the morning sitting quietly by the lake. I had been a prisoner now for nearly nine months, and though it had not started well, my treatment steadily improved. I hoped Kassan Abari would not make the villagers pay a price for that. Ramood gave me a candle, and when lighting it, I prayed to God for Abari's demise.

Christmas had mixed memories for me. Old Da had not celebrated it, except as a way to exploit tourists. When I was ten, in New York, I nearly froze to death in a cardboard box. On a Christmas Eve in Afghanistan, I was wounded at Katana Bridge and watched helplessly as comrades died only a few yards away. Francie and I had one Christmas together, and three months later she was dead.

But there were a few good memories. The Brothers at St. Mary's served a fine meal. We sheltered the poor, distributed clothing, and sang carols. The Brothers sought to instill Christian values in their young troublemaker. Not the hypocritical values I'd seen too often in the world, but a genuine love that transcended pettiness and ego. And I had struggled to embrace their philosophy ever since. It was why I became a medic, and a first responder. And in prison, an enforcer. For to make life better for many, sometimes a few need to make sacrifices.

"You are quiet today. Is it your Lord's Day?" Lalia asked, coming down to the lake with hot broth and wheat bread. She was in her early fifties, long black hair turning gray, with gentle eyes and an abundance of wisdom.

"It's a holiday back home. One where families gather," I said, grateful for her thoughtfulness.

"Would you be with your family today?" she asked.

"I have no family. I would have gone for a walk, and sat by a lake, just as I am doing now," I replied.

"We had Christian missionaries here once. They called themselves Latter-day Saints," Lalia remembered. "They spoke often of their faith, but they also helped build the infirmary, planted the fields, and brought medicines for the babies. They were nice, even if their religion made no sense."

"Christians like to do good works," I agreed.

"Are you not a Christian?"

"During the Freedom War, it was said the Americans had come to Afghanistan to impose their culture on the people. And there was some truth to this. I will not speak of my faith here. It's not my place."

"Our faith is not so weak that we cannot hear of yours," Lalia said. "The Kurds believe differently than we do. And the Turks. And the Persians. If you wish to share your thoughts on a special day, you have the right."

"Thank you so much for saying so," I answered, taking her hand. "But I'm not sure what's left of my faith. Everything feels so long ago. Thinking of the past only makes me sad."

____________

It was time to consider the future. With my lack of formal education, I wasn't going to medical school, and I didn't want to go back in the Army. Speaker fees were large but might disappear once my novelty wore off. And I had few appreciable skills that didn't involve blood and heartache. I decided to see if Skylla College still wanted teachers.

I rode the train to Manchester and splurged on a cab to Skylla Falls. Mrs. Walters had still not rented my cottage, making it available for a few days. Jeff offered me a ride, but I decided to walk.

The town was quiet, but when I spotted a reporter loitering near the Roasted Duck Saloon, I thought it best to use my secret route. Going up Cabot Avenue, I entered the Taylor estate using a small gate at the lower end of his property, planning to exit through another small gate in the woods above the lake, with minimal trespassing. Mr. Taylor was sitting on the steps of the ancient colonial mansion and flagged me down.

"Youngster, hold up a minute," the septuagenarian shouted. Though thin and walking with a cane, the old gray-hair still had a vibrant energy.

"I'm sorry, sir. You gave me permission before. I thought it was still okay," I said, walking up the broad green lawn.

Down by the lake was the modern ranch house built by his late son, dead from cancer five years before. I had been in Zachery House once, a rambling structure with a vaulted living room ceiling, five bedrooms, and a large patio for parties. Zachery Madison Taylor had been an entrepreneur who used the estate for entertaining business clients. There was a pool, tennis courts, a basketball court, and a putting green. At one time, he even considered building riding stables.

On a hill overlooking the property was the mansion built by a Taylor ancestor in the 1760s. Two stories high, quaint but expensive to maintain, it looked like a smaller version of Mt. Vernon. Better suited to tours by school children than a residence.

"Not mad at you, son. Not mad at all," Mr. Taylor said. "Been readin' on your adventures. What are you doin' back in Skylla Falls?"

"I'm going to ask Dr. Johnson about teaching next spring," I said. "Also thinking of buying a home in case I get married someday."

"Married, huh? The cute little redhead?" he asked.

"I shouldn't say until she hears it from me first, Mr. Taylor," I replied.

"Figured as much. How about buying my place?"

"Sir?"

"With my son gone, only got a few relatives out west, and none of them gives a flying fuck about Taylor Place. Probably tear it down for timeshares. But I've been watching you. You care about tradition. And you're an up and comer, like my Zach was. This estate is a fine place to entertain the high and mighty."

"Don't know that I'll be hanging out with the high and mighty, sir. Isn't Taylor Place worth millions?"

"Maybe not millions, but worth preserving," George said.

The twenty acres, most of which was forest, didn't just have the two main houses. There was also a gardener's cottage and a 1920s garage used as a workshop. And best of all, there was an ivy-covered brick wall along Cabot Avenue screening it from prying eyes. It was the sort of home that a street kid like me could only dream of.

"Sir, I've made a little money from speaker fees lately, and from the college. I love Taylor Place but I don't see how I can afford it."

"I've set up a trust fund," he cagily revealed, looking very pleased. "Whatever you pay for the estate will go back into maintenance. On a modest income, you'll pay the mortgage off in eight years. And I've been watching you. Your modesty, and love of tradition. You need Taylor Place, and Taylor Place needs you."

I was numb. Could any of that really happen? It would be a fantasy come true. My own home. Mine. A bastion of history. Beautiful beyond belief. I reacted without thinking.

"You'll need to keep living here, sir. It will be a few years before I can settle down, and then you'll need to teach me how to manage it," I offered.

"Let's go up to the house and talk," George said with a big smile.

We reached a price that was more than fair, and I gave him a substantial down payment using my speaker fees. I called Mrs. Blair's attorney to arrange the details, for if anything ever happened to me, Patricia Blair would inherit my folly.

I moved into Zachery House that afternoon, my friends from the Roasted Duck helping me dust, purchase bedding, and set up the kitchen. I made spaghetti for Jeff and his mother, Sally Ann, joined by Dwayne, Big Solley and Chubby. Thanks to Chef Guevara's training at Northfield, I didn't screw it up too bad. I didn't tell my guests they were eating a prison recipe.

"This is amazing. I haven't been here in years. Not since my 7th grade field trip," Dwayne said, mixing drinks on my new patio as we looked at the red sun setting over the lake.

"Yes, I have my own kingdom now," I agreed.

The next day I walked down the hill to the college intending to get my job back. And buy a bicycle. Dr. Johnson was very nice, giving me a tentative approval, but I would need to interview before a board first. By Friday afternoon, I was back in New York.

"You bought a house?" Jenny said.

