Thrilling Thirteen: 13 Mysteries/Thrillers

Prologue

The mountain is man-made.

Ten feet of blown snow and plowed ice. Once pure and white, it’s a tower of misshapen gray that is gradually being pulverized into the consistency of sand by the action of hundreds of small hands and feet.

It sits at the back of the playground, away from the rusted basketball hoops, the swingset and jungle gym. The painted lines of the kickball court are buried beneath the thin layer of snow and salt that escaped the sharp edge of the janitor’s chain-driven snowplow.

At high noon, the bell rings and the school doors burst open. The older boys are scrambling, pushing, shoving, falling and slipping their way toward the pinnacle. There are no rules. No alliances. No teamwork. This is every boy for himself. Chunks of ice are thrown. Hands are placed on the nearest back and pushed. Boots are pulled off. Feet are tripped. Wool scarves knitted by doting grandmothers are turned into deadly garrotes.

It is the battle of the fittest with the prize going to the swiftest.

The younger kids watching the free show, careful to stand far enough away from the battle zone so as not to be injured by shrapnel.

A young girl, with light brown hair and gray eyes watches the boys. She has on a pink coat with a yellow hat and thick yellow mittens. Her snowpants are light blue. Her boots are purple.

She is looking at the boys trying to guess which one will get to the top. The biggest boy is hurling the smaller ones with ease, but he looks slow to the young girl. She can see that he is clumsy, the way his feet slip and slide while smaller boys scramble past him.

The girl watches one of the smaller boys who seems to be the fastest. He darts in and out, getting closer and closer. Just when she thinks he’s going to be the one, one of the bigger boys a ring below him grabs him by the scruff of his jacket like a mother cat gathering up a kitten, and hurls him to the bottom. No, she thinks, he won’t be the one.

She watches the melee, a group of ants trying to organize itself. The boys are interchangeable, flitting in and out of the stream, until one boy begins to stand out. He has on a thin blue jacket with no hat or mittens. The girl wonders how he can manage in the bitter cold. He has dark hair and a pale face. His white basketball shoes are mottled and worn. He has made it near the top and is close.

The girl studies him. He looks different, but why? There are other boys who are underdressed and wearing tennis shoes instead of winter boots.

And then she realizes why.

He’s the only one not smiling.

The boy ducks his head and bulls past the rest of the boys. They try to stop him, but he knocks them with his shoulders, lashes out at them with his feet, swings wildly with his bare fists. His mouth is set. His face a slash of white. His lips a cruel line of red.

He breaks free and scrambles to the top, his hands and feet shoveling snow behind him like a badger digging a hole. He makes it to the top. And stands. The boys below momentarily pause to watch him.

The biggest boy’s arms are pinwheeling and he falls over backward, slides down the hill and comes to a rest at the bottom, his red, flushed face split by a huge grin.

The girl moves. She walks toward the mountain of snow. Her eyes meet the eyes of the boy at the top. Their gazes hold for what feels to the girl to be a long time.

And then she runs.

The path cleared by the big boy is still clear and she scrambles, her small legs pumping, her purple boots sharp and firm in the snow.

The boy holds out his hand as she nears and then her yellow mitten is inside it and he hoists her onto his shoulders. She is not scared. The breath comes from her lungs. She can look out and see the whole playground. She should not be here, she thinks. This is for the big kids. For the big boys. But then, a funny thing happens.

Slowly, her arms go over her head in a sudden inspiration of pure triumph. She reaches for the sky, her heart singing, her head thrown back. She is screaming. Whooping.

In her peripheral vision, she sees the boy’s bare hands, glistening with wetness, the fingertips looking almost blue. His hands curl into fists and the two stand atop the mountain, arms raised over their heads.

Victorious.

One

The killer pulls his white Ford Taurus rental car along the curb next to a Chinese restaurant, a few blocks past San Diego’s gay district and just before the first house of a quiet residential neighborhood. The kind of area where retirees sit in darkened living rooms alternatively watching television and any activity outside, ready to change channels or call the police, depending upon what action unfolds in either arena.

He shuts the car off and places the keys in his pocket. He steps out, shuts and locks the door, then walks up to the corner and turns right, toward the neon signs, loud music and sidewalks crowded with men.

The air is warm but dry, with a soft breeze that stirs the palm trees. A full moon hangs overhead, bathing the gaudy strip ahead in an eerie glow.

He tells himself that he can stop. That he can go right back to his car, climb in and drive away. That doing this… thing… will put him on a road with no way to turn back. Although his walking pace is steady, his stomach is roiling, a yo-yo full of acid. His head feels gauzy, as if his eyes and ears are filtering things, distorting them.

He walks by a clothing store and catches his reflection in the window. He’s tall and lean, with dark hair and a face that looks carved, with sharp edges and angles. In his blue jeans and denim jacket, he looks rugged. Capable. Even handsome.

His name is Samuel, and he keeps walking.

He has thought about this moment. From the very second the great injustice transpired, he has gone over it and over it in his mind. It’s all about goals. Deciding what’s important. What you want to achieve, and then putting together a plan, systematic steps to achieve those goals. There were many options. But this is the most direct, the most permanent, the best approach of them all.

It’s also the most dangerous, with the greatest chance of backfiring. Can he stomach it and survive?

He doesn’t know. At one point in his life, he was committed to a goal and never thought he’d fold… but he shakes that thought away. He is still committed to that goal. Now more than fucking ever. What he does know is that he will not be stopped. The part of his life that was ripped away needs to be put back. He isn’t whole. Until things are made right, he simply cannot exist in this state.

Samuel knows what he’s looking for. He peers into the first place, The Cock and Bull, and sees that it isn’t right. It’s not crowded, there’s no loud music, nothing going on. Just a few middle-aged men sitting around an oval bar in a faint haze of cigarette smoke. He walks on, staring straight ahead. Several men pass him, staring intently, but he doesn’t look at them. He’s fixed on his target. He passes several more bars but one glance into each tells him to keep moving.

Up ahead, he can see a small group of men milling around an entrance that’s lit by a strobe light; swirling dots of color shower the men and the sidewalk. A pounding bass thumps the air around them. Samuel walks closer and can see a sign that reads: M & M. Beneath the sign is a vintage advertising banner that says “M & M Candy: It melts in your mouth, not in your hands!”

A low whistle sounds from the group and they turn as one to face Samuel. He ignores them and walks through the door. A muscular bouncer in a wife-beater T-shirt tells him there’s a five dollar cover. Samuel pays the man and walks inside.

It smells like a normal bar to Samuel, except maybe the scent of cologne is stronger. An empty stage sits at one end of the bar. The rest of the place is dominated by a circular bar with clusters of tables flanking it.

For a moment, Samuel freezes. His head is pounding, his stomach is surging toward his throat. He feels like a little boy who’s about to do something very bad. Even though this is the least criminal portion of what he plans to do tonight, he nonetheless wants to turn around and run. He wants to race back to his car and curl up in the back seat and cry. An image of his father floats before him and he nearly screams.

Is it worth this? He asks himself the question, but knows that the answer is yes. Years of striving, of dreaming, of imagining, of believing, come down to this.

Samuel walks past the bar toward the jukebox. It’s belting out a Doors song, something about a soul kitchen. He sees the sign for restrooms, an M & M with nuts, and follows it down a short hallway to a cheap pine door. He pushes in and walks briskly past the two urinals for the stalls. There are three smaller stalls, with a bigger handicapped one at the end.

He pushes open the first stall and looks. It’s empty. He scans the floor, but it’s clean. The door swings shut and Samuel pushes open the second door. It’s empty as well. He checks the third and finds the same result.

He puts his hand on the fourth door when he hears the sound of flesh smacking flesh. A soft groan comes from the stall. Samuel bends down and looks under the door. Two pairs of feet are facing the same way, partially obscured by pants and belts. One pair are topsiders, the other wing tips.

Samuel goes back into the third stall and sits down on the toilet. He waits. The lovemaking sounds continue. He looks at the graffiti on the metal stall wall. “Jeremy’s the best!” Phone numbers. Crude drawings of male genitalia. A note: “My mother made me gay!” Followed by a witty rejoinder: “Will she make me a sweater?”

The sounds in the stall next to him intensify, filling the small room. A deep moan fills the space and the sound stops. After several moments, Samuel hears the snap of plastic, and then pants and zippers being pulled up.

The men shuffle to the door and suddenly the sound of the jukebox fills the bathroom, the door shuts and it’s quiet again. Samuel moves quickly. He leaves the third stall, enters the fourth, and pulls the door shut behind him. From the front pocket of his denim jacket, he pulls a pair of surgical gloves and slips them on. From the other pocket, he pulls a plastic baggie.

Samuel looks around the toilet for the used condom, and spies it on the right side, beneath the toilet dispenser.

Samuel picks it up, careful to grasp it at the top ring, and slides it into the plastic baggie.

Samuel places the baggie into a pocket, strips off the plastic gloves and drops them in the wastebasket on the way out. He’ll need another pair for the next phase of the operation, but that’s okay.

He’s got several more in the car.

Two

He stands on the threshold of his destiny.

The streaking rays of sunset have faded completely from the sky. Reflections from the bonfire light the side of his face, shading the dark hollows.

Coronado, California sits behind him. Home to the North Island Naval Station and the infamous Navy BUD/S program: Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training. It is to this small island just off the coast of San Diego that young men volunteer to become Navy SEALs, knowing that in order to accomplish that feat, they must first pass the BUD/S program. They’ve heard the statistics: that over ninety percent of them won’t make it. That people have died during this training.

But on this night, Saturday night, they are not worried. They are drinking, celebrating, preparing.

Phase One of the SEAL training begins on Monday. This Saturday night party is a tradition, meant to punctuate the recruits’ last night of freedom before they turn their lives over to the BUD/S instructors.

Samuel looks west, out into the ocean. Behind him, the others are drinking, talking with slurred voices, dealing with their fears and anxieties the only way they know how: mainly, to deny them. But Samuel Ackerman is not in denial. He knows what’s at stake. Ever since his father told him he’d been a frog man for the Navy; the same group that later became the SEALs, it has been Samuel’s dream. To be the most complete, most highly trained, most physically fit soldier in the world: a Navy SEAL.

Samuel takes a drink from the can of Budweiser. His free hand, the right one, goes to his face and he rubs a spot just above his right eye. Whenever he thinks of his father, he does this. It is the very spot where the old man’s boot crunched his skull-

— but Samuel doesn’t want to think about that now. This is his moment, not that monster that came back from Southeast Asia with the mind of a killer and the body of a junkie.

Samuel sits down abruptly and takes off his shoes and socks. He scoops up the can of Budweiser and takes a long drink. He walks forward, into the water. Southern California or not, the water is cold. It is something the BUD/S instructor are acutely aware of and use to their advantage at every moment. It is the cold, mainly, along with the sleep deprivation, that cause so many to drop out, to ring the infamous bell that will be within reach at all times. When a recruit rings the bell, it means they quit. They are given a hot meal and a warm bed.

Samuel will not ring the bell.

He stands there, his feet sinking into the rough textured sand, feels his toes descend. The water is cold, and he knows that at some point he’ll be linked arm in arm with other recruits at some ungodly hour of the morning, sitting in the surf as wave after wave of ice-cold water smashes into them. It’s called Hell Week, and it’s when the majority of recruits drop out of the voluntary training program.

Samuel won’t drop out. He’s waited too long. Thought too much. Worked too hard.

He looks into the water, at its murky depths. It will be settled there, he thinks. Despite the running. The push-ups. Carrying the boats on their heads. The complete sleep deprivation. The BUD/S instructors with their relentless taunting, pushing, deriding.

The water is where it will be decided. It is the water that washes away the will. That erodes the desire. That softens the heart.

Samuel is glad. He is good in the water, has been all his life.

Samuel spits into the ocean and drinks the rest of his beer in one long swallow. He looks off across the water, at the dark horizon.

His destiny is there.

Waiting.

Three

Samuel drives along the row of bars a block from the Naval base.

The sidewalks are crowded with sailors, sailors and their girlfriends, or girlfriends-to-be. Occasionally, groups of men can be seen leaving one bar and walking into the next one. They are drunk, alive, and ready to make the most of their time away from base.

Samuel drives for two blocks before he sees The Outer Bank, a clapboard tavern painted blue with a life ring and a pelican affixed over the front door. He drives past and circles the parking lot, looking for a black Chevy truck with the Navy SEAL bumper sticker.

He sees it and goes past, taking a parking spot at the other end of the lot that affords him privacy and an unobstructed view of the Chevy. He puts his car in Park and shuts it off. The engine ticks.

Samuel turns the ignition far enough to work the electrical systems and he rolls down the driver’s side window.

A gust of cool ocean air invades the car’s space and Samuel breathes deeply.

Any thoughts of turning back are gone now.

From beneath the front seat of the Taurus, Samuel pulls a nylon scabbard. It’s big, nearly a foot long, and heavy, weighing a couple of pounds. Samuel holds it tenderly before popping the clasp and sliding out the knife.

Someone shouts and Samuel glances up. A group of sailors crosses the parking lot at the end opposite from Samuel. They won’t see him.

Samuel turns his attention back to the knife. It glistens in the moonlight and Samuel’s tempted to test the edge but he doesn’t; he knows it’s razor sharp. He worked with it into the small hours of the morning last night to get it so that it would cut like a razor.

He slides the knife back into the scabbard and stows it beneath the seat. Samuel glances at the Chevy, sees it sitting quietly waiting for its owner to return.

At the thought of the truck’s owner Samuel instantly begins going over his plan one more time. Has he forgotten anything? Is there some minor flaw that he’ll realize at this late moment and cause him to abort? The machinations go through his mind quickly. He looks at it from every conceivable angle. There are places things can go wrong, definitely. But if things fall into place, he is prepared to move.

It is a good plan. It is the tactical part that pleases him the most. The other part, the slaking of his thirst for revenge, is just an added bonus.

That’s what he tells himself.

But he knows it isn’t true.

The fact is, he’s been shit on his whole life. Never really given a fair break. The cards have always been stacked against him. So he retreated. He withdrew. Told himself that he really didn’t want the things every one else wanted. He lived a life of denial. Because he was forced to.

But then they took the one thing that he had allowed himself to desire. The one thing he truly wanted all his life.

It reminded of the times when his father used to…

Stop!

This wasn’t about the old man.

This was about him. Samuel.

And the bastard who had hounded him from BUD/S training.

Nevens.

Four

It is Hell Week and his strength is gone. Not ebbing. Not dissipating. It is gone.

His muscles have gone from rock hard to soft rubber. He is surprised that they even have the strength to hold his bones together. He is exhausted to the core of his being. Everything he sees, hears and feels is distorted by bone-numbing fatigue. He has never been this tired.

Samuel figures he has run at least a hundred miles. He’s been in the water so long that he can’t remember not being wet. And cold. The cold is the worst. He can’t remember the last time he was warm.

The recruits have been divided into six-man boat crews. Samuel’s crew is one of the worst and has been singled out by BUD/S instructor Nevens, a narrow-waisted broad shouldered man whose face has taken on a nightmarish quality to Samuel. Like the killer who wears the hockey mask in the slasher movies.

The boat teams have been ordered to carry their boat up and down a series of hills. Samuel is in agony. The boat feels as if it’s on his shoulders alone. He grits his teeth. The burning in his shoulders and chest is intense. There is yelling and Samuel pumps his legs as they try to climb the hill. The man in front of Samuel trips and falls. The boat sags perilously before the recruit scrambles back to his feet.

Ahead, the other boat crews have made it. Samuel and his team cajole the boat up the hill and over.

They are the last group over the hill.

Before they can rest, BUD/S instructor Nevens is in their faces. Screaming at them. Calling them names. Quitters. Losers. Pussies.

In the back, Samuel flinches.

His father used to call him a pussy.

And then Nevens is in Samuel’s face. Telling him to quit, that he doesn’t belong out here. Spittle stings Samuel’s cheeks. Nevens tells him to go ring the bell. He turns Samuel’s head so that he can see the bell sitting on its wooden platform.

Waiting to be rung.

Samuel turns his head and stares straight ahead, but doesn’t really see. He senses Nevens there, can make out the man’s hatchet face, the crewcut, the blazing eyes.

For a brief moment, Samuel sees his father yelling at him. Cursing him. Beating him.

And then Nevens is gone.

Samuel’s boat crew is put on Nevens’ goon squad: meaning by finishing last they are given extra running and push-ups to do while the other boat crews rest.

Samuel knows that if they continue to be on the goon squad, they’ll never make it through Hell Week.

He does his pushups. Sand is in his mouth and he grinds it between his teeth. His jaws are clacking from the cold.

Nevens is wrong. He’s got the fire, he’s got the heart. And right now, that flame is being molded into a pure cold hatred for Nevens.

Samuel’s got the heart.

He wonders, Does Nevens?

Five

It is nearly two in the morning when Samuel hears the sound of a woman’s high-pitched laugh. He glances in the direction of the Outer Bank’s front door and sees what he has been looking for.

BUD/S Instructor Nevens. Larry to his friends, is walking out of the bar with his arm around a big-haired blonde. Samuel’s heart quickens. He’s seen it before, the last three weekends in fact, Nevens has come to this bar and picked up one of the local floozies. They’re easy pickings to him, Samuel thinks, just like the SEAL recruits.

Samuel watches Nevens open the door for the blonde. When he steps back to let her by she puts her arms around his neck and they kiss. Nevens grinds his pelvis into her.

Perfect, Samuel thinks, he’ll be good and distracted.

The Chevy starts up and Samuel follows the little black truck out of the parking lot, its SEAL bumper sticker mocking him every inch of the way. Fuck you, Samuel says to the bumper sticker.

The lights of the strip fade in Samuel’s rearview mirror as Nevens takes Fourth Street toward the beach. It’s a route familiar to Samuel as he’s followed Nevens here twice before. Samuel has to be careful to hang back far enough so Nevens doesn’t spot him. Samuel knows that Nevens has most likely had a lot to drink. In a previous reconnaissance mission, Samuel watched the BUD/S instructor toss down ten beers in a little over an hour and a half. But Samuel knows that he still has to be careful.

Samuel is feeling good. He’s got it back together. It was natural, he tells himself, to feel a little nervous taking that first step. But now he’s had time to adjust, to let the realization sink in that he is now operational. And he’s not dead tired now. He hasn’t been beaten into submission by fatigue and extreme cold.

How will Nevens handle him now?

Nearly a half-mile ahead, Nevens turns onto the small two-track that Samuel knows he favors. This is bimbo-fucking territory. Where Nevens chooses to deflower his plenty-times-deflowered women.

Samuel casually drives past the entrance to the beach without even bothering to look. He knows what he would see: Nevens and the blond making out in the front seat of the truck, then breaking free and Nevens grabbing the blanket from behind the truck’s bench seat along with a stash of beer or a bottle of booze.

Samuel pulls ahead into the parking lot of a strip mall that houses a grocery store, drug store, real estate office and a dentist’s office. There are enough cars in the parking lot, especially near the grocery store, that no one will remember seeing a white Ford Taurus.

Samuel parks the car, retrieves the knife, and walks across the street to the sidewalk that runs parallel to the beach. There is a slope of sand with tall grass that hides the beach from the road. When there is no traffic coming from either direction, and when he is beyond visibility of anyone in the parking lot, Samuel scrambles over the rise and scurries to the bottom.

He pauses, lets his eyes adjust to the darkness, takes in the reflection of the moon off the ocean. It’s a bit choppy out there tonight, a stiff wind coming in from the water.

Samuel relishes the moist air. He’s always loved the ocean, the water.

He takes the knife from its scabbard and slips the scabbard onto his belt, pushing it toward the back so it will be out of the way.

He has chosen this area carefully. There is another small rise in the sand and on the other side of that will be Nevens. Samuel remembers watching Nevens fuck a cocktail waitress in the same spot last weekend. She was loud, a screamer. And Samuel remembers with revulsion the sight of Nevens’ bare ass, even more pale in the moonlight, on top of the woman, moving in a slow rhythm.

Now, Samuel creeps toward the same bluff. He moves softly, not sure which way Nevens will be facing. The last two times Nevens has ended up facing away form the ocean, as they start on their backs looking toward the ocean, then when he climbs on top, he’s facing the other way.

Samuel crawls toward the top of the small bluff and now he can hear them. The woman is moaning. There is a grunting noise and the sound of a metal can hitting another metal can. Nevens, polishing off another beer, Samuel thinks.

At last, he reaches the top and peeks through the long grass. It is what he expected: The woman and Nevens are both kneeling, Nevens behind her, both facing the ocean.

Samuel slowly sinks back down and works his way around the bluff. He must approach Nevens from behind as well.

It takes him nearly ten minutes to get into position. All the while, Nevens’ thrusting has never stopped. That’s good, Samuel thinks, he’s helping cover any noises I make.

Samuel pauses at the top of the bluff.

There is only one way to accomplish this.

Quickly, and without hesitation.

His knife is in his hand. His heart is beating wildly. His mouth is dry. There is a pounding in his head and pain radiates from a spot above his right eye. He absentmindedly rubs it.

He has to do it. With Nevens out of the way, he’ll make it through BUD/S the next time. Nevens hated him. Had it in for him.

Samuel remembers what his father did to him, and how, after, he vowed he would never let another man do that. And Nevens had. He’d humiliated Samuel. Demeaned him. Stopped him from achieving the thing most precious to Samuel: his dream of becoming a Navy SEAL.

And now, Nevens was going to die for it.

Samuel starts forward with his knife gleaming in the moonlight.

Six

He is sitting in the water. His teeth are chattering. His body is shaking. He has never been this cold in his life. It feels as if all of the heat has been sucked from his body and freon poured into his guts. His head spins and he is completely disoriented.

The waves come with maddening regularity, like big roundhouse punches that are impossible to avoid. They hit him in the face and the last bits of his spirit are washed away with each onslaught.

He no longer remembers who he is, where he is, or why he is sitting in frigid water with a body that is screaming for the abuse to stop. His arms are linked with other recruits, the ones who have steadfastly refused to quit. He doesn’t know why they are still here. He only knows that his strength is gone, and that his mind is following.

Samuel is a ghost. His face is pale. His jaw hangs open. The doctors periodically check him for shock.

He will sit in the water because he cannot move. He couldn’t get up if he wanted to. They all sit and wait, their heads bowed as if in penitence, the waves slapping them with impunity.

Water goes up Samuel’s nose. It makes him gag and cough.

Nevens hears him.

Suddenly, Nevens is in Samuel’s face. “You! Get the water out of your mouth — it’s not a cock or your mommy’s tit, boy!” Through half-lidded eyes, Samuel can make out the vague shape and color of Nevens’ face. Samuel is too fatigued to be furious. He only senses the anger. The hatred.

His mother did protect him, and to hear Nevens talk about her…

Suddenly, Samuel’s arms fall free of the men next to him and he leans forward just as a wave crashes into him. He topples over and briefly goes underwater. When he comes up, Nevens is in his face, yelling at him, calling him more names. Samuel hears a whistle and the others are getting out of the water, too, but Nevens is telling Samuel that he has made a goon squad of one and that now he, Samuel, must run.

Nevens yells and suddenly Samuel is in front of the bell. He doesn’t know if he crawled there or Nevens dragged him. But he is there and his hand is on the rope. His head is pounding and he hears voices. His father’s. His mother’s. The other recruits telling him not to ring the bell. But Nevens voice is the loudest. It’s telling him he’s a quitter, a weakling who hasn’t got the guts to be a Navy SEAL.

And then Samuel rings the bell.

When the medics carry him from the beach and after he has been placed in a warm bed to sleep, Samuel thinks the clanging of the bell was the actual sound of his soul shattering.

Seven

Just as Samuel starts forward Nevens groans and shifts position. Samuel drops back down into the grass and waits, his heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest. Sweat is exploding from his body. His stomach is clenched like a fist.

The woman rolls onto her back and pulls Nevens toward her. The two lay together as Samuel waits. When he is sure he hears the sound of soft, alcohol-induced snoring, he starts forward.

The waves crash softly on the beach and Samuel makes no sound as he walks forward. His head is throbbing and his hand goes to the spot above his right eye. He freezes for just a moment, and the sheer enormity of what he’s about to do washes over him, like one of the ice-cold waves during Hell Week.

He is moving quickly toward Nevens, his knife out, his left hand free, ready to grab Nevens’ head, pull it back, and use the knife to slit his throat. But in his approach, he kicks a small dash of sand forward and it sprinkles Nevens’ forehead.

Samuel watches in disbelief as Nevens, even though he’s drunk and in a post-sex slumber, reacts with astonishing speed.

Nevens is almost on his feet when Samuel thrusts the knife forward. Samuel’s mind screams that Nevens can’t be moving this fast, that this wasn’t supposed to be how it would go. And a part of Samuel’s mind wonders if this will be the final failure, if Nevens hounding him out of Navy SEAL training was the second to last straw. That maybe Nevens and the rest of them were right; that Samuel doesn’t have what it takes to be a SEAL.

But Samuel pays that voice no mind. He is on Nevens, ramming the knife into him. He pulls out the knife and thrusts it in again. He’s got an arm around the instructor and rips the knife up. Nevens screams and they both fall over the woman who is struggling to get to her feet.

Before Samuel knows what’s happening, Nevens is on top of him, throwing punches of incredible force. Samuel feels pain in his ribs.

How can this be? Samuel wonders. He springs to his feet and rushes Nevens who sidesteps him and lands a vicious karate chop on his forearm. The knife drops into the sand.

Both men freeze.

The knife seems to glow, a fractured image of the moon dances along the blade’s edge.

And then they dive for the knife. Nevens gets to it first but Samuel grabs Nevens’ hand and they roll on the sand, fighting for position.

With one great heave, Nevens rips the knife away from Samuel and slashes wildly. The tip of the knife catches Samuel on the side and he feels a flicker of pain. But Nevens comes toward him.

“You,” Nevens says. His eyes are shining brightly, too brightly, Samuel thinks. He looks at Nevens body, sees the blood pumping from his chest where Samuel opened several deep gashes.

Samuel crouches, warily circles Nevens.

“Why?” Nevens asks.

Samuel can see the light starting to go out of Nevens’ eyes.

“Because I’m going to be a SEAL.”

The knife begins to lower and Samuel can see Nevens’ legs sway. Nevens laughs and then falls forward.

Samuel waits, thinking it’s a trick and only then does he realize that the woman is screaming. Her shrill voice spurs him into action. He pounces on Nevens, rips the knife from his hand and slits his throat.

The woman is sobbing now, on her knees. Samuel advances on her. He puts down the knife, takes her long blonde hair and bunches it around his fist. She flails her arms at him uselessly. She is sobbing when Samuel grabs her jaw with his other hand and twists his body with all of his strength. The woman’s neck breaks with the sound of a muted snap.

The water is cold and it reminds Samuel of Hell Week. But tonight it doesn’t bother him. He welcomes it. He has his arm around the blonde and is pulling her out to sea, out to the cross rip that starts a few hundred yards from shore. The blood is being washed from Samuel’s clothes and he swims with power.

At last, he feels the tug of the current and he lets go of the blonde. He treads water, fighting the current until he sees that she is being taken out to sea. He then turns and kicks hard for the shore, breaking through the current after several minutes of hard swimming.

It has taken him farther down the shore from where Nevens’ corpse is, but he makes it back, and emerges from the water re-born. It has cleansed him. His breathing is normal and he feels strong. Powerful. Like a God.

Samuel drags Nevens to the blanket on which he and the blonde had been having sex. He looks down at the fallen BUD/S instructor. The pride, the pieces of his soul, it’s all re-forming inside him.

The pain in his head has subsided.

He has killed a Navy SEAL. And now, when he goes back to BUD/S training in eighteen months, there will be no Instructor Nevens to defeat him.

Samuel picks up his shirt from the sand where he’d thrown it before taking the blonde out for her swim. He reaches into the pocket and pulls out a pair of surgical gloves and then the baggie with the used condom inside. He drops the condom onto the towel, then stands over Nevens.

The wind from the ocean has changed. It’s colder and there are ominous clouds rolling in. It will rain soon, Samuel thinks.

He takes a long look at the ocean. It will be some time before he sees it again. At least eighteen months.

And when he comes back, he’ll get what he deserves.

He’ll be a Navy SEAL.

Eight

In the girls’ locker room of Lake Orion High School, Beth Fischer is attempting to slow her heartbeat, to keep her muscles loose, to keep the adrenaline from pouring into her veins like a river overflowing its banks. She is sitting quietly in front of her bright orange locker. The carpet is a dull green. The bench upon which she’s sitting is lacquered pine, with hundreds of scratches and dents, a few gouges and indecipherable graffiti.

Beth feels in control of her body. Some players try to pump themselves up, but for Beth, it’s always been keeping things under control. Her success has always been about being in control.

She stands and stretches again, although she’s already as limber as she can possibly be. She reaches back and lifts her right foot, catches it and pulls it up against her butt. The muscles in her arms pop from her skin. She feels her quadriceps tug with the stretch and when she drops her foot, the muscle snaps into place. Firm. And strong. She repeats the process with her other leg and then bends down and touches her toes, pulling her hamstrings, her face against her knees.

Beth straightens, rises up and down on her toes. Her calf muscles are clearly defined, standing out against the smooth skin like half-discs of steel. She hops in place. A teammate walks by and pats her on the rump. A locker slams somewhere. Beth turns and sees her reflection in the window of the coach’s office. Her face is sharp, her jaw set. No one would ever call her cute, or say she had the prom-queen look. But there is a tranquil beauty in her lean, strong face. The reflection doesn’t do her gray eyes justice, but even in the reflection she can see the intensity.

Beth looks at the face in the window. She thinks about everything that’s riding on this game. It’s the first game of the state tournament and her school is playing the team picked to win it all. But that’s just a part of the prize. Tonight is also the biggest game of the season as far as the number of scouts who will be at the game. Most of them have been recruiting Beth since she was a sophomore and won the job of starting point guard on the varsity squad. Since then, her stats have improved every year. She led her team to the conference championship and was all-conference player of the year, leading everyone with points, assists and steals. Only one question remained among the scouts: could she do it against bigger, stronger opponents than her somewhat weak conference forced her to face?

She doesn’t intend to disappoint them.

Beth turns away from her image and goes to her locker. She opens the door and looks at the picture taped inside. It’s faded color photograph, the edges are folded and bent, one part is held together by a piece of Scotch tape. In the picture, a young man with light brown hair and bluish gray eyes looks into the camera. She can see the similarities with this image and the one she just looked at. The man in the picture is wearing Army fatigues and an M-14 machine gun is strapped across the man’s back.

Her father.Beth looks into his eyes. She can see the quiet bravery in his eighteen-year old face. The same age then as she is now. She draws strength from the picture. And calmness. It’s as if he has the ability to focus her. To remind her what’s important. And that to fight with courage is sometimes the best you can do.

The coach calls out for the team to gather. Beth hears the quiet voice of her teammates as they gather around the coach’s chalkboard.

Beth slams the locker shut.

The sound echoes like a gunshot.

Nine

The Lake Orion High School gym is big, with a capacity of nearly two thousand people.

Anna Fischer walks slowly, unsteadily, up the bleachers. She has never been here before, and isn’t used to walking on bleachers, the big steps, the big fall should one misstep. She walks slowly. Looking down, stepping, looking up, then looking down again, taking another step.

She carries a big soda in her hand and a program in the other. She is an older woman in her fifties, tall and thin with a sagging face and tired eyes. She’s wearing blue jeans and a blue cotton sweatshirt that has had more than its share of tumbles in the dryer.

Anna takes another step but her foot goes too far and she stops it in time, but her balance starts to go. She puts a hand out and grabs something, pushes herself upright. She looks down. Her hand is on a man’s head. He looks at her, a surprised “o” on his face. Anna smiles sheepishly and takes another step, then another one before she sits down, quickly.

It is a good spot, about three rows from the top. She doesn’t want to sit at the very top because she thinks it’s too visible. She would rather sit a few rows down, try to blend in a little bit. Beth doesn’t know she is at the game, and by the look of the number of people at the gym, tonight wouldn’t be the night to distract her with her presence.

Anna takes a deep breath and then takes a long drink from her soda. It’s diet Coke, or at least half of it is. The other half is some fine sour mash from the great state of Tennessee. After Anna has drained a quarter of the cup’s contents, she pops a stick of gum into her mouth and chews it. She doesn’t want to cause any trouble here. Doesn’t want to embarrass Beth whom she has heard is the star of the team.

But Anna wants to watch her play. And she feels she has a right to watch her play. Beth is her daughter, after all.

The pep band picks up and the local team runs out onto the court, forming itself into two lines for a layup drill. Anna knows the basic terms. Her husband taught her them when they were dating. He’d taken her to some games and they’d even horsed around at a playground basketball court not far from his apartment. He’d been good. Anna could still remember the ease with which he moved. The power in his legs when he exploded toward the basket for a dunk. She’d marveled at his pure athleticism. It had been one of the things she’d loved about him.

Now, Anna picks out her daughter in one of the lines. She can see the light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Can see the stern expression. Anna thinks that her daughter looks older than the other girls. More serious. Maybe more under pressure?

The thought prompts Anna to take the gum out of her mouth and drain more of the whiskey and soda.

No, Beth doesn’t look older, she thinks. She’s just projecting her own beliefs onto her daughter.

Anna watches as Beth catches a pass and drives to the basket, springs up and lays the ball up gently against he backboard. So easily. So effortless. So smooth.

Just like her father.

A kind of black flower blooms briefly in the pit of Anna’s stomach. So unfair that Vince died.

A sign in the home student section catches her eye: “Beth is #1!” Yes, Anna thinks, Beth is #1. Because all she has left is Beth. And in the dark hours of sobriety, Anna wonders if the cancer ruined that for her, too. Or, she wonders, maybe she ruined it all herself.

Anna wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. She’s failed Beth time and time again. Beth no longer believes in her. But now, Anna can see that these people believe in Beth.

So maybe the damage she’s done to her only daughter isn’t as bad as she thinks. She thinks about it, then puts the straw back in her mouth.

