Hold fast, p.18
Hold Fast, page 18
I’ve almost faded out when the noise of pebbles bouncing off the wall draws me back to reality, denying me the solace of sleep and the refuge of dreams that I’ve been futilely seeking for… thirty hours? Thirty-six? I don’t even know anymore. I don’t even care. What’s the point?
“Courtney?” A small voice intrudes softly into my misery. “Courtney? Are you okay?” It’s Jennie. Rising to my hands and knees, I crawl to the side closest to her voice and sit slumped against it. Through the cracks in the wall, I can barely make out her silhouette in the penumbra.
“Yes, honey,” I whisper back to her. “I’m fine, don’t you worry about me.”
“You’re sure? ‘Cuz Matthew, he told me your Mama, she locked you up. And he said no one came to see you since last night.” Oh, you sweet baby. You could be a spy or a detective out there. You could be any damn thing you wanted to be. But you’re here instead.
“I’m okay, Jennie. I promise,” I tell her. It hurts to lie to her, but it’s hardly any extra burden on top of everything else.
“Have you been bad?” Jennie’s voice is plaintive, mixing equal parts of suspicion and disbelief. I can’t help but chuckle at her question: this is a little girl’s logic at work. If my mother is punishing me, it means I must have been bad. It doesn’t matter that I’m an adult.
“I don’t even know anymore, Jennie,” I say. An adult? Physically and legally perhaps, but I’ve been acting like a clingy child, hoping my mother would someday snap out of it. Though now that I think of it, I didn’t behave like one. I was a clingy kid who wouldn’t let go of her mother.
“Well, I don’t know what you did, but I don’t think you can have been bad enough to not have water,” she adds. Her tone is dead serious. “Come on, take it.”
There’s the smallest gap imaginable underneath the wall of the box, and with a moment’s effort I’ve enlarged it and my tiny angel slips a plastic bottle through the hole. My heart swells with gratitude as I unscrew the cap. The whole bottle is gone in three long swallows. I hadn’t realized how parched I was.
“Thank you, honey,” I tell her, returning the bottle to her. “I really needed that.” I wish I could hug you, Jennie. “You need to go, Jennie. Get back to the dorm, into your bed, before you get into trouble.”
“Goodnight Courtney,” she says.
“Goodnight, my sweet, be careful now!”
The soft crunching sounds of her bare feet in the gravel fades as she runs away, and I have a sudden new reason to cry. I may not have carried her, given birth to her, but I couldn’t love Jennie any more if I had. My baby girl, my small angel of mercy, gives me back some of my faith in humanity. What if she was mine, though? What if she were mine, though? What if Sean were your father, Jennie?
A new little world builds in my mind, full of bright lights and pain, and I’m screaming because it hurts, but I’m so happy too, and Sean’s voice is telling me to push but he’s so calm and quiet, even when I yell THIS IS YOUR FAULT! YOU DID THIS TO ME! and my mom is holding my hand and I love her so much, we’re so close, and I’m so glad she’s here with me today it means so much but she laughs at me because she did the same thing yelling at my dad when I was born, and then my dad and Sean’s father too, they’re at the door, and the nurses are yelling at them to get those filthy cigars out of the building, but they’re smiling anyway, and then it’s over and one of the nurses is my mother-in-law and she gives me my baby and it’s a girl and her name’s Jennie, and Sean and I take her to her first day of school and there’s birthday parties and oh, my God, how did our daughter get to be sixteen already? You’re growing up so fast and your father and I love you so much and—
“Courtney! Courtney, wake up! I have to talk to you!” A shrill voice jolts me out of my sleep, jerking me away from my too-short rest and my too-fragile refuge.
My eyes come open slowly, crusts in my eyelashes sticking them together, and my beautiful dream turns into the living hell I thought I’d left behind forever. My mother stands in the doorway, backlit by bright sunlight. Still groggy from too long awake and not long enough asleep, I’m too slow at getting up for my moth- Heather, dammit! Heather’s tastes, and she prods me with a toe.
“Wake up you lazy whore!” she hisses.
“Mom!” I protest, sitting up and leaning against the corner of the box.
