Hardbingers

4

Jack stood in the doorway and sniffed the air of his father's Gateways home. The musty odor was no surprise: The place had been shut up for more than a month.

The real surprise was that he was here. Talking to Ron had got him thinking about Dad's estate. This house was part of it and would be pillaged by Tom's ex-wives before it was sold. And so Jack decided to do a little preemptive pillaging himself.

He'd packed the same gym bag for this trip as the last. As soon as he'd debarked at Fort Lauderdale airport—officially Fort Lauderdale/Hollywood International—he combed through the bag and found the front-gate passkey Anya had given him when he'd visited his father.

So instead of a local motel, he'd rented a car and headed south and inland toward the Everglades and Gateways.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The shades were drawn and a wave of sadness eddied around him as he stood in the cool darkness. His father had left here figuring he'd be back to finalize its sale and pack up to move back north. His first try at selling the place had fallen through when the buyer died. He'd found another buyer, but this time it was the seller who hadn't made it to the closing.

As he moved through the front room he decided to leave the shades drawn. He was going to be here maybe twelve hours, most of them dark. No point in raising them—especially since he wasn't supposed to be here.

He went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and smiled at the sight of four bottles of Ybor Gold. He'd discovered the brand on his previous trip and it looked like he'd made Dad a convert.

He popped a top and wandered back through the living room/dining room area. He noticed that the paintings had been stripped from the walls and the trophy shelves were empty.

Readying to leave.

He stopped at the door to Dad's bedroom. All the family photos had been removed from the walls. The only ones left sat on his dresser: Tom's three kids, Kate's two, and an old family photo of Mom, Dad, Tom, Kate, and eight-year-old Jack—or "Jackie," as they'd all called him.

His throat tightened as he stared at those smiling faces.

I'm the only one left.

He went to the closet and found the ugly Hawaiian shirts still present. Leaning in the rear corner was the MIC sniper rifle he and Dad had bought last trip to lake care of a little business. But he was more interested in the old gray metal box on the shelf above. It had been locked the first time he'd found it. Not now.

He flipped it open, sorted through the photos of Dad's old army buddies from Korea until he reached the small jewelry box. He popped the lid to reveal the Purple Heart and Silver Star. Jack stared at them a moment, then snapped the lid shut. The photos and the medals would mean nothing to Ron, and even less to Tom's Skanks from Hell. They'd probably put them up on eBay first chance they had.

But they meant something to Jack—meant a lot. They were all he had left of his father, reminders of the part of his life Dad had hidden from his family, the war he'd tried to put behind him.

Jack closed the case and carried it to the kitchen as he went for another beer. But as he opened the door he spotted a green bottle sitting atop the fridge. He pulled it down. The label read THE SCOTCH MALT WHISKEY SOCIETY, CASK 12.6. A gift to Dad from Uncle Stu. Jack remembered Dad's toast when they'd shared a glass.

To the best day of my life in the last fifteen years.

Jack recalled the burn in his throat, but now the burn was in his eyes.

He poured himself a shot and sipped. Just as good as he remembered. No, good didn't quite do it. Exquisite was more like it.

He placed the bottle atop the metal box. No way the Skanks from Hell were going to get their hands on this either.

He felt too melancholy to watch TV. He'd sit and drink a little, then hit the sack early. He had to get back to Fort Lauderdale and find that boat slip by six a.m.