"Three houses, twenty acres, and a pier," I elaborated.

"Without talking to me first?" she asked in a hurt tone.

"I was going to find a small place for when I was teaching, but Mr. Taylor made a generous offer."

"But we live in New York. It's where we work," she protested.

"I don't really work anywhere, and I don't live anywhere. I never have. But I want to teach at Skylla College," I responded, annoyed with her. "I haven't heard you complaining about growing up at Blair House. Which is nicer than a cardboard box, last I heard."

"Let's not fight," Jenny wisely reconsidered. "Let's eat. I'm hungry."

We met Bobby at our local restaurant, Kiwi's Grill on 49th. He was surprised, too.

"Can you afford a large estate?" Bob said.

"There are subsidies, and I have money coming in. The speaking fees. Some from the concerts. And my lawsuit," I answered.

"They won't be able to pay you a hundred million dollars," Bob said. "Mom's investigator says the Houser family is only worth about fifteen million. Twenty, at most. And most of that is tied up in property."

"Then they better find a good real estate agent," I said.

Jenny and Bob fell into an uncomfortable silence. I didn't care. It wasn't their life that was stolen.

"Your San Antonio trip is coming up soon," Bob said.

"Yes, I'm speaking at the Roddenberry Hotel," I confirmed.

"Talking about the war again?" Bob pressed.

"The topic is holding a hopeless position. Appropriate, being down the street from the Alamo," I said. "I hear River Walk has great food."

"Let's make a joint project," Bob suggested. "Come to Philadelphia for my book signing, then we'll both go to San Antonio for your speech. Good chance to spend some time together."

My first instinct was to say no. I liked Bob, but he was a bit refined. Which was my way of saying a snob. But who was I to judge?

"Sounds good," I agreed.

_________

I gave a concert with the 144th Band Friday night, then took the train with Bob to Philadelphia first thing Saturday morning. His publisher got us a private compartment. A car picked us up at the station, driving straight to Roman's Bookstore on Main Street where Bob was scheduled to sign copies of his new book.

"You lived here for several years, didn't you?" Bob asked, looking at the city as we passed. A cobblestone street took us in front of Independence Hall. I had visited there once.

"Yes. I was fourteen at the time. The Brothers at St. Mary's took me in after I got beat up by some local thugs."

"Attended Farragut High School. Straight A student majoring in biology. Played baseball," Bob recounted. "There's a rumor that you were offered a minor league contract with the Orioles. Two years undefeated in the Golden Gloves."

"Has someone been checking up on me?" I asked, not that my biography hadn't been leaking out for some time.

"As a matter of fact, someone you know," Bob said.

We were dropped off behind the store, entering through the back door. There was already a line waiting, and the moment the crowd saw me with Bobby, they started texting their friends. I discovered that Bob wasn't signing books by himself.

"Rafael? What's this all about?" I asked.

"Same publisher. They thought a joint event would be good for sales," Rafael Martín said. "You being here won't hurt, either."

That quickly became obvious, and though I was under no obligation, I hung around signing copies of The Sarge, The White Mountain War, An American Hero, Fountain Blues, and other titles they were pushing. The four-hour event stretched to seven, when the store finally managed to close down the lines. The manager was very grateful, especially with the live media coverage their event had gathered. It's good for people to read books.

I let the young authors pay for dinner at Mariano's that evening, ordering a thick steak and an expensive bottle of wine.

"Maria is pregnant," Rafael announced, offering a toast. "If it's a boy, we're naming him John Henry Martín. A girl will be Jackie Henrietta Martín."

"Here, here," Bob said.

"That's a big honor," I uncomfortably remarked, clinking glasses.

"How long have you and Jack known each other?" Bob asked.

"Gosh, it's been seven years now," Rafael remembered. "I was in Windhaven, convicted of selling guns to an undercover ATF agent. Jack straightened me out, taught me to write. Helped make my first sale. I'd still be a street punk if not for him."

"That's not true," I disagreed.

"Yes, Jack, it is," Rafael insisted. "You turned my life around. And I'm not the only one. I've been interviewing other Windhaven inmates. And a few from Northfield. You put a lot of us on the straight and narrow."

"By being cranky, irritable, and demanding?" I asked.

"Those weren't your best qualities, but yes," Rafael answered.

"To second chances," Bob said, calling for another toast. "When I set out to be a military historian, my first work was crap. Jack put me in touch with reliable sources, and then fact checked my early articles, which led to my first book deal."

"I also edited Sarge out, and you put him back in. And now both of you have made Sarge a cottage industry. Do you know there are Sarge comic books?"

"When it was time to put Second Afghan behind us, Sarge was the hero America needed," Bob insisted.

"He still is," Rafael agreed.

"He's also a lot to live up to, which doesn't make my life any easier," I protested.

"And when did you decide to have an easy life?" Bob asked.

"When I started banging your sister, Bob," I replied.

I expected him to be insulted, but Bob and Rafael just laughed.

"How about giving us a tour tomorrow?" Rafael asked. "Fill in a few of your missing years."

"For another book?" I asked.

"Isn't it better to have a friend telling your story instead of a hack?" Rafael suggested.

"There is someone I've been meaning to visit," I admitted.

The next morning, Rafael drove us in his rental car to St. Mary's a mile from the Philadelphia docks. It brought back another time, left behind when I was young, idealistic, and naïve enough to think I could change the world.

It was still a sprawling complex, established two hundred years before. The towering church fronting 15th Street, the seminary, the elementary school, an infirmary for the poor, and housing for the priests and the nuns. And behind the private chapel, a cemetery.

"There they are," I said.

There were four graves in particular, Friar Ramirez, Friar Sebastian, Friar Barragan, and Friar José. Sebastian had been the last to pass away, while I was still in Windhaven, though I had not attended any of their funerals.

"I was a young hooligan when they took me in," I recounted. "They gave me a name, taught me their faith, made me go to school. Father Sebastian said I already had a soul, but he was wrong. They gave me a soul."

I knelt to offer a prayer but was interrupted.

"Hello, Johnny. It's good to see you again," Sister Agatha said, walking down from the convent. I jumped to embrace her.

"Thank you, Mother. It's good to see you again, too," I said, kissing her on the cheek. She was looking good for a nun in her late eighties.

"I read you finally found your family. I'm so happy for you," Sister Agatha said. "It always troubled you so, to have no roots."

"My family was here, though I let you down," I replied.

"You did not let us down. Sebastian said when you went off to war that we might not see you again. You were doing God's work on those battlefields. We were all so proud. We still are."

"Did you know Jack well?" Rafael asked, making mental notes for his book.