Ten

Despite the scouts, despite the fact that a scholarship may be hanging in the balance, Beth’s first thoughts as the game begins are of her teammates. As the players perfunctorily shake hands at center court and ready themselves for the tip-off, she can see that her teammates have never looked so nervous. So tense. Their faces are white, their expressions grim. As always, at the start of a game, Beth feels light, almost giddy. The jitters are replaced by raw exultation of playing the game. She wants to look up into the stands and find Pete, but she doesn’t. Light and loose is one thing, distracted is another.

The ref, a short man with a slight paunch and a strand of dyed black hair pulled across his balding head, blows his whistle, tosses the ball up and steps back. Beth watches the ball as the two centers leap, and then the ball is in her hands. She feels the smooth surface, and for an instant, feels the strength surge through her hands, and the feeling flows through her body that she can do anything with the ball, that tonight, she can score at will.

But she doesn’t.

Beth realizes that to win, she needs to get her teammates involved. So she brings the ball up, passes off, gets it back, then drives into the lane, draws two defenders and makes a flawless bounce pass to a teammate who’s right under the bucket. She blows the layup. Beth knows she was right; her teammates are even more tense than she thought. The other team takes a perimeter shot and misses. Again, Beth brings the ball up, passes off, passes again, and drives again. This time, her teammate is ready and under control. Two points. Lake Orion’s student section erupts with the first points of the game. The cheer sends a chill through Beth’s body. That first bucket always does.

The other team brings the ball up. Beth’s opponent, the other point guard, is familiar to Beth. She’s shorter than Beth but is built like a tank. She’s also very quick. Because Beth is taller, the crowd thinks the shorter girl is quicker, but she isn’t. The other point guard brings the ball up. She drives to the left of the free throw extended and Beth, who has watched films of this girl, knows she is going to turn her back and pivot, trying to get to the center of the lane. Beth anticipates the move, jumps out and easily steals the ball. Beth takes it down the court and at the last moment, passes to a teammate who makes the easy lay in.

The opposing team fights back, though, and the lead seesaws. Beth remains under control, passing with unerring accuracy. She feeds her teammates time and time again. By the time the first quarter is over, she’s got over ten assists and has yet to take a shot. She has two points, on free throws, from a blocking foul. By now, Beth’s teammates are relaxed. Beth has made a point of getting the ball into the hands of every starter on her team. Each one has made at least one basket. Each one has handled the ball with regularity. They have calmed down.

And even better, the opponent’s players have begun to slack off of Beth. When she drives into the lane, they drop off her. She feels like a wolf who is being presented fat sheep who can’t walk. She has passed up every opportunity for open shots. She can see the looks of the opponents. They are confident she is scared. That she doesn’t want to shoot. Some players fold in the big games. And it is on their faces.

But still, she passes up the shots.

Their defense sags and Beth gets more inventive with the passes. No-look passes. Bounce passes — one through an opponent’s legs. One alley oop. She drives and draws three defenders, she skips the easy pass and makes the hard one. On the next play, she draws the defenders and makes the easy pass when they’re expecting her to make the hard one.

The other team has weapons, though. A tall center who is shooting over Lake Orion’s center with ease. And their power forward is a slasher, driving along the baseline, making reverse layups and short jumpers with maddening fluidity.

With less than a minute left in the first half, despite Beth’s orchestration, Lake Orion is down by two points. Beth gets the ball and takes it down the court. They will hold for the last shot. Beth dribbles and passes, gets the ball back, dribbles from one side of the court to the next. She goes into the lane then back out.

When the clock reaches ten, she drives to the free throw line, the defense collapses and the crowd screams for Beth to shoot. For a moment, she considers it, then pulls back off and fires a pass to her teammate on the wing. The shot, a three-pointer, would give Lake Orion the lead going into half-time, a key momentum builder.

The shot goes up and misses.

The buzzer sounds.

Eleven

“What the hell is she doing, Pete?”

“What do you think she’s doing?” he answers.

“Choking.”

“Screw you, Doug.”

“Well good God they’re gonna lose unless Beth pulls her head out of her ass.”

Peter Forbes takes a sip of his Coke and looks at his friend, Doug Feit. Doug’s got razor stubble he’s trying to grow to cover the acne that’s sprouting along his jawline. Doug’s a forward on the Lake Orion boys basketball team, and doesn’t have a clue to the principles of the game. He’s a good rebounder, a good defender, and that’s about it.

“I can’t believe you’re this stupid,” Pete says.

“Maybe you didn’t satisfy her last night,” Doug continues. “She can’t concentrate now.”

Pete flicks his hand out and slaps Doug on the cheek. It happens lightning-quick and Doug is stunned. “Shit!” he says, then laughs.

“I need another Coke,” Pete says. He gets up and heads for the concession stand in the lobby outside the gym. He’s tall, two inches over six feet, and he moves with the grace of a natural athlete. Doug and a few of the guys follow him. After they’ve got their Cokes and a couple bags of popcorn, they take up a loitering position in the hallway where the conversation continues.

“I just don’t get it,” Doug says. “Beth never chokes.”

Pete rolls his dark green eyes, and runs his hand through his dark, wavy hair. “She’s not choking. Doug, what do you think the other coach told her team?”

“Stop Beth.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?” Doug scoffs. “She’s the star. Conference Player of the Year. Leading scorer. To beat us, you have to stop Beth.”

“So if you were Beth, what would you do?”

“Be more aggressive.”

“You’re not exactly a student of the game, Doug. What you should do, and what Beth is doing, is spread the wealth. Get your teammates the ball. This accomplishes two things,” Pete said, gesturing with the Coke in his hand as if it were a pointer and he were the instructor. “One, it gets your teammates involved. And you saw the way Steiner blew that first layup that they had their undies in a bundle. And, Douglas, because you’re such an astute student of human behavior, you no doubt picked up on the fact that by the end of the first quarter, Beth’s teammates were much more relaxed and scoring with regularity.”

Peter pauses to take a long drink from his Coke. “The second thing this accomplishes is it forces the opponent to abandon their strategy and improvise a new one — never a good idea in a big game.”

“But Jesus, what about that big shot at the end of the half? It was wide open! She’s gotta shoot at some point!”

Peter puts his arm around Doug’s shoulders. “If she had taken that shot and made it, there would be a chance that the other team’s coach at halftime would have a hunch and tell his team to stay on Beth. By passing off, she pretty much forced the other coach to change her game plan; to tell her team to lay off Beth, maybe drop back in a zone. The players will lose a little bit of confidence, seeing their coach forced to change strategy and they’ll be a little more tentative coming out to start the second half.”

Peter watches Doug digest the information. It’s like watching a snake trying to swallow a big, fat hamster.

“You know Beth pretty well, don’t you?” Doug asks.

Peter shrugs. He does, but he isn’t arrogant enough to claim it. He knows how she reacts under most situations. And he has thought about how she’ll react when he tells her he is breaking up with her. He isn’t sure he likes what he’s thinking.

“So what’s she gonna do in the second half, then?”

Peter drains the rest of his Coke, tosses it in a wastebasket and smiles at Doug.

“She’s going to light up that scoreboard like a motherfucking Christmas tree.”

Twelve

Beth is not surprised by the zone. She knew it would be a 1-3-1 or a 2–3. Beth holds her dribble and signals for the low-post offense. Her team adjusts and she makes dribble penetration, expecting the tank of a point guard to come to her, but she doesn’t. She drops back and the zone collapses inward and outward. Beth retreats to the top of the key. She moves to the right, stepping back behind the three-point line. She picks up her dribble, fakes a pass to the wing guard and when the Tank springs out to cover the intended pass recipient, Beth is left with a wide open shot at the basket.

She squares up to the basket, crouches slightly and brings the ball up in one fluid motion. Beth doesn’t sense the purity of the shot, the picture perfect mechanics of her motion, she only knows that it feels right. Almost effortless.

The ball arcs through the air and swishes through the rim with a soft silkiness.

The crowd erupts.

A shiver runs through Beth’s body. She feels like a hungry wolf who hasn’t eaten for too long, at last sinking her teeth into soft, tender flesh. The will to win is upon her, as strong as blood lust.

The other team scores on their possession and Beth brings the ball up the court. She passes to a teammate who forces the ball inside. Beth can see the pass is a bad one. But instead of dropping back to prevent an easy basket on a fast break, Beth darts into the lane. The pass is deflected and Beth arrives at the exact spot where the ball lands. She scoops it up, dribbles hard to the right, gathers herself, and leaps into the air. She rises effortlessly, her body poised, the ball resting lightly on the fingertips of her right hand. The opponent’s center goes up to block it, but Beth keeps rising and the ball leaves her hand inches over the other girl’s hand. The ball swishes through the hoop.

Again, the crowd cheers, mesmerized by the raw grace of Beth’s movements.

By the end of the third quarter, the opponent is in disarray. Beth’s team is up by eight points. She knows that the fourth quarter will bring yet another strategy, but she’s surprised by what that new strategy is.

It’s a box-in-one. It’s a defense Beth hasn’t seen in a while. Four players essentially play zone, with the fifth taking the player who needs to be neutralized one-on-one. In this case, that player is Beth. The Tank will play Beth one-one-one, but the other players will be able to double-team as they’re playing zone.

Beth knows there’s only one way to really beat the box-in-one: her teammates have to step up. She needs to draw the double-team, then dish off to the player who’s free.

The first three possessions of the fourth quarter she does just that. But her teammates don’t come through. The first shot is blocked, the second one is an airball, the third comes up short. The tightness, the nervousness, the pressure, it’s all visible on her teammates’ faces.

With just four minutes gone by in the fourth quarter, it’s a tie ball game.

Beth’s coach calls for a time-out. She tries to get the team psyched up, but Beth can read the faces around her. They’re looking at the scoreboard, looking at the point totals, at the time left.

The buzzer sounds and the huddle breaks. Beth turns toward the court, but her coach grabs her arm. Beth looks into her eyes, and the coach says, “You can do it, Beth.”

She understands what the coach is saying. She nods.

At the first sign of a double team, Beth fakes a pass, the defenders back off her, she pivots quickly and hits a fade-away jumper. They’re up by two. The other team scores on an easy lay-in. Next possession, Beth drives into the lane, splits the defenders and hits a jumper. She feels it. It’s a magical feeling, that she can do almost anything, score at will. It’s as if she can hear every individual’s cheer, see the court in slow motion, it’s all there for her. For the taking.

The teams continue to trade baskets, with Beth hitting shot after shot, passing to a teammate only when it’s a gimme.

With a minute left in the game, it’s all tied up.

The Tank brings the ball up the court. Beth shadows her, but doesn’t go for a steal. Behind her, the players settle into formation. Beth’s mind is working fast. She knows what they’re going to do. Their big center has been hitting her baseline shots all game. Beth’s center, shorter and without the jumping ability, is powerless to stop her. Beth knows they will run at least ten seconds off the clock, then get the ball to the big center.

Beth waits, sinking into the lane when the Tank doesn’t have the ball, then popping back out to keep up the defensive pressure. Suddenly, Beth sees the Tank’s expression change.

They’re going for it.

The ball swings around and Beth leaves her position and sneaks through the lane. The ball is fed into the big center who turns, pivots and goes up for the shot. Beth, on a dead run, leaps from behind and blocks the shot. The ball comes down in the center’s hands. She loses control and the ball goes out of bounds.

Beth’s ball.

She brings the ball up the court quickly. Tied up, forty seconds left. Beth works the ball around the perimeter. There’s too much time to try for a last shot. Beth fakes a pass to the right wing and drives into the lane. The defenders swarm her. She fakes a jump shot and drops a perfect bounce pass to her forward cutting to the basket. The ball comes into Beth’s teammates hands.

And goes right through.

The ball goes out of bounds and the ref blows his whistle.

Beth retreats, fury in her mind. She fights it off and encourages her team. They have to stop them.

The Tank brings the ball up and Beth gauges the distance, she starts to go for the steal, but the Tank moves quickly, pivoting her body, blocking Beth’s angle of attack. Will they go to the center again? Beth drops into the lane. Will they try again? Beth watches the center post up. She holds up her hand, but it’s a half-hearted attempt. Beth can tell by the body language that she doesn’t really want the ball.

In that instant, Beth knows it’s going to the Tank.

The ball is on the left perimeter. Beth glances at the clock. Thirteen seconds. Beth looks back at the guard with the ball, sees her glance at the clock, too. Beth’s heart shifts into hyper speed, pounding like a drum solo, but she feels strong. Her legs feel light. She feels the adrenaline pour into her body, and suddenly, she knows she will win this game.

The guard with the ball takes a step back.

The crowd is roaring.

The guard raises the ball, turns her body and steps toward the Tank.

Flashbulbs are popping.

The guard coils her body, gathers herself to make the pass.

And then Beth makes her move.

Thirteen

Although legally intoxicated at this point, Anna Fischer still retains the ability to focus on her daughter. Despite the fact that most of the eyes in the gymnasium are concentrated on the girl with the ball on the other team, Anna is watching her daughter. She’s been watching her for most of the game. She is numb. The parts of her brain that aren’t awash with memories of her dead husband are thoroughly soaked with whiskey. The way Beth moves. The way she commands her team. It all reminds Anna of Beth’s father.

But now, Anna sees Beth tense. And then suddenly, Beth explodes from her spot in the middle of the lane.

Where is she going? Anna has time to think.

But by the time she finishes the thought, the girl on the other team has made a bad cross-court pass, never a good idea, Anna remembers her husband telling her.

Beth snatches the ball from the air with one swift movement, and then she rockets down the court. Anna marvels at her daughter’s grace, her speed, her strength. The stocky point guard from the other team chases after Beth. Beth dribbles with ease, her long legs flying, but Anna can see that the stocky girl is closing the gap, running easier without the ball.

All around Anna, people are on their feet, screaming. The noise is incredible and for a moment, Anna almost faints. The people in front of her have jumped to their feet so she stands quickly. Too quickly. The noise, the screaming, she sways on her feet, reaching out to hold onto the shirt sleeve of the person standing next to her.

Through the gap between the people in front of her, Anna sees Beth racing to the basket. Sees Beth leap toward the basket, the ball outstretched in one hand. The moment is frozen by the pop of dozens of flashbulbs.

And then Anna sees the stocky girl crash into Beth.

They both fall in a heap.

Fear rips Anna’s heart apart. She drops the big plastic cup to the floor of the bleachers. It splashes onto her shoes. She pushes her way through the people in front of her, stumbles and falls. Someone says something to her but she can’t hear them.

The crowd continues to scream but Anna’s mind is filled with white noise, a buzzing like electricity. She fights her way to the bottom of the bleachers and onto the court. She runs forward, players stepping aside for her to pass.

The screaming is louder, growing in intensity. And then Anna realizes that her mouth is open.

And that she’s screaming. The images pass before her eyes. She sees Beth’s father in the hospital, dying. She sees Beth, featured in hellish postcards from a place so full of pain that Anna staggers as if struck.

She weaves her way to the huddle of people under the basket and she can see Beth on the ground.

She pushes through.

Anna sees Beth’s leg.

By the time she finishes wailing “No!” blackness has engulfed her.

Fourteen

Peter Forbes stands rooted to the bleachers. Next to him, Doug and the others are jumping up and down, yelling, clapping each other on the back, oblivious to the scene unfolding under the basket.

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” Doug shouts. His face is flushed and a big dopey grin stretches across his face. He looks at Peter. “Come on, man! We won! Beth did it! We won! Woo-hoo!” Doug claps Peter on the back.

Peter’s body is cold. His eyes are frozen to the small group of people under the basket. He wants to run onto the court. To go to Beth. But he can’t. He can only stand there. Unmoving.

“Pete! What the fuck’s wrong with you? We won!”

Peter watches the older woman push her way through the players. Peter recognizes her. She is Beth’s mother.

The fucking drunk.

Oh, God no.

“Pete,” Doug said, grabbing him by the arm. Doug looks out at the court. At Beth under the basket. He is shouting, as is everyone around them. “She’s going to be all right, man. Probably twisted an ankle.”

All around them, the students are chanting. “Nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey, goodbye!”

Peter sees Beth’s mother collapse to the floor.

She never saw it coming, he thinks. And it’s not over with yet.

“Pete, stop looking like a fucking zombie. Your girlfriend’s going to be all right,” Doug says again.

Peter wrenches his arm away from Doug and starts toward the court. Toward Beth.

His legs feel like oak. His stomach roils and he feels the Coke in his stomach churn. He wants to puke and cry at the same time.

“No, she’s not,” he says.

Fifteen

Beth hears the screaming. She is short of breath, feels like a weight is pressing down on her lungs. From the fast break? The run down the court?

No. She feels the warmth on her body. Feels the weight of the Tank on her body. Feels the sweat, the dampness of the girl on top of her.

Beth cranes her neck to see the basket. To see if the ball went through but it’s too late. She looks for the scoreboard, but it’s above her and she can’t see it from that angle.

The screaming continues. But whose fans are they?

The Tank gets off her, and turns toward Beth, holding out her hand. Beth thinks that she should reach out, take hold of the girl’s hand and get up. But it’s as if once the weight is taken from her body, the signals from her leg reach her brain.

The pain.

It comes in a blinding flash like a bolt of lightning.

The Tank, holding out her hand, looks down at Beth’s body, then brings her hand to her mouth.

And starts screaming.

Beth closes her eyes. The pain swarms her body. It attacks her leg like a thousand wasps, burying their stingers in her leg.

No, Beth thinks. Not her leg.

Her knee.

She forces her eyes open. Tears are streaming from her face. Watery, indistinct images loom over her.

She hears voices. Gasps. And more screams.

Beth uses the sweatband on her left forearm to wipe away the tears. She tries to sit up even though hands push her back toward the court. She pushes harder and gets to a sitting position.

And then she looks down.

An optical illusion, she thinks.

Her right leg, smooth and supple is the way it always is. The quadriceps nicely defined, tapering down to her calf muscle where her shin narrows down to her white crew socks and Nike hi-tops.

But her left leg isn’t… recognizable. The quadriceps, thick and strong, is there. But the knee… the knee… isn’t…

… there…

Beth remembers a time when she was trying to break a thick branch for firewood at a Girl Scout camping trip. The branch was too green. But she broke it, and then tried to twist it apart, the fibers and strands of wood not separating, just twisting. Beth remembers trying to break it off, but it wouldn’t, so she just twisted it and twisted it and twisted it until it was hanging there by a single strand… all mangled…

Now it’s Beth’s turn to scream.

She can’t beat to look at what’s left of her leg. Instead, she turns toward the faces around her. Beth sees her mother. Watches her mother’s face in the process of crumpling. Her mother falls to the ground.

Later, in the hospital, Beth remembers that moment. Remembers her mother fainting, remembers the words that flashed through her mind:

Useless. Absolutely fucking useless. Like always.

Hands reach for Beth.

She has stopped screaming and is now sobbing.

The pain scorches its way up her spine and pounds her brain. She reels and slumps back onto the court. She thinks of Peter. Peter will help her. She imagines his strong, handsome face.

Where is he?

The voices and the images recede into blackness but before she joins them, two words escape her mouth like rats from a sinking ship.

“Who won?”

Sixteen

Samuel stands outside the squat brick building, the palmetto leaves slapping lazily against one another in the warm breeze. He lets the sun shine on his face. Lets it warm him.

His hotel room was cold last night, an adjustable thermostat that ignored any adjustment and simply blew cool air around the small, dingy room. He has been in many hotel rooms recently, always paying cash, always staying away from the chains and going to anonymous places on the outskirts of the cities and towns he drove through. The trip to Florida from San Diego was a slow one. Samuel was careful to follow the speed limit, not wanting any record of his trip logged in a cop’s paperwork.

Now, the Naval base at Pensacola, Florida was his new home. Where he would have to make due until his next chance for BUD/S training: eighteen months away. It was a long time, but he could do it.

The Florida sun was hot, much stronger than southern California. In the week since he sent BUD/S instructor Nevens and his blonde whore to the great boot camp in the sky, cold has always reminded Samuel of the water that night.

Now, he pauses a moment longer, the sun’s heat intense on his face. His eyes shielded by from the rays by sunglasses. Finally, when the warmth threatens to bring a line of sweat to his forehead, he turns and enters the building.

Commander Lowry’s office is on the second floor. Samuel climbs the stairs with neither anticipation nor dread. He is starting back at square one. The frustration, the depression, are gone. Because he isn’t really starting back at square one. Nevens is gone.

The door is open and he walks in. On the walls there are photos and illustrations of ships, but Samuel ignores them. He walks toward the metal desk directly in front of him and the woman sitting behind it. The secretary is a woman in her forties with a tired face and a pointy chin, which she uses to gesture Samuel toward the two shoddy chairs just outside the door to the CO’s office.

Samuel takes the least flimsy chair and looks at the pile of magazines and newspapers on the cheap veneered table between the chairs. He skips the Sports Illustrated and the Men’s Health. Instead, he spies a newsletter published by the Navy called All Hands.

On the front page is a picture of deceased BUD/S Instructor Larry Nevens.

Samuel’s heart shudders.

He scans the story quickly. A brutal murder. Nevens was last seen with a woman, Rhonda McFarland, who is still missing. She looked like a Rhonda, Samuel thinks.

There are no suspects in custody. A reward is offered for more information.

Samuel reads on about Nevens’ background, noting that there is no mention of what a cocksucking prick he was. A small throbbing, a muffled thudding of pain builds in Samuel’s head. His hand goes above his right eye and he rubs it while he reads.

Finally, Samuel puts down the paper. He closes his eyes and slows his breathing.

Suddenly, Samuel feels good. Confident.

When he goes back to BUD/S training, he will be in better shape, mentally prepared for the ordeal ahead. But through it all, he will have one thing on his side.

He will be the only of the recruits who has actually killed a Navy SEAL.

A small smile appears on Samuel’s face.

When he looks up, the secretary is watching him.

“He’ll see you now.”

Seventeen

“Afternoon, Commander,” Samuel says, standing at attention and saluting.

“At ease,” Lowry says. Samuel drops his hand and relaxes his stance. He takes in Lowry; a thin man with narrow shoulders and a thin face hidden by giant aviator glasses. He looks like an insect, Samuel thinks. He imagines squashing Commander Lowry’s head. Sees the buggy eyes pop out of the man’s skull.

But the eyes behind the lenses are intelligent and quick. Samuel instinctively senses the man’s intelligence. Lowry’s office is neat as a pin. Not a paper out of place. Even the pens on the left side of the desk are symmetrically arranged.

Weak, but smart, Samuel thinks. And a by-the-book kind of freak.

“I see you almost made it through Hell Week,” Lowry says. The smile tries to tell Samuel that hey, it happens to the best of us.

“Almost, sir” Samuel says, keeping his voice even. The pain in his head flares up. I’d like to wipe that fucking smile off your face. You and your chicken bone arms and bug eyes wouldn’t have lasted one minute. So come on, be an asshole, Samuel thinks. Give me shit about it.

The bug eyes focus on Samuel. Their eyes meet and something momentarily flashes through Lowry’s before he looks back down at the folder in front of him. He briefly imagines slitting Lowry’s throat and feeding him to the sharks. A calm, peaceful feeling makes its way through his body.

“You’re from Michigan?” Lowry asks.

“Lake Orion, sir.”

“All your life?”

“Yes, sir.” Samuel gives a nearly imperceptible nod.

Lowry leans back in his chair. “I’m from Wisconsin. Don’t miss it all. All that snow and bitter cold.” He shudders as if a blast of Arctic air has stormed through the office. “I’ll take Florida any day. Golfing in January! Can’t beat it, my man.” Lowry smiles and Samuel notes the crooked teeth. Samuel imagines that Lowry doesn’t smile too often.

“Yes, sir,” Samuel says.

“I’m going to assign you to ordnance. According to your enlistment papers, you expressed an interest in weapons. Does that sound good to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lowry jots something down in the folder then looks up at Samuel. “Are you planning to try again at BUD/S?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Now it’s Lowry’s turn for a slight nod.

“Well, welcome aboard. Report to Hangar F2 tomorrow morning at 0800 sharp. Your supervisor will be Lieutenant Murphy. That’ll be all.”

Samuel stands and salutes, then leaves the office.

Outside, he steadies his hands. The sun has disappeared, hiding behind a thick wall of black clouds. The air is cool.

Rain, Samuel thinks.

Eighteen

Samuel is pleased to learn that he’ll have his own room. Apparently space is so limited that the only bunks available are the private rooms normally reserved for officers. A single room is a rarity among the lower ranks of the Navy. Not that Samuel’s a newbie, exactly. He’s already an E-3.

The room is very small, about eight feet by ten feet. A single bed takes up one wall. A desk and dresser are along the other side. Samuel stows his gear in the foot locker at the foot of the bed. Before closing it, he reaches into the sleeve on the outside of his duffel bag. From it, he pulls a single sheet of paper, folded several times. He takes it to the desk and carefully unfolds it. Smooths it out along the top of the desk. From the desk’s top drawer he takes a push pin and tacks the paper to the small bulletin board on the wall above the desk.

Samuel goes to the bed and lays down on his side, so he can look at the picture. It’s of a Navy SEAL, his face in camo, a knife in his hand. The eyes jump from the page. Deep blue. Bright. Dangerous. It’s the same picture that Samuel has been looking at since he was very young. It was from a magazine. A National Geographic maybe. That face. Those eyes. They’ve given Samuel strength during times when he’s desperately needed it. Now, he looks into those eyes.

They remind Samuel of his own eyes.

He can see himself in their place. Stalking. The knife in his hand. He’s done that, in fact.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps. He dreams of Nevens.Samuel awakes in a cold sweat. He sits up, his head is pounding. He rubs his temples, massages his forehead. When his heart slows and his breathing becomes normal, he rises slowly, gets his running gear out from his duffel and runs along the course outside the barracks. The air is cool, cleansed by an afternoon rain. He pushes himself along the jogging path.

Another phase, he thinks. Nevens gone. A fresh start. And now, more physical training for his next shot at the BUD/S course.

He runs approximately seven miles, then finishes his work out with pull ups, push ups and sits ups.

When he’s done, his body is flooded with adrenaline, his mind drenched with endorphins. He feels powerful. Ready for battle.

Nothing will stop him.

Nothing.

And no one.

Nineteen

“If you ain’t ordnance, you ain’t shit.”

Samuel wants to laugh at the short, squat lieutenant. Murphy. Lieutenant Murphy. Crewcut. Pale face. A zit or two.

“That’s our motto around here,” he says. “You like it?”

“Yes, sir,” Samuel says. He thinks Lieutenant Murphy is shit and that the pathetic pride he takes in being in charge of ordnance is shit, too. But he keeps it to himself and tries to ignore the faint pounding in his head.

Murphy walks ahead of him, along a row of missiles and bombs. Samuel sees more pimples at the base of Murphy’s head. “These are drones we use for training,” Murphy says. “You’ll work with these for approximately three months before we assign you to a ship where you’ll use the real deal. Maybe you’ll get a chance to give some sand monkey a wake-up call, know what I’m saying Samuel?”

“Yes, sir.”

Murphy walks Samuel around a corner where an ordnance team is working on loading a bomb rack. They move fast, hoisting together at the count of three, sliding bombs into racks, clamping them down, moving missiles suspended by thick chains along a pulley system.

“One team I trained,” Murphy says. “Finished here and two days later I saw them on CNN, on a carrier, loading the real thing to drop over there. One of them wrote, ‘This Bomb’s For You’ on the missile. That’s the kind of group we are, Samuel. We don’t take shit from anybody.”

Samuel doesn’t say anything, watches the sailors working on loading the bombs. A senior ordnance officer watches, pushes them. Barks orders.

Christ, he thinks. Why did he ever put down an interest in weapons when he first joined up? Samuel thinks about it. Has memories of his mother dying when he was in high school. The foster home he went to where they openly despised him but loved the paycheck that social services sent them for his expenses.

“…points…”

“Sorry, sir?” Samuel sees Murphy watching him.

“Nip points,” he says, pointing at the pulley system surrounded by an ordnance team of three. “I was telling you that one of the biggest dangers of working in ordnance is nip points. Places where two moving parts come together. They can pinch off fingers, hands, even limbs. Nip points. You’ve got to be careful.”

Careful, Samuel thinks.

I can be careful.

Twenty

The dream is in sepia tones; warm browns, burnished golds, rich shadows. It’s late autumn, late in the day and Beth is a young girl. She’s sitting on her father’s shoulders. A basketball is in her hands. Beth is just strong enough to lift the ball. Beneath her, her father maneuvers the two of them closer to the basket. When they’re right under it, he reaches up and lifts her as high as he can. The rim is just a foot away. Beth tries to push the ball up, but she loses control and the ball falls from her hands. Her father laughs and sets her down. He chases after the ball and brings it back. He’s about to scoop her up into his arms but he steps back, his face full of mute horror.

“What’s wrong?” Beth says.

She looks down at her left leg and it’s bent backwards, all twisted and mangled. She’s wearing Barbie tennis shoes and her left one is pointed backwards. Blood is on it. Her father starts screaming and she turns to him, to tell him to stop screaming, that he’s scaring her. But her father is dead. The blotchy skin on his face hugs his bones. Now Beth starts screaming and he smiles at her, a gruesome baring of his teeth.

Beth is still screaming when the sepia tones begin to blaze, turning the whole picture smoky, leaving the images in a heap of charred remains.

Beth awakes in her hospital room. Her mouth is dry and she’s crying. Her tongue feels thick and wooden. She’s awake but everything seems unreal and disconnected.

“Drugs,” she says. “I’m on drugs.”

A sound reaches her ears. It’s not a pleasant sound. But it’s familiar. She takes a certain comfort in that. But not much.

“Water,” she says. A vague shape crosses in front of her and a moment later, it looms over her. Something is held to her lips and she instinctively drinks. The water is cool but not cold. It slides down her throat, her parched tissues soak it up instantly.

“Beth?” The voice is even more familiar to her. Mom. Her Mom? The thought works its way through Beth’s highly medicated consciousness.

“Mom?”

A gasp at the sound. Then the voice calling out: Nurse! Nurse!

“Mom.”

“Shh. Everything’s all right. Nurse!”

“Where am I? Oh, you’re calling a nurse. Duh.”

“The hospital. Beaumont Hospital, Beth. I’m here, too.”

The sepia colors come back. They wash over Beth like the first stages of deep sleep. She succumbs to them for several minutes. Then she opens her eyes again. This time, there are no shadows. No vague shapes. She sees her mother sitting in a chair, wringing her hands. Next to her is a giant bulletin board tacked with cards and balloons. A door is to the left. It’s open and Beth can see a small room with a toilet inside.

Beth looks at the television bolted to a shelf suspended from the ceiling. The screen is blank. She wonders where the remote control is. Beth looks down at her body. It’s hidden beneath the blankets. Her pajama top is white with blue stripes.

I can’t feel my leg.

The images start ricocheting through her mind. The basketball game. The Tank. The end where she steals the ball and races down the court.

The collision.

The screaming.

Beth remembers looking down at her leg. Her strong, smooth, beautiful leg. How it was mangled and bent and… destroyed. Like in the dream with her father.

“Mom?”

Beth sees her Mom get to her feet, unsteadily. She’s drunk, Beth thinks. Well, of course she is.

“Beth. You’re awake again. I’ll call the doctor.”

Beth reaches out and grabs her mother’s arm. “Not yet,” she says. “I need to know something.”

Her mother lets out a wail. “It’s bad, honey. It’s real, real bad.” Beth can smell he booze on her mother’s breath.

“Not my leg, Mom. The shot. Did I make the shot. Did we win?”

Beth watches her mother process the question.

“Your leg…”

“Answer the fucking question, Mom.”

Tears well up in her mother’s eyes.

“You won, Beth. You made the shot. You won.”

Beth looks at the bulletin board on the wall. She wonders if there is one from Peter. Certainly Peter would have been here. Would have left some kind of message for her. She thinks maybe she should ask her mother to check the cards for one from Peter when a faint rumbling sounds overhead and then a gust of air from the vent overhead stirs the balloons into action. They bounce against each other as if in celebration.

Beth watches the balloons for a moment, forgets what it was she was going to ask her mother about, and then closes her eyes and falls back into a deep sepia dream.

Twenty-One

Anna Fischer holds the styrofoam cup beneath the ice dispenser in the hospital’s cafeteria. She fills the cup halfway with ice, then adds Diet Coke. She carries the cup to the elevator and takes it up to the floor Beth is on. When she gets off the elevator, she goes into the women’s bathroom and pulls the pint of whiskey from the inside pocket of her light jacket. She pours it in until the cup is completely full, then caps it and pokes a straw through the hole in the top. She takes a long, deep drink.

Why does life have to be such a struggle? It’s just one thing after another. God shits on her. But no, she corrects herself. There is no God. No God would have put Vince through the Hell he did.

It’s like the world wants to piss on Anna Fischer. That’s what it is. She thinks of the rich folks who live in big houses. Their husbands don’t die. Their daughters don’t wind up in the hospital with a leg that… with… injuries. And the scholarship. Anna starts to cry. The fucking scholarship. What’s going to happen now? Will the scouts, the coaches, will they all wait until next season when Beth will be better? How does it work? Anna has no idea. Vince would have known. Anna silently curses herself. If she had a dime for every time she’d had that thought, she wouldn’t be in the rotten position she’s in.

Fuck you, world. She wants to scream it out loud.

Instead, she takes another long drink.

The images of Beth underneath the basket, of the girls screaming, of the leg all mangled and crooked.

Anna slumps against the bathroom wall. The styrofoam cup falls from her hand. When it hits the tile floor, the plastic top pops off and the contents, ice, coke and booze, spill onto the floor. Anna watches it spread across the tile. Her shoulder pressed against the wall, she slides down the wall to a sitting position. It’s several minutes before she realizes the coke and whiskey mixture is soaking into her jeans.

She gets up just as a nurse comes into the bathroom.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Yes. I just…”

“Ma’am?”

“I… slipped.”

Anna pushes the door open and steps into the hallway.

She thinks, where is Beth’s room again?

Twenty-Two

In the end, it is the flowers that help Peter Forbes make up his mind. The flowers and the scout.

The flowers are beautiful roses. Red, yellow, even a few white ones thrown in for good measure. An even dozen.