Quicker than I thought possible, my mother’s hand flies at my face. Her strength is incredible. My cheek is on fire, and I don’t need to touch my mouth to know my lower lip is split. Again. I try to remain as still as I can. When she’s like this, absolutely anything can send her deeper into her madness. Eyes riveted on her hands, ready to parry the next blow, I listen to her ranting.
“Don’t you call me that! You are no daughter of mine. You’re a disgrace, you’re a filthy sinner, Courtney. You turned away from The Lord!” She clasps her hands and looks heavenward, as if she could talk directly to Him through the crack-filled roof. “What did I do to deserve this?”
Oh, I have a few answers for you, Heather. Let me count your sins! You abandoned your husband when he most needed your support. You stole me away from my father and never gave us a chance to see each other again. You lied to me and made me believe my father was dead. You gave the order to mutilate my body, and you held me down while it happened!
I keep my answers to myself. Silence is safer, and besides, the way she stands with her head cocked to the side, I’m not sure she isn’t already getting answers from someone else. Her head tilts occasionally, in the barest hint of a nod, and once in a while her lips move but no sound comes out. On Saturday night when I visited her in Rebecca’s infirmary, she’d talked about His voice, and the more I watch her, the less I think she meant Father Emmanuel. How did I never notice before?
After a moment, her eyes open and mouth curves in a smile that would be sweet and loving, but the ecstatic fire lighting her eyes turns it terrifying instead. I brace for the worst.
“You don’t realize how lucky you are,” she purrs, and her words push me to the very brink of laughter. If I were even a little stronger, a tiny bit braver, I’d be wetting myself over how stupid that idea is. If I were even the least fraction weaker, it would be nervous laughter, the escaping squeals of my brain gibbering in fear. It’s a delicate balancing act, and I’m barely keeping it all together.
“You have been chosen!” Heather says, and her voice rises a full octave while she says it. “He has chosen you to carry out the prophet’s bloodline. It’s your sacred duty, Courtney. Your duty in this life is to bring new heirs of Father Emmanuel’s bloodline, so that His Work may continue!” I stay quiet, but that doesn’t matter. The woman that bore me waves her hand to chase away the excuses that I’m not even making.
“Father Emmanuel has accepted it was not entirely your fault. He knows you’re weak, that you could not resist the temptation, and The Lord has inspired him to mercy!” Her voice is calmer now, more rational, and the fires burning in her eyes are only glowing embers of madness. “And in that mercy, Courtney, He has commanded forgiveness. Do you realize how fortunate you are? You’re going to marry his son! Once Father Emmanuel is called to glory, Brother Jeremiah will be Father Jeremiah.” Her voice is pleading. She’s begging me to understand, and the start of a tear glistens in the corner of one eye. “Just submit. Please, Courtney. For me,” she finishes.
“Mom?” I cringe away from the blow that doesn’t come. “I’m sorry, you told me not to… What do you want me to call you?”
“Oh, honey!” She falls to her knees in the bloody dirt, wrapping her arms around me. “I’ll always be your mother. I’ll always love you. No matter the sin.”
“You, you…” I’m at a loss for words. The constantly changing mental state of the woman that kneels here before me, telling me how much she loves me, is too much for me to process. “Mom, they crippled me. You let them drive a tractor over my leg.”
“It was the only way,” she tells me, tears running freely down her cheeks. “Courtney, it was the only way. You were so close to sin. I couldn’t let you backslide; I couldn’t let you go back to that life.”
“What life, Mom?” I yell, but my voice is hoarse already. My grief for Sean and Daniel has ravaged my vocal cords. “What life? Back then, I went to school, I came home, I did my homework. I didn’t do anything!”
“Honey, you are not submitting. He has revealed His Plan to Father Emmanuel. You must submit!”
“Mom,” I say, taking a deep breath, drawing up all the dignity I can manage while smeared with dirt and my blood. “I will never submit to that sick bastard.”