"As well as anyone could. He didn't speak much about himself," Agatha said. "He studied very hard all the time. He played baseball with single-minded intensity. But it was the Golden Gloves where he showed the most growth. His early bouts were savage affairs, but with Brother Ramirez's help, he became a man who showed mercy to his opponents. Those were special years, to see God's light growing in his young heart."

"So, you reformed the vicious street thug?" Rafael remarked.

"Reformed who?" Agatha said.

"Jack," Rafael clarified.

"I don't know who you've been speaking with, but the boy I knew was no thug," Agatha responded with indignation. "He stood up for the younger children against bullies. Protected seniors from muggers. Stood guard at the women's shelter. He had rough edges, I know, but he was never a hoodlum."

"May I return another time? Ask more questions?" Rafael requested.

"Of course, young man. And we have a donation box for the church that you can fill, too, Mr. Rafael Martín," Agatha replied with a smile.

After our visit to St. Mary's, I showed Bob and Rafael my old high school. The ballfield where I played in the Babe Ruth League was gone, replaced by apartment buildings. We stopped by the Army recruitment center where I joined fifteen years before. The old white stucco building had needed paint then, and it still did.

"I signed up May 12th, three days after the Coalition began its counterattack," I remembered. "I would have graduated in two weeks, but there seemed no time. Sixty days later, I was in Afghanistan with a medical kit, dragging wounded men out of bomb craters."

"That sounds awful fast," Bob said.

"The Army was desperate. Taking heavy casualties. I had taken pre-med classes, knew First Aid, and worked in the mission infirmary. And I wasn't afraid of blood. The recruiter called me a godsend."

"And then he sent you into hell," Bob said, for he'd written articles about The Fallback.

"Someone had to be there for those guys, even the ones who didn't come back. I don't regret any of it."

Rafael paid for lunch. After all, he was making good money inventing stories about me, for which I received no royalties. Then he was back to his grand house in Chappaqua where he would write more novels. Hopefully about someone else.

Bob wanted to fly to Washington, D.C., but I preferred the train. We appeared at the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Tuesday afternoon just as Rasmussen was ending his day. I took him out to dinner at Randal's Steak House next to the Washington Nationals ballpark. I would have caught a game, but they were playing on the road.

"I got a letter about a settlement conference," I said, showing it to him. "The Housers want to meet in Kansas City on the 29th."

"Briggs & Briggs wants to take your case. Have you hired a lawyer yet?" Rasmussen asked. I glanced at Father Sabastian's watch.

"We have an appointment in five minutes," I said. "Bob brought his laptop. I was hoping you'd sit in with me."

"Be happy to. Though after all the beers I've bought you over the years, you may owe me one," Rasmussen replied, waving for the waitress.

Bob took out his computer, activated the internet app, and placed it where we could see the lawyers on the other end.

"I can leave, if you want privacy," Bob offered.

"Not necessary," I said. "But watch out for eavesdroppers."

The conference link connected with two middle-aged white men appearing on the screen. They wore expensive suits and had a nicely paneled office behind them.

"Hello, Mr. Lawrence," the older Briggs brother said. "We're anxious to represent you. And we've done some research."

"A hundred million dollars is a good place to start," the younger Briggs brother said. "It will attract plenty of publicity. Though we may ask for forty in the court filing."

"A final settlement may be closer to twenty, which will break them," Older Briggs advised. "Between legal fees for Irene Houser, and the loans they've taken, and the clients Houser is losing, they're already feeling the crunch."

"That snippy younger daughter of theirs can't even pay her tuition," Younger Briggs reported. "It might be years before she completes her degree."

"How's that?" I asked.

"Yale is an expensive school. Not like Garfield Law where we went," Younger Briggs said. "At some point, you could demand a cash settlement. Fifteen million would leave them in a hole for decades. If you're patient, we can get their Kansas City house, the summer cottage in Nantucket, and their rental properties in Orlando. And Bradley Houser has a Mercedes-Benz you'd look good in."

"Thank you, gentlemen. You've given me much to think about," I said, ending the conference without committal.

"Well, it looks like you'll have your revenge," Rasmussen said, staring at me over his beer.

"Don't I deserve justice?" I asked.

"Yes, you deserve justice," Rasmussen agreed.

"I'd like to know how much of what the lawyers say is true. After all, they are lawyers. Do you think Dragon might have some background he could share? Without getting in trouble?"

"I think so," Rasmussen agreed. "You did work for the Bureau once upon a time."

"As an advisor only," I reminded, for my relationship with the FBI had been murky.

"Should I find another firm to represent you?" Rasmussen asked.

"Give me a few days to think about it," I replied.

Bob and I flew to New Orleans, staying over for a night of drunken debauchery. Though we didn't get drunk and there was no debauchery. I did enjoy seeing the ancient French city, which I'd not visited before. I had seen the big paddlewheel riverboats during my years in St. Louis while performing with Old Da. Bob and I visited several Jazz clubs, where I was invited to play guitar, and we were not without eye-catching female company. I slept alone that night. What Bob did was none of my business, though I knew he wasn't seeing Linda anymore.

By Friday morning we were in San Antonio wearing floppy hats and sunglasses to avoid being recognized. Our two-bedroom suite at the Roddenberry overlooked the River Walk district where the San Antonio River looped through the heart of the city.

"Hot day," Bob said as we walked up Commerce Street.

"August in Texas, it's to be expected," I replied.

We went to Alamo Plaza where the famous chapel had been built three centuries before.

"I was here with my father while he was campaigning for president," Bob said. "They erected a platform over there, next to the museum, and the crowds spread out all through the compound."

The fort had changed greatly over the years. At the time of the famous battle in 1836, three acres had been enclosed by adobe walls. Then all the walls were gradually torn down, replaced by businesses and a park. Later, to attract more tourists, some of the businesses were removed and several walls rebuilt, recapturing a sense of the mission's history. The restored plaza was now used for rallies and street vendors.

"The Alamo has been a popular location for politicians for a long time," I said, looking at the iconic chapel. "In 1898, Theodore Roosevelt recruited Rough Riders at the Menger Hotel across the street."

"What take are you going to use in your speech?" Bob asked.

"The men who fought here needed to make tough decisions," I replied. "Whether to fight or flee. To oppose what they viewed as tyranny, or submit to the powerful forces brought against them. And they were standing side-by-side with friends and neighbors, each counting on the other to do the right thing.

"I experienced this in the war, where we had to hold impossible positions. Digging in as long as possible, even though we knew our chances were poor. It's a discouraging situation to face."

We spent a good portion of the morning in and around the Alamo, drank margaritas on the River Walk, then strolled through the city, visiting the San Fernando Church where I lit candles. After dinner, we stopped by the Longhorn Saloon for beers. The old drinking hole, once a hangout for the Rough Riders, was filled with stuffed animals and memorabilia from the Spanish-American War. The proprietor quickly realized who we were and arranged an impromptu book signing in his souvenir shop.