The card is nice, too.

If a little impersonal.

He is going to send them, but decides it’s a chickenshit move so he comes to the hospital in person. But a nurse who looks like Ernest Borgnine tells him Beth is sleeping. He sneaks into her room and puts them on the table next to her bed. He watches her sleep, is tempted to stroke her hair and kiss her, but doesn’t. Doctor’s orders.

Instead, he goes down the hall to the little lounge area and takes a seat among the rickety furniture and two-year-old magazines. The television is off, so he corrects that and turns the channel to ESPN. In spite of the circumstances, he watches for any mention of Marquette University in Milwaukee. Peter has just signed a letter of intent, accepting a full, four-year scholarship to play for the Flying Eagles.

Beth doesn’t know.

He has to tell her.

He shudders at the thought.

It is precisely at the moment when the scout arrives. Unlike the flowers, she isn’t pretty. She is tall and ungainly. She was the only scout who was interested in Beth, from the only school who was considering Beth for a scholarship: Northern Illinois University. Without that scholarship, Beth would be devastated. Peter knows Beth’s mother is a drunk and that any money brought into the household is spent immediately. Except for whatever Beth can hide.

Without a scholarship, Beth would have to stay home, and struggle to pay for community college. If she could afford it at all.

The scout, her name is Monica Davies, walks into the lounge area, recognizes Peter and walks over.

“Peter.”

He stands. “Hi. It’s…”

“Monica. Monica Davies, Assistant Coach from Northern Illinois?” She offers her hand, which Peter takes. They’d met when Monica had made a recruiting visit to Beth’s house. Beth had asked Peter to sit in on it.

“That’s right. Hi Monica.”

The scout takes a seat next to Peter. “How are you?” she asks.

“Been better.”

She nods her head. “So has Beth.”

She’s not going to beat around the bush on this one. “It sucks,” he says.

“She made the shot, though. She was such a competitor.”

“Was?” Peter turns to face her. His eyes are stone cold.

“You know what I mean,” she says.

Unfortunately, I do know, Peter thinks. He knows what’s coming, the only question is how it will be put.

“She’ll be better next year,” the woman says.

“For what?”

“She can do it. Miracles can happen in rehab.”

Peter looks at the television. SportsCenter is replaying highlights of a Duke/Kentucky game. Peter can’t watch it. His eyes won’t focus. Finally, he turns to the scout. To the woman who represents Beth’s chance to get out of Lake Orion. To move on to bigger and better things.

“You’re taking away her scholarship, aren’t you?”

“The injury took away her scholarship.”

Peter almost laughs, but his mouth is dry. The scout pulls a letter from her purse. “Do you mind giving this to her? It might make it easier for her. Coming from you, I mean.” Peter mutely accepts the letter. He didn’t want to give it to Beth. Couldn’t imagine it. But how could he refuse?

On top of everything else?

The scout stands.

“Thanks. And good luck. You’re going to Marquette, right?”

Peter nods. How had she known? Probably his coach. They all talked like grandmothers at a Bingo hall.

The scout leaves and Peter sits in the lounge. The letter feels like it is made of lead. His hands are sweating and Peter sees the paper starting to get soggy in his hands.

Peter thinks again of the flowers. The card isn’t so impersonal, he reasons. A nice note inside.

He signed it “Love.”

Maybe that was enough.

Chickenshit.

The word sounds in his head. He stands, walks toward Beth’s room. The letter is in his hand. His heart is in his throat.

He gets to the door. Sees the doctor standing at the foot of her bed. Can barely see her mother sitting on a chair. A cup in her hand.

Probably booze, he thinks.

Peter Forbes stands in the hallway, uncertain. He knows he should wait. This girl loves him after all. And he, well, he loves to be with her, but he doesn’t love her.

He watches the doctor. More bad news?

Peter tucks the letter into his jacket pocket and leaves.

Twenty-Three

“The damage is extensive.”

Doctor Cunningham is a short man, powerfully built, with blazing red hair and freckles. His voice is thin and reedy, somehow making the news sound even worse.

Beth says, “It’s bad.”

“I don’t like to put things in terms of good or bad,” Dr. Cunningham answers. “Like I said, the damage is extensive.”

“Oh, Beth,” Anna says.

“When can I play again?” she says, ignoring her mother.

“Play?”

“Basketball.”

“Basketball.”

“Yeah. When can I play basketball again,” Beth says, her words slow and overly enunciated

“Beth,” her mother warns her.

“Why don’t I first detail what has happened,” Dr. Cunningham says.

“Yes,” Beth says. She keeps her voice steady, but it is a struggle. Tears threaten to come into her eyes, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to cry in front of her mother. That’ll just set her off, too. Or make her take another drink from the cup on the table next to her. Like she’s fooling anyone, Beth thinks. For a moment, Beth looks at her mother and thinks, why don’t you hold me? But then the thought is gone, replaced by Dr. Cunningham’s voice.

“Are you familiar with the construction of the knee?”

Beth shakes her head.

“Basically, the knee is a joint held in place by tendons. The most important one is the anterior cruciate ligament, commonly called the ACL. When you were injured, you probably heard a loud pop.”

Beth thinks but can’t remember anything. Just the shot and the crash.

“That was the ACL being torn apart. Now, there are other ligaments, the posterior cruciate, the lateral collateral, as well as the medial collateral and the patellar tendon. In most knee injuries one of the tendons is ruptured.”

Beth nods. She has heard of the ACL.

“Arthroscopic surgery, using a small camera, is able to repair the tendons. Except in the most severe of cases. You, unfortunately, Beth, are one of those severe cases.”

Beth closes her eyes. Her brave front is crumbling. She’s going to start crying. Goddamnit, she thinks. She’s tempted to tell her Mom to leave the room when Dr. Cunningham starts again.

“In your case, you blew apart all three tendons. Something that happens in maybe one of a thousand knee injuries. Again, unfortunately, the patella also shattered, severing the tendon and damaging the nerve endings. A lot of damage.”

Through the tears in her eyes, Beth can see her mother put her head in her hands. Beth wants someone to touch her, but she won’t ask. If Peter were here, he would hold her.

I need Peter, she thinks.

“What were you able to do?” she manages to say. Her lip trembles and she knows she’s about to lose it.

“We immediately prepped you for surgery, repaired the three tendons and worked to reattach the nerves, cutting away the strands that simply couldn’t be saved. There were quite a few of them. Not a lot, but…”

“…enough.”

Dr. Cunningham nods.

“Enough to ruin me forever?” Beth says. Her voice is rising, unsteady. Don’t get hysterical, she thinks.

“Wonderful things… “

“Doctor.”

“…can be achieved in therapy. Miraculous recoveries…”

“Stop.”

“…happen all the time.”

Beth slaps her hand down on the tray table next to her. Dr. Cunningham gives an involuntary jerk. “Tell me the truth,” she barks. Her voice is raw and ragged. I’m coming unglued she thinks, just like my knee.

“You’re facing a lot of therapy. You will play basketball again. You most likely won’t play at the level you’re playing now.”

“How long? How long before I’ll know?” Beth is thinking. Six weeks. Didn’t a pro recently have knee surgery and was playing six weeks later? She’s sure of it. Six weeks. She looks at Dr. Cunningham. Wills him to say ‘six weeks.’

“You’ll have a lot of swelling. You’ll have to wear a brace. And you’ll need at least a year of therapy before you can play again.”

A year? Beth closes her eyes.

Gone. The scholarship. Getting out of Lake Orion. College.

It’s all gone.

The shot went in.

They won the game.

But it’s all gone.

Everything.

Finally, the tears come. She sobs into the pillow and longs for a caressing hand. A gentle touch. She doesn’t want to ask. But she needs someone to hold her, more than she’s ever needed anyone or anything.

When she finally lifts her head, she looks around the room.

It’s empty.

Twenty-Four

“What the fuck are you doing, Ackerman?”

“Loading ordnance, sir,” Samuel says.

“Ackerman.” Petty Officer (Third Grade) Wilkins is a lanky black man from Alabama. His voice is like a rusty saw. His huge nostrils are flared.

“Yes, sir.” The four sailors surrounding the bomb rack fall silent.

“No, you’re not. You are definitely not loading ordnance. You are fucking up the ordnance, sailor. You are creating a dangerous situation, Ackerman. Loading ordnance is about the only thing you are not doing.”

Samuel throws cold water on the fire that’s starting to burn in the pit of his stomach.

Petty Officer Wilkins looks at Samuel in wonderment. “A very dangerous situation. You see this here clasp? You gotta lock that down, Seaman.” Wilkins uses his long fingers to fold the metal hinge in place. It slams into place with a satisfying chunk. “Otherwise ordnance pushes against it, it fails, and we got a live warhead clattering around the deck of our ship. Ready to blow your best buddy to Hell and back. You understand the situation you could have created, Ackerman?”

“Yes, sir.” The anger, the fire, is doused. But it is replaced by a bubbling thrill that shoots up Samuel’s spine. It’s a tingle of adventure, spurred by the memory of slitting Nevens’ throat.

“Dummy,” he says.

Petty Officer (Third Grade) Wilkins turns back to him. “What did you say?”

“I said dummy. Good thing the bomb is a dummy. Not the real thing. Sir.” He can barely hold back the smile that’s fighting to get out of his throat and spread across his face. What’s wrong with him? He’s gotta keep things under control. Focus, he tells himself. Focus.

“Are you being a smartass, Ackerman?”

“No sir.”

“Good.” He backs away from Samuel. “Come on let’s see you do this right.”

Samuel turns back to his task, as do the others, and snaps the clasps, locks the ordnance in place. It is a simple task. The only reason he didn’t do it right the first time is because he was daydreaming.

Imagining his return to the beach in Coronado, California.

The small meeting room is stark and bare. A table and four chairs sit under a single light fixture. There is a wastebasket in the corner.

Seated at the table is Petty Officer (Third Grade) Wilkins.

“Sit down, Ackerman.”

“Yes, sir.” Samuel takes a seat across from Wilkins. He sees the black man’s brown eyes, a little bit yellow in the corners. The black man eases back in his chair and smiles at Samuel.

“Any idea why I called you here?’

“No, sir.”

“I checked your ass out. You couldn’t handle BUD/S could you?”

Samuel doesn’t respond.

“I read up on you, boy. Know you wanna be a Navy SEAL. Put it right down when you first joined the Navy. So let me ask you again. You wanna be a Navy SEAL?”

“Yes, sir.” Samuel’s face is getting hot. But inside, an icy cold has sunk into his body. He sits absolutely still.

“I was just wondering about you because you don’t seem to be too impressed with what we do in ordnance. Maybe you’re thinkin’ that in comparison to that bullshit out in California that you think this ordnance training is a bunch of little piddly shit. That right, Seaman Ackerman?”

Dead on, Samuel thinks. The icy feeling is washed away by Wilkins’ words. The anger returns. Seeps back into his blood. Heats it.

“No, sir.”

“No?”

“No, sir.” Samuel’s head is pounding. He stares straight ahead, over Wilkins’ shoulder. Instead of seeing the wall, he sees long rows of missile drones. The large bombs hanging from thick chains. The pulley rack with its many nip points.

“You know I can scrub you from this program?” Wilkins leans forward, getting in Samuel’s face. It reminds Samuel of Nevens. Wilkins teeth are yellow, the front one chipped. His breath smells like stale coffee.

“Yes, sir.”

“You get scrubbed enough, maybe you get your ass scrubbed right out of the Navy.”

Samuel stares straight ahead, but says nothing.

“Bye-bye Navy SEAL.”

“Yes, sir.” The worlds come from his mouth, choked.

“Keep it in mind. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

Twenty-Five

The last rays of the day are gone, replaced by the first stars of the night as Samuel walks to the on-base fitness center. He opens the glass door to the fitness center and steps inside. Like everything associated with keeping sailors fit, it’s state-of-the-art. It’s a huge room, over three thousand square feet. Treadmills, elliptical trainers, rowing machines, stationary bikes, free weights, Nautilus equipment, all of it new and impeccably maintained. Samuel walks through the doorway, the blare of televisions and treadmills filling the air. He has on shorts, tennis shoes and a gray Navy T-shirt. Wrapped inside the towel is another T-shirt, blue, a Navy baseball cap, and a pair of sunglasses.

He glances around the giant room and sees that most of the bikes are being used. Samuel asks the woman behind the desk, a stern-faced, tall woman with black hair, for the bike form. The fitness center allows 60 minutes per machine, longer if no one’s waiting. Samuel signs his name clearly and puts the time next to it.

He crosses the room, glances back over his shoulder and sees that the woman behind the counter has turned her back on him, and he quickly veers away from the exercise bicycles and slips into the locker room. There is a mist in the air and it’s very hot as Samuel walks through the locker area and finds the exit door next to the bathrooms. Shrouded in the room’s mist, Samuel pauses by the door, strips off his gray T-shirt and puts on the blue one. Then he puts on the baseball cap and the sunglasses. He opens the door and steps out into a small corridor that leads to the pool. There is also an exit door next to the pool entrance that opens up onto the rear entrance of the fitness building.

Samuel steps outside and walks purposefully toward the ordnance hangar. Everything should be on schedule. After several weeks of constant surveillance, Samuel knows that Petty Officer (Third Grade) Wilkins should be running final checks on the ordnance supply, an exercise he performs by himself every night.

Alone.

Samuel hears voices and changes direction, keeping his face hidden from two sailors heading for the living quarters. He readjusts his course and a minute later, is standing at the door to the ordnance training center. He takes off his sunglasses and walks in. The faint metallic squeal of the door is lost in the cavernous silence of the big hangar.

Samuel lets his eyes adjust to the darker interior then spots Wilkins. He’s standing near the small metal desk at the rear of the hangar. In his hands is a clipboard.

Samuel’s cross-trainer tennis shoes make no noise on the cement floor as he advances toward the Petty Officer.

He passes a small worktable and silently scoops up the biggest crescent wrench of the bunch. It feels good in his hands. He walks toward Wilkins, his blood pounding. Samuel thinks of Nevens at the beach. The beauty of it. The thrill of it.

The efficiency of it.

Nevens gone.

Wilkins gone.

Eighteen months and a clear path to the goal.

Samuel’s eyes drill into the back of Wilkin’s brown skull. It seems to be suspended in mid-air, like a perfectly set volleyball just waiting to be spiked. Samuel steps forward smoothly, confidently, and raises the wrench over his head.

But his tennis shoe makes the slightest squeak.

And Wilkins turns. He raises his hand, but Samuel twists his body, his legs push, his shoulders torque, all the weight lifting, all the working out, he puts it all into that one big swing.

The wrench whistles through the air. It drives through Wilkins’ arm, knocking it down and then sinks into Wilkins’ head. The Petty Officer drops to his knees, his arms go around Samuel’s waist. Samuel slips the wrench and drags Wilkins quickly, before the blood pouring down Wilkin’s face can get on the floor, and places him beneath the big bomb hanging from the chain.

Fatboy.

Samuel goes to the where the chain is pegged to the wall. He disengages the pulley and throws the latch wide open. The bomb drops to the floor, squashing Williams’ head like an overripe melon. Samuel puts the wrench on the table and takes a quick look at Wilkins.

Perfect.

Samuel is pumping iron. Hefting 55 pound dumbbells with ease. The adrenaline is pouring through his body. The weights feel like feathers. He is watching the exercise bikes. He’s waiting for the perfect opportunity. At last, a woman who he’d seen when he first came in climbs off her bike. As soon as she steps off and is a few steps away, Samuel drops the dumbbells and climbs on the back. Samuel knows that the exercise bikes have a five second pause — if you stop pedaling, it will keep your clock running, unless you cancel the program. He’s depending on this handy feature.

This program is still running.

Samuel hops on and starts pumping. The clock continues from where the girl who just finished riding left off. Samuel pushes himself hard, gets the sweat pouring from his face and he’s riding like he’s never going to stop. He looks at the digital readout: it shows he’s been on the bike for fifty-four minutes.

Perfect.

Samuel pushes harder, his legs flying. He works the controls, puts the resistance as high as it goes and pushes, his legs never slowing down. Sweat cascades form his forehead, drenches his T-shirt.

Finally, the stern-faced girl with the black hair walks toward the t.v. and changes the channel.

Samuel forces a big grin on his face and waves her over.

She approaches.

Samuel points at the readout.

“My PR.”

She looks at him, a blank expression.

“Personal Record.” It isn’t. It isn’t even close. Pretty pathetic, in fact, if you look at the distance and calories burned. But she won’t notice.

“Uh-hun,” she said. Uncertainty in her voice.

“I’ve gone twenty-five miles in less than a hour. See?” He points to the readout but she’s already moving away. Not good enough. She has to see, and later if necessary swear that she saw the clock read forty-five minutes.

“Look.” His voice is more cutting than he intended. But she stops. He waves her back and she comes. Leans over him and looks closely at the clock.

“That’s… great,” she says. “Really great.”

“It’s an important accomplishment for me,” he says. He hops off the bike and follows her to the desk.

A siren sounds not too far away.

She takes her seat behind the desk and Samuel finds his name on the exercise bike sheet. He fills in the time.

Clearly. And legibly.

He sticks his hand out.

“What a great workout. My name’s Samuel, by the way.”

She shakes hands. “That’s why we’re here,” she says. “Great workouts.”

Samuel wipes his face with the towel.

“I feel great.”

Twenty-Six

With the aid of crutches and her latest installment of painkillers, Beth makes her way from the driveway to the house. It’s a cold, gray day with heavy mist in the air.

Beth looks at the house, a squat brick structure devoid of any charm. No flowers. No tidy shrubbery. Just brown grass and a cement porch with a black wrought iron gate.

Anna has driven the rusted out Pontiac sunbird home form the hospital. The trip was nerve-wracking for Beth, not only because her other is a terrible driver, but she is also drunk. Normally, she will do anything to avoid riding in a car with her mother, but her only hope, Peter, was nowhere to be found.

Her mother fumbles with the keys and Beth takes them gently from her hand, unlocks the door and steps inside. She looks at the keys in her hand. A cheap piece of plastic with the figures of black men dancing and the word Jamaica on it.

It’s a small house. Just an eat-in kitchen, a small living room and bedroom downstairs. One small bedroom upstairs.

The smell of dust combined with old food is nearly overpowering after the sterile atmosphere of the hospital.

“I’m going to my room,” Beth says.

“Do you need anything?” her mother asks. The words slurring to sound like: d’ ya’ nee ‘sing?

Beth doesn’t bother answering, instead she walks up the stairs to her room with difficulty, a few awkward moments that send shafts of pain deep into her knee.

Beth bangs open the door to her bedroom, makes her way to the bed and sits down, her knee sticking straight out in front of her. Her room hasn’t changed from the way she left it Friday night before the game. It’s neat. No clothes on the floor.

But it seems different.

A single bed with a white comforter with pink flowers on it, a worn throw rug, a dresser and night table. A small boom box on top of the dresser, a few CDs next to it. A reading lamp and a book on the night table. There’s a bookshelf with a few pictures of her teammates. One of her Mom and Dad. Another of her as a young girl with a ring of flowers around her head.

On the walls are pictures of basketball players. Nothing like the posters they sell at Nike shoe stores, though. These are action photos from Sports Illustrated. Gritty, real-life stuff. Beth closes her eyes to their images. She can see them in her mind’s eye. She’s looked at them for so long, they’re burned onto the hard driver of her dreams.

She wants to lay down and sleep, but she can’t.

It’s all gone, she thinks, looking at the athletes in the pictures. Basketball was her way out. A small school, she herself small so that only one school showed any real interest. And then her knee, gone, just like her chance of escaping.

What was it the doctor had said? They’re performing miracles in rehab now. Miracles. Fuck miracles. I need money, she thinks.

Can she conceivably recover, go through rehab, get back into shape and get a scholarship next year? Next season?

Maybe. But can she realistically wait around here for another year, while all her friends go off to college?

Tears comes to her eyes.

She grabs for her crutches, knocks them to the floor and struggles to pick them up. Her vision is blurred by the tears but she gets a hold of them and tucks them into her armpits then lurches to her feet.

She hobbles to the wall of pictures. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed and intensity, she tears the photos from the wall, ripping them in half and into quarters, leaving them to drop on the floor.

When she’s done, she’s out of breath and the tears have stopped. The anger is gone, replaced by… nothing. She feels empty.

Empty, like her future.

She flops back onto her bed, her gaze drawn to the night table, to the small picture of her father. It’s one of him spinning a basketball on his fingertip, a goofy grin on his face. She stares at it for a long time. It’s her favorite picture of him.

“I really fucked this one up, didn’t I Dad?”

Beth hears a small gasp from the doorway.

Her mother is watching.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Beth says. “That I might want a drink, too?”

Twenty-Seven

Peter Forbes sits in his car in the driveway of Beth’s house. He looks up and sees the small window at the front of her house.

“Shit,” he says and pulls the letter from the inner pocket of his jacket. There’s a part of him, no, check that, 99 % of him that wants to turn the key over, jam the car in gear and hightail it out of there. Avoid Beth and those beautiful eyes of hers. He knows she’ll take it well, she always does. She’s smart, she’s strong and she’s tough as hell. You only had to watch her play basketball to know that.

But she is even more than that.

As invincible as she could seem on the court, he knows she is vulnerable off the court.

Will this crush her?

He hopes not.

He gets out of the car, rings the bell and waits for Beth’s Mom to answer the door. When she does, he says, “How is she?”

Anna shrugs her shoulders and steps back. She doesn’t need to tell Peter where Beth would be.

Peter climbs the stairs, his stride easy and strong on the steps. He has to duck slightly when he gets to the top of the steps.

Beth is on the bed, a plastic water glass filled with coke and ice. Is she drinking booze? he asks himself. Isn’t she on painkillers?

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey back.” He can tell by the lack of focus in her eyes, the smirk on her face, that there was booze in her glass, in her body, the hell with the painkillers.

“Well at least you’re not operating heavy machinery,” he says.

She raises her glass toward him. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Beth,” he says, his voice firm and he’s ready to scold her when he stops himself. What right does he have to scold her? Her fucking knee is blown to shit, she lost her scholarship and she’s about to lose…

… me…

“Aw, come on, I’m just feeling sorry for myself,” Beth says. “I’m not getting drunk. Living with the eternal poster child for teetotalers anonymous will do that to you, you know.”

Peter responds by sitting down next to her. He has been in her bedroom many times, feels comfortable there, even though they’ve never slept together.

“You were great, you know.”

“Tell me.”

“The way you got your teammates involved, held back, and then let loose in the second half. You played that team, that coach, like a fiddle.”

Beth blushes at the praise. “Thanks,” she says.

They both sit in silence, neither one of them wanting to say the next sentence, trying to figure out how to do it without starting it with the word, “but.”

“I played them like a fiddle, but that last note was a doozy.”

“How is it? The knee.”

“About as strong as a wet pasta noodle.”

“And just as tasty?” Peter says, bending down to kiss her leg. Beth laughs. Peter straightens up suddenly, remembering why he’s here and what he has to do. He realizes, too late, that it isn’t the right time for a warm, fuzzy kind of moment.

“What’s wrong?” Beth asks.

Peter thinks of the time when he was a little boy in swim class and he had to practice a back dive. How he stood on the diving board with the instructor urging him on but he couldn’t do it, but the instructor wouldn’t let him off the board until he did it right. He’d felt like a pirate forced to walk the plank. Finally, he’d gotten so upset that he decided to do it. He’d put his hands over his head, sucked in air and fallen backwards. Now, he remembers how that felt, how it was like his stomach just dropped out of his body and where his guts should have been was nothing but an empty cold space, sucking his soul from the rest of his body.

Slowly, he pulls the letter from the inner pocket of his jacket.

“I’m sorry, Beth,” he says. “I saw her at the hospital, she thought it would be easier coming from me.”

Beth slowly puts down her drink, reaches for the letter. She rips open the envelope and scans the contents quickly. She sets it back down and reaches for her drink.

“I’m sorry, Beth.”

Peter watches Beth try to control her emotions, but he can see them racing across her eyes, trample her control until her face crumples and a tear rolls down her face. Suddenly, she leans back and hurls the glass full of coke and whiskey against the wall. Peter puts his arms around her as she sobs. “It’s going to be all right,” he says, trying to put comfort into his voice. “It’ll work out. We’ll make it work.”

From outside the door: “Beth?”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Fischer,” Peter says.

Hesitations, and then footsteps going back down the stairs.

Peter can feel the heat from Beth’s face. The moisture from her tears soaking through his shirt against his skin. Slowly, the crying ebbs. Peter stares at the wall. Above Beth’s bed, he sees a small crucifix. Has that always been there? He wonders.

“It’s not going to be okay,” Beth says, her voice muffled.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Peter says. “But it’ll be okay.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, Beth. I wish I did.”

She pulls away from him. “I’m going to be stuck in this shithole of a town. That scholarship was my ticket out.”

“A year’s worth of rehab-”

“I can’t take another year.”

“-and maybe you’ll get another scholarship.”

“Big maybe. And another year of my life wasted.”

“Beth-”

“And you.” She looks close at his face. “You might get a ticket out of here.” Peter does his best to keep his face clear, but she knows him too well.

“You… already did?”

He knows that lying would be the worst thing to do, but he’s still tempted.

“Where?”

Peter sees the sadness, the self-pity leave Beth’s face. It’s replaced by something else. Something far more dangerous and potentially damaging.

Fear.

He takes a deep breath. “Marquette.”

“Milwaukee,” Beth says. Her voice sounds lost, like a little girl talking to herself. She snaps out of it and hugs him. “Congratulations. Full scholarship?”

He nods. Despite the situation, he can feel the pride in his belly. He made it out of Lake Orion. He worked hard, but he was given the height along with the speed. As hard as he tries to quench it, he feels proud of the fact that he made the most out of what he was given. Beth worked hard, too. Poor Beth, he thinks.

“Do you think we can…” she falters, blushing.

He takes her hands in his. “I think we can make it work,” he says. “If that was what you were going to ask.”

She presses him to her.

The worst thing to do is lie, he thinks, but sometimes, it’s necessary.

He puts his arms around Beth and hugs her back.

Twenty-Eight

Deerfield High gymnasium. Pep band. Cheerleaders. The smell of popcorn and teen spirit.

Beth sits two rows behind her team, her left leg stuck out straight in front of her on the bleacher. When she first came to the gym the crowd surrounded her, clapped her on the back, wished her encouragement. Her response was to tell them to encourage her teammates.

They had a game to win.

Now, Beth watches her team. She thinks they look strong and confident, at least they did during the pre-game warm up drills.

The other team, Deerfield North, looks awfully strong. They look big, too. Their purple and yellow colors remind Beth of the Los Angeles Lakers. Two girls, sisters, both of them listed at 6’4” and they move okay, too. Beth scopes out the opponent’s point guard. Small and thin, but lightning quick with a sweet stroke.

I would’ve eaten her alive, Beth thinks. She flushes at the bravado. She never bragged, never boasted. But suddenly, it’s eating her up that she can’t be out there. She feels like a parent who watches her child in a fight but can’t step in, needing the child to learn how to fight on his own. But no, that’s not fair. Her team’s not a child without her. Wishful thinking, Beth.

Maybe I need to think that.

Beth is brought out of her contemplation by the buzzer. It’s tip off, and the game starts quickly, or at least the other team does. Their passes are sharp and crisp. Their footwork is quick and precise. They take good shots and they make them.

Lake Orion crumples before Beth’s eyes.

Before Beth’s coach can call a time out, it’s 10-0.

Beth has never seen her team in such a daze. They’re out of sync. Their passes are tentative. They’re lagging on defense. Their shots are hesitant. They’re playing without an ounce of confidence.

In the huddle, Beth hears her coach lay into her teammates. Trying to fire them up. But Beth knows it’s not going to help.

By the end of the first half, the score is 38–18.

Deerfield North heads into the locker room with their heads high, smiles on their faces. Lake Orion walks slowly from the court, heads hanging. Silent.

In the locker room, Beth speaks to several of the players, offers advice, encouragement. She tries to help the coach rally the troops, but you can’t instill confidence. Beth has little hope for a turnaround in the second half. She seeks out her replacement, who is struggling, seven turnovers in the first half, not all of them her fault.

Lake Orion takes the court and finds out that the worst is yet to come. Deerfield turns it up a notch and by the end of the third quarter, Lake Orion is down 55 to 27. By the fourth, it’s a foregone conclusion. With five minutes left, Deerfield puts in their second string. Lake Orion does the same thing, and by the end, everyone but the Deerfield players are merely looking for the slaughter to end.

When the final buzzer sounds, the numbers on the scoreboard are pure humiliation for Lake Orion.

Beth shakes hands with the other team. They are happy, confident, and moving on to the next round of the tournament. She stands on her crutches and with her giant knee brace accepts well-wishes from them.

When the last of Deerfield’s players shakes her hand, Beth turns and looks at the crowd. Her last game in a sense. The faces look familiar to her. Parents of fellow teammates, a few teachers, a bunch of students.

She’s just about ready to head for the locker room when her eye is drawn to one face in particular. A face she hadn’t noticed.

The scout from Northern Illinois.

And the girl she’s with.

The Tank.

Her scholarship.

At least now Beth knows where it’s gone.

She turns toward the locker room, her leg feeling heavy and cumbersome. Slowing her down. And suddenly, she knows exactly what it feels like.

A ball and chain.

Twenty-Nine

Samuel doesn’t flinch under the gaze of the Navy’s Internal Affairs officer, a man named Captain Purgitt. The man is tall and lanky, with a round face and an underbite. Samuel isn’t intimidated.

“Just following procedure here,” Purgitt says as he consults a list. “Ackerman?”

“Yes sir.”

“So it says here that you were working out at the time of Chief Petty Officer Wilkins’ death?”

Samuel can barely contain his glee. He feels good. Confident. A deep blossom of self-assuredness is growing like an atomic mushroom cloud, at its base, the wonderfully executed Nevens murder. A masterpiece of high-quality strategic planning followed by fearless execution. In short, he is goddamn happy with himself. “Yes sir. My sixty minutes on the bike. I do it every day when I can. Gotta keep in shape, know what I mean?”

“Sure do, son, sure do.”

Samuel knows Purgitt probably hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since he attended his teenage son’s last basketball game. He pauses as if the thought just came to him. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

Samuel makes his expression wide and open. The very picture of boyish innocence. “I heard, what happened to Petty Officer Wilkins? That it was an accident. That’s what the guys were saying. Did someone… do this to my CO?” Samuel hopes he isn’t over playing it. He’s got to keep his new-found confidence in check as much as he can — if he can.

The Internal Affairs officer shakes his head. “No, no. We’re simply double-checking the whereabouts of his crew, of any one he may have had — differences — with.”

“If I may ask, sir. Why are you talking to me? We got along fine.”

“Yes, well…”

Samuel can see he’s making Purgitt uncomfortable. Samuel wants to laugh. He knows that Wilkins had a file on him, that he probably had written down his negative comments. The fucker. He won’t be writing any of those anymore. His last paperwork will be his obituary, over which he’ll have no power.

“His preliminary review of your performance in ordnance — even though you’d just gotten started really — noted a need for… improvement.”

Samuel adopted a hangdog expression. The good sailor hurt that his best just wasn’t good enough. He held it for several seconds, then let a glint return to his eye, the kind that said goddamn he’d just try harder then. These officious pricks ate it up.

Purgitt proved to be no exception. “Nothing to worry about sailor. Your alibi checked out perfectly. You’re doing a good job and things are going to be back to normal in no time. Pretty soon you’ll be loadin’ bombs faster than the flyboys can drop ‘em.”

“Glad to hear it, sir,” Samuel says and lets a carefully executed smile beam across his face. “I’ll do everything I can to make that happen.”

“I know you will. I got an eye for these things.”

Thirty

The overworked and understaffed San Diego Police department begins the Larry Nevens murder investigation with the steadfast routine they’ve begun all murder investigations with since the Homicide Division was officially created back in 1956. The homicide chief checks the “board” and sees what team is up. Two detectives, Karl Markey and Florence Lavin are assigned the case via a cell phone call from Giancarlo that alerts them to the location of an unidentified body. The body was discovered in the early morning hours of Tuesday by an elderly man and woman who, on their regular walk, happened upon the remains.

The investigators arrive at the beach and examine the body of Larry Nevens.

Forensic work begins immediately and by the third full day of their investigation the SDPD homicide detectives are awash in information: Nevens was seen leaving a bar called the Outer Bank with one Rhonda McFarland the night of the murder. Miss McFarland is still missing. No one remembers seeing Nevens or the woman after they left the bar together. Nevens’ truck was found in the parking lot near the murder scene.

They have learned that the woman was a secretary at an accounting firm. Single, never married. An outgoing, sociable woman with a considerable appetite for men. A good-time girl with a heart of gold and few qualms about one-night stands.

Nevens was a BUD/S instructor. He had a reputation for pushing weak recruits hard. The DNA tests come back on the semen found on the scene: there are two types: one is Nevens’. The other is unknown.

Markey and Lavin seek cooperation from the Navy and get it. They speak to colleagues, friends, any one having contact with Nevens. They request blood samples from all of the recent BUD/S recruits. Since all recruits must submit a blood sample once a year as part of a Navy physical, all recruits have blood samples on file. The samples are forwarded to the SDPD and tests are run.

There are no matches.

They question Nevens’ colleagues in the BUD/S program but can find no evidence of ill will. They also find no evidence of recruits with a grudge against Nevens. They learn that most who drop out of the BUD/S program feel they are better for the experience.

Because of the lack of DNA matches, the detectives focus on Nevens’ personal life. They learn he is divorced, a hard-drinker, and a womanizer. They interview friends and family members, but can establish no credible suspects. At a dead end, the team decides to wait for new information or for the body of Rhonda McFarland to show.

In the meantime, Homicide Chief Giancarlo has assigned the team two more homicide cases and a week after being initially assigned the case, the Larry Nevens file is quickly shuttled to the bottom of their in baskets.

Thirty-One

Something was bubbling at the back of Commander Todd Lowry’s mind. It was an odd sensation, although not entirely unfamiliar. Kind of like being at the grocery store with three items in your basket when you know there were four things you needed. It was just bothering him. He hated loose ends. Was definitely not a loose end kind of guy. Some called it anal-retentive. He called it having your act together.