“‘Rebelliousness,’” my mother says, softly and earnestly, “‘is as the sin of witchcraft.’ The prophet Samuel tells us this. It is the Word of The Lord. And Samuel also teaches us that ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’ Courtney, I love you. I love you enough to disobey Him. This is mercy, Courtney. Because I love you. I’m endangering myself by disobeying Him. Why can’t you just be grateful?” Tears fall freely from her eyes, and the fires of madness are empty, sad, and broken. “But there will come a time when I can’t disobey Him anymore. No matter how much I love you. And it’s going to come soon.” My mother sighs, mopping at the tears on her cheeks.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to be free, Mom.” She flinches when I say it.
“You’re weak, Courtney,” she says. “You always were. It’s from your father. He couldn’t ever turn aside from temptation either.”
“What temptation, Mom? I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“The temptations of the flesh. He- your father- Bill… he could never resist. He- wanted me. I tempted him. And he succumbed to his lusts, dragging me down with him.” My mother’s eyes flare again, and the hands she’s using to rub my back become claws. “And you were going to throw it all away for, what? Sean Pearse?” She snorts as if Sean was a lower life form and it takes all my willpower not to shout back at her that Sean was worth a thousand of that piece of shit Jeremiah. What has Jeremiah done with his life so far? Nothing! Nothing, that is, but be his father’s son.
Sean? He was a hero. A hero who fought for his country. A hero who fought for me. If I can’t escape, then I will fight for him as well, and I will make sure I join him before Jeremiah can ever claim me as his wife.
“Listen to me, you stupid little harlot,” my mother snarls. “You think I don’t notice when you get lost inside your own head?” And that she does; she always has. It started when I was a very young child, she could always spot it, the very instant my attention waned and I started drifting away. Now that she’s made sure she has my attention, her crazy smile returns.
“Good. I want you to understand,” she tells me, “this is your last chance.” I can’t help myself: I roll my eyes. Oh shit, I should have known better, it’s all that she needed to snap! Her hands come down again, but this time I’m ready and move fast enough for her to miss my face.
“How dare you?” she asks catching a fistful of my hair and pulling me up. “Kindness and mercy are wasted on you!” She pulls away from me, the sadness in her eyes at odds with the sneer on her face.
I don’t have the strength to fight any longer. I just want to go back to sleep where I can forget this nightmare, and go back to the world where my husband Sean and my beautiful daughter Jennie live. Please, let me escape this hell!
Escape.
Of all the things I’ve done of late that have been called sin, I can’t think of a single thing that would be more sinful than sitting here. God gave me a few days’ reprieve from my appointment with a sadist, and so far I’ve been wasting it.
What would Sean think of me?
18
Sean
Wednesday Evening, 17 August 2016
After two days, the dizziness and that fucking headache are both—finally—starting to subside. My ribs are still agony, though, and it’s hard to breathe with all the layers of Ace bandages wrapped around my chest to support healing ribs. Individually they may be soft and stretchy, but if you put enough layers together, the bandages might as well be bands of steel.
I need help. The gear I bought at Cabela’s the other day is okay stuff by civilian standards, but if I’m going in to get Courtney by myself, it’s not enough. I need every advantage I can beg, borrow or steal. Fortunately, I have plenty of old friends who might listen to me beg, let me borrow, or look the other way while I steal.
My phone call is answered before the second ring.
“Naval Special Warfare Development Group Quarterdeck, PS2 Larkin speaking, how may I help you, sir or ma’am?” Larkin, a Personnel Specialist, is the one that processed my retirement paperwork, and he sounds somewhere between bored and annoyed. DEVGRU, popularly known as SEAL Team SIX, gets phone calls every day of the week from journalists, cranks, and conspiracy theorists around the country, and even the world. Thank Christ, though, it’s someone I know.
“Hey, Larkin,” I say.
“Pearse!” His voice brightens. “How the hell are you?”
“Better than you,” I say. “I don’t have to stand duty anymore. I’m all comfy up here at home, wrapped up in my DD-214 blanket,” I laugh, pulling out the old joke about discharge papers.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s warm and soft and insulates you from all the bullshit.” Larkin sighs ruefully. “I’ve filled out enough 214s for you guys, I’m starting to look forward to my own. But, yeah, Sean! Good to hear from you, man. What can I do for you?”