"This doesn't happen to me very often," Bob said as the crowds in the saloon started to grow.

"It happens to me too often. Can you sing? Feel like playing some piano?" I asked, enjoying my second beer and a whisky chaser.

"Piano, maybe. Not much of a singer," he foolishly said.

I noticed an old upright piano on the creaky wooden stage below a herd of mounted buffalo heads.

"Okay, let's go," I said, dragging him up the worn steps.

I borrowed a guitar from the bartender before calling the room to attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Jack Lawrence. This is my friend Bobby Blair, and we're proud to be here in the great state of Texas! Anyone want to hear some music?"

The patrons cheered their approval. Before long, the tables were filling and excited fans in cowboy hats were standing along the walls. I borrowed a Stetson from the owner and got one for Bobby. He really couldn't keep up with me, but it didn't matter. Somewhere along the line, we picked up a bass player named Sherryl Ann and a drummer called Slick. They were talented.

I started with This Land is Your Land, one of Old Da's favorites. I followed with Yellow Rose of Texas, Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree, Born to Run, and Buddy Holly's Oh Boy, knowing Holly hailed from Lubbock. When the throng became large and boisterous, I expected a fire marshal to rush in and shut everything down.

"It's getting crowded in here. Should we stop?" I asked the owner, who everyone called Toothless Freddy.

It was a fair question, for the saloon was packed. I requested a damp towel to wipe the sweat from my brow.

"Hell no, son!" Toothless Freddy shouted. "Take this place apart if you want to."

"Should we give the kitchen time to catch up?" I suggested, seeing the waiters engulfed in chaos.

"The kitchen ain't never catching up with this mob. There must be three hundred folks here," Toothless Freddy replied above the noise. "My cousin's got his food truck parked outside, and Harriet is keeping her coffee shop open."

"Any trouble with the cops?" I inquired.

"Are you kidding?" he asked.

"New York gets a little nervous about impromptu riots," I explained.

"Boy, this is Texas. Let me worry about the cops," Toothless Freddy said with a grin.

To give table service a chance to catch up, I slowed it down with some ballads by The Band, slipped in a few rock 'n roll classics, and threw in Galveston. When we performed the long version of American Pie, the audience joined in on the chorus. Say what you want about Texans, they are a great audience.

"Thank you, thank you all," I said as we prepared to close just after midnight. "I want to dedicate this last song to the boys and girls of Second Afghan. Those who made it home, and those who didn't. Forever Young."

I played the old Dylan hymn with rowdy reverence. The room grew quiet before some gradually started singing along. And then more joined in. I noticed some tears.

By the end of the evening, I was close to drunk and having a wonderful time. I hugged my bandmates as we came off the stage, accepting a shot of Steamboat Rye. A cowgirl with long blonde hair and blazing blue eyes grabbed me for a long, deep kiss. And made it clear she was ready for more.

"Sorry, honey, but Bobby here might be my brother-in-law someday. Can't go tomcatting with him around," I explained.

"I have friends to keep him busy," she whispered, licking my ear.

"Need to pass, but it breaks my heart," I said, giving her a consolation kiss.

"That was great, boys," Toothless Freddy said, looking exhausted. "You ever needs jobs, you got them here. Do I owe you anything?"

"We're good," I said.

"Sarge, I'm gonna hang your picture above the bar, and I swear to God, if anyone ever says a word agin' you, they're gonna get an ass whoopin'," he promised.

"Thank you, sir. It's been fun," I said, shaking his hand.

Bob and I meandered back to our hotel, taking a winding cement path along the riverwalk bars and restaurants. I splashed my face in a fountain, trying to keep my head clear.

"That was a hell of a party," Bob said. "Thanks for not accepting that groupie's offer in front of me."

"Do you think I'd cheat on Jenny?" I asked.

"I don't know. The way they flock around you, it must be tempting," he hinted.

"Not tempting, but I could have put one or two of them in your bed," I replied.

Bob's face flushed red.

"That's a bit much for me," he admitted.

"Wimp," I teased, bumping him.

I woke up a little hungover, but had the whole day to prepare my presentation. We had breakfast at a pancake house on Commerce, then I cut Bob loose to spend the rest of the day alone. I had a lot to think about.

The National Defense Society had paid eighty-five thousand dollars for my appearance, selling banquet tickets and cable access. They were essentially lobbyists for the arms industry, which didn't bother me. The ballroom was packed when Bob and I arrived, about five hundred in all.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's my honor to present Captain John Lawrence, winner of the Silver Star, Bronze Star with silver oak cluster, four Purple Hearts, and nineteen battlefield commendations," the master of ceremonies introduced. "The hero of Thanksgiving Eve, the Tabrit Rescue Operation, and more famously known as the Sarge, an American hero."

The audience was polite in their applause. I felt nervous, for it was a larger crowd than usual, and more focused on my war record than first aid providers or prison reform. I took a drink of water before starting, wishing it was something stronger.

"Thank you, sir. That's a hard introduction to live up to. I hope your members will excuse me for being somewhat more mortal," I said, getting a laugh. "Tonight, we meet in the shadow of the Alamo, where an outnumbered garrison of Texan patriots struggled against overwhelming odds. They gave, as President Lincoln once remarked about the fallen at Gettysburg, the last full measure of devotion. I have had the distinct honor of witnessing such devotion, practiced in deed, and in blood.

"You are an industry that evaluates the needs of soldiers in the field, and seeks to fulfill those needs. And no need is greater than when the fighting is desperate, and survival becomes subjective. You may rightfully ask what my qualifications are for such a study. I will direct you to the Battle of Sirputa, February 19th, 2017, where the entrenchment protecting Kandahar's northern flank was overrun, and if not for the heroic stand of Company A, 144th Infantry, may have led to a collapse of the entire line. The young soldiers who held that ground, to the last, were virtually wiped out. I know because I was there. The only reason I can tell this story today is because the enemy left me for dead."

I spoke for at least an hour, focused at first, and then starting to ramble. At times I needed to wipe my face, for tears were clouding my eyes. The memories were intense, as if taking place in real time, and I was having serious trouble controlling my emotions. But that was okay. I wanted them to know what it felt like, describing the men and women I'd fought beside. Recalling their hopes, and dreams, and hardships. And telling of those final hours, amid the chaos of battle, as our ammunition ran out. I wanted them to understand the sacrifices that had been made.

"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to express my gratitude for your patience," I finally concluded. "Your organization provides a valuable service to our troops struggling under difficult circumstances. They are the best, and they need the best to do the job. I thank you."

I stepped back from the podium, and at first there was utter silence. I feared that I had sounded like one of those crazy vets with a loose grip on reality. Then someone began clapping, and two more. Suddenly the whole audience rose up, applauding with genuine appreciation. It was the best reception I'd had up to that time, making me feel the effort had not been wasted. For I felt drained.

