Psychological a novel, p.13
PSYCHOlogical: A Novel, page 13
I wanted to cry. “How uhhm. How old were you?”
He shrugged. “Ten or eleven.”
At ten years old, he should have already had dozens of ice cream cones. My heart was broken at the thought of how difficult his childhood must have been. Seeing the smile on his face as he told the story was a testament to the man he’d become.
I swallowed my sorrow and forced a smile. “That’s a great story.”
“What’s your best memory as a kid?” he asked.
I smiled, this time for real. “My dad carrying me on his shoulders.”
“To where?”
“Everywhere. He used to hoist me up there and just carry me around. I felt invincible. It was great.”
“When did he stop doing it?”
“He didn’t.” I smiled at the memories of him that surfaced. “He used to do it just to prove he still could. Even when I was in high school.”
“He sounds like a great guy.”
“He was.”
He gazed at his sushi. “Life’s strange, you know it?”
“How so?”
“One kid lives under a motel stairway and washes his clothes in the bathroom with bar soap scraps while the maid is cleaning a stranger’s room. Simultaneously, at the other end of the nation, another kid lives at home with two loving parents. Although they take two separate paths, in the end they sit across from one another at a sushi restaurant, equal.”
I studied him as he stared blankly at his plate.
After a moment, he looked up. “Will you do something for me?”
“I’ll try.”
“Call me Vincent?”
Just like that, he lowered his armor. Aware of the significance of him letting me call him by his first name, I smiled on the inside. I held his gaze and leaned forward. “Do you want to go for ice cream, Vincent?”
His eyes lit up. “Chocolate and strawberry?”
“Only if you get the chocolate on the bottom.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Vincent
“Shut the door, staff sergeant,” Lt. Colonel Martin said. “I don’t need a wayward ear listening in on this conversation.”
I pulled the door closed behind me. The intensity in his eyes had all but vanished. A tinge of concern now glistened in them. It wasn’t a look I was accustomed to seeing from a man in command of combat marines.
“Have a seat,” he said.
“With all due respect, Sir, I’d feel more comfortable standing.”
He glanced at the top of his desk, and then at me. “Have you read this morning’s newspaper?”
“I have it delivered, but I haven’t seen it today, Sir.”
He picked up a folded newspaper and handed it to me. “It’s opened to the page I’d like for you to read.”
The feigned shock as I gazed at the headline.
MCB QUANTICO MARINE WRECKS CAR, COMMITS SUICIDE
STAFFORD COUNTY, Virginia, November 12 (AP) – A Marine Corps Base Quantico combat veteran died in an apparent suicide Saturday, following a high-speed wreck in which a local businessman was killed.
A phone call from a concerned citizen who had witnessed what they believed to be an inebriated man with a handgun led a Stafford County Sheriff’s officer to the home of Sergeant Robert A. Pike, 34, of rural Stafford County.
After repeated attempts to make contact with Pike were unsuccessful, police entered the Marine’s home and found him unresponsive. The active-duty sergeant was declared deceased by the coroner, the result of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound.
A mile and a half from Pike’s home, a local retired businessman, Hansen R. Wallace, 56, was declared dead at roughly the same time, the result of a high-speed one-vehicle collision.
Preliminary forensic evidence places Pike at the scene of the collision. Investigators believe he was in control of the vehicle at the time of the wreck that took the life of Wallace.
It is believed that alcohol was a factor in the collision.
I handed him the newspaper. “Unbelievable.”
“Un-fucking-believable is the understatement of the year, staff sergeant. I’ve searched my mind high and goddamned low, and I can’t—for the fucking life of me—come up with one goddamned scenario where Sergeant Pike and AD Wallace would have any fucking business occupying the same space on this earth at the same godforsaken time. I’ll ask you to search your mind and see what you come up with.” He placed his hands on his hips and glared. “Well?”
“Sir, I can’t come up with—”
“This thing stinks, staff sergeant, and it stinks to the high fucking heavens.”
“Stinks?” I asked. “How?”
“How?” he snarled. “Like fucking shit!”
“What about it stinks?” I asked. “According to that article, it looks like Pike must have been driving Wallace’s car, wrecked it, killing Wallace, and then committed suicide following the wreck.”
“I don’t believe one fucking word of that article,” he said. “Not one.”
“Why not?”
“Have you ever had the hair on the back of your neck stand up before you walked into an ambush?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir. I have.”
“Something about it just didn’t look right. Smell right? Seem right. Something—even though you might not have been able to immediately identify it—was out of fucking whack. Is that an accurate statement, staff sergeant?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Your oh-shit meter went to redline. Correct?”
“Correct, Sir.”
“Well, mine is in the red zone right now, Briggs.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, even though I had an idea of where he was headed.
“It’s no secret we take orders from the Office of the DNI,” he said, his tone nearly a whisper. “They’re in charge of the strings, and we’re the respective puppets. I don’t think for one goddamned minute that we’re the only puppets they’re in charge of.”