It was the end of a very bad week.

As he looked through the report again on the death of Wilkins. It was bad. Accidents happened, but rarely did they result in someone’s death. And never someone under his command.

The gruesome and horrifying aspect of Wilkins’ death aside, Lowry focuses on how it will affect his career. A bit clinical, yes, he supposes it is. But the military doesn’t just wage wars on battlefields. The corporate aspect of the Navy can be just as bloody. You kick ass and take names. You think of yourself first. That’s how you get ahead. That’s how you’re successful.

Lowry looks again at the report. A chain slipped here, a safety lever wasn’t thrown there and bam! you’ve got a dead chief petty officer. Lowry sets aside the report and inspects the last official papers Wilkins had completed. His weekly log, preparations for a speech he was going to give on the future efficiency prospects of Naval ordnance, several seaman assessment reports. One of the reports catches his eye for two reasons: a) it’s got a lot of below average check marks and b) it’s the name of the newest recruit.

Ackerman, Samuel F.

Lowry skims the report. He’s about to fold the report up and put it away when it hits him — the thing he couldn’t remember, that hung out on the fringe of his consciousness.

Ackerman.

Lowry fishes through the papers on his desk and comes up with the latest edition of All Hands. He flips through the pages, his heart beating fast, his mouth dry, the gears in his mind churning and grinding with a grating precision. He skims and finds it. Larry Nevens. BUD/S instructor. Murdered.

Lowry checks the date.

He sits back in his chair, short of breath.

Ackerman was in the BUD/S program but didn’t make it. Nevens was most likely one of his instructors.

Lowry checks the date again, then flips to his personal calendar and pinpoints the day he met with Ackerman.

It fits.

But could it have really happened? Did Ackerman kill his BUD/S instructors, get transferred here to ordnance and then, facing a poor initial assessment, orchestrate the death of his supervisor, Chief Petty Officer Wilkins, for… what?

Lowry shakes his head. It’s crazy. No way. The kid would have to be totally nuts, for one thing. And he, Lowry, would have to be nuts to suggest the whole freaking scenario to someone. And even if he went ahead with it, who would that be? One of the JAGs?

What evidence does he have? What motivation will he point to? Is he, Lowry, really prepared to suggest a homicidal maniac is in their midst?

Lowry thinks of his career. Twenty-five years of solid duty he’s contributed to the Navy. Does he really want to risk it all on some half-cocked theory?

CYA, Steve. Cover your big ol’ hairy fucking ass.

How to do nothing but if it should turn out that Ackerman had something to do with the deaths, be able to point to some action taken and be able to say, “I did my part.”

He thinks for a moment and then it comes to him: He’ll make an official entry in his journal, dated, stating his suspicions. He’ll send an e-mail to the JAG knowing full well it will never get read; it’s called passing the buck. It’ll never happen, but if it does, he’ll be able to say, “I passed my suspicions on to the right people — THEY were the ones who didn’t handle it.”

And now, for the most important part of the plan.

Get rid of fucking Samuel F. Ackerman.

Thirty-Two

In the late afternoon, Florida’s thunderclouds act like schoolyard bullies: they threaten often, but rarely follow through.

Above the open sea near the Pensacola Naval base, a bank of dull orange spreads out beneath the gray clouds, and a stiff breeze turns the bay next to the Navy yard into rough chop. On the far horizon, a few fishing boats are scattered along a deep shelf. Crab traps, marked by a single white spherical buoy, follow the shoreline.

Under the fading intensity of the afternoon sun, Samuel is on his ninety-seventh pull-up and feeling good. Shaky. Exhausted. His body screaming in agony. But good.

He’s never done one hundred pull-ups in a row. The highest he’s ever gotten is ninety. Sweat is streaming from his face and his arms are quivering, but he feels strong. He tightens his muscles and raises himself, his triceps hot and angry, his hands in agony. He lifts his chin over the bar — ninety-eight — and drops back down, his feet locked behind him.

He hangs his head, resting.

A motorboat speeds by on the bay, its hull pounding into the waves with hollow booms. An egret pokes its beak into the shallow water looking for mullet.

Samuel lifts his head up and looks at the bar just as he hears footsteps approaching on the sidewalk behind him. His shoulders constrict, his abs tighten and he lifts himself, slowly but powerfully. His chin is inches from the bar when a voice calls out to him.

“Ackerman?”

Samuel thrusts his chin forward but it isn’t quite over the bar and he feels a stab of pain as the skin breaks. His head snaps back and he nearly lets go of the bar, but manages to hold on. Come on! He yells at himself. He pulls and his body slowly rises. The pain in his arms and chest are joined by the throbbing of the cut along his chin. He closes his eyes and heaves, using the pain to help him lunge upward and he clears the bar — ninety-nine! — then slowly eases back down, hanging from the bar as if in sacrifice.

Blood streams from the cut on his chin. The sweat from his face pours down, works its way into the cut and stings like small needles.

Samuel pushes aside the pain, the fatigue, and focuses on the voice. He knows it. Knows to whom it belongs.

Lowry.

“One more,” Samuel says, his voice a ragged gasp. “Sir.”

Samuel begins the pull. His hands are shaking, his triceps are on fire and his entire body screams in pain. His focus — one hundred pull-ups — begins to waver. Why is Lowry here? What does he want? Did the Internal Affairs officer, Purgitt, talk to him?

His head momentarily blanks and his left hand slips from the bar, his right arm screams, his entire body weight pulls at it. No! No! No! Samuel panics, feeling his fingers loosen from the bar.

“Whoa, Nellie,” Lowry says, his voice faintly mocking.

The words register in Samuel’s mind and like a match to gasoline, fill his head with an explosive fury. He thrusts his left hand back up, grabs the bar, and pulls. His body rises, a shuddering Phoenix, and the bar comes into view. One hundred, one hundred, one hundred. The number is a mantra in Samuel’s mind. And then, just like that, he’s over.

He’s over.

One hundred!

Samuel lowers himself back down and drops from the bar. His hands feel like gnarled roots. His arms back and chest are on fire. The rest of his body is one huge ache.

His knees buckle and he sits in the sand.

“How many?” Lowry’s voice is still amused, but the mocking tone is gone. It better be, Samuel thinks.

“One hundred.”

Lowry whistles. “Good show.”

The sweat is pouring from Samuel. His shirt drips with perspiration. He needs a drink.

Lowry clears his throat then says, “Listen, normally I would do this in my office, but I needed to track you down right away. There’s been a change of plans.”

Samuel studies Lowry’s face. The big glasses, the weak chin. He looks like a weasel, Samuel thinks. And like a weasel, he’s about to squirm out of something, Samuel has a fair idea of what it’s going to be.

“There are some changes in ordnance due to Chief Petty Officer Wilkins’ death. Things are going to be re-shuffled a bit. These changes are going to affect a lot of people. Including you.”

“How so, sir?” Samuel asks. His mind is calculating — it can be anything — he doesn’t give one piece of shit what it is — as long as he’s eligible to go back to BUD/S training in twelve months. That’s all that matters.

“You’re being rotated out.” Lowry gives him a good ol’ boy smile.

“Where to, sir?”

“You’re going home, son.”

Samuel’s heart drops into his shoes. He’s being discharged? Impossible! He’s not eligible for BUD/S training-

Samuel sees the look on Lowry’s face. It’s not the face of a man kicking someone out of the Navy. Samuel realizes what he’s going to say a split second before Lowry utters it. He looks out over the water, sees the egret spear a mullet and swallow it whole.

“I’m going to be-

Lowry claps his hands together.

“-the best damn recruiter Lake Orion, Michigan has ever seen!”

Samuel keeps his gaze out toward the water. The waves have grown bigger, the swells more intense with white water foaming at their peaks.

“Best of all, “ Lowry continues. “You can head out to Coronado in less than a year for BUD/S training. Maybe this time you’ll make it.”

Samuel smiles back at Lowry.

“I’ll make it. Or die trying.”

Thirty-Three

The physical therapist is a moderately portly woman with a big smile and eyes that Beth thinks have seen a lot of pain. Mostly others. Her name is Judy and she gets right to work.

“We’ve got a lot to do, Beth. How’s the drainage?”

“It’s been seeping like a Vermont maple with a bucket slung around it.”

Judy smiles and says, “A sense of humor is going to be very important for you to get through this, Beth.”

“I promise to be a barrel of laughs, Judy.”

“Now did they drain it recently?”

“Yesterday,” Beth says. A terribly horrible procedure that Beth would like to block from her mind forever. For now, the brace is back on and Judy is pulling Beth to her feet. The crutches are leaning against the wall in the physical therapy room. An odd little space full of mats and pads and exercise bicycles and weights. A bright room Beth views as a torture chamber. She knows instinctively that she will grow to hate this room, hate Judy, and probably herself.

But most of all, she’ll hate the room. Probably have nightmares about it.

Judy instructs Beth on the proper way to stand, and then says, “Okay, let’s apply just a little bit of pressure, okay Beth?”

Beth complies and the pain shoots through her body. She gasps, feels the blood drain from her face. She starts falling and Judy catches her, but a wrenching pain rockets up her leg and the she screams.

Judy eases Beth into a chair.

The fury and anguish rise up in Beth and she holds her face in her hands, tears streaming between her fingers.

“It’s all right, honey,” Judy says. “That was good.”

Beth snorts, a wet, sloppy sound that she instantly recognizes as perhaps the most pathetic sound she’s ever made.

Judy takes it in stride. “Maybe just a little too much pressure too soon. Okay?” Judy pats her on the back.

And then Beth hears the words that she knew were coming and that she knows she will dread for the next nine to twelve months.

“Let’s try it again.”

Thirty-Four

Bird passes to McHale. McHale kicks it back out to Bird who sinks a twenty-footer. The rotation perfect, the form, the touch, it’s all perfect. I used to be able to do that, Beth thinks. I had that touch. But I also had speed. And I had the instinct. The killer instinct.

She looks down at her leg on the ottoman. A year, she thinks. A year before you’ll let me play ball. By then, the scholarships will be gone, I’ll have lost the edge. It’ll take me another year to get back to that level, if I can. Besides, only one school was going to give me a scholarship. And now that scholarship is in the quick little hands of the Tank. She’ll be there for four years. Why would they give another scholarship to a point guard? Answer: they won’t.

God fucking help me, Beth thinks.

ESPN takes a break from the ‘87 Celtics Lakers game and a commercial comes on. A ship slashes through the wide open ocean. A helicopter lowers a stretcher into the water, men and women in uniform stand on the deck of an aircraft carrier.

The Navy.

Beth immediately flashes to memories of her father. He was in the military.

Could she follow in his footsteps? She almost laughed. What a joke. A ruined knee, can’t play basketball. So join the military? A friend of hers had done it, and they’d had something called DEP, the delayed entry program. She could join and then wait almost a year, year and a half before she actually got shipped out.

Yeah, but the Navy?

No, Beth thinks. Not for me.

She looks around the living room. The dingy carpet, the ugly walls, the image of her mother slapping her.

Hitting her.

Fucking A, Beth thinks.

She visualizes the picture of her father.

What would he think of her joining the Navy?

She sits there, the pain in her leg momentarily forgotten, the crisp passes and amazing moves of Magic and Bird, forgotten. The cheap clock on the wall chimes the hour.

Beth hears none of it.

Instead, she reaches for the phone.

Thirty-Five

Samuel waits in line with fifty or so other sailors who have completed the recruiter training. Their grades, (pass/fail) are posted on a single sheet of paper on the second floor of the Alfred P. Knox building. Most of them are anxious to see that they’ve passed and can then apply for where they’ll be posted.

Samuel already knows where he’ll be going.

Lake Orion, Michigan.

It is warm in the hallway. No windows are cracked, the air hangs flat and heavy and wet. A thin line of sweat has broken out along Samuel’s forehead and he wipes it off with the back of his hand. His shoulders are tense and he rotates his head, feeling the muscles pull and relax with the effort.

It’s been a dreary two weeks for him. Day after day of classes, sitting in a big room with two hundred people going over endless information on salesmanship. Learning how to master the art of luring young people into the eternally grasping hands of the Navy. Not really an art though. A science. They even have a name: PSS. Professional Selling Skills. Samuel, waiting in line and tired of staring at the neck of the sailor in front of him, unconsciously reviews the tenets.

1. Opening. Be positive. Friendly, but in an honest way. Move promptly to the business at hand.

2. Probing. Use open probes to help discover the needs of the potential recruit.

3. Acknowledging. Build empathy by acknowledging the potential recruit’s needs.

4. Supporting. Show how benefits of Navy meet expressed needs of potential recruit.

5. Closing. Review next steps.

Five professional selling skills designed to swell the ranks of the Navy and guarantee more funding. It was all about money, Samuel thinks. Well, he can’t blame them. After all, he has his own agenda.

The line moves forward and Samuel can almost make out the paper ahead of him. Ackerman should be the first on the list, as usual. There’s little doubt in his mind that he’s made it. The principles were easy. He’s always hated salesmen, but their tactics are easy to learn, understand, and use. Besides, the classes are designed to help even the stupidest motherfucker on the planet learn the system. They weren’t out to fail anyone.

In his mind, potential recruits seem like tomatoes ready to be squashed. Simply convince them to step up onto the conveyor belt and ignore the giant metallic hammer waiting for them at the end of the line. For Samuel has no respect for the Navy, by and large. Most of the sailors are idiots. Stupid kids with dead-end lives who will never amount to much.

Like he used to be, in fact.

Only the elite members of the Navy, and the military in general for that matter, are worthy of Samuel’s respect.

At last, the line is done inching forward and Samuel is face to face with the report sheet.

Ackerman, Samuel F.

Pass.

Samuel’s face shows no sign of emotion. He walks down the stairs and out into the Florida sunshine. It was a chore. A huge pain in the ass. And it’s really just the start. He’s got eleven months and three days before he’s eligible to participate in the BUD/S course.

In the meantime, he’s had his recruiter training. Now he’s got to pack, make travel arrangements, and play the part of the recruiter.

Thirty-Six

Gray.

From one gray world to the next.

Samuel stands on the small hill overlooking the cemetery. The sky is one long gray cloud. Michigan. Lake Orion. No lake to be seen. Just gray bullshit. Just like the Navy.

It’s been two days since his departure from the base in Pensacola. A mind-numbing journey depositing him into the sheer chaos of Detroit Metro. Then onto Lake Orion and a cheap flat, a trip to the store for groceries and necessities.

Now, it’s Monday morning and he’s on his way to the recruiting office in Troy, a suburb of Detroit.

But first things first.

He stands still, a faint palpable moisture is in the air. The cemetery sits across the street from a tennis court and a church. A row of small homes is on the other side.

Both of his parents are buried here.

Samuel’s head starts to throb.

It’s almost as if the air here is tainted. As if the memories, the images hang in the thick stillness and now that he’s back, they’re descending on him like locusts. Masses of them, dark against the sky, filling his head with an incessant humming.

His father’s voice booms at him. He can feel the impact of those giant fists knocking him around. His own hysterical sobbing a tragic two-part harmony.

Suddenly, Samuel’s body goes still and his body seems to be sucked through a whirlwind of pain, agony and humiliation. He’s very young and he’s in the dark. A shaft of light sneaks under the closet door. He’s huddled among clothes and shoes and boots. It smells vaguely of wet wool and musty cotton. His body is shaking, tears stream from his face. His teeth chatter.

He doesn’t remember why he’s in the closet. He just knows that he’s done something very wrong. Maybe being born was the bad thing. His father hates him. Thinks he’s a fucking piece of-

And then it happens.

A steel fist crashes into his temple and everything goes black-

Samuel takes a step back from the cemetery, his body shuddering. For a moment he was back there — back in the closet. He realizes he’s sweating and that his mouth is dry. His stomach churns the small breakfast he’d eaten less than forty minutes ago. He turns, his legs like rubber and walks away from the cemetery. Suddenly, he wants to be very far away from this place. He runs toward the car, gasping for breath. His shiny black shoes, pounding on the pavement. He trips on the asphalt and skins the palm of his hand. The knees of his uniform are white with scrapes. He runs to the car, throws the door open and gets behind the wheel. He slams the door shut and closes his eyes, forcing the horror of the past from his mind.

He slams the car into gear and roars away from the Lake Orion cemetery.

He’s got to hurry.

He’s going to be late for his first day of work.

Thirty-Seven

The nose is Italian. There’s just no getting around it. It’s not a Jimmy Durante nose or the one like that baseball manager — what’s his name? Joe Toree. It’s not as big as those two. But the nose in the mirror is definitely Italian. The pores are bigger, too. If you look closely at the tip of the nose, where it gets kind of bulbous, you can see the pores are bigger.

Both of her parents were Italian. Her father had finer, sharper features, which three of her brothers inherited. The other brother and herself got her mother’s more bulbous face. Julie imagines her mother, admires her beauty, but sees none of it in herself.

She just sees the nose.

Julie Giacalone looks at her face in the mirror. Her eyes seem to move on their own volition to her nose. It’s relatively normal at the bridge, but as it moves on it spreads out and seems to inflate a little bit at the end. She would be pretty, she thinks, except for the nose. No, that’s not right, she corrects herself. That’s too harsh. She is pretty. Just not as pretty as she would be with a smaller, more normal nose.

The nose is just so Italian.

Like she does every morning, she remembers the day she went to the plastic surgeon after having painstakingly saved the six thousand dollars necessary to do the procedure. She’d even picked out the nose in a book. Very similar to what she already had, just a slimmer end. She didn’t want a drastic nose job — the kind where people didn’t recognize you. Just a somewhat subtle improvement. Where people would recognize you, but then immediately ask you if you’d lost weight or were wearing a new dress. That was the kind of nose job she’d wanted.

She followed all the pre-surgical rules to the tee. Had driven to the doctor’s, got as far as the waiting room when she had suddenly changed her mind. She would not fix her nose. The very idea of keeping it sent a sudden burst of pride through her and she turned around and walked out.

Now, like nearly every morning since that fateful day, when she looks into the mirror she wonders if it was a mistake.

Instead of a new nose, she drove immediately from the hatchet man’s office to the car dealership where she got rid of her run-down piece of shit Toyota Corolla and brought a jet black brand new Ford Mustang. And she used a six thousand dollar down payment.

She in fact, traded in her new nose for a new car.

Now, Julie walks from the bathroom to her bedroom and stands before the full-length mirror. The only thing she’s wearing is a dark purple thong. She looks over her body. It’s lean and firm, but she’s no petite thing. Having four brothers forced her body to adapt. From when she was small she ran, chased, tackled and fought with all of them. She understands why she’s in the Navy — she’s used to being outnumbered by men.

She’s tall, with long legs and broad shoulders. Her breasts are smallish, her hips full and curvy. She lingers for a moment on her breasts. They’re small, she thinks. But she remembers hearing somewhere that the perfect sized female breasts fit nicely into a champagne glass. She’d tried it once when she was drunk — on champagne naturally — was it after her promotion? Whatever, but her breasts were perfect — fit right into the champagne glass — filled it beautifully. But hidden under her Navy uniform — no one would ever know.

The rest of her body is flat and hard. She works out at the base gym and muscles ripple just beneath the surface of her skin.

Julie puts on some deodorant and reaches for her uniform shirt and pauses. She’s got a new recruiter starting today. Last name Ackerman. First name Samuel. She got his file two days ago. The picture showed a serious man with a strong face, handsome even, and piercing eyes. Her hand reaches for the bottle of French perfume on the dresser top. She gives a quick squirt — just a little — at the base of her neck. She has to be a professional after all. But fuck it, she is a woman, hadn’t gotten any for something like six months and even though she is Petty Officer Giacalone, head of the Naval Recruiting for Midwest District #3 — the toughest recruiting district in nearly the whole country — and she has single-handedly brought the numbers up to at least respectable levels — she is still a woman for Christ’s sake.

Even though no one she works with seems to notice.

She steps back in front of the mirror again. As satisfied as she can be on a Monday morning after another weekend with no romance, she puts on her Navy blues and pins her hair back. Her eyes are wide and brown, her face pretty.

If you can get past the nose, she thinks.

She goes down to the kitchen, gobbles down a bowl of Cheerios, chases it with the remains of her lukewarm coffee, grabs her briefcase and hops into the Mustang. She fires it up and heads for the office.

Her new recruiter should be arriving any minute.

Thirty-Eight

It doesn’t take Samuel long to get to Troy from Lake Orion. Just a quick stretch of I-75, exit on the Metro Parkway and before he knows it, he’s smack in the middle of Troy, Michigan. The ultimate Detroit suburb: shopping malls, strip malls, heavy commercial/industrial sites and a shitload of traffic. The sky is typical for Michigan at this time of the year: Navy gray.

Samuel glances at the directions on the sheet of paper next to him. He veers slightly over the center lane and someone honks his horn at him. Samuel jerks the car back, sees the cross street he’s looking for and minutes later, pulls up in front of District #3 headquarters for Naval recruiting.

Samuel looks at the building. It’s got Navy written all over it. Dull, impersonal, and not a trace of personality. Just a small brick square with glass doors at the center and an American flag waving proudly in front.

For a moment, Samuel is able to see things from the outside looking in. He seems to float above himself, over his body. Over the building. Can see himself standing by his car. Hears the flag flapping in the early morning breeze.

His mind surges with positive energy. He can do this. He can be a recruiter. He can get through whatever it is they’re going to make him do. Talk to high school students? He can do that. Talk to mother and fathers, telling them what a great experience the Navy has been for him? He can do that.

As long as no one fucks him or tries to sabotage him, everything should work out.

No more shit like what happened in ordnance. With that fucking prick Wilkins or like the asshole Nevens…

But they both had it coming.

Samuel shakes his head. He can’t think like that. He’s right, but it’s too risky.

But it feels good. It feels… powerful.

His body calm, his mind focused, Samuel walks to the building, opens the glass doors and steps inside.

Thirty-Nine

Julie Giacalone is crunching numbers. It’s all about numbers. Meeting the Quota. A never-ending process. Get the recruits. Fill the slots. Kiss ‘em and ship ‘em. Keep the leads coming.

It’s something that she’s always been able to do. She’s good at achieving her goals, the professional ones anyway. There’s something about the quota, the concreteness of it that inspires her and motivates her. It’s something that is a driving force in her life and yet it’s a game to her — it’s still fun. How to achieve those numbers? Especially when the economy is relatively good? A good economy is bad news for a recruiter. A good economy means companies are hiring and paying good money — better money than the Navy. And that means young men and women are less inclined toward the Navy.

She looks at the charts, at the numbers, at the lists of leads that come in from many places: headquarters, the web site, phone calls, school counselors, a few letters from potential recruits as well as influencers (usually parents.)

Julie looks at the leads, recognizes them for what they are; pure gold. A handful of these names will become sailors — the question is, which ones? And what will it take to get each of them to see the merits of joining the Navy? It’s not a con job, for the most part. For the majority of the names on the list, the Navy would be a good thing. Broken homes, no chance at college, a complete lack of discipline. These are the kinds of things most of these young men and women suffer from.

And the Navy’s the answer.

It’s just a matter of overcoming their misperceptions of the Navy, of military life.

Something Julie Giacalone is very good at.

She’s just about to go over the names again when there’s a knock on her door. It’s Paul Rogers, a short, pudgy recruiter with too little hair and too much cologne. Paul is her right hand man.

“The new guy’s here,” he says. He sniffs and raises an eyebrow. “New perfume?”

Julie feels blood rush to her face but calmly puts down her pen. She glances over Paul’s shoulder but can’t see the front desk.

“Send him in,” she says.

Forty

Unfortunately, the place is just what Samuel expected; recruiting posters on the walls, a few offices scattered around the front lobby, the look, smell and feel of a used car dealership. Cheap wood paneling, the plant in the corner, industrial-looking clock on the wall.

The only difference is all the Navy crap. If it weren’t for that, you’d think it was a gynecologist’s office. He gives his name to the chubby guy with the big double chin — Paul is his name — and waits by the front desk. He looks out the window, watches traffic for a moment before he hears a clear, crisp voice.

“Ackerman?”

Samuel turns, sees the woman in a petty officer’s uniforms and salutes. “Yes, Ma’am.” She’s a tall woman, semi-attractive, somewhat masculine, and the nose is too big.

“At ease,” she says, smiling. “Welcome to Recruiting District Three, sailor.”

Samuel gives her an easy grin back. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s good to be here.”

He follows her into her office, noticing the way she walks — is there a slight swing in her hips? He takes a seat across from her desk. The office smells like fresh perfume and old soda cans. She sits down and pulls his file out. Samuel carefully suppresses the nervousness rising in his stomach. There’s nothing to worry about, he tells himself. If there were, I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I’d be locked up somewhere, or on trial. Samuel stops himself. He’s got to concentrate. Ever since the visit to the cemetery, he hasn’t felt right.

His temple throbs and he absentmindedly rubs it. He looks up and sees the woman, Giacalone, looking at him.

“I’m sorry?” he says, realizing she’s asked him a question.

“I just wondered how your trip was. From Pensacola, right?”

“Right. It was… fine. I found a place, probably temporary, but I’m pretty much settled in.” He realizes he should show some enthusiasm. “I’m ready to get started. Sort of anxious to use what I learned at Pensacola.”

She beamed at him. Oh, this one was just a bundle of ambition, he could tell that. “That’s what I like to hear!” She leans forward a bit conspiratorially. “It isn’t always easy to keep up the enthusiasm. As a recruiter, you can face a lot of rejection. But starting off with the right attitude — that’s the way to go. Now, let’s get started by me telling you what our obligations are as recruiters for District Three.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Samuel listened as Giacalone rattled off the areas — pretty much all of Detroit and the suburbs within a hundred miles. It is a big territory and there were only four recruiters. Out of this mass of people, they were expected to get fifty recruits every three months. Of those recruits, the numbers were broken down between high-quality recruits — college bound or college grads with prospects for becoming officers, and lower-quality recruits- kids who may or may not have finished high school and have no hope of ever being officers.

She wraps up her spiel and Samuel notices her brown eyes, the way her dark hair falls to her shoulders. She’s got a pretty mouth, a nice smile. “Now, you’re probably wondering what’s expected of you.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Well, we expect each recruiter — even a rookie like you — to bring in some high-grades and one low-grades within the first three months.”

Samuel nods. “Okay.”

“Now, don’t put too much pressure on yourself, just take your time. The most important thing is to treat the potential recruits with respect. Even the ones that aren’t respectful to you. I’ll be understanding if you don’t bring someone in right away, but if I get a complaint over rude sales tactics, or anything unprofessional, it won’t be tolerated. You wear that uniform — you’re representing the United States Navy.” She holds her hands out, long, slender fingers. No wedding ring. “There. That’s my little nasty speech I have to give.”

She stands up and Samuel notes the hips — a little too large for his taste.

“Paul will show you to your office. Welcome, Samuel.” She holds out her hand and he shakes it. It feels warm and slightly moist. Does she hold it for a beat too long?

Samuel says: “It’s good to be here.”

Forty-One

Petty Officer Julie Giacalone sits back in her chair after Samuel leaves. She breathes a deep sigh. Damn, he’s good looking, she thinks. Get a grip, she tells herself. She’s a professional. An officer. Since when did she start lusting after men under her? No pun intended.

Since I haven’t gotten laid in the last six months she answers herself. It’s not how she normally is. Growing up, she was always a tomboy, with four older brothers, that goes without saying. And she’s always been tough, strong and well, not to put too fine a point on it, she’s always had balls. And a lot of guys have been intimidated by that.

Samuel doesn’t seem like the type to be intimidated.

Stop it!

Julie gets up from her desk and paces around her small office. But Christ, he’s so good looking. The dark hair, the blue eyes. And a great lean, hard body.

Oh I am helpless, she thinks.

Forty-Two

The best thing about her left knee exploding is that it is in fact, her left knee. Not the right. Which means she can drive — as long as the car is an automatic. And tonight, that small fact seems like a minor fucking miracle. For it affords her the opportunity to escape. Although not the escape of the proportion she’d like.

The ride home from the hospital is a silent one. Beth has the sense her mother wants to say something, but what is the point? Beth doesn’t want to hear it anyway. She turns on the car’s tinny radio, loud enough to prevent any talk.

She drives to a fast food place, grabs a burger and fries, and then heads out of town. She has no destination. She just wants to go. To get away from the house, her mother, the failed ambitions. Everything that Lake Orion now represents to her.

The truth is, she is still somewhat traumatized by her mother’s collapse. The image of her sprawled out on the living room carpet, the pale waxiness of her skin. The paper dry feel of her lips as she did mouth-to-mouth. It turns Beth’s stomach to think of it, and a stab of fear pierces her insides.

Some days she hates her mother, hates how she’s let the death of Beth’s father’s destroy her. Stories Beth has read make tragedy somehow romantic, the heroine longing for the man she’ll always love. But there’s no romanticism in what Beth’s mother is doing.

For a brief moment, Beth wonders what would have happened if her mother had died. As much as she despises what her mother has done and is doing, she doesn’t want her to die. Beth just wants to get away from her.

So for now, she’s content with just driving.

Her mother’s car is a beat up piece of crap Chevy Cavalier with an engine slightly more powerful than a lawnmower’s. Despite its paltry horsepower, it sucks gas as if it were a V-10. The brakes are almost useless, the radio barely works and the shocks are completely gone.

But it gets her where she wants to go.

And tonight, she just wants to go.

Beth turns onto Highway 23, which heads east. The night is cool, but not too cold. She rolls down the window and lets the brisk air beat at her, cleansing the smell of the hospital from her nostrils.

The road takes her toward small towns like Chilton and Two Rivers, Menominee and Sterling Springs. The highway dead ends in Lake St. Clair, the buffer between Lake Huron and Lake Ontario.

She doesn’t pick the route out purposely, it just seems to be where the road is funneling her. Her thoughts race as the feeling of movement pleases her. It’s a rare moment of pleasure. She realizes she desperately misses basketball. It used to be that when things troubled her, she would head to the gym, and shoot the fucking lights out. She was the all-time gym rat of Lake Orion. Saturdays, Sundays, it didn’t matter. You could find her launching bombs from well past the three point line — hell, she shot from behind where the NBA three point line would be. Sometimes she’d stand fifteen feet from the wall and bang the ball against the white painted cement blocks. Over and over, firing pass after pass until her arms ached and her palms were threatening to bleed.

Now, driving out of Lake Orion, she realizes how much she misses that temple. How much her psyche has suffered from not being able to shoot, pass and dribble. She misses the big, open space of the gymnasium where she could let her thoughts roam as her body was busy with the task of technique.

It was her therapy.

A car zooms by Beth and honks at her as it passes. Beth feels a surge of anger, but it just as quickly dies. Beth drops a hand to the thick brace. It feels tight, and beneath it, her skin is wet with sweat and it itches. This is what it’s like, she thinks, to be old.

Suddenly, her mind revolts at the thought. She stomps on the accelerator, and the Cavalier does nothing. She presses her foot all the way to the floor and slowly the car builds speed. She zooms along Highway 23. Where is he and what should she do if she finds him? Flip him off? Force him off the road and whack him with her crutch?

Who cares? She just wants to compete. She wants to fight. She’s not dead.

Come on, she urges the car, soon, she’s nearing a hundred miles an hour. The car is shimmying and shaking, its metal screaming in agony. It feels like she’s doing two hundred miles an hour.

Beth careens over the top of the hill, nearly leaving the ground and as she roars down the hill, she can see the road stretching out in front of her.

It’s completely empty.

The car is nowhere.

She eases off the accelerator and the car slowly heads back toward fifty-five. Suddenly, Beth feels stupid. Beyond stupid. Does she have a death wish? The Cavalier shouldn’t even really be taken out of town, let alone taken over sixty-five. What is she doing?

Beth sees a sign for a convenience store ahead and she pulls over. Her hands are shaking. Cold sweat dampens her forehead.

She leans her forehead against the steering wheel, the engine ticking. The tears come fast and furiously. She doesn’t know how long she stays like that, but eventually, she regains control of her breathing. Beth manages to get out of the Cavalier and goes inside the convenience store. She gets a Coke. Her mouth is dry, the fear over what she just did has left her dry inside. Stupid. Absolutely stupid.

She realizes she needs Peter.

Beth climbs into the car, fires it up, and pulls back onto the highway, heading east.

She is a virgin. One of the few in her class. Not that everyone talks about it openly. A lot do, but a lot don’t, too. And most assume that she and Peter have slept together, but they haven’t. And suddenly, she doesn’t want to be a virgin. She wants to feel alive.

It has to be just right, she thinks. And she knows where she wants it to happen. A smile slowly spreads across her face. It will be perfect. She heads east, toward Lake St. Clair. Eventually, the highway spills out into a suburban neighborhood, and there’s one dead-end cul-de-sac where Peter took her nearly a year ago, after they’d started dating. They’d had their first serious talk there.

Now, Beth wants to go there. See if it’s like she remembered. Tomorrow, she’ll bring Peter there.

He won’t know what hit him.

Forty-Three

“How is she?”

The party at Chad Cleveland’s house is in full swing. Chad Cleveland is the back-up center on the Lake Orion boys team and the offspring of two people who have plenty of money but no sense of parental obligation. They left for the weekend, leaving the house in the very capable hands of their fun-loving son. The party started out with mostly Lake Orion kids but soon, friends from neighboring towns began showing up and soon Peter found himself face to face with the Tank. The very girl who took Beth’s scholarship and played a big part in blowing out her knee.

Peter leans in closer to her. “What?” he says.

“I said how is she? Beth? How is she doing?”

Peter, slightly drunk, can smell the girl’s perfume. It’s light, not as flowery as Beth’s. It’s almost a touch masculine. A tendril of her hair brushes his cheek and his body responds. He realizes he’s had way too much to drink.

“She’s fucking miserable.” Why pull punches? He leans back and looks at the Tank. “Just awful,” he continues. He doesn’t know her — why sugar coat it? He even wants to add something about how she shouldn’t feel guilty, that it was an accident, but goddamn it, Beth is completely fucked. Despite the happy buzz the booze is giving him, he can feel enough to remember what Beth is going through.