As was my custom, I attended the cocktail party afterward, for the promoters always valued my participation. I only had one drink, not trusting myself. Bob stayed at my elbow, sensing my need for support. We only stayed a short time.

"I never got it before," Bob said. "All these books I've written. All the articles. Even the ones about you. And I never got it."

"Got what?" I asked, for among the younger writers, he had become a respected voice on Second Afghan.

"How scared everybody was. And yet, you still did your duty. Despite everything. What you guys went through, that story needs to be told."

"That's your job," I said, happy that it should be so.

____________

On Sunday morning, I returned to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Candelaria and Guadalupe, also known at the Cathedral of San Fernando, where the ashes of the Alamo defenders were sealed in a marble sarcophagus. I wasn't there as a sightseer. I attended Mass, took Communion, and almost went to Confession for the first time in fourteen years. But I couldn't bring myself to confess, even to a priest. I wasn't convinced my sins were so easily absolved.

I spent the day recovering from the presentation the night before, knowing on Monday I needed to fly to Missouri for a confrontation. I considered doubling up on my medication, but decided to have margaritas on the River Walk instead.

"You've been awful quiet," Bob said, munching corn chips while waiting for our enchiladas.

Our table was near the sidewalk, which was next to the tree-lined river. Tourists took pictures of us, for our presence in San Antonio was no longer a secret. A flock of ducks swam by.

"May I use your phone?" I requested.

"I thought you finally bought one," Bob said.

"Left it in New York. I was afraid someone might call me."

"You can always let it go to voicemail."

"What's voicemail?" I asked.

"You're not getting away with that," Bob replied, handing it over.

The first number I called was Biggs & Biggs, Attorneys at Law. Being Sunday, it went to voicemail.

"Dear Misters Biggs," I said. "Thank you for efforts, but I won't be requiring your services. Yours truly, John Lawrence."

"Succinct and to the point," Bob approved.

My next call was to Maryland.

"Mr. Rasmussen? Sorry to call on your day off," I said.

'"Jack? When the hell did you start making phone calls?" he asked.

"When I needed a favor. Can you fly to Kansas City tomorrow? I'll pay for first class."

"Need help at your meeting?"

"Yes, sir. I'm beyond my parameters."

"The McNally Building? 2 o'clock?"

"There's a coffee shop downstairs where we can talk first."

"I'll be there. And thank you for asking me," Rasmussen said.

"Thank you, sir," I said, hanging up. He was FBI, he didn't need further explanations.

I finished my margarita, ordered another, and ate some of Bob's chips. Two little girls and their parents were staring at me from the sidewalk. I went outside and let them take pictures with me. Their mother wanted an autograph. A small crowd gathered, but I only spent a few minutes with them.

"Want to talk to your mother?" I asked.

"Talked to her last night," Bob said.

"Saves time," I remarked, dialing the number. "Mrs. Blair?"

"Jack, this is a surprise," Patricia greeted. "How are you doing? I heard your presentation was difficult."

"It was well received. Do you still have contacts at Yale?"

"I'm on the Board of Regents," she proudly confirmed.

"I need you to do me a favor. And I'm wondering if your lawyer will handle a financial matter for me."

"Your lawsuit? Mr. Klattenhoff doesn't do civil litigation. He provides financial services."

"Yes, ma'am, I know."

"I'll ask him. How soon do you need these services?" she asked.

"Tomorrow," I said.

"I will make sure Mr. Klattenhoff is available," she promised. "How is Bobby doing?"

"Your son drinks too much, and his womanizing is out of control," I said.

"Don't tell my mother that!" Bob protested, taking the phone away from me.

Bob was scheduled to fly back to New York Monday morning, but he kept hinting that his calendar was free. We took a cab to the airport.

"Do you want to come to Kansas City?" I finally asked him.

"I thought you'd never ask. I was getting worried you didn't trust me to be there," he replied.

"It's not about trust. This is unpleasant business that you don't need to be involved with."

"It's like you told that blond, I might be your brother-in-law someday. That makes me almost family, doesn't it?"

"Let's get your ticket changed."

"Changed it last night," Bob said, holding up his boarding pass. "Upgraded both of us to first class."

It was only a two-hour flight, getting us there before 10 o'clock. I wanted to hail a cab, but Bob insisted on renting a car.

"You still don't have a driver's license? Your sentence was remitted ten months ago," Bob asked.

"The medication has been working, but until I'm sure the blackouts are gone, I shouldn't be driving," I answered.

"Are you still having nightmares?" he wondered with surprise.

"Sometimes. I did after the speech on Saturday. Dr. Livingston says it's all a process. If they get bad, I'll need to go back into therapy. At least I've learned that much."

Bob did the driving, giving us a brief tour of Kansas City and scouting a steak house for dinner. By noon we were at LeRoy's Coffee Shop on 2nd Street across from the McNally Building. Bob had a cheeseburger. My stomach was in such knots that I drank tea. Rasmussen showed up a few minutes later.

"Bobby, glad to see you," he said, shaking the youngster's hand. "Jack, I've got the reports you wanted. Dragon was thorough."

He gave me a file, knowing I preferred hard copies. It was a summary of the prosecution's case against Irene Houser, financial statements, and background checks on each of her family members. I excused myself to read them privately in the corner.

"What do you think?" Rasmussen asked when I returned to the table half an hour later.

"She's really gotten her family into a fix, hasn't she?" I said.

"They're not bad people. And I'm not making excuses for your aunt, but she seems to have lived a fairly constructive life," Rasmussen said. "Active with her church. Donates time to the Children's Hospital."

"Yeah, I read that. Does that mean I let her walk?" I asked.

"I didn't say that," Rasmussen defended. "Regardless of how the civil case plays out, she's still facing Federal charges. What are you going to do?"

"Harold, I don't know what to do. That's why I asked you to be here."

Just before 2 o'clock, we crossed the street and entered the McNally Building lobby, an ornate affair reminiscent of another century. When the security guard asked about our business, Rasmussen flashed his badge.

The meeting was on the 7th floor, wood paneled with a view of the city. The Housers and their lawyer were already there, sitting with their backs to the long windows. I sat down with Rasmussen and Bob on the other side of the table.

"I'm Patrick McMaster, representing the Houser Family," a tall balding man with broad shoulders said. He looked like a Scottish undertaker. "Can we get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"We're fine for now," Rasmussen said, for I couldn't mumble a word.

Directly across from me was my aunt, looking gray and stressed. She was flanked by her husband and oldest daughter, Marigold, with Thomas and Theresa to her right. I studied her face, as I'd studied faces while begging on the streets as a homeless urchin.