“I’m at a loss, Sir.”
He closed his eyes. His jaw tensed. A nearly silent growl escaped him. When he opened his eyes, the intensity had returned. “It’s my professional opinion that the Office of the DNI was involved in the elimination of Pike and Wallace.”
He was more intelligent than I gave him credit of being. Now that he’d mentioned the theory, I could press him for information regarding what he knew—and what he suspected—without causing him to raise his brows at my interest.
“Holy shit, Sir,” I exclaimed. I gazed at the floor for a moment, and then feigned a revelation. “I can see the DNI’s office killing Wallace, because he’s a shit-bird, and a worthless excuse for a man. Why Pike? Why eliminate a talented and experienced operator?”
He sat down. “I’m convinced the DNI is eventually going to eliminate us all,” he whispered. “This is only the beginning. Those two were involved in something shady, I’m telling you.”
“I’ve wondered the same, Sir.” I sat in the chair across from him. “May I ask what brings you to that conclusion?”
He glanced out his window, faced me, and then leaned forward. “When I got here this morning, it was 1530 in Somalia. I made a few inquiries regarding Shephard. After speaking to the commander of SEAL Team Two, I found out several things. One, Shephard was supposed to arrive in Somalia to support the SEAL’s efforts. Two, he did not show up. Therefore, his KIA status—which I received from the DNI—is complete and utter bullshit. He’s dead, no doubt, but he wasn’t killed in Somalia. In my opinion, he was the first in this program to be targeted.”
I covered my face with my hands and exhaled an audible breath into my palms. When I opened my hands, I gave Lt. Colonel Martin a wide-eyed look. “Do you think this was an in-house operation?”
“Marines don’t kill marines, Briggs. This is some cloak and dagger operation out of Washington, D.C. Be advised, the DNI has many operations like this one. I’m sure one or more of them utilize a handful of worthless washed-up fucks from the Army’s special forces. One of those immoral pricks must have done this.”
“Is there anyone you can go to for answers?” I asked. “To find out what happened?”
“Not a soul,” he said. “We receive orders from a ghost.”
I acted surprised. “A ghost?”
“A fucking ghost. A man I’ve never met, and never will meet. The DNI’s office is covering their asses, and rightfully so.”
“You have no idea who he is?”
He shook his head. “The only man who might come close to knowing was swapping spit with Pike right before they hit that telephone pole on River Road.”
I sighed. “What’s the plan, Sir?”
“Keep your head on a fucking swivel,” he said. “If anything seems out of order, kill first, ask questions later.”
“Kill first, ask questions later.” I gave a sharp nod. “Aye aye, Sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Val
I pulled the tines of the fork past my tightened lips. “I’ve never cared for cauliflower before,” I admitted. “But this is so good.”
“Thank you,” Vincent said. “Parmesan, olive oil, and garlic. It’s simple.”
I raised a bite of the cooked-to-perfection filet. “The steak is perfect, too.”
He grinned. “Thank you.”
“A man that can cook,” I said. “A rare find, indeed.”
“I had to learn to cook. I don’t like to eat out. After going to work for New Dawn, I realized you never know what you’re eating. When I die, I prefer it be from natural causes, not from eating something that’s been slipped into my food. If I eat out, it’s unpredictable.”
“If you can cook like this, why eat out?”
I feared staying with Vincent would seem awkward. That I’d feel out-of-place. I was wrong. From the moment I got there, he made me feel as if I belonged. Although our lives were filled with tension from what was happening at work, we spent our evenings at home together, doing our best to relax.
His home, a sprawling ranch on a wooded lot, was fitted with a state-of-the-art alarm and surveillance system. Having infrared cameras, various monitors, and motion sensing perimeter lights put my mind at ease.
I suspected the home was what he’d dreamed of as a child. What he would have purchased when his mountain of coins amounted to a fortune that would have allowed him to.
I finished my meal, consciously taking the last bite at the same time Vincent finished his. I reached for my glass of wine. “That was fantastic.”
He beamed with pride. “Thank you.”
“Will you let me cook tomorrow?”
“As long as you’re a guest in my home, I’ll do the cooking.”
I smiled. “If you insist.”
“I insist.”
Vincent further insisted we eat in peace. Discussing work, the New Dawn program, or our plans to escape the grasp of the DNI only came after we finished our meal.
I rinsed the dishes and Vincent loaded the dishwasher. After tidying the countertops, he poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the dining room table. Still nursing my glass of wine, I took the seat across from him.
“I want something from you,” Vincent said. “And you may not be comfortable giving it to me.”
“What is it?”
“You use an iPhone. I’d like to have your iCloud ID. Your login information.”
“Huh?” I stammered.
“I want you to carry your personal phone with you at all times. I can promise you I’ll never log into your account unless it’s an emergency, but if anything ever happens to you, it’ll let me track your location.”