“It was…” the Tank begins. “It was just… terrible. I just went for the ball and then I heard that horrible… pop…” She shakes her head and Peter can see that the remorse is genuine. He looks at her a bit more closely, he’s touched by the honest sympathy he sees on her face, which, looking now, he sees as very pretty. In fact, she’s got deep, compassionate brown eyes, soft skin and lips that he thinks would taste like sugar-

Whoa, he tells himself. Maybe he’s had more to drink than he realizes. He’s in love with Beth. Well, not in love with her, but he loves her, more like a friend. They’ve shared a lot together, but he’s going to Marquette. Things will be hard and he’s a realist. It’s just not going to last.

He just hasn’t told Beth yet.

I’m such a shit, he thinks.

At the same time, his gaze lingers on the Tank — no, her name is Vanessa — and he lets it run down her firm body, the big full breasts. Much bigger than Beth’s.

You shit, he thinks.

Peter’s glass is topped off by a buddy and he drains half of it. The Tank is saying something else to him, but he can’t hear her, he leans and this time slips an arm around her waist. She responds by doing the same to him. The house is shaking with the sound of rock music. It rips through Peter’s body, and combined with the booze, fills him with a sudden burst of manic energy.

He puts his lips tightly against the Tank’s ear.

“You want to go somewhere quieter?”

She responds by pulling him toward the front door.

Forty-Four

Beth feels herself swept away by the fantasy. It seems like the thought of sleeping with Peter has changed everything. It’s not that she thinks it’s the answer to her problems, not by any means. But it’s as if the decision to lose her virginity, to cement their relationship has given her a tentative foothold on her future.

The sky has gotten even darker and the first stars of the night are appearing. The wind has picked up, and it batters the car as Beth pulls into the Metro Beach Park. She drives past the empty swimming pool, the swingsets rusting in the open field.

The cul-de-sac is on the northern edge of the park, a small plateau accessible by a small service road. Most people who come to the park never learn about its existence.

Beth pulls the Cavalier into the service drive and putts along until the road swerves toward the lake. The trees clear and suddenly Beth is captivated by the sight of Lake St. Clair, the moon casting a shaft of light over the whitecaps beating against the shore.

The parking spaces are really nothing more than small, rectangular clearings in the brush butting up to the edge of the plateau. There is just enough room to maneuver a vehicle into the spaces, and enough room, as well as foliage, between the spaces to afford privacy.

Beth pulls the Cavalier into a spot and puts the car in park. The heater is kicking out a steady stream of heat, and the car feels cozy. It feels good to be here. She turns the radio off and cracks the window, listens for the sound of the waves crashing into the shore. The soothing sound greets her and she sinks deeper into her seat. Beth looks out over the water, moved by the sight of it, the sheer expansiveness. Someone told her that a big body of water can make any person’s troubles seems small. Lake St. Clair has always been that for her.

Especially this spot.

Oh, Peter. She imagines his face. The strong jaw, the goofy smile. She wonders what it will be like. How he’ll be.

He’ll be great, she thinks.

A small seed of doubt springs to life in her mind. Is she making a mistake? Is she rushing it because of her injury?

No, she tells herself firmly. Peter has already committed to her. That night in her room when he told her about the scholarship — he said he wanted to make it work. She’s going to sleep with him because she loves him.

And because she’s ready.

Besides, she’s been the one who hasn’t wanted to take the relationship farther. Maybe Peter hasn’t been aware of just how strong her commitment to him really is.

Well, after she tells him what she has in mind, that will change everything. She shifts in her chair and a shooting pain slashes through her knee. She groans, realizes she’ll have to get out of the car and change position. She shuts off the Cavalier, jams the keys in her pocket, opens the door, and leverages herself out.

The cold wind takes her breath away and she instantly misses the warmth of the car.

She shuts the car door and hobbles to the edge of the plateau. It’s beautiful. Cold, but absolutely beautiful. The open water speaks to her and her body is flooded with peaceful rhythms.

She walks along the edge of the plateau, seeing more of the lake with each step. She passes several parking spaces.

They’re empty.

A loon calls from the lake and Beth tries to pick it out of the black, choppy water. Impossible.

Beth senses movement behind her and turns.

One of the spaces has a car parked in it.

No, not a car, she corrects herself.

An SUV. A Ford SUV, to be exact. An Explorer.

Like Peter’s.

Beth turns and is about to continue walking when she looks back at the Explorer. It does look like Peter’s. It’s the same color. But it couldn’t be him. What would he be doing here? Did he hear about what happened to her mother? Did he come looking for her? If so, why would he be parked-

It’s not Peter. Beth takes a step away from the Explorer but again, she stops herself.

Without looking at the Ford, Beth closes her eyes and pictures Peter’s Explorer. There’s something in the back window. What is it? A little decal. Some kind of race. A cross-country ski race that his father does every year. What is it called? She thinks. The Trekker! That’s it.

Beth opens her eyes and takes a few steps toward the Explorer.

Her knee is aching and her heart is racing. Please don’t be there, she thinks. Please, please, please don’t be there.

When she’s close enough, she raises her eyes and like lasers, they lock on to the decal in the bottom right corner of the Explorer’s back window.

Trekker! It reads.

Beth stands stock still.

No.

A slow, sick feeling spreads through her stomach.

She takes a step. And then another. And another.

She is three feet away from the side of the Explorer when she stops. The earth seems to be tilting this way and that. The stars seem to swirl above her and the wind pushes her forward.

A last thought enters her mind before she steps up to the window, a penitent going before the executioner, and looks inside.

Please, Peter.

You’re all I’ve got left.

Forty-five

Like all great moments of pure pleasure, there is an element of agony combined with the ecstasy.

Peter Forbes, scrunched into the backseat of his parents’ Ford Explorer, is keenly aware of that dichotomy. He is sprawled out on the back seat, his back pressed against the side of the Explorer. His pants are off, and between his legs, the Tank is doing something she has clearly performed many times before.

Peter has never experienced anything like it. The feeling is one of pure, intense pleasure.

She swallows him whole, he is overwhelmed by the sensation and makes sounds he’s never made before during sex.

The agony isn’t entirely sexual, however. For as much as his mind is enflamed by what Vanessa is doing, he can’t help but think of Beth.

Two hours ago, he was at a party having a great time. Drinking plenty of Chad Cleveland’s booze, talking bullshit with the guys. The next, he’s talking to a girl who seems vaguely familiar. A few more drinks are down the hatch before he realizes who she is.

A sudden burst of pleasure makes Peter shudder.

Oh God oh god oh god

He shifts and Vanessa reacts. She is completely naked except for her socks and she smiles at Peter and he closes his eyes.

Slowly, she moves up and she straddles Peter, drops herself onto him. Peter nearly shouts with ecstasy as he feels himself drive deep inside her. “Oh God!” he cries in a hoarse whisper. Vanessa grunts, a deep, powerful sound. Like an animal.

Peter feels heat run through him. His eyes are shut tightly, pure pleasure signals coming from his nerves to his brain in a relentless procession.

He’s going over.

His hands clench her buttocks fiercely. His body is thrusting up toward her, as hard as he can. He’s gritting his teeth. Can feel the Explorer rocking with their thrusts.

He opens his eyes and sees a white oval hovering just outside the Explorer catches his eyes.

He freezes.

A new sensation, freezing cold, stabs at his stomach.

“Oh God,” he says. He pulls away from Vanessa and tries to untangle his legs from her.

“What?” she asks. She’s sweating and her breath is in ragged gasps. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh God,” is all he can say. It’s all he’s been saying for the last twenty minutes. “Oh no. Shit!” He scrambles and gets his pants on and stumbles from the Explorer. Already, he is consumed with a head-spinning mix of guilt and panic. A million excuses, stories, rationalizations flood his mind.

Beth is hobbling toward her car, he can hear her wailing. It’s the most heartbreaking sound he has ever heard in his life. It drives the guilt deeper inside him, like a knife. He runs after her in his bare feet. The gravel, the cold, not registering.

“Beth, stop! Beth!”

She stumbles and screams in pain.

He gets to her can see her holding her knee. Her face is catching the moon’s reflection full on — it’s covered with tears. She’s writhing on the ground, holding her knee, holding the thick brace. Peter can see snot running from her nose. Her lower lip is bleeding. She must have bitten it, he thinks.

She struggles back to her feet and faces Peter, like a boxer who’s just gotten knocked to the canvas. Her eyes are filled with tears, her face a hurt, angry smear. All she can say is one word.

“Her?”

Peter opens his mouth but all the excuses and rationalizations evade his grasp.

Beth wails again and hobbles back to her car. He tries to help her as she stumbles forward but as soon as he grabs her arm to help support her she pivots and whips a backhand across his face. It snaps his head around and the sheer force of it knocks him backward and he lands on the ground on his butt. He can taste blood in his mouth.

Beth screams as she drops into the driver’s seat, grabbing her leg. She slams the car door shut and starts up the engine. Peter gets to his feet. “Beth!” he calls, but she takes one more glance at him and above and behind him — toward the Explorer, before she whips off the plateau in a roar of screaming engine and spinning wheels.

Peter hangs his head, his entire body numb with guilt, fear, shock and cold.

The cold seems to drive spikes through his body.

He lifts his head and for a moment, listens to the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below.

Forty-Six

Julie Giacalone, a model of practical efficiency and clear focus, is daydreaming about the new recruiter. Sitting comfortably at her desk, a sheaf of papers forgotten on her desk, she is staring at a spot on the wall, her mind elsewhere.

“Julie?”

She jumps, the voice startling her.

Paul Rogers is looking at her, a curious expression on his face. “Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine.” What the hell is going on with her? Jesus Christ, what was she doing? Get a grip, Jules.

“You looked like you were a million miles away.”

Julie smiles, her composure returning at last. “Nope, right here.”

Paul looks back over his shoulder. “Samuel’s back. Want me to get an update how he’s doing?”

Julie shuffles the papers on her desk, pretends to make an important note — perhaps scheduling a meeting. “No,” she says, her manner as offhand as she can manufacture. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Okay,” Paul says, and Julie wonders if she detected a trace of sarcasm. Whatever, she thinks. I’m the CO here. I can do whatever I want.

Paul leaves, and Julie reconsiders her last thought. Actually, no, you can’t do whatever you want. Ever since a few recent scandals, where several sailors were accused of assault, the Navy has instituted more severe policies for dating — especially between officers and enlisted men. Julie is familiar with the rules and knows there are plenty of loopholes. Besides, they’re mostly designed to protect women from men.

She can’t believe Samuel would be the kind to object-

“Ma’am?”

Julie looks up and instantly feels heat rush to her face. Samuel is standing in the doorway.

“Paul said you wanted to speak with me.” He looks the same — lean and strong, the blue eyes intense-

Julie curses herself. “Yes, I wanted to… get an update.”

She watches Samuel take a seat in front of her. He moves so gracefully, no wasted motion. “How’s it going?” she asks.

“Okay,” he says. Julie waits, figuring he’ll say more, but he doesn’t.

“Okay? That’s it?”

Samuel smiles easily. “Well, better than okay, I guess. My first two appointments were busts. Both cases the kids had no interest whatsoever, the parents were just using the threat of the Navy to try to get them to shape up.

“So do you think you’ll meet your quota for the first month?”

Samuel’s face pales. Uh-oh, she thinks. Is she pushing too hard? He just started-

“I think I should be able to,” he answers.

“Good, very good,” she says, more her old self. “So how is everything else going? Are you settling in?”

“I’m home,” he says.

“Good,” she says. Christ, that’s the third time I’ve said ‘good’ in the last twenty seconds, she thinks. She’s making a fool of herself. But she’s drawn to him. To his quiet intensity. His body. His face. His lips. She’s making a fool of herself all right, but she’s about to make an even bigger fool of herself. But what the hell — here goes.

“Big plans for the weekend?” she says as casually as possible — considering her fingers are knotted on the arms of her chairs, and her entire body is one long coiled muscle.

“Oh, a little unpacking. Not much. You?”

“I… uh… was wondering if you wanted a tour of the District. I mean, I know you’re from here, but there are some areas where we’ve been very successful in terms of recruitment numbers. Not that it’s… the tour… is work.” She feels herself blush. “And not that it isn’t… work… but—”

“As long as we can fit a few beers somewhere,” he says. Julie raises her eyes to meet his and sees that they are clear of guile. Over the years, she’s had to learn to read people, especially young men, and although Samuel is older than most, she feels like she gets a clear reading from him. Those blue eyes weren’t lying.

He is telling the truth.

And the message to Julie Giacalone is crystal clear.

He’s interested.

In her.

Forty-Seven

“Fischer for three!”

Her voices echoes off into the night. It’s a thin sound, like the hollow resonance of a fake laugh. The ball bangs off the backboard and veers off into the shrubs along the house. She hobbles over to it, scoops it up, pays no attention to the fact that it’s wet and cold and that her hands are losing their feeling. Her shoes are untied, mud caked along the white bandage. Her shirt is untucked and her hair is in loose, wet strands. A lopsided grin is on her face as she turns and faces the basket.

Beth reaches down to the narrow cement path that runs between the driveway and the house. The whiskey bottle is almost empty. Holding the basketball under one arm, she unscrews the cap, takes a long pull from the bottle, wipes her mouth with her sleeve, puts the cap back on and sets the bottle down. She releases the ball from under her arm, catches it with the other hand and starts dribbling the ball on the driveway. She pounds it hard against the pavement, and drunk as she is, the movement is so natural and so ingrained that it’s a perfectly timed, perfectly executed unconscious movement.

“Three seconds to go, Lake Orion is down by one, all eyes are on Beth Fischer.” Her enunciation is diminished, but her volume is not. Her words broadcast far into the night. Before the last one leaves her mouth, a light appears in the house next door.

Beth doesn’t notice.

“She fakes left,” Beth says, then hobbles left, the pain in her knee cuts through the whiskey fog and momentarily wipes the hysterical grin from her face. She grits her teeth and bears down on the ball. “She dribbles right.” A crablike motion gets her in that direction. “She’s like poetry in motion out there folks, I gotta tell ya, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” Beth, moving in nearly slow motion, mimes a slow head fake. “She’s got space between herself and her defender.” Beth, in a reckless but remarkably fluid motion brings the ball from a dribble to a half hook shot. The ball sails through air. “She shoots! The ball rotates beautifully, her follow through is magnificent… this girl has got the goddamn motherfucking eye of the tiger folks.” The ball careens at the basket like a missile but misses the hoop entirely and goes over the roof of the garage. She hears it bang off the roof, roll down the other side and crash into the garbage cans. A cat hisses.

“Whoa, that one got away from her, folks.” Beth sways on her feet, her arms upraised in mock victory. “But what do you expect? A knee made of rubber, a boyfriend fucking the opponent, it’s all just another day in the life of one Beth Fish-”

“Beth.”

She whirls around

“That’s enough,” her mother says. Anna is in a bathrobe, her hair squashed against one side her head, sticking up on the other. Her white tube socks and slippers seem to glow in the night. “Come inside.”

“Welcome to the game, Mom, but you’re too late. It’s over. We lost. I tried for the game-winning shot but it ended up in the garbage. Along with everything else, huh?”

“Beth, I don’t know what’s going on but you should come inside-”

“We make a great team, too, Mom. Don’t you think?”

Anna doesn’t respond. She looks beyond Beth. Another light has turned on in the house next door.

“Beth”

“You drink yourself into a stupor, get your stomach pumped and I-”

“You what, Beth?” Anna’s voice is soft. Beth, drunk herself, notes that her mother’s words don’t seem to be slurred. Is it some kind of reverse alcoholic effect? When you’re drunk, alcoholics sound sober?

“I—” A whirlwind of thoughts and images ricochet around Beth’s head. She sways on her feet, takes a faltering step toward the basketball hoop. Anna lunges toward her but she’s too late. Beth collapses, landing face down on the driveway.

When she comes to, she’s not in the driveway anymore. She is in her bed. She’s wearing warm pajamas and the brace, bandage and all, has been cleaned and replaced. By her mother. By her mother? Is this possible? Through the numbing sensation clouding her brain, Beth again wonders what’s going on.

The world must be ending, she thinks.

Beth’s eyelids feel heavy. She isn’t sure what pills her mother gave her but the pain is gone and she is very close to sleeping. Unlike the last few weeks, the sleep that’s coming feels peaceful. An emotion she hasn’t felt in some time.

Anna comes into the room. Beth opens her eyes and looks at her. Beth can see the pain in her mother’s eyes. She can see that her mother wants to know what happened, but the last thing in the world she wants to do is tell her mother what shit she just went through. How Peter shattered what little was left of her hope. No, she definitely doesn’t want to go into that now.

But before Beth can stop herself she says, “Peter was… screwing… Vanessa Robinson.” The words come out choked and hesitant. Like a confession.

Anna’s face doesn’t register anything at first, but then her face sags inward and her mouth forms a silent “o.”

Beth nods. “She’s the one who did this,” and gestures at her knee. “First she fucked me, then Peter.”

“Oh Beth. I’m sorry.”

The tug of sleep is pulling at Beth and she closes her eyes. Just before sleep overwhelms her she clarifies.

“Thoroughly. Fucked thoroughly.”

A moment later, the only sound coming from her mouth is that of a soft, gentle snore. Anna pulls the blanket up tight beneath Beth’s chin. She strokes Beth’s forehead. Her eyes are misty and she hums a soft sound as Beth drifts off to sleep.

She looks at the wall, at the empty walls where Beth’s basketball posters used to be. The ones she tore down and threw into the garbage.

Anna curses everyone and everything.

But she saves the worst for herself.

Forty-Eight

Anna is on the second label when the shakes hit her. At first, the sensation feels like when you’re at a movie theater and you go to uncross your legs only to discover that your foot has fallen asleep. It’s a weird, detached feeling and Anna quietly observes the tremors worming their way around her fingers and hands.

She puts the pen down and pushes the sheet of stick-on labels away from her. The package cost her five bucks and she’s not about to ruin them by scrawling unrecognizable letters across their faces.

That would defeat the purpose, now wouldn’t it?

The shakes advance up her forearms like an evil little army that has infiltrated the very nerve center of her being. The army sends out a battalion of chills and Anna shivers as a cold sweat brakes out along her forehead. Her face flushes hot and cold, her heartbeat accelerates and she instinctively thinks about the whiskey bottle sitting out on the driveway. Is it still there? Is there any left? Did Beth finish it? She can see herself walking out, picking it up and taking just a small drink — just a little one to combat these fucking withdrawal symptoms.

Withdrawal.

The word sounds so strange to Anna. She’s thought about in the past, sure. Even read a little bit about it. Got as far as the AA’s parking lot before heading for the nearest tavern.

She imagines herself standing up at an AA meeting and saying “I’m Anna Fischer and I haven’t had a drink since I collapsed on the living room floor and my daughter called 911 and an ambulance came and got me, took me to the hospital where I had my stomach pumped and then later, I found my only daughter in tears, drunk shooting baskets at two in the morning.”

They would all stare at her quietly and then say, “Hi Anna.”

She pushes away from the table, away from the stack of padded envelopes and blank sheets of paper.

She has to be careful not to push it, not to try to do too much too soon. She needs to move, to do something to take her mind off her body’s desperate screaming for alcohol. She needs something to hold on to, both literally and figuratively.

Anna thinks for a moment, her body cold and hollow inside, and then comes up with the answer.

In her room, she opens her top dresser drawer and pushes aside the odd assortment of pennies, spools of thread, old letters and pictures, reaches for the back of the drawer. Her hands scrape the cheap plywood bottom of the drawer and then she feels the tiny steel links.

She pulls it from the back, and she hears it rattle slightly. And then she lifts it, scattering the papers and pictures turning it all into a slightly different mess.

The dog tags are dull and feel heavier than she’d imagined. She holds the chain, imagining the feel of Vince’s neck, of the sweat that must have poured from his skin onto the chain as he fought.

Anna drops the dog tags into her palm, and her fingers close over them. She likes their heft, likes the tactile sensation of the edges pressing into her palm. The edges are sharp enough to hurt if she squeezes hard enough, but not thin enough to cut her skin.

Anna closes her hand again, the shakes are coming back and then they are upon her. She sags against the dresser, holding onto Vincent’s dog tags with everything she’s got. She’s dizzy, and for a moment, isn’t sure if she’s going to faint.

And then it passes.

She opens her hand and the edges of the dog tags, sharper than she’d thought, have made neat lines in her palm. She gives the tags a squeeze. Vincent would want her to do this.

If she wants to keep what’s left of him alive — that part of him inside her and inside Beth — she’s got to keep from drinking. She’s got to save what’s left of her relationship with Beth.

She’s got to do what Vincent would do.

Anna shuts her top dresser drawer and drops the dog tags into her front pocket.

Together, she thinks.

You and me, Vincent.

Together, we’ll help me stop drinking.

Forty-Nine

It is nearly unbearable.

Beth can’t decide what hurts more; her head or her knee. She takes a handful of Tylenol knowing that it will merely put a dent in the agony that is consuming her body, but it is all she has. The agony she feels inside, the image of Peter… well, there isn’t anything she can take for that.

She sits alone in the living room. Outside the wind whips through the eaves and somewhere in the house a wallboard pops. The sound of the coffeemaker finishing the brewing of its first pot of the day reaches the living room.

Beth gets to her feet, a painful act that leaves her with a bead of sweat on her forehead and groaning from the pain.

She goes into the kitchen, gets a chipped cup from the cupboard. The cup has a logo of a travel agency on it. A travel agency? When’s the last time she or her mother ever went anywhere?

Beth fills the cup, adds cream and sugar and navigates her way back to the living room.

She hasn’t seen her mother this morning; her bed was empty. Where the hell was she? She never gets up early. Usually, she sleeps until late morning.

Beth sips from the cup and her stomach, uneasy to begin with, recoils slightly at the harsh coffee settling in. Beth ignores it and drinks more. She needs a shot of something to face the day. To face whatever kind of future she has left.

So what does she want to do?

Beth knows the answer to that. She wants to revel in the agony. She wants to feel sorry for herself.

Goddammit, though. She’s not going to.

It’s pitiful. She never felt sorry for herself on the basketball court when she got into a shooting slump, or when the refs missed a bad call, or when her coach got on her case for something she didn’t deserve. She just got tougher, stronger, she bore down harder.

Despite her lifelong admonition to not end up like her mother, Beth has been doing just that for the last couple of weeks.

Beth hobbles to her backpack. She rummages through it and finds the Navy brochure she’d had mailed to her.

Beth looks again at the cover. It shows a woman on the prow of a battle ship. The woman is strong, brave and confident.

Everything Beth used to be.

The brochure has plenty of information about money for college, the financial benefits of joining.

But for Beth, those benefits are secondary.

The thing she wants is less concrete.

She simply wants to escape.

Beth takes the brochure, flips it over and finds the local recruiting office’s address and phone hand-stamped near the bottom of the page. She picks up the phone and punches in the number.

The act has accomplished what the coffee and Tylenol could not.

The pain is gone.

Fifty

From the start, the so-called “tour” is a disaster.

Julie can sense it. There’s something about the way Samuel is acting. He seems tense and distant. Not all the time, granted. There are moments where his eyes seem to clear, where his focus returns and she feels like he’s actually here with her. And then just as fast, it feels like he’s gone again, lost in some other world.

But then again, she really doesn’t know him all that well — maybe that’s just his nature. She laughs at the irony, at the hypocrisy. She doesn’t know him well enough to gauge his interests, but she’s doing this whole ruse of a tour because she wants him? As exciting as the lure of Samuel Ackerman is to her, she feels like she’s hitting an all-time low.

Still, she somehow thought he would loosen up, show more of his true personality. Whatever that personality may be. She senses his internal goodness. Again, she’s good at judging people, and despite his cool exterior, Julie feels like she can see into his heart.

And his heart is good. She knows that as a given.

So could it be that he is simply always this reserved?

They have done a circuitous route through District Three. From the northern suburbs all the way through the worst of Detroit’s ghettos. For Julie, it’s extremely familiar territory; she is able to point out neighborhoods where she’s done well getting recruits, others that have yielded nothing. The areas are like that; pockets of interest, where good experiences have led to good word-of-mouth. And likewise, where there have been bad experiences, there is very little interest in the Navy, or any branch of the military.

All told, they’ve spent nearly two hours in Julie’s car and she is ready for a break. She’s got to figure out a way to get Samuel to open up, to relax. She wonders if it’s because she’s a woman and his superior officer? No, her instincts tell her he’s not that insecure, even though the majority of men who have worked for her have had at least some issue with having a female boss.

But Samuel is different.

It’s partly why she is so attracted to him.

She’s been trying to fight it. Trying to keep in mind that he works for her. That there are rules about officers dating their subordinates, but goddammit, she is more attracted to him every minute.

They have made it through the city and Julie has just hopped onto I-75, headed back toward the office in Troy. Traffic is beginning to get thick as they approach rush hour.

“How does a drink sound?” she asks. It comes out as casually as possible, but her heart skips a beat when she hears the pause. Goddammit, she thinks, what’s wrong with him?

“Sounds perfect,” Samuel says. He’s looking out the window when Julie asks, and he answers without turning to face her.

This is a mistake, Julie thinks. I should have just kept my mouth shut. Well, too late now.

She takes the same exit she would have to head back to the office, but goes east instead of west. A few blocks down, she turns into the parking lot of a place called The Preserve.

She parks the Taurus — Government plates, of course — and they head inside. The bar is made to look like a game preserve — done all up with knotty pine and log cabin touches. It’s a big cavernous space that’s only partially filled with customers, most of whom have most likely sneaked out of work early for a quick tot before heading home.

Julie sees Samuel hesitate when they get inside — should they get a table or sit at the bar? Julie instinctively knows that sitting at the table will be too intimate, will put too much pressure on Samuel. She wants to make him relaxed, get him to open up a little bit. Plus, she wants a drink now, she doesn’t want to wait for a cocktail waitress to take her time with their drinks.

She heads for the bar.

They order their drinks; a beer for him, vodka tonic for her. Julie tells herself to be careful. She doesn’t want to get drunk and make a total ass of herself. She takes a drink of the vodka, it feels good, she hadn’t realized how tense she herself was. Alcohol, the great social lubricant. She turns to Samuel, a gentle smile on her face that she thinks is both encouraging and slightly coy.

“So what’s on your mind?” she asks.

Fifty-One

Escape, Samuel thinks. That’s what’s on my mind. Escape from you and this interminable tour that’s really nothing more than a thinly veiled, desperate plea for me to sleep with you.

He takes a drink of the beer to buy some time. He’s thought of his options to get away from her, but there are none.

His hands are tied.

“You,” he says finally.

He sees the surprise in her eyes. Followed immediately by a goofy look of obvious pleasure. She obviously wants him, has been sending out signals like a goddamn radio tower. He’d have to be a complete moron not to see what she wants. Is she not aware of the power she has over him, or does she just refuse to acknowledge it because it would make her feel like all the men over the years who have put pressure on their female subordinates? Some sort of backward refusal to face the reality of what she is doing.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“You’ve talked a lot about your job, but not anything about yourself.” I can do this, Samuel thinks. I can do this. I’ve done worse than her, much worse. So keep it together.

“That’s funny, I was going to say the same thing to you.”

“Yeah, but I said it first.”

Samuel watches as she signals the bartender. He glances at her drink. It’s empty. Christ, that was fast. He hasn’t even drained a third of his beer. Not that it matters as it’s light beer. There won’t be any buzz for him tonight. And really, spending time with her is enough to ruin any kind of buzz. What at first was a mild sympathy for her has now turned into pure animosity. And the worst part of all?

He’s going to have to fuck her.

It’s a given.

He listens, a patient expression on her face as she talks about growing up in a big family with lots of brothers, blah, blah, blah.

Suddenly, he senses Julie looking at him.

“Pardon me?”

“I said,” her words are slightly slurred. How long has she been talking? He rubs his temple, it’s been throbbing and the pain is piercing through his mind. How many drinks has she had? He looks down at his beer. It’s been re-filled. When? How could he not notice?

Samuel, keep it together, man!

“That’s my story. Now, I’ll give you two options, Mr. Mysterious. You either tell me more about yourself, open up a little bit, or just take me home.”

Samuel drains half of his beer in one long drink, suddenly wishing that it wasn’t light beer but something much, much stronger.

He pays the bartender and they walk out together, Julie walking very close to him. There’s no questions who will drive as she’s clearly half in the bag. She blathers on the whole way to her house, Samuel having to interrupt to confirm directions. Finally, they pull into the driveway of a small Cape Cod on a quiet street. Ordinarily, Samuel thinks a house like this would be someone’s idea of quaint domesticity. But knowing what he knows about Julie Giacalone, it seems depressing.

What happens doesn’t surprise Samuel. In fact, it feels like it’s been scripted and he’s just following along, playing his part.

As soon as they’re in the door, she practically throws herself at him. Her lips are all over him and he tries not to recoil at the feeling of her cold nose pressing against his cheek, like an English Pointer eagerly licking its master. He pretends to respond with equal passion as she pulls him toward the bedroom. She pulls at his clothes practically ripping the buttons from his shirt. He is trying to get her clothes off, but she’s moving, already has his pants down. He looks around her room. It’s what he expected. A soft yellow with a flowery comforter and pictures of her parents on her dresser.

She takes off her clothes, pulling him toward the bed where in no time he finds himself on top of her and she’s kissing him, her legs wrapped around his ribs, thrusting her pelvis at him with brutal force.

The pain in Samuel’s head is pounding at him, he feels inundated, sensory overload. He feels his will begin to subside and it scares him. He forces everything from his mind, grits his teeth and bares down. He thinks of Nevens, of how good it felt to slit his throat.

He grabs each of Julie’s legs and spreads them wider, opening her up. She moans in anticipation. He leans in, but turns his head away from her, looking at her will break the spell. He focuses on the blood lust that seeps through is body at the memory of killing Nevens and lets himself be consumed with the task at hand.

Fifty-Two

When he lifts her legs, Julie Giacalone’s passion boils over into a primal frenzy. Samuel’s gentleness, his smooth motions have slowly built the seeds of a raging orgasm inside her. But when she feels his passion rise, she is electrified by the explosive pleasure sweeping through her body.

She is succumbing to it, feels a howl of pleasure start at the base of her vocal cords.

She presses her head back in the pillow and turns her face to the side. She opens her eyes, startled by the sheer intensity of the orgasm rampaging its way through her body.

And then she sees something in the bathroom.

It doesn’t register at first, so consumed with the intensity of the pleasure as she is.

The mirror.

She sees Samuel’s face in the mirror.

At first, she thinks it must be an illusion. But no, it’s his face. It’s his face, on her dresser. It’s like an optical illusion until she realizes that’s the reflection of a reflection. The mirror in the bathroom is a make-up mirror, on an extendable metal hook. When she used it this morning, she must have left it pulled out. The mirror is turned toward the doorway of the bathroom and on its face, she can see the reflection of her dresser.

On her dresser, however, is another, small mirror. She uses this for a final check before she goes out the door. It’s tilted down toward the bed. And on its face is Samuel’s face, reflected.

Julie is shocked by what she sees.

Samuel’s face is not filled with pleasure, not with ecstasy.

His face is wrinkled in fact, with displeasure.

Julie feels a coldness sweep through her body.

He’s fucking her out of duty.

It’s that obvious.

She stops thrusting as Samuel rocks her body with his orgasm. He’s done and Julie, out of breath, closes her eyes.

She feels like she’s been violated.

But no, that’s not right.

She forced herself on him.

And then it call becomes clear. He felt he had to do it, had to do the boss. Oh God, how awful. How unbelievably awful.

Why didn’t he say something? Suddenly, she feels a rage, a hopeless burst of fury.

He treated her like a piece of meat. Shame floods her and she can only see his face, see that look of abject disgust.

She wants to cry.

But she doesn’t let herself. She lets her emotions of self-pity and self-loathing gel into something.

A pure, raw, unadulterated hatred.

For him.

For Samuel.

Fifty-Three

When it’s over, Samuel feels her body against his and knows that she has fallen asleep. It was bad, but he got the job done. Somehow, he thought her orgasm would be louder and more intense, judging by the way she was making so much noise during the build-up.

Whatever.

Samuel stares at the ceiling. His body hums with electricity. He feels good, sort of like after a light workout.

Now, he just needs to meet his quota. He makes a note to check with Paul Rogers, to see if any leads on a high-quality recruit have called in.

Samuel glances out the corner of his eye at Julie. Her back is to him, she’s sleeping.

He wonders how many more times he’ll have to have sex with her.

Probably quite a few.

And then he wonders if killing her will be as unpleasant as fucking her.

Fifty-Four

After a lot of thought, Peter Forbes has come to a simple conclusion regarding the unfortunate scene in which Beth discovered him with Vanessa.

It’s Beth’s fault.

It hasn’t been an easy decision for him to reach, but like a dogged investigator he has followed the clues and the answers have led him to the doorstep of that ultimate responsibility.

It’s Beth’s fault. It really is.

First of all, it was Beth who didn’t want to take their relationship to the next level. Lord knows he’d tried to get there, but she always said no. Once, they’d come very, very close, but again, Beth’s wishes prevailed. She had absolutely refused to consummate their relationship.

No sex. No way.

Why she felt that way, Peter never understood. She usually claimed she just wasn’t ready. Other times it was about not wanting to jeopardize either of their basketball futures with a baby, even though Peter had said he’d wear a condom. Once in a while, she’d say she didn’t want to be a slut.

That one always stuck with him. Beth isn’t old-fashioned. She parties, she swears, she’s with it.

So what was the deal with the sex thing? What was the real truth?

Christ, Beth and the ugly chick who hangs out in the library were probably the only two virgins in their entire class. And rumor had it that the ugly chick and a nerd from the AV club were getting ready to take the plunge.

So the crux of the problem, the focus of the blame has to be with Beth. Peter is confident in this; if he and Beth had been sleeping together before her knee injury, he never would have picked up Vanessa and gone for it with her. In essence, Peter had given Beth every opportunity to be the girl in the Explorer with him going at it like rutting dogs.

Beth hadn’t taken the opportunity.

So who’s fault was it, really?