McMaster motioned to a stenographer at the end of the table, a trim woman with wire-rim glasses and a bowl-shaped hairdo. By her conservative dress, I assumed she was trying to be invisible, and doing a fine job of it.

"With your permission, we'd like to keep a written account of this meeting," McMaster said.

"That's acceptable, though we will expect a copy," Rasmussen agreed.

"For the record, Mrs. Irene Houser is in attendance with Bradley Houser and their three children. Have you been formally introduced?" McMaster offered.

"We've met," I said. "The day Mrs. Houser called me a fraud."

Our opposition squirmed at the memory, for they had all been there.

"That was unfortunate, though Mrs. Houser was caught off-guard, and under a great deal of stress," McMaster apologized. "About this case, we find a hundred million dollars an unreasonable figure. But without admitting liability, we would like to see if a settlement is possible."

"Let me introduce my personal advisors," I said. "This is Mr. Harold Rasmussen of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He is acting as my unofficial legal counsel. And this is Mr. Robert Blair, the best-selling author. And, by now, you should all know who I am. Or should have been."

I looked Aunt Irene in the eye, daring her to say different. She looked down into her lap, clinging to her husband's hand.

"Mr. Howard--" McMaster started.

"Mr. Lawrence. A name given to me by someone trying to give me a life instead of taking it away."

I looked at my would-be cousins. Marigold was embarrassed, but also angry, for she loved her mother more than a stranger's tale of woe. Thomas seemed unsure, no doubt feeling battered. I heard some football fans at the University of Kansas had booed him. Theresa was subdued. More than her older siblings, the possible loss of her family's fortune was upending her life.

"I could have left you in the river," Irene suddenly blurted.

Bradley and McMaster rushed to hush her up. The admission shocked her children. Even Rasmussen and Bob were amazed.

"You want credit for that?" Rasmussen coldly asked. "I'm beginning to wonder if a hundred million is enough."

"We know this looks bad. We're raising all the money we can," Bradley said. "We'll sell everything but my law practice if we have to. Even the house. That could be ten million dollars."

"That wouldn't cover the interest on what you owe Jack," Bob chimed in. "How much did your wife steal from him? Two million? Plus thirty years interest?"

"Compounded annually," Rasmussen added.

Now it seemed Rasmussen and Bob were angrier than I was. McMaster kept his cool, but no one else at the table did. They were clearly distressed, and the parents looked desperate. Whatever dreams they had for their children, especially Theresa, were crumbling under the hounding of the press. The possibility of a financial disaster was only making it worse.

"We still haven't heard an explanation, or even an apology, for what happened to Jack," Rasmussen said.

"Mrs. Houser is facing felony charges for that. Any explanation could be considered an admission of guilt," McMaster said.

"She is guilty," Bob said.

"She doesn't want to spend the next ten years in a Federal prison," Marigold replied, her dark brown eyes indignant.

"Federal prison isn't so bad," I casually mentioned.

"You've had a hard life, Mr. Lawrence. No one disputes that. But we need to look forward," McMaster cleverly said. "What would it take to put this behind us?"

I motioned to the stenographer.

"Could you give us the room for a moment?" I requested. She looked to McMaster, received approval, and went into the hall.

"We're off the record. Aren't we, Mr. Rasmussen? Bob?" I asked.

"Jack, this is the time to be on the record," Rasmussen disagreed.

"Not for what I want," I insisted.

"Okay, we're off the record," Rasmussen reluctantly agreed.

"You heard them. Nothing said here will be used against Mrs. Houser," I said. "So you have no more excuses to hide behind."

"What's in it for my Mom?" Marigold asked, brushing back her bleach blond hair.

"Maybe I'll ask for less than a hundred million dollars," I replied.

McMaster and Bradley Houser conferred quietly with their client. Then Rasmussen got up and huddled with McMaster in the corner.

"Irene, I believe you should offer John an explanation," McMaster recommended.

Marigold started to object, but Irene raised her hand.

"Tommy has a right to know. I've hidden long enough," Irene decided.

She stood up, placed a hand on Marigold's shoulder, and walked to the window, gazing out for a moment before turning to face her audience.

"I was riding with my sister and Bill, on our way to Dallas. Bill had business there. Theresa and I were going shopping. I was just a few weeks from graduating high school and Theresa wanted to buy me a prom dress. She was always so nice to me. To everyone.

"It started raining, light at first, and then suddenly very hard. It was coming down in sheets. The road gave out above the river. The car rolled down the embankment, into the water. We got the passenger door open, and as I climbed out, Theresa handed me the baby. She was trying to help Bill free his seatbelt. And then the car just floated away. There was nothing I could do but sit in the mud and watch it disappear.

"I climbed back up on the road, looking for help. There was no one. It was dark, and it was pouring rain. I was soaked, and crying, and the baby was crying. He had a bruise on his forehead. I wandered for an hour in a daze, freezing cold. And then I saw the aid station. They were very busy, people running back and forth. I showed a nurse the baby, and she took it into the tent. And then I left."

"But Mom, why? Why did you do that?" Theresa asked.

"My sister was dead. My parents were in poor health. Bill had no relatives," Irene replied. "I was young. I didn't want to raise a baby. When the State Troopers asked about the accident, I told them the baby died, too. It wasn't until later that I realized I would inherit all that money. It wasn't something I planned."

"But you didn't go back to find your nephew, either," Bob said.

"No, by then it was too late. I'd already told too many lies. To my parents. To the police," Irene admitted. "Tommy, I am so sorry. I am so sorry about everything. I would fix it if I knew how."

She seemed sincere, staring at me with contrition. But she'd been telling the lie for thirty years, and even now I didn't know how much to believe. But at least there was finally an explanation.

"Five million dollars," I said. "No admission of guilt. Mrs. Patricia Blair's attorney will contact you about a payment schedule."

"Jack, are you sure? That's not even half of what they owe you," Bob whispered.

"I've gotten what I want," I said, standing up. "Mr. McMaster, you have until 5 o'clock this afternoon to give me your decision."

Bradley and McMaster quickly huddled.

"We don't need until 5 o'clock. We agree," Bradley said.

"My office will start the paperwork," McMaster added, looking relieved.

"That's fine, then," I replied, turning to leave.

"Is that all? Isn't there anything you want ask me?" Irene asked.

"Madam, I hope to never speak with you again," I replied, hurrying out the door. Rasmussen caught up to me in the hall. I was propped against the wall, feeling my heart pound. I reached in my pocket, making sure I had my medication.

"You did the right thing, Jack. I'm really proud of you," he said, shaking my hand. "Though I admit, you had me worried there for a while."

"I've had good teachers," I replied, remembering my visit to St. Mary's.

"I'm going to work out details with their lawyer. Let's meet back at LeRoy's in an hour," Rasmussen suggested.

"Bob and I found a good restaurant. Dinner is on me tonight," I offered.