I saw no harm in giving him the information. In fact, it gave me additional peace of mind. “I’m okay with that, but you’re going to give me yours, too.”
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“It’s about trust,” I explained. “And, I might need to know where you are, too.”
“I don’t carry my personal phone.”
“Well, when you do, I’ll know where you are.”
He shrugged. “I’m fine with that. I don’t have anything to hide.”
I reached for my phone. “I’ll text the ID and login to you.”
He shook his head. “Write it down on a sheet of paper.”
“I will as soon as we’re done.” I set my phone aside. “So, how was your day today? Mine was oddly uneventful.”
“Director Martin tossed me the newspaper and asked my opinion of it all.”
“He did the same to me,” I said.
“What did you say?”
“I told him I knew nothing of Wallace, or his relationship with the men. When it came to Pike, I said nothing shocked me.”
“What did he say?” he asked without looking up.
“He took the newspaper and stomped off. What about you?” I asked. “What did you say?”
“I acted shocked, of course. He suspects the DNI has sent a goon squad to kill us all.”
“He doesn’t think it was an in-house job?” I asked. “That someone in New Dawn did it?”
“He said marines don’t kill marines. He said it was likely the work of men from another one of DNI’s similar programs. One that utilized Army special forces.”
“He said that?”
He took a drink of his coffee, winced, and lowered the cup. “Pretty much exactly.”
“If he doesn’t think that marines kill marines, then he thinks what we think. That the DNI is eventually going to wipe us all out. Correct?”
“He mentioned that theory. Yes.” He lifted his eyes from his cup of coffee. His gaze was blank. After a moment, his eyes met mine. “I just thought of something.”
“What’s that?”
“Something else he said.” He rubbed his temples. “He said Shephard was truly scheduled to go to Somalia, but that he never arrived. If what he said was true, someone gave the order to ship Shephard out. Someone else gave the order to kill him. There’s more than one person calling the shots.”
“Maybe Martin gave the order to ship Shephard to Somalia.”
“He didn’t say so, but I suppose he could have,” he said, seemingly trying to convince himself that may have been the case. “Do you have any idea who calls the shots? From the Office of the DNI? Who assigns the targets?”
I shrugged. “That’s above my pay grade. I have no idea.”
“This is becoming frustrating,” he said.
“It’s been frustrating since we figured out what’s going on,” I admitted. “Being in a situation where I might have to kill someone scares me to death.”
“I’d just like to know who my enemy is, so I know who to kill.”
“Did you see that movie with Jack Nicholson?” I asked. “When he says, ‘You can’t handle the truth?’ The one about the marines?”
“A Few Good Men?”
“That’s the one,” I said with a nod.
“That was a damned good show.”
“I love Jack Nicholson,” I said. “He’s got to be my all-time favorite actor. I’ve seen all his movies. Anyway, that’s what I feel like. Like I can’t handle the truth. I just want this to end.”
“As do I,” he said. “My only problem is that I’m not sure which direction to attack.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Vincent
Lt. Colonel Martin tilted his head toward the door. “Close the door and have a seat, staff sergeant.”
I did as he asked and took a seat across from him. “Is the guy with the tan and the fitted Italian suit a DNI investigator?”
He leaned over the desk. “That, staff sergeant, is Wallace’s replacement. Joseph Trevino. He arrived in a shiny new Chevrolet sedan about an hour ago. Hell, Wallace’s body is still on a slab in the morgue, and they’ve sent his replacement. If I’m the senior officer here, and I didn’t contact the Office of the DNI, how in the absolute fuck do they know we need a replacement?”
“That’s a good question, Sir.”
He glanced over each shoulder. “If I didn’t have these offices swept for listening devices once a week, I’d think these walls had ears.”
“I have the same suspicions, Sir.”
“Apparently, I’m not authorized to receive orders from the DNI,” he said. “They have to be filtered through mister Tre-fucking-vino.”
“They said you can’t receive orders from D.C.?”
He tilted his head toward the door. “They didn’t have to. Shithead showed up. It’s apparent they don’t want orders coming directly to me.”
“Do you ever see the orders? As they come in from the DNI’s office?”
“I do not. Orders were emailed to Wallace. Wallace assembled intel sheets, and I signed off on them before they were assigned to the operators. Why do you ask?”
“We know Shephard was being shipped out because he often went against orders. We also know he never arrived at his new duty station. You received word from the Office of the DNI that he was KIA in Somalia, correct?”
He gave a nod. “Correct.”
“Directly?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Are you interrogating me, staff sergeant?”
“No, Sir.”
“A moment ago, I advised you that I do not receive orders from DNI. That, staff sergeant, means I do not receive orders from the DNI. Have I made myself clear?”
“Crystal, Sir.”
“I was advised from the now deceased Wallace that Shephard was KIA,” he said. “Wallace received said information from the DNI.”
“Did you see a copy of the paperwork?”
“I did not.” He scowled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the DNI sent you to question me, Briggs.”