Admittedly, he was already feeling like the relationship with Beth wasn’t going anywhere and that once he left for Marquette, it would be all over anyway, but still, he couldn’t get around the fact that it was probably Beth’s fault he ended up enjoying those glorious minutes with Vanessa.

Vanessa. Wow. Despite the guilt, the pain over what he’d done, every time he thinks of what she’d done to him, he gets excited all over again.

Peter tries to forget about Vanessa.

He has a conscience, after all. And that’s why he has decided to come and talk to Beth. He can’t just leave it like this.

Now, standing at her front door, he knocks firmly. It’s time to face this thing.

It’s the right thing to do.

He rings the doorbell and waits. It was bad, too. The indignity of having to walk back to the Explorer with his pants down, his feet all cold and there’s Vanessa, sitting there in all her naked pride, completely comfortable with being unclad — judging by her experience it shouldn’t’ have surprised him. But he remembers the look of scorn on her face. Like she couldn’t believe he went chasing after Beth even though they were en flagrante delico.

Peter’s face flushes at the memory. To be completely honest, it pisses him off. And it’s Beth’s fault. In a way, she completely humiliated him, as much as she probably feels like it’s the other way around.

The door opens and Beth is standing there, her arms folded.

She steps back, and starts to close the door but Peter’s faster. He gets his hand inside and steps into the house. Beth, her face indifferent, limps away, back toward the living room.

“Beth.”

She lowers herself into a chair and props her leg up on the ottoman. Pain registers on her face from the effort.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Peter says. And he is, but he doesn’t like the way she’s trying to blame him entirely for what happened. She’s got to take some responsibility, too.

“Sure you are.”

“I am.”

“Did you finish?”

“Finish?”

“Did you finish fucking her or was that it for the night? When you chased me, did you get back in and do her right?”

Peter, standing in the middle of he living room, suddenly feels foolish. He feels like a defendant being cross-examined by a ruthless prosecutor. He sits down on the sagging couch.

“Come on Beth. It’s my fault.”

Suddenly, she screams at him. ”Of course it’s your fault! How could you do that to me? With her? Her! Why her? And there! You asshole!”

Peter watches Beth’s face crumple into tears.

“It didn’t…” But he’s at a loss for words. He can’t explain it. And why should he? Beth’s partially to blame, too. Granted, not as much as he is but still, she should take some responsibility. He told himself he wasn’t going to articulate that he blames her. He’s got to stick to it. That would be a terrible thing to do to Beth.

“Maybe if we had…” he begins.

“I knew it! I knew you were going to try to blame me for it. She mocks him, ‘Maybe if we had… ’ As in, maybe if I’d let you fuck me you wouldn’t have been fucking Vanessa? So now it’s my fault?”

Peter shuts his mouth. She was all over that one in a hurry. Why is he handling this so badly?

“No,” he says.

“But that’s what you think. You’re blaming me. Get out of my house. And stay out of my life.”

The finality of it shocks Peter.

Out of her life? She can’t be serious.

“Beth-”

“Out!”

Peter knows there’s no sense in staying. She’s hysterical. She’ll come to her senses later, when the anger has passed. She’ll be able to see things more clearly, including how much of a role she unwittingly played in what happened.

He gets up, walks to the front door. He opens it and comes face to face with a man he’s never seen before.

“Hi,” the man says. “I’m Samuel.”

Fifty-Five

Samuel is sick of surprises.

On the drive to Beth Fischer’s house, he’s gone over how the scenario should play out, tried to think of all the variables that could come into play.

Samuel laughs at the recruiter training he had in Florida. Somehow, he can’t recall any lessons on how to deal with the absolute bullshit the real world presented to the recruiter. And, naturally, they said absolutely nothing about the kind of pressure a recruiter can be under. Jesus Christ, to be told to get two new recruits in ninety days or get a bad mark in your file! It’s a pathetic situation, but one he has to deal with.

He checks the street number on the sheet of paper Paul Rogers had given him, and turns down a quiet street packed with teeny little homes, glorified ice shanties by the size of them, until he pulls up in front of a little white house with overgrown grass and a sagging front door.

He retrieves his briefcase from the car and walks to the front door. It’s a chilly, gray sky kind of day and the stiff breeze bends back the branches of a leafless maple sapling buttressing the end of the house.

Samuel shudders. The place has low-life Lake Orion scum written all over it.

He knocks and the door and it’s opened by a guy who looks like the personification of one of the Hardy boys. Samuel can’t help but stifle a groan. Surprise number one.

Samuel introduces himself but the big kid blows past him and heads for a Ford Explorer parked on the street. Samuel, watching him go, is startled by a voice from the door.

“You’re the recruiter, I take it?”

Samuel turns and is knocked low by surprise #2.

She’s gorgeous.

He’s momentarily at a loss for words. He was expecting a butt-ugly trailer trash biker chick with tattoos and maybe even a kid or two. Plus, after the near Neanderthal features of Julie Giacalone, he’s simply transfixed by the fine nose, the delicate jaw, the petite but sensual lips. And the eyes. The combination of blue and gray is equally startling. They also seem familiar, somehow.

“Are you okay?” she asks again and Samuel snaps out of his reverie.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Just thinking — do I know you? Have we met?”

She looks at him oddly for a second and he realizes he hasn’t introduced himself. He holds out his hand. “I’m Samuel Ackerman.”

“Samuel Ackerman. The name seems familiar,” she says. “Where’d you go to school?”

“Lake Orion.”

She shakes her head after a moment’s hesitation. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she says. Then she steps aside and says, “Come in. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No thank you.”

He walks into the living room, is shocked by how small and plain it is. It has a strange smell, too. Sort of musty and then he realizes that there’s not even a hint of food smells. They must eat out a lot, he thinks. There’s something else, though, too. A faint smell of something. He breathes in again and thinks yes… it smells sort of like booze.

He already feels claustrophobic. It reminds him of his own childhood home. The thought is depressing enough to make Samuel’s head start to throb. Being back in this godforsaken town… he knew it would stir up a lot of bad memories for him. It has stirred them up, and they keep coming at him.

He catches himself, realizes Beth is watching him, waiting.

“Who—” Samuel starts to ask as he gestures toward the Explorer which moments ago roared away down the street.

“Nobody,” Beth says sharply before he can even finish the question.

Samuel recognizes the implicit warning and simply nods his head.

“Where would you like to set up?” she asks.

He looks around the small house, and almost laughs at her question. There’s nowhere to go except the teeny kitchen or the teeny living room.

“Wherever you’re comfortable.”

“Here is fine,” she says.

She gestures to the wing chair and she moves to the couch. He notices that she’s limping. She’s wearing a pretty thick brace around her left knee. He has to ask. If it’s a permanent injury, polio or something like that, she’ll never be able to join the Navy and he’s wasting his time. On the far wall, he’s spotted a picture or two of Beth Fischer in basketball action shots. A few newspaper articles featuring her name in the headline.

“What happened to your knee?”

She colors slightly. “I blew it out, literally. I’m in rehab and should be back to eighty percent or so in a year.”

Samuel considers this.

“Will that be a problem?” she asks.

“Not as long as you can jog three to six miles at a moment’s notice.”

She nods. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Good,” Samuel says. He’s thinking back to his Professional Sales Skills training: opening/probe/support/meet needs/closing/figuring out next steps. He takes her through the process. Asking questions gently, getting permission from her to probe further, and then carefully supplying all of the support, showing her how the Navy can meet every one of her needs.

She tells him openly and honestly that she wants out of Lake Orion, about her basketball injury, about her scholarship falling through.

Samuel, in turn, answers her points quietly and without a hard sell. He lies through his teeth about great the Navy is, that it will help her get money for college and valuable training, as well as letting her see the world. A total load of bullshit but he says it all with a straight face.

Samuel is impressed with her. She’s beautiful, but his first impression is that she seems smart, focused and he senses an underlying toughness about her. The way she answered his question about the guy in the Explorer. “He’s nobody,” she’d said. Well, Samuel knows he is somebody, but that in her mind right now, she’s pissed at him and so considers him a nobody.

Samuel admires that.

He truly appreciates his luck right now. She’s perfect. Her looks and his personal interest in her aside. She’s perfect for what he needs; talk about a high-quality recruit. She’s got officer written all over her.

“Samuel?” she asks. He realizes he hasn’t been listening. The shock of his drifting off gets to him and suddenly a throbbing erupts in his temple and he massages it. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, I just had a late night last night,” he says, and flashes her a grin he hopes she takes as sort of a devil-may-care expression.

She does. “I was just wondering if I could talk to my Mom a little bit and get back to you.”

“Absolutely,” Samuel says immediately. “Perhaps if you’d like me to be present so I might be able to answer any questions she might have…” he begins, thinking that with him here, he’ll be able to steer her mother into making the right decision for all of them.

“Would you? That’d be great,” she says and Samuel feels like he’s hitting on all cylinders. This is great. She’s perfect.

“Okay, so next steps,” he says. “You’ll call me and let me know when your mother is available for the three of us to sit down and talk about your future?” he asks.

“I’ll call you later today or early tomorrow,” she says, standing.

Samuel gets to his feet, not wanting to push things any more than he needs to.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with me Beth. If there’s anything else I can do.”

“I’m sure there is,” she says, a smile on her face. They shake hands and Samuel feels an undercurrent of electricity as he touches her. Her skin is soft, her hand delicate but strong.

His heart skips a beat.

Samuel tells himself to get a grip, to get focused. He’s not about to change his plan, to alter his dream for some Lake Orion high school girl who just happens to have a beautiful face.

He walks back to his car, his mind already planning the next steps.

He glances back at the house, sees Beth in the window watching him.

Still, he thinks…

… she is perfect.

Fifty-Six

Julie Giacalone is not a happy camper.

After Samuel left last night, she stayed in bed, feeling emotions she never thought she would feel. A strong woman, both physically and emotionally, she felt as if she’d been preyed upon. She felt like she was a victim. True, the logical portion of her mind is able to see how her job status, her rank over Samuel, may have coerced him into thinking he had to sleep with her.

But the emotional side of her brain told her that was bullshit. If he’d truly not been interested, he could have found a way out of it. Could have begged off with some bogus claim of previous obligations. But no, he came right into her bedroom and made love to her but was so turned off by the whole thing that he had to turn his head the other way, a sour expression on his face. One of undisguised revulsion.

And now she’s going to get even with him.

She turns to her computer and accesses the database of leads that catalogues every point of contact every recruiter in District Three has had in the last five years.

Her mind flashes on the image of Samuel’s face in her mirror. The memory deadens her, creates a brick-like weight in her gut. Will she ever forget it? Will she ever forget the sight — his face as he’s inside her, as her legs are wrapped around his body, the expression one of sheer unpleasant duty?

No, she doesn’t suppose she will.

The computer beeps and she turns back to the monitor.

“Good morning.”

The voice is quiet from the doorway. Julie jumps.

She turns and Samuel is there.

But he’s not looking at her.

He’s looking at her computer screen.

Fifty-Seven

Alone in the house, Anna is busy. She puts the last thumb drive into its corresponding manila envelope. Until two hours ago, she had no idea what a thumb drive was, until the young man at A-1 video helped her put the video on seven thumb drives.

The video was Beth’s highlight reel, put together by her coach back when Beth was healthy. Anna found the original in Beth’s room, along with the list of colleges that had shown an interest in Beth.

Anna, her mind sharper than it’s ever been, feels good and clear. It’s been three days since she’s had a drink and although her body is consumed periodically with shakes, chills and nausea, she’s fighting it.

Her hand involuntarily goes to the dog tag in her pocket. She gives them a squeeze and strength flows from them through her hand and disseminates throughout her body.

It’s like she’s been in a cave for all these years and now that she’s out, her eyes aren’t used to the light. But the light is where life is. The light is her daughter. And the light is allowing her to see things for the first time.

For the most part, she doesn’t like what she’s seeing. Everywhere is evidence of her failings. The house that hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned in years. The bills and paperwork that are scattered around her room like debris from a tornado. But worst of all, Beth.

It’s like there’s a film over her daughter’s eyes, a filter that screens out hope and brightness and worst of all, love.

Anna realizes she is responsible for that filter.

Now, she’ll do anything to get rid of it.

She’s about to seal the last envelope when there’s a knock on the door. She opens the door to reveal a man in uniform and for a brief moment, she worries it’s a cop, that Beth has done something to hurt herself and now they’re here to tell her that it’s too late, that she was too slow to save her daughter.

“Ma’am, I’m Samuel Ackerman,” he says.

She takes in his blue eyes, his strong face and for a moment, she sees Vince. But then the feeling is gone.

“I’m a recruiter with the Navy. I spoke to your daughter Beth yesterday.”

She takes his hand and they shake. “Come in,” she says, not even bothering to try to hide the fact that Beth hadn’t told her. Granted, she knew Beth was thinking about it, but didn’t know she’d gone this far.

A tremor of fear creeps up Anna’s spine. She can’t let Beth join the Navy. She’ll lose her just like she lost Vince. No way. Beth is going to college. She is going to get a scholarship thanks to these mailings and Anna is going to do everything in her power to keep Beth out of harm’s way.

“I just wanted to drop off some additional information for you daughter,” Samuel says. “Is she home?”

“No, she’s having physical therapy. On her knee.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, and produces several thick folders from the briefcase in his hand. “Then would it be all right if I left them with you?” he asks.

“Certainly.”

She leads him into the kitchen, takes the folders and puts them on the table next to the packages.

“You must be very proud of your daughter,” the recruiter says. Anna feels a flush of guilt. She is proud, she just hasn’t shown it.

“She’s a wonderful, brave girl,” she says. She looks at him, and sees that he’s looking at the envelopes on the table. “Have you ever seen her play basketball?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“She’s a warrior. That must sound funny to you, being in the military and all. But she’s a fighter. Always has been. And when she’s got a basketball in her hand—” she stops herself.

Checks her watch. The post office doesn’t close for another hour.

“Well why am I telling you? I should just show you.”

She goes to the computer, double clicks the movie file and hits PLAY.

Fifty-Eight

For the second time, Samuel finds himself momentarily forgetting about his plans, and like the first time, he finds himself thinking instead about Beth Fischer.

The video has been playing for only thirty seconds, but Samuel is already captivated by her play. Samuel knows confidence when he sees it. Having been a starter, practically a star, on both the Lake Orion football and basketball teams, he knows a pure talent when he sees one.

Beth Fischer simply has it.

The street expression about having game, about having skills, doesn’t apply to Beth, she’s beyond that. Samuel watches and it seems that everyone else is several steps behind her. Like a pro team playing against college kids.

Granted, he knows it’s a highlight film, so all of her mistakes, her turnovers, her bad passes, her missed shots during a cold streak, have all been edited out. Still, Samuel instinctively knows that there probably wasn’t a whole lot of editing. She’s the kind of player who doesn’t make many mistakes.

She’s a fucking lioness on the court. Her passes are crisp. Her shot one of pure, flawless motion. Her ball handling smooth and assured. Her defensive instincts sharp and always two moves ahead of her opponents.

There’s a beauty in her movements, an economy of effort, an abundance of grace. Samuel can’t pry his eyes from the television. Beth shoots. Beth steals. Beth rebounds. Beth fires a one-handed bounce pass that covers nearly three-quarters of the court; unerringly finding her teammate breaking to the basket for an easy layup.

And there’s one more play. Whoever shot the video, probably Lake Orion’s audio visual club, captures the clock in the background. Lake Orion down by a point. Less than twenty seconds left. Samuel watches, his palms sweaty, his heart beating faster, as Beth steals the ball and races down the court.

“Why…?” Anna says.

But Samuel is watching Beth’s legs fly, her arms pump as she takes the ball in strong and sure, watches as the short, stocky point guard crashes into her, watches as the ball falls through the hoop.

“Jesus Christ,” Samuel says.

“…is that in there?” Anna says. “The accident?”

Samuel turns to her, sees her pale face. Her hands are shaking. Hasn’t she watched the video? Or did she just not make it through until the end?

“The ultimate highlight,” Samuel says.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the ultimate highlight. It shows her winning the big game, making the ultimate score. It’s perfect.”

“But it shows her injury…”

“…and what a great sacrifice it was,” Samuel counters. “The ultimate sacrifice. Your daughter’s a winner, Mrs. Fischer. She’ll do whatever it takes to win. Whoever gets this video will see that in an instant.”

She stands stock still. Samuel can see that she’s momentarily at a loss for words.

“Mrs. Fischer?” he asks.

She jumps, as if he’d pinched her. She checks her watch. “Oh my God! I got so caught up in the tape…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to get these to the post office today — it closes in ten minutes and Beth’s got the car.”

“No problem, I’ll mail them for you.”

Samuel sees the flash of doubt pass through her eyes.

“If these coaches — I assume that’s who you’re sending it to — college coaches,” he says, his voice smooth and confident. Inviting trust. “If they don’t respond like I did, if they aren’t blown away by what she can do with a basketball, then they don’t deserve to coach her.”

The look of distrust disappears, replaced by a warm gratitude. “Oh thank you…”

“Samuel.”

“…Samuel. You don’t mind….”

“As much as I want her in the Navy, she belongs on a basketball court. If she doesn’t get a scholarship,” he spreads his hands wide, “then we’ll talk again. But until then, I’m glad to help. Your daughter can really play.”

Anna smiles and rushes back into the kitchen, scoops up the manila envelopes and places them in Samuel’s arms. “I haven’t told Beth about… sending these out. I’m not sure how she’d… well, she doesn’t know I’m doing it, okay?”

“Okay,” Samuel answers.

“All right, go. You’ve got my daughter’s future in your hands.”

“Happy to make the assist,” he says, then points to a thumb drive next to the computer. “What about that one?”

“That’s just an extra. Don’t worry about it.”

Samuel smiles.

“I better hurry, then.”

Fifty-Nine

Samuel glances at the packages on the seat beside him. They look like little goslings, waiting to take flight. Somehow innocent and embryonic. He knows they are the seeds that could grow into Beth’s future. Her dreams of playing basketball and going to college. It’s all wrapped up in these little packages, he thinks.

He has a brief image of he and Beth, together somehow. Why not? It makes perfect sense. Two athletic, good-looking people. One man, one young woman. Both with bright futures. Destined to do great things.

He drives through the main part of downtown Lake Orion. The sun is bright, and he feels blinded by the harsh images. The light seems to probe inward at him and he feels the pain in his temple. Goddamn, he thinks, massaging the pain away.

Finally, he sees a fast food restaurant and pulls in behind it.

The images of he and Beth together dissolve with the scent of greasy burgers and fries. It could happen, he thinks. He’s had to live with a lot, he’ll live with the things he’s done for a long time.

He pulls the car in next to the dumpster, gets out, walks around the car, scoops up the envelopes and tosses them into the dumpster. He gets back in the car and drives away.

Samuel can live with what he’s done. And if Beth never knows, she can live with him.

Maybe even love him.

Sixty

Beth wants a neutral setting. Not her home. Not his home. All she can come up with is the Lake Orion gym. It’s open — for gymnastics practice.

She hobbles into the gym, the rubber bottom of her crutches squeak softly on the tile floor. Her brace is cinched tight over her sweat pants. Her Lake Orion letter jacket has a dusting of snow on her shoulders that instantly begins to melt. Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

The smell comes back to her — all schools and their gyms smell the same. That odd combination of musty books and stale popcorn. She walks past the glass cases, ignores the pictures, medals and trophies.

At the door, she sees that the gymnastics squad has pulled out the mats along with all of their equipment; the parallel bars, the balance beam, the horse and the big mat for the floor routines.

Beneath it all is the basketball court.

It’s not the first time she’s been back since the accident, she came for the last game her team played — the one where they got blown out and Vanessa ran roughshod over them. But Beth was too shocked by what had happened, too blown away by the fact that her knee was gone. She was still in a daze. Now, standing at the door, she realizes the enormity of what happened. She looks at the gym, remembers the fans, the cheers, the screaming. The signs with her name on them, proclaiming her to be something bigger than life. It’s all gone now. Swallowed up by passing time. She’ll never hear any of that again.

It’s all gone.

Beth sees Peter waiting about five rows up around where half court would be. He’s dressed in jeans, black hiking boots and a black leather jacket. He looks good, Beth thinks. She walks along the perimeter of the court and when she gets to him, he starts to get up as if he’s going to help her.

“I can do it,” she snaps at him.

He sits back down.

Beth pivots and swings herself up, one leg at a time, and sits a few spaces down from him. She’s momentarily out of breath. A girl, Beth thinks her name is Kathy Brandemuhel, is doing a routine on the uneven bars. She finishes and does a dismount, stumbles, and falls to her knees.

“At first, I thought I would never want to see you again,” Beth says. Her voice is soft but firm.

Beth sees Peter flinch, but goes on.

“I don’t think there’s any way you’ll ever know how much you hurt me.” Her voice trembles, but she has to keep it together. After Samuel left, she’d thought about how she’d left it with Peter and realized that it wouldn’t do. She wasn’t one for loose ends and besides, they’d had quite a bit of time together, it just wasn’t right to end it like that. She needed to tell Peter what an awful thing it was for her and then she could move on. A clean break.

“To tell me that you wanted it — us — to continue-”

“Beth-” he begins, but Beth cuts him off.

“-that we would see each other after you went to Marquette and then…

“I didn’t-”

“…for you to…”

Peter turns to her, his face, flushed, his voice heated. “Look, Beth, it was a mistake. A terrible, rotten shitty mistake.”

“No, it was more than a mistake. A mistake is trivial. This was a breech of trust. A willful, destructive…” She stops herself. She didn’t come here to lay a guilt trip on him.

On the mat, a girl takes a running start and does three consecutive hand springs before flipping in the air and landing perfectly, her arms raised toward the ceiling.

“I came here,” she says, “for three reasons. One, I wanted you to know how much you hurt me.”

“You can cross that one off your list.”

“Two, I wanted you to know that it’s over and that I wish you luck at Marquette. I don’t have any bad wishes for you. I wanted you to know that I’m not that kind of person. You obviously had some… issues… emotions, or whatever, that you couldn’t tell me and so eventually they were communicated to me.”

“Jesus, Beth. Can I say anything?”

“Yeah, that’s number three. I want to know, for my own sake, no bullshit, why you did that. Why you were there with her. You don’t have to tell me, but I had to ask.”

She can see the hesitation in his eyes. Behind him, a girl takes a running start, hits the springboard, pushes off from the vaulting horse, does a flip in the air and lands, stumbling, but without falling.

“Tell me the truth, Peter. The only way you could hurt me again is to feed me some line of bullshit like I’m a total moron.”

He heaves a deep sigh and gets to his feet. Even at a time like this, he moves smoothly with a fluid grace. Beth always loved that about him, both on and off the court. Peter’s just… smooth. Always has been, always will be.

He starts talking, using his hands. “Okay, I’ve thought about it. At first, it seemed like it was the booze.” He stops and looks at Beth, an expression of frank, open honesty. “Like I drank too much, the music was loud, I was feeling good, she came on to me and I just turned my brain off. Before we met, before we started seeing each other, it happened once in awhile.”

He stops and puts his hands in his pockets. “But I knew that didn’t sound right. I’ve had plenty of other opportunities that I’ve never taken. So why now? Was it your injury? Was it Vanessa? Something about her? And I realized that it didn’t have anything to do with anyone but one person.” He stops and looks at Beth again.

“Me. It was all about me. It started with the scholarship. The full, tuition paid scholarship to Marquette to play ball and study and to get the hell out of Lake Orion. It went to my head. It went straight to my head and I’ve just been feeling like the king of the world. Big, great, Peter Forbes, big man on campus. What I did with Vanessa — it had nothing to do with you. That’s the god honest truth — good or bad — it was all about me. Egotistical, selfish, over-confident Peter Forbes. The golden boy with the platinum future. I just thought I was a god. I had a few drinks, she came on to me and I figured that there was a whole new world out there for me, beyond this town and I wanted to start having new experiences. That’s what great men do, right? They don’t do things normal men do. Vanessa, a girl I didn’t know — was kind of a jump start. The start of the new Peter Forbes future. Pretty pathetic, right?”

Beth can see the dark intensity on his face, the true ring of self-flagellation. He’s being honest.

“Afterward, I felt like the biggest asshole in the world. The scholarship? It’s not that big a deal. But at the time, I didn’t think that way. As soon as I got it, and accepted it, as soon as that part of my future was set, it’s like I was already forgetting about the people who helped me get to where I was going. Like some Hollywood star shitting on the folks back home-”

“Okay,” Beth says, “I’ve heard enough.”

“No, you haven’t. You haven’t heard enough. Because you know what? I’m a smart guy. Smart enough to know that I’m not a god — I’m just a slightly above average white basketball player who will have a moderately successful college basketball career and then if I’m lucky, play in Canada or Europe. If I exceed all expectations, I may have a season or two on the bench of some shitty NBA team — but that’s only if all the stars align perfectly. And you know what I don’t want to think about when I’m sitting on that bench? I don’t want to think about Beth Fischer — a class act, smart, funny, beautiful — who I threw away because of some supremely stupid arrogance created by a run-of-the-mill scholarship. So it’s not over, and I’m not going to let you piss away your future by joining the goddamn Navy, Beth.”

“What are you talking about?” Beth says, the anger exploding from her. Several of the gymnasts turn to look at them, her voice echoing in the gym. “Who do you think you are? You fuck me over and then become my career advisor? I don’t think so.”

She gathers up her crutches.

“I’m not going to let it happen, Beth” Peter says. “I’m responsible for what happened, and your future isn’t going to be a part of the debris.”

She stands and negotiates her way down the bleachers to the gym floor. She turns back and looks at him.

“You had your chance to be someone important in my life, Peter. You definitely had a chance.”

She looks right into his eyes.

“But Vanessa sucked it right out of you.”

Sixty-One

The perfume is right. The makeup is right. The clothes are right.

It’s the knee that’s wrong.

The goddamned knee.

Beth, sitting on her bed, looks down at her leg, at the thick brace that joins the two normal parts of her leg like some mutant Tinker Toy. Like some kind of snap-together model. It’s thick and bulky and just plain ugly.

Slowly, she unbuckles the brace. She winces in pain, and thinks about what her doctor would say. What Judy her physical therapist would think. They would no doubt tell her that being impatient, that pushing things too soon will have only the opposite result; she’ll have to be in the brace longer, and do more physical therapy.

Well, hell, she thinks, I’ve got a date.

No, she corrects herself. It’s not a date. Samuel is a Navy recruiter and he wants me to join the Navy. It’s that simple, nothing more. This is business for him, a salesman working on closing the deal. It’s pleasure for me, she thinks. I’m already leaning toward going into the Navy, but I’m not going to tell him that. I need some male company and I like Samuel.

Still, she feels bad. She’s using Samuel. Using him to get her out of the house, to help her forget about Peter Forbes.

Beth pushes the brace aside and looks at her knee. Even with the latest in arthroscopic laser surgery, the scars were inevitable. There was just too much damage. Too much rebuilding needed to be done. Hey, you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, right?

The knee has finally stopped draining and the healing is well underway, although the night in question — when she’d tripped running from the image of flesh on flesh in Peter’s Explorer — well, that hurt in more ways than one. She’d lost about two weeks of healing with that little fall.

She sets the brace aside and selects a bandage wrap from her dresser drawer. According to the handy schedule her doctor and Judy put together, this stage wasn’t supposed to happen yet. Jumping the gun, they’d say. But there’s one thing those two are definitely not the experts on; just how much she wants to have a fun, normal evening. She’s been doing nothing but dealing with the pain of her knee, her drunken mother and the depressing nothingness of her future.

A night on the town isn’t going to change any of it, but it might take her mind off things for an hour or two. And right now to Beth, that would be a godsend.

Beth takes the scissors and cuts the bandage in half. She carefully wraps her knee, wincing often, her tongue pressed firmly against her upper lip in concentration. She needs to make it tight enough to provide the right amount of support, but mostly she’s worried about the thickness of the bandage. It absolutely has to fit beneath her jeans. No ifs, and or buts about it. She wants to achieve some semblance of normal. And putting it over her jeans just isn’t an option.

It’s silly. She’ll still have her crutches. But that’s different. She wants to dress normally, to be able to sit at dinner, put the crutches out of sight, and feel like an adult again. She wants Samuel to be able to see her the way she used to look: whole.

She momentarily imagines Samuel’s face. He’s so handsome, so open, so trusting.

She feels guilty thinking about him. He’s probably got no idea that she’s thinking these thoughts. Why would he? Samuel’s thinking about business and she’s thinking about- what? What exactly is she thinking about? Seducing him? Hah, she thinks. That’ll be the day.

Oh, Christ. This is ridiculous! She laughs out loud. Samuel is, what — at least five years older. An older man? That’s nuts! She hardly knows Samuel. Still, the idea of an older, more experienced man excites her.

Beth, she tells herself, just relax, go out, see this movie, talk to Samuel about the Navy and come home. Your knee is still fragile, and so are you. Enjoy yourself, but don’t throw yourself at him. Don’t let what happened with Peter push you in a direction you don’t want to go.

But, she counters, what if it is the direction I want to go?

She cinches the bandage tight, clips it in place, and puts on her jeans, then checks herself in the mirror.

Damn.

She looks good.

Sixty-Two

“Now you know, that’s not really what the Navy’s like,” Samuel says.

“You mean the Navy’s not really full of good-looking guys saving the world without disturbing a single hair on their heads?”

Samuel shakes his head. “And not all Navy pilots end up in bed with some woman who looks like she stepped right off a fashion runway in New York.”

“Propaganda!” Beth says in mock alarm.

Samuel helps her through the theatre’s front door. “But some of the basic themes — honor, courage, commitment — those things really do exist,” he says. “I have to admit, though, I was pretty upset when I enlisted and didn’t get a single call from a supermodel.”

“So when I sign up,” Beth says, “I shouldn’t expect a hot action hero to be knocking on my door?”

“Ordinarily I’d say no,” Samuel answers. “But in this case it wouldn’t surprise me if that happened.”

She laughs, flushes slightly at the compliment. “Maybe I like older men,” she says. And now it’s his turn to redden slightly.

The theater wasn’t crowded, not surprising as the movie hadn’t gotten the greatest reviews. It was called Depth Charge — about some obscurely famous search for an enemy sub during WWII. It had all the classic Hollywood elements — sweaty young sailors, a stowaway aspiring actress who ends up being the main character’s love interest, a ton of special effects and a happy ending. The film had been mildly interesting to Beth, but hadn’t really made her more excited about joining the Navy. Samuel had told her that wasn’t why he brought her here. It was more about the bigger issues that entail service in the military.

Samuel gets to the car first and he opens the door for Beth, takes her crutches, and she swings herself in, and then hands her the crutches. He goes around to the driver’s side, gets in and starts up the car.

Beth sits there, holding her crutches as Samuel maneuvers the car out of the busy parking lot.

“So why did you join the Navy?” she asks. “You’re too smart to be taken in by any of that Hollywood stuff. And I don’t think you’d let a recruiter sweet talk you into it, either.”

“Recruiters sweet talking? I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he says, a smile on his face.

He pulls the car out of the lot and onto Telegraph Road, heading South. Back toward her home, Beth realizes.

“A lot of reasons,” Samuel says. He pauses, then says, “No, that’s not right. There was really only one reason. I mean I did like everything the Navy had to offer. I liked that it was out there — you know? The first line of defense and all that. I liked that it was a little bit of everything; ships, subs, airplanes. I wouldn’t be just a grunt humping it through the jungle somewhere.”

He turns left onto Square Lake Road.

“But really, I just wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.”

Beth nods, is about to speak when he goes on.

“My family… well, it wasn’t the whole Ward and June Cleaver kind of thing, if you know what I mean.”

The car is silent, save for the sound of the engine. “It wasn’t the best situation and there weren’t a lot of options for me.”

Beth reaches across the car and touches his arm. “Thank you for being honest with me,” she says. She’s truly moved. He could have bullshit her, but he didn’t. At that moment, she wants to tell him to take her somewhere else. She doesn’t want to go home. She wants the night to continue, to lead up to something better. She thinks back to what Peter was talking about. How the scholarship led him to believe that he was on the eve of new changes, of greater life experiences ahead and how he couldn’t wait to start.

She’s like that now.

She imagines taking Samuel somewhere secluded, kissing him, feeling his body. Yielding to him.

“Shall we call it a night?” he asks.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she says. She allowed a little disappointment into her voice, but he seems not to pick up on it. But it was all she could do.

A few minutes later, they pull up in front of her house. Samuel shuts the car off and they both walk toward the house, Beth swinging along on her crutches. She’d like to invite him in, but she’s hesitant. Her mother hasn’t been drinking lately, but you never know when she’s going to fall off the wagon — you know she will — you just don’t know when. No, she decides, tonight’s not the night to invite him. It isn’t wise to rush things.

“Do you want to come in?” she asks, the words escaping from her mouth like a hiccup.

Samuel pauses, and in that instant, Beth blushes furiously. It’s a good thing it’s dark out.

“I’m going to have to take a raincheck, Beth. But I was wondering if you weren’t busy this weekend — if you’d like to do something.”

The embarrassment leaves Beth in an instant.

“Sure,” she says.

She opens the door and Samuel turns back toward the car. She stops. “Samuel?” When he turns, she surprises both of them by leaning forward and kissing him.

On the mouth.

The pain in her knee is gone.

Sixty-Three

The coffee is weak. Anna sips from the cup, like a repentant parishioner returning to the throng.

The good news is, the shakes, the sweats, the worst of the drying out seems to be over. The bad news is, Anna isn’t sure how long she can keep it up. She has thought about AA. But she tried that, once, long ago, and didn’t like it. The whole concept of a higher power, thinly veiled to satisfy the non-religious, has always troubled her.

She takes another sip of the coffee, her stomach calm for the moment, but the waves of nausea hit without warning.

Anna doesn’t believe in God, at least not the way it’s presented by organized religion. She believes in the possibility of some kind of dimension, perhaps, that is currently beyond the realms of our perception. But nothing more. And probably less. For all intents and purposes, she believes that when we’re dead and in the ground, it all stops.

The doorbell rings and Anna sets her now empty coffee cup in the sink, then goes to the door.

She recognizes Peter Forbes and opens the door for him.