Rasmussen went back in just as Bob came out. I wandered down the hall looking for a drinking fountain. And a quiet place to think.

"That was dramatic," Bob said. "Can I write about it?"

"Wait until after her trial," I answered.

I was still huddled with Bob when Theresa came up to me. She seemed a bright, optimistic young lady, with a gentle smile. She was the same age as Jenny, and it occurred to me that Yale was just a few miles from Blair House.

"Thank you so much," she said, her glistening brown eyes searching me hopefully.

"What for?" I asked.

"For making sure my tuition was paid until this mess is straightened out," Theresa explained.

"Why would you think that has anything to do with me?" I said.

"Because the cashier's check was issued from the Blair Foundation, and everyone knows how close you are to them," she replied.

I turned to Bob with a frown.

"Is this what your mother calls a confidential contribution? Didn't it occur to her a foundation check might give away the source?" I criticized.

"I am sure Mom had her reasons," Bob said without apology.

"I'm glad it wasn't kept secret," Theresa said, taking my hand. "I won't make an excuse for what mother did. I can't. But we're still cousins. We're family."

Theresa wrapped her arms around me, squeezing tightly. I hesitantly returned the hug, still unsure what it meant. But it felt good.

"I'll be back in New Haven on Thursday. Maybe we'll see each other?" Theresa said.

"Maybe," I replied.

"Of course we will," Bob said. "Here's my card, and I wrote my Mom's phone number on the back. She'd like to meet you, too."

"Thank you again. Thank you so much," Theresa said, running to catch up with her brother.

"By the way, that hug?" Bob said. "That's why Mom did it. In case you were wondering."

"Your mom has always been smarter than me. I noticed you were quick to give Theresa your phone number."

"Maybe you didn't notice. Your cousin is cute. Really cute," Bob said.

____________

I stayed busy throughout the next few months, giving a presentation or concert every week. On weekends when there were no events, Jenny and I flew to Skylla Falls, making Zachery House our own. Though Zach had good taste in furniture, we had our bedroom set made locally and hung artwork from the college. Mr. Taylor was happy when construction workers showed up to repair the old mansion.

Back in New York on Monday nights, I quietly visited children's cancer wards, cheering up the kids with Sarge stories and my guitar. I donated some money from the lawsuit, but didn't go crazy. I might have a wife and children of my own someday. I also signed up to renew my first responder certification, thinking to join a volunteer fire unit.

Cousin Theresa took the commuter train from New Haven several times, attending some of my concerts, having dinner afterwards, and then staying over with me and Alex at our 57th Avenue apartment. She didn't know much about the Howard side of my family, but had plenty of Romero stories to tell about fur trappers, riverboat captains, and even a New Orleans connection with the pirate Jean Lafitte. Theresa proved bright and funny, and I grew very fond of her.

As fall began, I spent extra time in Skylla Falls, teaching composition and occasionally guest lecturing. Michael Carmody was a big help keeping the classes organized. Mike also announced he wanted to do his master's thesis on how to turn high school dropouts into successful English professors. Hopefully he was joking.

Life was good, or so I believed.

"I may be taking a leave of absence from work," Jenny told me one night while we were curled up on her couch.

"Why is that? I thought you liked marketing," I said.

"I do. But the publicity is getting a little intense. Makes it hard around the office."

"What publicity?"

"Jack, don't you read anything but the sports news?" she asked.

"Hardly ever," I exaggerated.

Jenny reluctantly brought out a stack of magazines. Nearly all had her picture or both of us on the cover. The headlines were unkind, particularly to Jenny.

"How long has this been going on?" I asked.

"It started after the hearing in Massachusetts, but it's been getting worse the last few months."

I had heard some off-color mumblings, mostly while running in Central Park, but chose to ignore them. Which was nothing new for me. I wondered if Jenny was getting sensitive to the tabloids that had treated her so unfairly as a teenager.

"Let's go out for dinner," I suggested, grabbing our coats. It was shaping up to be a cold November.

We walked to Luciano's on the corner, our favorite Italian restaurant. Joey gave us our usual booth in the front corner, allowing a good view of the street. Jenny barely ate her food, toying with the pasta.

"What plans is your mother making for the holidays?" I asked.

"We don't know. Usually, we visit Aunt Cecily or Uncle Thomas, or they come to our house, but nothing's been arranged. I haven't even heard from my cousins recently."

"From what I understand, people always get distracted before the holidays," I reassured.

"From what you've heard?"

"I don't have any family to worry about. Five of the last six years, I spent Christmas in prison. We don't do a lot of holiday shopping there. And last Thanksgiving didn't go so well, if you remember."

"That was awful, but it will be better this year," she said, taking my hand.

"I'll be spending Thanksgiving in Afghanistan, visiting the troops," I said. "General Wheeler invited me to join a USO tour. It should make it easier for your family to get together if I'm not around."

"We're not spending Thanksgiving together?"

"I'll be back for Christmas. Alex and I are going to have a tree."

We were walking home, bundled up against a cold wind, when a drunk in a heavy coat came out of the liquor store and bumped into Jenny.

"Excuse me," Jenny said, even though it wasn't her fault.

"Well, if it isn't the assassin and his whore," the rude fellow said.

"Please get out of my way, sir," I grunted.

"Or what?" he answered. "Going to beat me up like all those innocent criminals in prison?"

I really wanted to pop this guy, but I wasn't a kid anymore, and he wasn't a mugger. Just a jerk. I took Jenny by the elbow and kept walking.

"Sorry, Red," I said.

"Sorry for not kicking his ass?"

"Sorry for not stuffing him headfirst into a trashcan."

"I'm glad you didn't. I don't want to see you get in trouble. But it would have been fun."

That wasn't the only incident. Something about social media gives people permission to indulge their worst instincts, and even I started to feel it. Mr. Palmer asked me over to his office one day to ask what was going on. Supermarket tabloids got vicious. I was still walking away from insults on the street, but it was getting harder. And it was tougher on Jenny. The worst things they can say about a man are nothing compared to what they'll say about a woman.

"Another bad day?" I asked when Jenny came over after work.

Alex and I were sitting at the kitchen table discussing the latest outrage, a radio host questioning if I had deliberately destroyed the bomb on Thanksgiving Eve or wrecked it by accident. Or maybe I wasn't even there at all, just taking credit for the brave Unidentified Agent #5. Alex was really mad, and Dragon called to say he wanted to shoot the son of a bitch.

"My boss took me off accounts," Jenny said, accepting a glass of white wine. "He said none of the clients want my name on their paperwork."

"Want to go to Taylor Place for a few days?" I asked.

"I can't take time off during the holidays. It's our busiest season. I'll be doing more behind the scenes," she explained.

"Let me know if there's anything I can do," I offered. "I'd really like to beat someone up, if that's okay."