“Angela should have the duty today, right?” I keep the question casual. PS2 knows he shouldn’t be talking about scheduling of any sort, but after a momentary hesitation, he answers me.
“Yeah,” he says. “Angela’s the CDO.” CDO. Command Duty Officer. The poor bastard that has to stay overnight in charge of the duty section in case of an emergency.
“Great, thanks,” I say, feeling a definite sense of relief. If there’s anyone I’d rather talk to about this problem than Angela, I can’t think who it might be. “Lemme talk to the CDO then? Actually, no—can you get me a call back? We need to talk offline.” I really don’t want this conversation recorded anywhere. Better for Angela, better for me.
“Offline, aye.” Larkin pauses again. “Everything okay, Sean?” he asks, his voice full of concern.
“Yeah, yeah. Nothing to worry about,” I tell him, and he’s off to find Angela for me.
It takes less than a minute for my phone to ring, and caller ID says it’s a 757 area code. Virginia Beach. It’s an off-base number.
“How they hangin,’ Angie?” I say, answering the phone.
“Still one below the other, punk,” says a man with a deep, gruff voice. Chief Special Warfare Operator Max Anghelescu, Angela, to those of us who have fought and bled alongside him. “What’s your malfunction, Pearse?”
“You know how it is, Chief. I think some shrapnel’s shifting around in my shoulder. Hurts like a son of a bitch.” It’s an oblique way of reminding Angela that he owes me his life. He’d been dazed from a near miss in a rocket attack on the air base in Kandahar, and I caught a piece of the next wave while dragging him to safety. “More immediately, though? Bunch of broken ribs and a concussion from hell.” I play the honesty card here. He’s calling me from a cell phone, so we’re probably safe to talk.
“What’s the other guy look like?” Angela grunts in surprise. My reputation in the Teams is not as the guy that loses a fistfight.
“Guys. Plural. And they look a lot better than me.” I take a deep breath before continuing. “I need a favor, Angie.”
“Sounds like,” Anghelescu says. “Why don’t we just take a step back here, and you can tell me what the actual fuck this goat rope is that you’ve gotten yourself into?” A brief recap takes only a few moments, and Angela whistles. “You don’t need a favor, shipwreck. You need a miracle.”
“Yeah, I sort of figured that part out for myself. You got any up your sleeve? Or maybe in the Lucky Bag?”
Historically, the Lucky Bag was a sort of naval lost and found for unclaimed items owned by sailors who transferred or who died at sea. Today, it’s a very unofficial repository for the high-dollar / low-inventory equipment reported as ‘lost in combat’ rather than turned in at the end of deployment for re-issue to another unit. Does it suck for the other guy that doesn’t get the gear he wanted for deployment? Of course it does, but since his unit’s got its own Lucky Bag, there’s a lot of trading going on. In the end, everyone deploys with the equipment set they think is necessary, rather than the list of items the Navy thinks they need.
“What do you have in mind?” He seems skeptical.
“Night vision, that’s the big one. I’ve got a shitty little Cabela’s toy, but I’m going to need the good stuff. I’d like to borrow a set of the 18s, if you can swing it. Armor. Threaded barrel and a suppressor for the Beretta. Blue backing me up?” Blue is one of the four officially acknowledged squadrons of the Development Group, alongside Gold, Silver, and Red. I know I’m not going to get any company on this trip, but if you don’t give them the opportunity to say no then they also don’t have the opportunity to say yes.
“It ain’t Blue you need here, Pearse. You want Black,” he says, referring to DEVGRU’s semi-mythical fifth squadron, the Keyser Soze of the Special Operations community. Angie sighs on the phone, and I can picture him running a big, callused hand through a high and tight crew cut. “Pearse. Is this gonna be clean? In accordance with the creed?”
“It’s righteous, yeah. ‘Always ready to defend those who are unable to defend themselves,’” I say, quoting part of the SEAL creed. “‘I serve with honor on and off the battlefield,’ Angie. ‘Uncompromising integrity is my standard. My character and honor are steadfast. My wo-’”