“Hi Mrs. Fischer.” Anna can see the way he studies her, looking for signs of drunkenness. She idly wonders how long she’ll have to stay sober before people stop looking at her that way. And then wonders if they’ll ever stop looking at her that way.

“Hi Peter.”

“Is Beth home?”

“No, she’s not.”

“Good. May I come in?” He steps into the living room and she closes the door after him. He takes a seat on the couch. She stands uncertainly for a moment, then settles into the wing chair across from him.

“Good?”

He nods. “You and I have to talk. It’s about Beth.”

“What’s wrong?” Her heart starts beating quickly, and a sudden urge for a drink flares up, but she beats it back down.

“The Navy is what’s wrong, Mrs. Fischer. Do you know she’s planning on enlisting?”

She breathes a sigh of relief. “I know. But I don’t think she actually will.”

“I think she will. I think she’s got her heart set on it.”

“What if she gets a scholarship?”

Peter shakes his head. “No one else is interested. Not since she blew her knee out. She only had the one offer and they gave that one to someone else. That’s why she’s thinking about enlisting.”

“There may be more interested.” She hesitates. Should she tell him? Will he tell Beth? He doesn’t want to set Beth up for more disappointment. She decides for the time being to keep it to herself.

Peter shakes his head.

“This recruiter is playing her like a fiddle.”

“Samuel?”

“Is that his name? Whatever. He’s working her, Mrs. Fischer. These guys are slick. And he’s working her. Can you imagine Beth on a battleship? Heading into a war zone? I don’t want that. You don’t want that. And Beth doesn’t want that — but she doesn’t know it.”

Anna is slightly taken aback by Peter’s vehemence. His face is flushed, he talks with his hands, nearly losing his breath with the urgency in his voice.

“This guy has got her convinced it’s perfect for her when in reality it’s all totally, way wrong for her,” he says. “We’ve got to put a stop to this. Do some kind of intervention like they do for addicts-”

Peter stops himself, but not before they’re both embarrassed.

“You make it sound so… calculated,” she says.

“It’s what he does for a living. She’s just a number to him.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Anna says, feeling herself come to the defense of Beth. “I think she… trusts him.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about for Christ’s sake!” Peter gets to his feet. “Why does she trust him and not me… us?”

Anna has no answer for that.

“You’ve told her you’re against the Navy, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“And I’ve told her. Why does she have this in her head? What’s gotten into her?”

“Come on, Peter. She watched her scholarship go up in smoke. She didn’t feel like she had any other options. I know her. I know what she wants. She wants to get out of this house. Out of this town. She wants to get away from Lake Orion.”

She heaves a deep sigh.

“She wants to get away from me. That’s why she’s considering the Navy. It’s her ticket out of here.” Anna feels her own words hit her — she knows they’re true — but to hear them said out loud in her own voice — she immediately starts crying. She looks up and sees Peter looking at her. A mask of anger and shame. He feels sorry for her, she realizes. But he also blames her.

“Where’s Beth? We have to talk to her together.”

“She’s out,” Anna says, wiping the tears from her face. If Peter wasn’t here, she thinks she might just have a drink.

“Where?”

“I don’t know where. I know who, though.”

“No, don’t tell me it’s-”

Anna nods. “She’s with Samuel.”

Sixty-Four

The first kiss is tentative. His lips barely brush Beth’s, but Samuel feels an electric charge run through his body. It courses through his blood, sears his nerves and finally gathers around his groin.

The second kiss is firmer. More urgent. It leaves a lasting impression on Samuel, but not so long that he doesn’t want a third, a fourth and a fifth.

He runs his hands over Beth’s body, feels her respond. She presses against him, urging him on.

Her hands are over his body. Running down his stomach. Down below his belt. His breath is raspy.

Suddenly, he breaks away from her.

“Beth, maybe we-”

She kisses his mouth before he can get the words out. His mind is racing. The day was perfect. Their conversation was, easy. Natural. He’d never felt so comfortable with anyone, including himself.

Samuel feels her tongue probe inside his mouth and he responds, running his hands over her body, kissing her neck. He wants nothing more to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom.

But he can’t.

He breaks the kiss. “Beth-”

She runs her hands through his hair. Kisses him gently on the mouth. “What possibly could be more important than what we’re doing?”

“I-” he begins, but nothing else comes out.

She gives him another kiss, a long one that nearly curls his toes. He wants to tell her that he desperately wants to make love to her. But then he has a flash; Beth pregnant, he, Samuel, leaving the Navy, getting a job at the GM factory in Warren. A shitty little ranch house, a beer belly and a couple kids. All he would have is Beth.

But would it be so bad?

The questions pops into his brain before he can get ready. Would it be so bad? To be married to Beth? This beautiful, smart, tough young woman? What exactly, if anything, would possibly be bad about it?

Samuel is about to say no, that it wouldn’t be bad. In fact, it would be quite wonderful. To have someone like her, someone to love, to accept him for who he is, to-

— his train of thought is shattered with one idea, one singular realization that bursts his newly created bubble like fine crystal next to a high E.

He would be just like his father.

Suddenly, the pain in his temple erupts and he momentarily loses his balance. He reaches out to Beth and holds her, his eyes clamped shut.

“Are you okay, Samuel?” she asks.

“I think-”

She kisses him, pulls his hands from his head and places them on her breasts. He opens his eyes and she is smiling at him, looking more beautiful than any woman he’s ever been with. She unbuttons her blouse and lowers her bra. Her firm, ample breasts spill into his hands.

He moans softly as she unbuckles his pants.

The lust comes over him and he sets his jaw. He would love nothing more than to carry her into his bedroom, lay her on the bed and make love to her all night.

But he can’t.

Because although he cannot love her more than anything in the world — there is one thing he puts before her.

His mind clears. If he does sleep with Beth there’s a good possibility that she might fall in love with him. How good a chance? He doesn’t know. But no matter how small the chance is, he doesn’t want to take it. Because he does know one thing with certainty: the day will come when she has to ship out. She will have to get on board a ship and say good-bye to everyone she knows for at least six months.

Most recruits have trouble with that concept to begin with. But put a young woman who’s having family trouble, who is overcoming a physical hardship and then she’s attached to a man — the odds are good she’ll bail before it’s time to get on board.

And if she bails — there goes his quota. There goes his satisfactory review — and there goes his chance to be a Navy SEAL. Suddenly, the lust in his heart is replaced by fear. Fear of what could happen. Fear of how close he came to throwing it all away.

“I don’t think we should,” he says at last.

She pulls away from him, the surprise and anger written all over her face. “Are you serious? You want to stop? You gotta be kidding me!”

He holds his hands out to her. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think this is-”

“Why?” she asks. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh God no,” he says.

“Then what?”

“Look, I’m recruiting you, Beth. I’m new at it, but I don’t think it’s good policy to get involved-”

“What does your heart tell you?”

He can’t answer that. Doesn’t know how to answer it.

He looks at Beth, looks into her eyes, and sees her torment. And suddenly, he realizes that if he doesn’t sleep with her, if he rejects her, like her mother has, like her boyfriend has, like the people who yanked her scholarship, then he will surely lose her. She’ll take his Navy brochures and burn them in the Weber grill in her backyard.

“My heart is telling me…”

“What?”

“…to shut up and kiss you.”

He moves forward and they embrace, their lips smashed together, their hands all over each other’s bodies. Their clothes come off in a torrent of agility and Samuel carefully picks her up, carries her into his bedroom.

Sixty-Five

The question is, can it get much more pathetic than this?

After nearly two hours of tossing and turning, Julie Giacalone has gotten out of bed, thrown on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, poured herself a tall glass of whiskey and soda, heavy on the whiskey, and is now reading Samuel Ackerman’s service folder.

Next to all of the basic information, birthdate, social security number, etc., is a small photo probably taken at one of the administrative offices. It shows a slightly younger Samuel Ackerman, wary but comfortable, looking into the camera with hard-to-gauge expression.

It is hard to tear her eyes from the image.

Even though she’s sickened by the memory of that look on his face. It still hurts. But the reason she feels so pathetic tonight is that even though she knows he feels that way about her — she’s still turned on by the sight of him. She looks at his picture and goddamn if she doesn’t remember the coarse feel of his hands on her body.

Stop it!

She takes a long drink from her whiskey glass. Her hand shakes slightly as she brings the glass to her lips.

Her eyes are immediately drawn back to the picture. Ordinarily, the photos tend to make people look worse than they really are. Bad expressions, shitty color, poor exposures, the perfect recipe for high-school yearbook quality pictures.

But not Samuel.

Somehow the gritty black-and-white seems to etch his face in an even stronger light. It almost gives him a timeless quality. Like a gritty World War II photograph.

She takes another long drink. World War II photograph? Who is she kidding — besides herself? He’s not a god for Christ’s sake.

So what is he?

Who is he?

Julie leans forward and taps the keys on her computer. She watches as the screen tells her the computer has made its connection to the Internet. She shuts the home page — the Navy’s recruitment website of course, and accesses the Navy’s personnel records by giving her user i.d. and password.

She enters Samuel’s information and his service record appears. It’s a very basic document, which basically shows his movement through the Naval ranks. There is little information other than his assignment history. Julie stares at the information, processing what little there is. She takes another drink of the whiskey and closes her eyes. What is it she thinks she’ll find? Samuel seems like every other kid the Navy brings in as an enlisted man. From a somewhat poor family, a high school diploma if they’re lucky, and a need for discipline and order; usually because they have none of it at home.

Julie clicks on Samuel’s ASVAB results. Armed Services Verification Ability Biography tests measures intellectual capacity.

Samuel’s score is high. It shows him to be a quick thinker with equal strengths in creativity and strategic execution. He also scored high in linguistic and analytical categories.

Julie closes the ASVAB section.

Suddenly, the real question, the real reason Julie Giacalone is looking at Samuel’s record at two in the morning, pops into her mind.

Why has he been made into a recruiter?

Julie has no illusions about her profession. It’s not the most highly valued position in the Navy. Granted, some very wonderful people are made into recruiters. They’re the first-class. Heroes in the Gulf War were often made into recruiters. People with extraordinary charisma and superior people skills are often made into recruiters, too. But the fact is, there’s a second tier, another group of people who are made into recruiters for one simple reason: they’ve failed everywhere else. And in some cases, they are such giant fuck-ups that Navy command wants them as far from actual military operations as possible.

Which group is Samuel in? Julie wonders. On a note pad next to her computer, she has jotted Samuel’s progression through the Navy: basic training in South Carolina. His first deployment on the U.S.S. Alabama — as a seaman first-class. A rotation back home, assignment to Pensacola. A second deployment on the U.S.S. Michigan. Another rotation in home for his request to take BUD/S training. He failed to pass that, then was rotated back to Pensacola for ordnance. And then transferred back to Michigan for recruiting duty.

Julie looks back over the record. A lot of movement for a sailor, but then again, nothing terribly out of the ordinary. Sailors are constantly being moved and rotated and deployed. It’s a life of verisimilitude.

Still, Julie looks back at the information before her. Two questions immediately jump out at her. Why such a short time in ordnance in Pensacola? And two, why did he drop out of BUD/S training? The latter is easily explained. She has heard the numbers — that over half don’t make it through the incredibly difficult SEAL training. But Samuel’s sheer physicality seems to preclude the issue of strength and endurance. She remembers his body — how it’s as firm as chiseled granite. If he did break down, it wasn’t from a physical failing. It was probably mental. But even that doesn’t sit right with her. He’s so calm. So confident. So assured. Something must have gone terribly wrong for him at BUD/S training. So what was it? What made him drop out?

She jots down the name of Samuel’s CO in Pensacola, as well as the name of the BUD/S instructor in charge during Samuel’s training.

The last name strikes a chord with her.

Larry Nevens.

She drains the last of the whiskey in her glass, shuts down the computer, and walks back to her bedroom. Her eyes are already half-lidded as sleep beckons her. A last thought flashes through her mind before sleep overtakes her.

Larry Nevens.

Why does that name sound familiar?

Sixty-Six

Peter is sitting outside Beth’s house at four-thirty in the morning.

It feels like the height of stupidity.

He is stretched out in the third row of seats at the back of the Explorer — the same bench seat on which he and Vanessa had gone at it. He rests his head back and closes his eyes. That had been one hell of a night. A night he’ll never forget. He’d called Vanessa afterward, but she refused to return his call. He’d tried a couple more times, then given up. He guessed that his reaction to Beth leaving had been a major turn-off for Vanessa. He could see how it might have ruined the moment; the sight of him running across the parking area with his pants around his ankles — not exactly an image you’d see on the cover of a romance novel.

Peter closes his eyes.

He thinks about the upcoming summer, he’ll only have a month, a month-and-a-half before he heads out to Milwaukee and Marquette University. Training camp starts early.

Even with the fair amount of upperclassmen returning to Marquette, Peter knows he’ll get some good playing time, some good opportunities to show everyone what he can do.And then in his sophomore year, there should be no question that he’ll be made a starter-

— the sound of a car slowing and turning into Beth’s driveway rouses him from his half-slumber, half-vigil.

He swings into a sitting position and peeks out the Explorer’s window at Beth’s driveway. He’s parked a block over, shielded by thick Dutch Elm trees lining the boulevard which are spaced just wide enough for him to get an unobstructed view of Beth’s driveway.

He doesn’t recognize the car.

He glances at his watch.

Four-thirty.

Pretty late, Beth, he thinks.

Peter studies the car. It looks like a Taurus. It’s white. He can make out two shapes — one in the driver’s seat, and a smaller shape, Beth, in the passenger seat. From here, all he can make out are silhouettes.

Peter makes his way to the front seat of the Explorer, turns the keys in the ignition and starts the truck, all without taking his eyes from the car in Beth’s driveway. It appears that they’re talking. About what? Jesus Christ, it’s four-thirty in the morning! What more is there to say other than good night?

Now, Peter sees movement in the front of the car.

They’re kissing.

He can see the shapes pressing against each other. A long, hard kiss.

Peter has a jealous anger burgeoning in his stomach. He realizes that he has no right to be jealous — not after what he and Vanessa had been doing that night. But still, he’s only human.

Suddenly, the sinking feeling in his stomach turns to rage. At himself. At Beth. At whoever’s behind the wheel of the white Taurus.

He slaps his hands against the Explorer’s steering wheel.

And then it all comes together at once.

The car — it looks like a government vehicle. Who the fuck would drive a white Taurus by choice?

It’s a Navy vehicle.

And the driver is the recruiter.

The goddamn, low-life, scum-sucking recruiter. It isn’t bad enough that he wants to screw with Beth’s future. He has to screw her in the process.

The passenger door of the Taurus opens and Beth gets out. Peter sinks down behind the wheel, but she doesn’t look at him. Peter’s eyes consumer her, the way her face looks pale in the faint glow from the Taurus’ headlights. Does she look different? Peter wonders. Like a girl who just had sex?

Impossible to tell.

She goes to the front door of the house, pulls her keys from her purse and unlocks the door. She reaches for the door, puts her hand on the handle, and then, slowly, purposefully, she turns and looks directly at Peter.

His breath catches in his throat.

Blood rushes to his face as his heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t duck, doesn’t want to create movement. Does she see him? For just an instant, he’s terrified that she’s going to let the door swing shut, pivot and march directly to him, and then curse him out for spying on her. Make a fool of him in front of the recruiter and whoever else happens to be awake at this time of night.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she turns, seemingly unfazed by the sight of Peter’s Explorer — if in fact she saw it at all, and steps inside the house. When the door closes, the backing lights of the Taurus light up and the car reverses out into the street, turns and drives past Peter.

Peter raises back up in his seat and gets a good look at the face of the driver. The dark, handsome face of the driver.

The guy who just took from Beth that which she’d kept protected from everyone, even Peter.

Her virginity.

Peter feels a fury so deep and so profound that he can barely breathe.

As the Taurus passes, Peter drops the Explorer into gear, waits a few moments to put some distance between them, and then pulls out onto the street.

It’s time he and the recruiter had a little chat.

Sixty-Seven

Samuel pulls away from Beth’s house, intoxicated by her smell, her taste, the very feel of her.

He never imagined this feeling. It is a complete surprise to him that here, of all places, goddamned Lake Orion, he would meet somebody like Beth.

He pulls up to a stoplight and looks at the empty streets. It’s impossible to believe. He’s been with lots of women, women from different parts of the world, but they all lacked something.

So after all his travels, all of his years fucking around, he comes back to Lake Orion and falls in lov-

— no.

He’s not in love.

The half-smile on his face falls gently away.

He can’t be in love.

Now’s not the time for love.

He’s got to ship Beth out.

Kiss ‘em and ship ‘em — that’s the motto, right?

He turns the Taurus onto Water Street, headed back toward his apartment. The streets are deserted and a thin sheet of ice has appeared on the road, free from the constant pulverizing action of countless tires. He handles the car easily and cautiously. He’s in no hurry.

He pulls into his driveway, backs out and parks along the street. Samuel gets out of the car, feels the bite of the chilly wind and starts to walk toward his front door.

He hears the sound of the car pulling to a stop and doesn’t bother to look back until he hears the car door slam and the voice call out.

“Hey.”

Samuel turns slowly, already knowing who it’s going to be.

The ex-boyfriend. Samuel feels a range of emotions, but admittedly, one of the more powerful ones is sheer smugness. What kind of complete idiot would fail to see what he had in Beth?

“We have to talk.”

“Who are you and why are you telling me we need to talk at four-thirty in the morning?” Samuel says. The ex-boyfriend comes up and stands close to Samuel, too close. They stand eye-to-eye, but Samuel is thicker, more solid, even though the ex-boyfriend has an athletic build.

“I’m the one who’s going to tell you to leave Beth alone. She’s got no business going into the Navy. You’re fucking up her future just so you can get another bonus point with your superiors. That’s how it works, right?”

Samuel’s mind comes alive with the logistics and plans and ramifications that this punk’s confrontation could lead to. He makes his decision. It’s the only one he really can make.

He forces an easy smile on his face, holds his hands wide. “I’ve got no plans to pressure Beth into doing anything with her life she doesn’t want to.” Samuel says. “But why don’t we go inside and talk so the neighbors don’t call the cops.”

The kid starts to protest and grabs Samuel’s arm, but Samuel turns on his heel, wrenches his arm free from the kid’s sudden grasp, unlocks the front door and steps through. If the kid wants to continue talking, he’s got no choice.

The kid follows Samuel inside.

Samuel flicks on the lights. His apartment isn’t much to look at. A living room with beige carpet, a cheap furniture set, and a small eating area just off the kitchen.

“Want a beer?”

“What do you mean you won’t pressure her? That’s the biggest line of bullshit I’ve ever heard. You’re a fucking recruiter. You have to recruit a certain number of people or you… don’t get fired… but you get-”

“-reassigned,” Samuel lies easily. The truth is, he’s on the eve of being dishonorably discharged if he doesn’t come through with these recruits. But he’s not about to tell the punk. He’s going to have to finesse this one. He’s taken enough chances already. Now’s not the time to make a mistake. Even so, he feels the pain in his temple begin to throb. He’s tired. The kid better not push it.

“Did you—” the kid asks, suddenly.

Samuel exhales. Patience, he tells himself. “Look, why don’t you ask her?”

“I’m asking you asshole. And I don’t know why, because I don’t believe a word you’re saying. You’re after her to recruit her, and then to move on.”

“Why are you so worried? She told me she’s not seeing anyone.”

The kid shuts his mouth.

“She said she was dating someone who turned out to be an asshole,” Samuel continues, a smile on his face, and glee in his heart. “I assume you’re the asshole?”

“Fuck you,” the kid says. He gets to his feet, his hands nearly shaking, his face flushed with rage. “I’m putting a stop to this,” his voice rises in volume. “I’m telling you, stay away from Beth. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure she doesn’t get taken in by your bullshit. Move on you fucking prick.”

“Too late.” An icy chill has crept down Samuel’s back. The pain in his head is pounding but his vision is clear. He feels strong and invincible.

“Too late for what?”

“Too late for her not to be taken in.”

“What? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means the answer is yes.”

“Yes? To what?”

“Yes,” Samuel says, the words coming softly and coated with sugar. “Yes I fucked her. Several times, in fact.”

The kid comes at him, incredibly quick, far quicker than Samuel thought he would move, but Samuel, sitting, had his hand on the knife strapped around his ankle. It’s out in a flash and Samuel rises, ducking inside the wild punch, ramming the knife home. It sinks into the kid’s chest and Samuel rips it up, cutting a swath through the internal organs. The kid gasps, as if he’d been sucker punched, and staggers back. He drops to his knees.

Samuel darts to the kitchen table, pulls the vinyl tablecloth, sets it on the floor next to him and pushes the kid onto it. The blood pools onto the vinyl cloth.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her,” Samuel says.

Sixty-Eight

It was the greatest three hours of sleep she’s ever had.

The sound of her mother knocking around in the kitchen awakens Beth. She opens her eyes slowly and stretches. Her body feels the same, maybe a little sore, but she feels completely different.

She’s no longer a virgin.

She closes her eyes again and images of Samuel flash through her mind. His strong face, his blue eyes, intense and passionate. His big hands on her body, the feel of his mouth and body on top of hers. Beth feels her nipples harden as the images arouse her.

Oh God, she wonders, am I a nymphomaniac? Will she become one of those sex addicts on the daytime talk shows? Having sex with strangers in public parks? She smiles silently to herself. She knows the answer is no. But she also knows that if Samuel wanted to be…adventurous…she’d probably go along with it.

“Beth, are you awake?” Anna’s voice calls up from downstairs.

“Good morning, Mom!” she calls back.

It seems everything is coming together. Not only is she putting her life back together since the knee blew out, but it seems her mother’s back on track, although Beth is careful not to get her hopes up. Still, this is the longest Beth can remember that her mother has stopped drinking.

She swings her feet out of bed, puts the brace on her knee, throws on a pair of sweatpants and then a long-sleeved Lake Orion Eagles shirt and makes her way downstairs.

The kitchen smells of bagels and coffee. Beth sees her mother at the small table underneath the window, a cup of coffee in front of her, the newspaper folded in her hand. She’s got a thick black marker and is in the act of circling something.

She looks up at Beth. “Now that’s how you start a day,” she says. “With a smile.”

Beth feels slightly embarrassed. Was she really smiling?

“What are you doing?” she asks, as she goes to the plastic dish stand next to the sink and retrieves a cup. It’s got pictures of wild animals on it and the words: Yellowstone National Park.

“Job hunting,” her mother says.

Beth pours coffee into her cup, adds cream and sugar, and sits down across from her Mom. “Really?” she asks.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. It’s just… what about the nursing home?”

“That job is pathetic,” her Mom says, vehemence in her voice.

Beth wants to ask, then why have you been doing it for nearly ten years? Instead she says, “Any luck?”

“A few possibilities. I’ll send some résumés out on Monday.”

Beth wonders if she’s heard right. Resumés? She’s surprised her Mom even knows what one is, let alone actually has one.

“Did you have fun last night?” her Mom asks.

“Yeah,” Beth says, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“You got in pretty late.”

The surprises keep coming. It’s the first time in the history of their relationship that her mother has even claimed to know what time she got in, let alone had anything to say about it.

“Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess,” Beth says, shrugging her shoulders and sipping her coffee. “Samuel’s nice.”

Anna folds up the paper and sets it aside.

“Beth, we need to talk.”

“Mom-”

“I know I haven’t been much of a mother-”

Beth sets down her cup so hard a little bit of coffee slurps out onto the table. “Mom, I’m in a really good mood right now and that hasn’t happened in a long time. I’m finally feeling good about things. Don’t ruin it-”

Anna opens her mouth just as the phone rings.

Beth watches as her Mom gets up and answers the phone. She turns to Beth. “It’s for you.”

Beth listens, says no repeatedly, then hangs up and goes back to the kitchen table. The smile is gone from her face.

“What’s wrong?” her mother asks.

“It’s Peter,” she says. “He’s missing.”

Sixty-Nine

Julie Giacalone had never worked with such intense efficiency. She is a whirlwind around the office; she updates the master list of potential recruits, assigns meetings, runs checks on the DEP pool, organizes paperwork for an upcoming NAVCRUITCOM meeting and spends two hours on a conference call with the national director of Naval recruiting in which she’s subjected to the same speech, the same platitudes she’s been hearing for the last four years. She throws in her usual bullshit. She knows her part of the conversation so well, has it down rote — that she’s like an actor who’s doing a show for the two hundredth time — able to say her lines with emotion and conviction even when her mind is elsewhere. And the audience never knows.

By lunchtime, she is hungry and ready for a break. She drives out of the office to a sub shop and buys a vegetarian half-sub with a Diet Coke and returns to her office. Paul Rogers is off giving a lecture at a high school — always done carefully as schools had strict policies regarding what recruiters did and said at high schools — and Samuel is off doing follow-up as well as taking meetings with several new recruits.

Julie bites into the veggie sandwich, the bread being the best part, the actual vegetables taste old and sour. She never understands why she just doesn’t make her own damn sandwiches at home. Why waste five bucks every day going out? Probably just to get out of the office for a change.

But today, she decides to come back on her lunch hour.

When she polishes off the sandwich and chases it down with her Coke, she swivels her chair back in front of her computer. Her work computer is newer, more powerful and most importantly, much faster, than her home computer.

Which is why she’s saved some of her research on Samuel for the office.

Not that she is going overboard with this thing. It’s just that reading about Samuel’s history at two o’clock in the morning and drinking whiskey only succeeded in raising more questions.

And why did the name Larry Nevens ring a bell?

She logs back onto the Naval personnel website and opens Samuel’s file. She scans through every page searching for any other contact with a Larry Nevens. She then searches the Navy’s active personnel database — if this Nevens was one of Samuel’s BUD/S instructors — surely he’ll be listed here.

The computer processes her request. She sits back and takes a sip of her diet Coke. She looks out the window. It’s a gray day — no snow but the roads are white with dried salt, the cars grungy and all one uniform color — gray.

The computer beeps and she looks back at the screen.

No Record Found.

Julie frowns. How could that be? Samuel just went through the training six months ago. Surely Nevens couldn’t have left the Navy already.

She absentmindedly drums her fingers on the keyboard’s base. Where to look?

Maybe he retired. She has no idea how old Nevens is, maybe he’s a crusty old SEAL who did his last BUD/S training before saying adios to the Navy. Probably golfing in Scottsdale now.

There was a way to check that. Tapping back into the Navy personnel data base, she goes to a search engine and asks the database to screen all personnel for those who have retired from the Navy in the last six months. She hits the enter key and waits. A bar begins slowly making its way across her screen, signifying the search is in progress. The door opens to the outer office and Julie leans forward in her chair, catches a flash of white. Her heart momentarily leaps into her throat. Her hands fly to the keyboard — if it’s Samuel she has to cancel the search-

“Hey.”

She looks up.

Paul Rogers looks at her.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

She breathes an inward sigh of relief. “I-”

“Oh, you ate there again,” he says, gesturing at the paper cup of diet Coke emblazoned with the sub shop’s logo. “That explains it.”

She laughs, hollow and forced, but Paul goes back to his desk and leaves her alone. It takes a minute for her to calm down and as she does, she gets mad at herself. What is she so worried about? First of all, she’s just searching personnel records. No big deal. And second of all, even if Samuel were here — so what? What’s he going to do? And why is she suddenly so scared of him?

The computer beeps and a huge list of recent Naval retirees fills her screen. She scrolls forward to the list of names beginning with N and gets to where Nevens should be.

He’s not there.

Shit.

So Larry Nevens didn’t retire from the Navy. Goddamnit, she realizes she’s wasting her time. There’s only one way to do this. She’ll have to search the database for all personnel who have ever served in the Navy. She’s sure there will be more than one Larry Nevens, but doubts that there were more than one Larry Nevens who served in the role of BUD/S instructors. Those guys are few and far between.

She goes back to the database, types in Larry Nevens and asks the computer to search for all personnel past and present. The bar appears again, this time, moving much more slowly.

Julie gets up from her desk, goes out to the front part of the office and crosses the area to the kitchen. She dumps the last of her soda down the drain and tosses the paper cup in the wastebasket. She’s reaching for a glass from the upper cabinet when suddenly, someone grabs her from behind.

She takes a deep, sharp breath.

The arms apply pressure.

She’s ready to scream when she feels soft lips on her neck. She turns and Samuel’s face is there before her.

“Stop it,” she says, leaning to the right where she can see the office. No sign of Paul Rogers.

“Paul left,” Samuel says. “He’ll be out all afternoon, he said. Which means that it’s just me and you.”

His mouth is on hers and she feels her legs weaken. It feels so good. Her nipples harden. She feels herself become excited.

“Lock the door,” she says, her voice thick and breathy. Samuel breaks away from her, walks to the door and locks it. Julie’s eyes devour his body. His tight ass in his uniform, his narrow, tapered waist and broad shoulders. He’s so goddamned good-looking.

He returns to her, his hands on her body, his mouth kissing her and steers her toward the small kitchen table out of sight from the front windows and the rest of the office. He slowly undresses her, kissing her nipples, stroking her body, and undoes the button on her pants.

“Samuel,” she says. But she’s not kidding anyone.

She can see the huge bulge in his pants and she wants to devour it. But he pushes her hand away and pulls her pants down, and then her panties. He lifts her onto the table, spreads her legs, and pushes his face into her damp mound.

He lifts her legs onto his shoulders and reaches up, pinching her nipples as he licks and probes and sucks her to shuddering, exploding orgasm. When she’s done, he stands and she lays back on the table. He slides inside her and he rocks with a smooth precision that builds until the entire table is bucking and heaving and the plates in the dish rack are rattling. She isn’t sure how long it lasts but eventually she feels feel him come and at long last he stops.

Julie is shaken to her core.

What was she thinking? She suddenly feels like the stupidest woman on the face of the Earth. So what if he isn’t in love with her. If he wants to use her, then she’ll use him.

“Help me up,” she says.

Samuel lifts her off the table, kisses her breasts as he does so, and then they both dress themselves.

“Why don’t you come by tonight for dinner?” Julie asks. “Around seven.”

Samuel nods and Julie feels a slight thrill. She’s back in control again. And loving it.

“Do you want me to bring anything?” Samuel asks.

She reaches down and rubs him.

“Just this.”

Seventy

The water is ice cold and Julie drains half the glass in one gulp. My God, she thinks, that was fantastic. So incredibly exciting. She’s fooled around in the office before, but never anything like that. Samuel Ackerman knows just how to drive her absolutely wild.

Despite herself, she’s already entertaining images of tonight — of what she and Samuel will do together. Things will be a little bit different tonight. She’s got a few things in mind for what Samuel can do. A few duties he can perform.

Julie sets the glass down on her desk and plops into her chair.

She swivels toward her computer, her fingers find the command and W key which automatically closes the open window but the sight of red, capital letters on her screen freezes them just a millimeter away from the key making contact and banishing the words back into cyberspace.

Julie focuses, her brain refusing to recognize what she’s seeing.

She rocks back in her chair, the ramifications swirling in her mind. Refusing to accept the conclusions that are ricocheting between logic and implausibility.

Her mind goes back to the screen.

And lingers there, confused and silent with shock.

Seventy-One

Julie Giacalone is listening to a dial tone.

The words are still echoing in her mind; UNSOLVED HOMICIDE.

Was Samuel involved?

She laughed at herself.

It was nuts. Samuel, involved in a murder? Hardly possible.

Still, what was she doing poking around his records if she didn’t suspect… something?

But what?

He was bright, handsome, and a skilled lover. Why would he kill a BUD/S instructor?

She shook her head.

She had the phone number in front of her of one Captain Purgitt in Pensacola, Florida. Samuel’s CO during his brief stint as an ordnance practitioner.

What could she gain by calling him? What if this… Purgitt… was a friend of Samuel’s? Would he call Samuel and ask why his new CO was calling him, looking for… for what? Information?

She would have to head that one off at the pass ahead of time. But how?

The answer came just as quickly as the question. She would simply pretend to be calling to ascertain the dates of Samuel’s arrival and departure, just for her files, a routine paperwork task that had to be done. She would play for sympathy — all Navy officers hated the loads of paperwork required by the bureaucracy.

She punched in the numbers.

And received the second shock of the day.

Seventy-Two

On her knees, with Samuel Ackerman plumbing her very depths, Julie Giacalone is thinking about Pensacola, Florida.

She is remembering the shock of seeing the words UNSOLVED HOMICIDE next to the name of Larry Nevens, followed so closely by Captain Purgitt’s description of the freak accident that occurred just before his decision to send Samuel back to Michigan.

Apparently a support chain holding a dummy warhead had dropped on a Chief Petty Officer (Third Grade) Wilkins, killing him instantly. Investigators had scoured the scene but could find no evidence of foul play, other than some severely worn links in the chain. One investigator had insisted the links had been ruined purposely, but the allegations had gotten nowhere. It had all been written off.

Suddenly, Samuel withdrew and lifted her back on top of him, and she straddled him. She looked down at his thick, hairy chest. The perfect line of abs, his strong face. He was such a goddamn perfect physical specimen.

Julie Giacalone had another secret pleasure. It also took place in her bedroom, late at night, between her silk sheets.

It was called reading.

Potboilers, mostly. Especially the old ones. Hammett. Chandler. She loved them. And now, was her love of books coloring her thoughts on Samuel? Was it not enough to have these illicit trysts? Did she then have to concoct some kind of wild-ass theory that he was a slick killer?

She may have come to some conclusion. May have weighed the facts and decided that she wasn’t imagining things. That something in Samuel had triggered her suspicions and now the information she’d gathered had confirmed them.

But before that thought could sink in, the first waves of a mind-blowing orgasm ravaged her and minutes later, her ecstatic moans erased any previous thoughts, including the knowledge that Samuel looked at making love to her as simply doing his duty.

Seventy-Three

By three o’clock in the afternoon, the small gathering of family and closest friends is assembled in the living room of the Forbes home. Peter’s mother and father, tall, good-looking people with the calm assuredness of successful, strong-willed people dominate the area, alternatively making lists and phone calls of anyone who might know of Peter’s whereabouts.