"Let Dragon do it," Alex suggested.

"There's too many of those bastards to beat up," Jenny speculated, trying to smile.

"We won't know that until we try," I disagreed.

"It will be okay. We'll get through this," Jenny replied.

Sometimes doing the right thing can have unfortunate consequences. A week before Thanksgiving, the 144th Band was scheduled for a concert in New Jersey. It wasn't a large venue, and I was more preoccupied with packing for the Afghanistan tour. Jenny was moody, making me wonder if I should cancel the trip.

"Did you see this?" Alex asked, entering my bedroom with her tablet.

It was a press notice. Garth Mathews, speaking on behalf of the 144th Band, was saying inflammatory things about foreigners prior to the holiday, singling out Muslims in particular. His language was colorful enough to get national attention.

"I didn't know you felt this way," Alex said, for several of the Secret Service agents she worked with were Muslims.

"I don't. He's not speaking for me," I replied.

"It sounds like he is. That's the way the media is treating it," Alex said.

A few minutes later, I got a call from General Wheeler's office with ill-fated news.

"I've been kicked off the USO tour," I told Alex. "Wheeler thinks these comments will put our troops in danger of reprisals, and he's right. The truce in Afghanistan is barely holding as it is. I'd better go talk with the guys."

I took the subway to Queens, finding my band in a garage practicing for the New Jersey gig.

"What's this all about?" I asked, showing them a copy of the New York Post.

"Settin' them ragheads straight," Mathews said.

"We got a voice now. It's our turn to put them in their place," Ralston agreed. "You see what this Kassan Abari said? Gonna crush America under his boot?"

"And you decided to issue a statement in my name?" I said.

"Since when do you love terrorists?" Cavetto asked.

"I have Muslim friends," I replied. "None of them are terrorists."

"In prison? Some darkie gang?" Cavetto inquired.

"You're crossing a line here, Chase," I warned.

"Look, Sarge, if you've gotten too refined to tell it like it is, that's your problem," Mathews said. "We've got a First Amendment right to say what we think."

"And we're going to keep saying it," Cavetto added.

"And I have a right not to be seen on stage with you," I responded.

"We have a contract for the Boardwalk," Ralston answered.

"You can open for me. I'll go solo. Or I'll open for you. Figure it out, but I'm not going along with this," I decided.

"Fine, we don't need you," Cavetto replied.

"The 144th is bigger than Sarge Lawrence," Mathews added.

Mathews opened a cardboard box, found our contract, and tore the portion off that had my signature.

"Here, you are officially out," Mathews said. "Don't need a deranged killer and his whore hanging around smelling up the place."

I really wanted to punch him. Bad. And not hitting him was seen as weakness by Ralston and Cavetto, but I walked out instead. Maybe I was getting old.

The news that I had split with the 144th Band spread over the internet before I even got home. I heard it while sitting on a barstool in Flanagan's. The spin was that I was a Tashad sympathizer who had left my patriotic bandmates in the lurch. And that was the generous version.

"Look, it's the killer," someone said, walking into the bar. He wasn't a regular. "Hey, killer, is it true you're bagging both the daughter and the mother?"

I was up and at him, fists ready, but two patrons held me back. Sam the bartender threw him out and got me a fresh beer. I was really pissed.

When I got back to my apartment, I turned on the news. Not a good idea. The gossip was moving from tabloids to mainstream, all but accusing Jenny of being a frivolous slut infatuated with her father's murderer. At this rate, it wouldn't take long for my speaking engagements to dry up, except for the worse sort of gawkers. Jenny used her key to let herself in.

"What happened today? Why did you cancel the concert?" she asked.

"I had a falling out with the band," I explained.

"Mr. Devon fired me. He says all this negative publicity has become a distraction," she said, burying her head on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. This isn't your fault."

"They are so mean. All those stories about me as a teenager are coming out again. The drugs. The bad boyfriends. And did you hear what they're saying about my mother?"

"I caught a piece of it," I replied.

Jenny spent the night at my place, quieter than I'd ever seen her. She wasn't going to be able to keep her apartment, New York being an expensive place to live. And she refused to take any charity from me. Which was good, for teaching part time wasn't going to pay my bills.

The following afternoon, Jenny invited me to lunch with Bob, hoping to discuss her options. She wasn't sure if she should move to New Haven for a while, or maybe finish her college degree in Utah, for Professor Lofoya wanted her back at his international relations institute. I declined the lunch invitation, going to the Secret Service field office instead.

"Time for a change, Missy," I said, talking with Alex in the cafeteria.

"I was worried about this," she replied, looking sad.

"It was fun while it lasted. Would it be okay if Jenny moves into my room? I'll keep paying the rent."

"Of course. I love Jenny," Alex said, wondering about my plans.

"With me out of the picture, she should find another job quick enough. Everyone will feel sorry for her."

"Are you dumping her?"

"That's a brutal way of putting it. I'm letting her go. It's for the best."

"Not the best for her."

"Everyone knew this relationship would be controversial. Me more than anyone. But I lost myself in Jenny's big blue eyes."

"This is all so sudden."

"Not so sudden. I just haven't been paying attention, which is nothing new for me. You'll be seeing Dragon and Harold at the Thanksgiving Eve celebration in Washington. Give them my best. Oh, and I put some stuff in the hall closet, if that's okay."

"You're leaving? Just like that?"

"I left a note for Jenny. I'm on the 2 o'clock train for a quick errand, and then off."

"You should at least talk to her first," Alex urged.

"I have a cell phone now. I'll call her."

"You're being so mysterious. Where are you going?"

"General Fowler offered me a new job. I'm going to Syria."

__________

The train arrived in New Haven by 4 o'clock. I took a cab to Blair House where Pat was expecting me. Jenny had already found my note.

"She's heartbroken, Jack. You can't do this," Pat said.

"I don't want this. There just isn't any choice," I replied.

We were sitting in the dining room of the old house. Martha was serving milk and chocolate chip cookies, frowning the whole time.

"There are always choices," Pat insisted, taking my hand.

"I haven't come to debate my relationship with your daughter. I love her, but sometimes that's not enough. Now she can find someone more appropriate. Someone without the baggage I bring."

I dug into my duffle bag and pulled out a large folder, setting it on the table. It was held together with thick rubber bands.

"What's this?" Pat asked.

She started to remove the rubber bands, but I stopped her.

"This is a book, but I don't want you to read it. Not now," I explained. "I'm going to Syria as a medic for a peace keeping unit. Technically, I'll be a noncombatant, but it's dangerous work. If I don't come back, look at this manuscript. It will be your property. Publish it, burn it, send it to the national archives. That's up to you."

"What sort of book is it?" Pat asked.

"It's a memoir," I replied. "I've called it Diminished Capacity."

* * * * * *

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