Beth sits on a kitchen chair that’s been pulled into the living room, watching the scene before her in disbelief. It’s been six hours since she received the phone call from Mrs. Forbes, asking if she knew where Peter was. Three hours later, Beth called back to see if he’d shown up. She pictured Peter with that loveable hangdog expression he used sometimes, even more handsome when he’s sheepish.

But Mr. Forbes had given her the bad news. Peter was not answering his cell phone, and it appeared as if he’d simply vanished.

Ordinarily, it may not have been such a big deal. But Peter had been scheduled to meet with a Marquette alumni, something he’d been looking forward to. His parents insisted that Peter would not have missed the meeting unless something had happened.

Now, Beth waits in the living room, feeling more than a little awkward. She isn’t sure how many of the people there knew about the problems she and Peter had.

Beth figures Peter didn’t tell anyone. He is never the kind of guy to confide in his buddies. Even though he likes them and enjoyed their company, she knew that in some ways he didn’t respect them, didn’t truly consider them equals. Suddenly, with an audible gasp, she realizes she’s thinking of him in the past tense.

Beth immediately gets to her feet. She has to do something, anything to help. She can’t just sit and wait.

The Forbes home is big, especially compared to Beth’s. Mr. Forbes is a well-known attorney, and Mrs. Forbes is an interior decorator. The house reflects his professional stature and her impeccable, contemporary taste.

Beth walks through the living room and down a short hallway to the kitchen. Mrs. Forbes is sitting at the kitchen table with a cell phone in her hand. As Beth enters the room, she hears Peter’s mother offering her thanks in spite of what sounds like no news.

The older woman thumbs the disconnect button and looks at Beth.

“I’m glad you’re here, Beth,” she says.

“I just know he’s going to walk through that front door any minute with a dopey grin on his face,” Beth says, smiling, forcing an easy tone in her voice that she hopes sounds natural.

Mrs. Forbes nods, but Beth can see there’s no confidence in the gesture.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks Beth.

“No, thanks. Don’t worry about me — you’ve got enough on your mind.”

“Sit down, Beth, I’d like to talk to you.”

Beth pulls out the chair across from Peter’s Mom. She knows where this is going.

“How were things between you and Peter?”

Beth hesitates. A part of her feels like it’s nobody’s business but hers and Peter’s. But she sees the concern in Mrs. Forbes’ eyes. Now’s not the time to keep secrets, even though she’s more than sure wherever Peter is, it has nothing to do with her.

“We were going our separate ways,” she says at last.

“Was it a mutual decision?”

How to answer that one? She wants to tell the truth, but doesn’t want to besmirch Peter — especially when his mother is vulnerable.

“Well, not at first. But Peter… started seeing another girl and that kind of put an end to things.”

“What girl?”

“Vanessa Robinson.”

“I see.”

“We were going to try to keep the relationship going even after Peter went to Marquette, but my injury and…”

Mrs. Forbes looks at her, silently urging her to go on.

“…Peter’s anxiousness to get on with his life kind of took over.”

Peter’s mother sits back in her chair. She jots down Vanessa Robinson’s name and the word “call” in front of it. Then she looks back up at Beth.

“He cares a great deal about you, Beth,” she says.

“I feel the same way about him.” Beth pats the older woman’s hand as she begins to cry.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Mrs. Forbes.”

But even to Beth, the ring of confidence in her voice sounds a little hollow.

Seventy-Four

This is what it feels like, Anna thinks.

She was too drunk to notice before.

But this is what it must have been like for Beth, she thinks. Sitting by the phone. Waiting for the mailman with highly suppressed hope building in your gut, only to wade through a bill or two, a hardware store flyer addressed to occupant. Left with nothing but bitter embarrassment over having gotten your hopes up in the first place. And the phone. Waiting for it to ring again and again and again, willing it to ring and when it finally does, it’s a wrong number or a solicitor. Barely being able to speak to the caller on the other end of the line, the wrong caller. Not their fault, but you hate them anyway.

What Beth must have gone through, Anna thinks. And to top it off, Beth had a drunk mother who barely noticed what she was going through.

For the fiftieth time that day, Anna cries.

Anna goes into the bathroom and wipes her eyes with Kleenex. She looks at herself in the mirror. She was pretty once. A long time ago. But now she looks like an old dishrag. Wrinkles, dark circles and rheumy eyes. She looks fifteen years older than she is. She feels even older. But the features are there, she thinks. A delicate nose, good cheekbones, all in all, not bad. She admits she looks a lot better since she stopped drinking. The puffiness is gone. If she could lose a few pounds, get some sun, hell, she might not look half-bad.

The thought seems to bolster her energy.

She takes a moment to get her bearings. She has stopped drinking. She is looking better. There are things she can do.

Goddamn right, she thinks.

The fight isn’t over yet.

Anna walks back through the kitchen, her stride firm and quick. She goes to the small roll-top hutch and slides back the flimsy wooden cover. From beneath a pile of old papers, she retrieves the notepad filled with the names and addresses of local college basketball coaches.

There are eight of them.

Each one received a copy of Beth’s highlights.

And she has heard from none of them.

Anna takes the notepad to the kitchen table and grabs the cordless. She punches in the first number. A Robert Mundt, head women’s basketball coach at Lawrence College, a small private school halfway to Ann Arbor. She gets the front office and is transferred to Coach Mundt’s line.

While the phone rings, Anna makes doodles by the other names on the list. Her heart is beating faster in her chest and her mouth is dry. She knows she isn’t following decorum, these coaches probably get inundated with anxious parents who think their children are wonderful athletes. Anna fully expects to be met with bored, cynical indifference.

On the fifth ring, a man answers.

“Coach Mundt,” the voice says, a deep raspy baritone. Anna thinks it’s appropriate — probably from screaming on the sidelines.

“Mr. Mundt. My name is Anna Fischer, I sent you a highlight reel of my daughter Beth — she was a point guard on Lake Orion High School.” Anna pauses. She hears a rustle of papers.

“What was the name again?”

“Fischer. Beth”

Another rustle of papers. Anna is sure the next words are going to be along the lines of sorry, no space left. She was good, but not good enough. Instead, the three words that follow surprise her.

“Never got it.”

“Are you sure? You should have gotten it by now.”

“No, I would have remembered. We don’t get a lot of interest from potential recruits. I definitely would have remembered. Beth Fischer. Nope. Never got it. If you’ve got an extra, don’t bother sending it — I signed the last girl yesterday. No more spots open on the roster. Sorry.”

Before Anna can get a word in, she’s hearing dial tone and the soft pounding of her own heart.

She grits her teeth and punches in the phone number of the next name on the list. The phone is pressed tightly against her ear when the coach on the other end of the line tells her that she didn’t receive any package regarding Beth Fischer. And, oh, by the way, the roster is full. No more scholarships. Sorry.

After getting the same answer from the third coach, she determinedly dials the next five numbers and by the end of the last call, she is in tears again.

Not one single package arrived.

And there is not a single spot on any roster available.

Every scholarship has been awarded.

She has failed Beth once again.

Anna gently sets the phone back in the cordless and the notepad back in the desk. She gets her car keys, locks up the house and walks toward her car. She can already see it in her mind; the wall of booze at Mack Liquor. Rows upon rows of whiskey in every shape, size and variation of amber she can dream of.

It isn’t until she’s halfway there, that the realization hits her.

She had asked Samuel Ackerman, the recruiter, to send out the packages.

He never did.

It hits her with stunning force. She considers other possibilities, but discards them all. There can be no way it’s a coincidence. Every package failed to arrive?

Ackerman never sent them out. He wants Beth for the Navy.

Suddenly, she doesn’t want whiskey. Instead, she wants to confront the man who put the nail in the coffin of her comeback.

Perhaps she should tell him that he got her to do the most despicable, most degrading act of her life. After years of wallowing in booze, of ignoring her daughter, of mourning a dead husband for far too long, she committed an act that she instinctively knows will haunt her until she dies.

She trusted him.

Seventy-Five

Samuel presses the electric carving knife against Peter’s throat and depresses the on switch. The blades come to life, deceivingly slow, and immediately bite into the tender skin. A quarter-inch gap opens, deep red on the inside, as thick blood seeps from the open wound, but Samuel has Peter stretched out in the bathtub with the water running. Samuel, with one hand grasping Peter’s short hair, pulls the head forward and cuts all around the neck with the carving knife. But still the head hangs on.

Sweat pours from Samuel’s forehead. He grabs a washcloth from the towelbar and wipes it off. His stomach doesn’t feel right. He’s already puked in the toilet once, and the occasional pop and fizz in his belly nearly sends him there again. But he swallows and urges his mind to stay in control. His head is on fire, the pain in his temples blindingly white-hot. Samuel grits his teeth and bears down on the knife.

He’s got to get this done.

He’s got to cut off the head and hands, throw them in a dumpster somewhere, then dump the body somewhere else. He has already destroyed the kid’s cell phone and flushed the pieces down the toilet.

But the fucking head is giving him problems.

It’s the goddamn spinal cord.

Samuel repositions himself, getting a leg up on the bathtub’s ledge, and with the additional leverage presses the knife harder against the bones in Peter’s neck.

But the blades grind and jump while the head remains stubbornly attached. The sound of the knife grinding on the bone, the sight of the kid’s mouth hanging open, the nostrils flared wide open makes Samuel retch. Nothing comes out, but a gaseous belch.

Samuel shuts off the carving knife.

It’s not supposed to be this hard. He needs to upgrade his cutting utensil. A sawzall would do the trick, but he doesn’t have one. He could go to the landlord’s apartment and see if he’s got one but that’s something that would be remembered, something the cops would pick up on when they come around — and Samuel is guessing they will come around eventually.

He’s got to get the body and all evidence out of here.

He’s got to do something with this asshole’s car.

But first things first.

Samuel sets down the carving knife, goes into the kitchen, and from the long utility drawer retrieves the butcher knife. A thick cleaver with a dark, wood handle. He starts back toward the bathroom, stops, and grabs the butcher block carving board from the kitchen counter.

Back in the bathroom, he sets the knife and cutting board down on the white tile floor, reaches into the tub, grasps the kid’s feet and pulls him forward so that his back is flat on the bottom of the tub.

Samuel picks up the cutting board and wedges it beneath the kid’s head. With he left hand holding Peter’s head so that the chin is tilted up, giving Samuel a clear shot at the neck, he swings the butcher knife in a short, sweeping arc.

Peter’s head comes free in Samuel’s hand.

The bloody stump of the neck seems to point at Samuel and he retches again. This time, a small tendril of puke and saliva drips onto his chin. He wipes it off with his sleeve, then calmly chops off each of Peter’s hands.

He drops them, next to the head, beneath the downspout of the tub, letting the water wash away the blood. Samuel rinses his hands then goes into his bedrooms and finds a pair of thin, black leather gloves. He slips them on his hands, then heads back into the kitchen for trash bags. He brings them into the bathroom and places the head in one bag, and the hands into another one, then gathers their ends and spins them shut, tying each closed with a double square knot.

Next, the body.

Samuel guesses that Peter is over six feet tall. He doubts that he’d be able to get him into a trash bag. And the idea of trying to cut off the kid’s legs seems insurmountable. He really would need a sawzall for that.

Instead, he gets the keys from the kid’s pockets and pulls the Explorer around to the back of the apartment. He thanks God that it’s still dark out. Hopefully, no one will remember seeing a Ford Explorer backed up to the rear of Samuel’s apartment. The narrow walkway where he keeps his grill is almost completely blocked from view. He backs the big SUV up to the walkway which will make the trip from the back door to the trunk a little over ten feet, but it’s ten feet that is completely blocked from view, especially with the Explorer now in place.

Samuel goes back into the apartment and retrieves the separate garbage bags containing the head and hands. He goes out the back door, scanning the area around the walkway, but there’s nothing to see. And no one to see him.

He sets the bags in the trunk then pauses for a moment as he hears the sound of a car, but it’s far away and the sound dissipates in a matter of moments. The stars are still out and a cool wind dries the sweat on his forehead. Suddenly, he feels very alive. The throbbing in his head is gone and he claps his hands together. Goddamn it, he’s going to do this.

He goes back into the apartment, any feelings of nausea completely gone, and picks up the area rug from the living room. It’s worn and threadbare, a faded pattern made of some flimsy man-made material. He carries it into the bathroom and sets it on the floor. It’s bigger than the entire floor space of the bathroom, but the sides simply lay up against the walls of the small room. Which is perfect for Samuel’s needs.

Samuel leans over the headless corpse of Peter Forbes and scoops it up into his arms. He lifts it, water dripping, and sets it down on the area rug. The neck stump brushes against Samuel’s cheek and he momentarily has a surge of nausea, but he fights it back down.

He arranges Peter’s body into a fetal position, and wraps the area rug around it.

A corpse taco.

Samuel carries the rug and its contents to the back of the Explorer. He sets it inside with the edges of the rug on the bottom, holding the contents inside. He shrugs off his shirt and pants, and tosses them in the trunk and then shuts the Explorer’s rear door.

Samuel hurries back into his apartment. He checks the clock. Three-thirty a.m. He’s got to do this quickly.

He puts on black jeans, a black turtleneck and a gray windbreaker. From his closet, he also retrieves a hunter green baseball cap. He locks up the apartment.

Behind the wheel of the Explorer, he familiarizes himself with the dashboard. He doesn’t want to make a stupid driving mistake on the freeway and attract the attention of the cops.

He pulls out, hops on the freeway and heads to I-94, toward the airport. It’s late and the freeways are empty. Ordinarily, he would be happy, but tonight, he’s worried that it makes him stick out. Oh, well. Too late to worry about that now.

He’s halfway to the airport when he sees what he’s looking for. A 24-hour fast food joint. He exits, and takes the service drive toward the golden arches. A block from the restaurant, he stops, and retrieves one of the garbage bags. At this point, it doesn’t matter to him which bag it is. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and retrieves the sunglasses he’d put there. He slides them onto his face. The bag shifts on his lap, the feel of the objects inside tell him it’s the bag with the hands — and he pulls around to the dumpster behind the McDonald’s. He can see the lids folded back, so he knows it’s open. Without slowing down, from his high perch in the Explorer, he is able to toss the bag directly into the dumpster without slowing down. As he turns, he scans the top of the building and the fence near the dumpster.

No videocameras.

Even if there were, all they would see is a shadowy figure.

He repeats the process several miles down the road with the bag containing the head.

Samuel waits until he’s nearly at the airport before detouring into Ecorse, the forlorn community directly in the path of approaching jets. It’s partially rural, partially urban decay. On the outskirts of town Samuel spies an irrigation ditch. He stops, and dumps the body with a splash.

He drives back into the small town, and finds what he’s looking for: a Salvation Army, complete with a dumpster out front. He rolls up the area rug, still holding his clothes and drops it in.

Samuel goes onto the airport where he parks the Explorer in long-term parking, then takes a cab back to his apartment.

Samuel pours bleach into the tub and scrubs it with an abrasive pad, then does the same to the floor and the kitchen sink. He tosses in the butcher knife, the cutting board and the carving knife, scrubbing them until his hands and forearms are raw.

When that’s done, he carefully dries everything and returns the knives to the utility drawer. He goes into the living room with a flashlight and carefully examines the area beneath the rug to see if any of Peter’s blood made it onto the carpet. He can’t see any. But he’s not pleased. He knows that crime scene technicians can find a drop of blood the size of a pinhead. He’ll have to do something about the carpet.

He goes back to the bathroom and showers, scrubbing his hands and arms again, vigorously rubbing shampoo into his scalp.

It’s time for him to go to work.

Seventy-Six

Samuel’s eyeballs are on fire. Red-rimmed and scratchy. A lack of sleep, a lack of food, and the fumes from the bleach he used to scrub the bathtub and bathroom floor have all combined to make him look like a pothead who’s just smoked a foot-long doobie.

His overall state of mind isn’t in great shape either. He’s tired. Actually, he’s beyond tired. Fatigued to the point of collapse. His neck and shoulders are so tense they feel the consistency of granite.

He’s simply dead on his feet.

At his desk, the phone silent by his side, the computer’s blank screen awaiting his instructions, a few sheets of paper on his desk, the data there resembling nothing but gibberish, he has a moment’s peace. He’s nearly immobile with fatigue. He’s scared to shut his eyes for fear he’ll simply fall asleep.

But no one is bothering him. Giacalone is in her office with the door closed. Paul Rogers is working the phones, when he’s not receiving calls he’s making them, paying no attention to Samuel. And foot traffic is non-existent.

Samuel takes a pen and pretends to scribble a note on the top sheet of paper in front of him. But his mind is racing back to his apartment, going over things, trying to figure out if he’s forgotten anything. He knows that if crime scene technicians scoured his apartment, he’d be a dead man. There’s no way he can completely eliminate any trace of Peter Forbes. He’d have to burn down the whole fucking building and even then, he’s not sure every trace of evidence would be destroyed.

The key is to avoid being targeted by the police in the first place.

Beth is his alibi. He was with her most of the night — he can fudge the hours a little bit. He had the taxi from the airport drop him at a town several miles from Lake Orion, then had another cab take him to Lake Orion, then a Lake Orion cab took him a mile or two from his apartment and he walked home, still luckily under cover of the night.

By the time he’d gotten done cleaning the apartment, it was time to put on his uniform and come into work. He was the first one in; important so that he could fudge that time to the cops as well. No one was there to say just when he’d come in. And there would be no record of when he’d gotten into the office.

Beth is the key.

The phone rings and he picks it up, ready to launch into his recruiting spiel. It will be good to get out of the office and meet a potential recruit. Maybe he can wrap it up quickly and find a park for a quick nap. He’s supposed to go to Julie’s tonight after work. He’s guessing he won’t get much sleep there, either.

He snatches up the phone and instantly freezes.

The voice on the other end is not a recruit.

It belongs to a policeman.

A Detective Esposito.

Seventy-Seven

The idea of food is repulsive to Samuel, even though he realizes his stomach is beyond empty. The hunger is not helping matters. He’s already lightheaded and disoriented. Killing somebody, chopping up their body and discarding their remains into local dumpsters tends to leave one unsettled, and Samuel is no exception.

P.F. Chang’s is a trendy restaurant at the Somerset shopping complex in Troy, a few miles from the recruiting office. Nestled in among the Nieman-Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue and Lord & Taylor, it’s a popular feeding trough during the week for wives with time to kill and money to spend.

Samuel pulls the Taurus into the parking lot, shuts the car off, locks the doors and walks through the dragon-like entranceway. There is a bar directly ahead, and tables scattered around it. A few people are at the bar, the bartender is a woman with jet-black haired pulled back into a bun. She’s Eurasian and glances up at Samuel, offering a brief smile.

Samuel scans the people at the bar but sees no one who resembles a cop. The word echoes in his mind. A fucking cop. He’s just finished thinking how important it is to avoid the attention of the cops and a minute later a Detroit homicide cop is on the phone, inviting him to lunch. How could he say no?

Just play it cool, have some lunch and get the hell out of here.

“Samuel Ackerman?” a voice from behind says.

Samuel jumps slight, startled. He turns and sees a short, squat Hispanic in a white shirt and horrible striped tie. The eyes are big and brown. Almost doe-like if it weren’t for the quick intelligence lurking in their depths.

Samuel recovers and offers the cop his hand. They shake and a waiter shows them to a table.

“Thanks for coming, Samuel.”

“No problem. I’ve never been here but heard the food is good. Especially the veggie wrap.”

“My favorite,” Esposito says, nodding.

When the waiter returns, a tall, thin Asian with acne splattered on his cheeks and neck like an avant garde painting, the two order veggie wraps and diet Cokes.

After the waiter leaves, Esposito looks directly at Samuel.

“Let’s chat about Peter Forbes.”

Seventy-Eight

Julie Giacalone unabashedly studies the face between her legs. Samuel has never looked more attractive to her. His brow knitted in concentration. His intense blue eyes alternately closed and open as his tongue darts and probes with studied efficiency.

The pleasure is there, but it’s mild this time, and Julie Giacalone makes the decision that it’s time to fake an orgasm. Something she’s done many times, but never with Samuel.

Tonight, however, things are different.

She lifts her legs higher, arches her back and begins the soft, guttural moans, letting them build until she grabs Samuel’s hair and pushes his face hard against her sex. She lets the moans turn into deep growls and then drops back onto the pillow and pulls Samuel on top of her.

He mounts her and fucks her with a fluid grace she’s come to expect. He’s a wonderful lover, but tonight, she simply isn’t quite as appreciative.

When he finishes and flops down next to her, she lets her hand trail on his flat stomach, drawing light patterns on the washboard muscles, stroking the thick hair on his chest.

“Samuel, do you know what a beat sheet is?” she says.

“No, but I’m game for anything,” he says.

She forces a smile. “No, I’m talking about the one or two page description of a sailor’s career to date. You know, the high points.”

“Never heard of it.”

“A lot of COs do it as shortcut — if there’s ever a promotion or a transfer, it speeds the process. The new CO doesn’t have to wade through twenty pages of paperwork to find out about a new sailor in their command.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“I always try to keep up-to-date beat sheets for all of my team. Whenever I have time and they need to be updated. That way, I’m not under the gun if someone leaves. It’s already done for the most part.”

“Uh-huh,” Samuel says.

Whether it’s from the sex, the excitement of him being so near, or the subject she’s about to bring up, she doesn’t know. But her heart is threatening to pound its way right out of her chest.

“I worked on yours today.”

“Must’ve been pretty boring.”

“Actually, I found something very interesting. I wondered if you were even aware of it.”

“What’s that?”

The fan over Julie’s bed is on the lowest setting, and the slight breeze it creates cools the now thin line of sweat along her forehead. She even feels a thin sheen of sweat on her palms. Why is she so nervous?

“Do you remember a Larry Nevens?”

Samuel’s hand, playfully drawing circles around her breasts, doesn’t falter for a moment.

“The BUD/S instructor?”

She nods in the darkness. She’s about to speak, thinking he didn’t see her, but he responds.

“I remember him. As much as I can. I was in a daze for most of it. Sleep deprivation. Shock from the cold. Total fatigue.” He pauses, then asks, “Why?”

“Someone murdered him.”

“You’re kidding. Nevens? Impossible. He seemed like a tough bastard. He had to be.”

“It happened on a deserted stretch of beach early in the morning. They think he was there with someone else, maybe having sex.”

“Maybe he made himself… vulnerable.”

There’s a brief silence in the room disturbed only by the faint mechanism of the ceiling fan.

“What’s that got to do with my beat sheet?”

“Well, as weird as Nevens’ murder is, it gets even stranger. A Chief Petty Officer in Pensacola, Wilkins was his name-”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that. He got crushed in some sort of accident. A chain broke?”

“That’s what they say.”

Suddenly, Samuel turns on his side and faces Julie. “Oh my God, are you trying to tell me that you think I had something to do with-”

“No, no, no.”

Samuel lays his head down next to Julie’s shoulder. She can feel the soft, warm breath on her shoulder.

“Why are you telling me all this, Julie?”

“I just thought it was disturbing. It’s like death is following you around. Should I be worried?” she asks. “According to your beat sheet, I would be the next one to die. You’re like the archaeologists who discovered the tomb of King Tut and supposedly brought its curse upon themselves. They all died of mysterious circumstances a little later. Is there a curse on you?”

“Not that I know of. Someone might have a voodoo doll of me. Poke needles into my ass now and then just to make me jump.”

She smiles again and start to reconsider her suspicions. He just seems so calm. Maybe he didn’t have anything to do with the deaths.

Has she been a fool? Too many crime novels, an imagination spurred on by boredom and too much time alone?

Samuel is stroking her hair and she closes her eyes, totally relaxed, for the first time in days. She feels sleepy. The possibility that she was wrong, that she imagined—

Samuel’s hands free themselves from her hair. She feels something tickle her neck, the slight feel of leather.

He’s getting kinky.

Just as a low, savage snarl sounds from Samuel’s throat, she feels something tight around her neck. She opens her eyes, and sees Samuel staring at her. She gags. Samuel’s teeth are bared.

Julie jerks upright, but the thing around her neck is too tight. She tries to raise her arms, but Samuel is on top of her and his knees pin them down just above the elbow. She thrashes, lights exploding her head. It all becomes too clear to her. The deaths. The BUD/S instructor, murdered. Chief Petty Officer (Third Grade) Wilkins. Also murdered. By Samuel. The look on his face. She was right, she thinks as the blanket of blackness lowers itself over her mind. She was right. And he’s going to kill again. What was that girl’s name? The one he’s almost got recruited?

Beth something.

The darkness swallows her up, as one last thought confirms itself in her mind.

Goddamnit.

She was right.

Seventy-Nine

The coffee burns in Esposito’s belly. The early morning bellyache is as much a part of his routine as tying his shoes and taking a shit.

He’s tried everything. Changing what he eats for breakfast; it used to be a bowl of oatmeal, then it was cereal, then it was toast, now he’s back to oatmeal. He’s eaten earlier. He’s eaten later. He’s added a big glass of skim milk.

But all to no avail.

Of course, the one thing he’s never tried, and never will try God rest his soul, is to give up his coffee. He simply cannot function without it. And because of that, he imagines a big hole in the pit of his stomach; or maybe a bunch of them, like it was poked with the red-hot end of a cigar. And as the coffee goes through his stomach like a sieve, he can feel the heat and turmoil rising in giant, nauseous waves.

He sighs, and like a prisoner being led back to his cell, gulps the rest of the coffee.

The squad room is less noise and more smoke than later in the day. Less talking, but more smoking and more coffee guzzling as the cops and detectives prepare for another day.

Esposito has an especially full day ahead of him. Case in point, Alonzo Wolfen, boyfriend of Desree Jobs, claims he has no idea how their two-year old son wound up in a shoe store’s trash compactor. So far, the beat cops haven’t been able to find any witnesses to put Alonzo at the scene, but all signs, including battery charges on Desree, point to Alonzo.

Additionally, a fifteen year old gangbanger known on the streets as T-Roc was gunned down late last night. No witnesses. No leads. No shit. Another murder no one knows anything about, soon to be followed by another one of the same kind, a retaliation by the people who will look Esposito in the eye and tell him they know absolutely nothing.

It’s the way of the street.

In the meantime, both cases are on Esposito’s desk. He stares at the blue folders, at each of their plastic tabs containing the name of the file. His belly burns hotter for a moment and he wonders if he’ll have to make an emergency run to the bathroom. He hates using the public john here, it’s disgusting. He’s a home-based crapper without a doubt.

The burst of nausea passes and Esposito breathes a sigh of relief. Now in his fifteenth year as a homicide cop, all in Detroit, he feels the years and the weight of what he’s seen and done. Another day, he thinks.

He leans forward and suddenly remembers that he had wanted to call Ackerman’s supervisor. Esposito searches his desk for the phone number of the recruiting office. As he looks under thick files and coffee-stained magazines, he thinks of Ackerman. The guy had come across as honest, sincere and helpful. But Esposito could tell that underneath it, there was something else. What, he wasn’t sure. But the guy had a weird light in his eyes. A glint of something. For some reason he finds himself wanting to take one more little peek under Samuel Ackerman.

He fishes out the number and punches it in.

Esposito looks into the bottom of his cup. Disgusting. The dark brown rim at the bottom looks like filthy river water. He brings the cup to his mouth and drains it just as a voice says hello on the other end of the phone.

“This is Detective Esposito.” He searches for the proper military terminology. “Could I speak to the commanding officer.”

There’s a pause. “She’s not in yet. Can I take a message?”

“What time does she usually come in?” Esposito asks. He glances at the clock. It’s just past eight-thirty.

“I don’t know,” the voice says. “She’s always in by now. This is the first time in five years I beat her into work.”

Esposito is about to say he’ll call back and write the whole thing off as a waste of time, but the gears are turning.

The day after he speaks to Ackerman, Ackerman’s supervisor is late for the first time in five years?

“May I have your name, please?” Esposito asks. He writes down the name “Paul Rogers.” He then asks for the name of the superior officer. “Julie Giacalone.”

On a sudden flash of curiosity, he says, “Is Samuel Ackerman there?”

“Sure, let me transfer you-”

“No, that’s all right,” Esposito says quickly. He gets the phone number for Giacalone, says good-bye to Paul Rogers, then calls Julie Giacalone’s home number.

He gets the machine.

Esposito drops the phone back in the cradle, snatches up the latest two case files and heads for the door.

He’s already dreading the drive all the way out to Troy, but he has to.

Cops have to become psychologists; it’s an occupational necessity. As difficult as human nature is to pin down, constant exposure to the harsh realities of what people will do to each other when true emotions are unleashed. Cops by default see human beings often times as they really are. So when a cop meets someone, subconsciously, they often wonder to themselves, what is this person capable of? And how easily could that person be motivated to do such a thing?

Fuck nurture over nature, Esposito thinks. Like most cops, he doesn’t believe in the theory that environment creates monsters. It certainly doesn’t help, but he’s seen middle-class kids who would slit an old woman’s throat. And he’s seen kids in the ghetto with drug addicts as parents who have hearts of gold. You never know.

The mid-morning traffic isn’t bad at all. Esposito glances down at the address and commits it to memory. He recognizes the street name and a few minutes after exiting I-75, he’s rolling up in front of the small Cape Cod that is home to Petty Officer Julie Giacalone.

He parks the car in front of the small walk leading to the front steps. The wind has backed off, leaving just a slight chill and gray sky. Esposito takes in the house. It looks well-kept and neat. Evergreen shrubs line the front of the house with a small porch complete with porch swing. Definitely the kind of place a successful military career woman would choose to live.

A quick glance around the neighboring homes confirms his perception. Most of the cars parked in the driveways are newer Hondas and Toyotas, with the occasional Volkswagen thrown in.

Esposito walks up the front walk, then mounts the porch and stands at the front door. He presses the doorbell and waits.

A snowplow goes by tossing salt onto the already bare streets.

He rings the doorbell again but hears nothing inside. He takes a few steps to the right and glances in the living room window. Nothing but a couch and recliner surrounding a coffee table piled high with magazines.

Esposito checks his watch. It’s nearly eleven. He’d called the recruiting office ten minutes ago and spoke to Paul Rogers again. No sign of Julie Giacalone. And she hadn’t answered her phone.

He walks backs down the front steps and turns left, heading up the driveway. As he walks past the side of the house, he tries to peek in the dining room windows, but only sees the table and chairs. He gets to the garage and look inside. Her car is there, matching the information he’d gotten from Secretary of State, right down to her license plate number.

Now Esposito’s worried. It could just be she’s in the shower — but for several hours? Maybe she overslept. He goes to the back door and tries it, but it’s locked. He looks through the window and sees a narrow hallway leading from the kitchen into the living room.

He walks back around the house to the front door. He turns the knob.

The door opens.

His breath catches in his throat.

Bad, bad news.

He slides the slip of paper where he’d written Julie Giacalone’s address into his shirt pocket, and pulls out his Glock from the shoulder holster.

He steps inside the house.

Coffee, flowers and carpet cleaner are the smells that he can detect. It’s quiet. No radio. No television.

The front entrance opens into a small foyer area where an umbrella holder sits. It’s white, with different colored umbrellas painted on the side. The living room is home beige carpeting, a leather couch, loveseat and recliner and an entertainment center.

Just off the living room is the dining room and beyond that, the kitchen. Esposito glances in each.

“Anybody home?” he calls out.

No one answers.

The hallway to the left leads, he assumes, to the bathroom and bedrooms.

He walks down the hallway, his shoes tapping lightly on the oak floor. Family pictures line the wall and he forces himself not to look.

The first door on the left is a bathroom and it’s empty. The tub is dry.

He walks closer to the second door, which by its position would seem to be a guest room. It is. A small twin bed is pushed against the wall, an antique dresser and mirror take up the other wall.

Back in the hall, Esposito takes the final steps to the last door. The master bedroom.

He holds the Glock in front of him, firmly in both hands, and nudges the door open.

A light yellow splash of color. A ruffled bed sheet. Light from a window. And then something that makes Esposito’s blood run cold.

He nudges the door wide open.

Julie Giacalone’s face purple and distorted.

The belt cinched around her neck has been tied to the ceiling fan and with each rotation of the fan’s blades, her feet, raised four feet off the floor, seem to vibrate.

Goddamnit, Esposito thinks, looking up at the dead woman.

Eighty

The point where it’s still possible to turn back, the last exit off the freeway of Things Gone Terribly Wrong, was passed a long time ago, Samuel realizes. The thought swims to the surface of his mind with astonishing ease and peacefulness. There’s no panic. No anxiety. No white knuckles on the steering wheel. Samuel simply understands that the course he has set out for himself, the path to his dreams is now a one-way street with no room or opportunities to pull over to the side.

The highway analogies seem appropriate to him as he pulls into the fast lane of I-75 North. Traffic is clogging up, but Samuel’s white Taurus seems to glide in and out of problem areas on its own volition. Things are moving quickly, all right, Samuel acknowledges.

The pain in his temples is now a constant, aching throb. No relief whatsoever, but that’s okay. He can live with it. It’s a part of him now. As much his nature as the things he’s had to do to achieve his dream. What is that famous saying of the Oakland Raider guy? Al Davis?

Samuel thinks. Searches his memory.

And then it comes to him.

Just win, baby.

A great philosophy for football. And one for life.

Just win, baby.

He pictures himself with fellow Navy SEALs on search-and-destroy mission somewhere in Asia, or the Middle East perhaps. That’s what he would say to his fellow SEALs, the most highly trained, dangerous soldiers in the world.

Just win, baby.

The image pops into his brain of Julie Giacalone, her eyeballs bulging as he chokes the life right out of her. He had to do it. Sure, he feels it was regrettable. She was a nice person, just too nosy, too concerned about her fucking career. She should have left well enough alone. Not gotten in the way of his dream. He pictures her there in her little Mr. Rogers neighborhood, in her little domestic house with all of her pretty little feminine decorations.

And then he pictures her hanging from the ceiling fan.

Not exactly a Martha Stewart moment.

Samuel cackles out loud at that thought and passes a van with a bumper sticker that reads “Unless you’re a hemorrhoid, get off my ass.” How appropriate. That’s what he’d like to tell the world right now. Just get off my fucking ass.

It’s a crazy fucking world, he thinks. He’s just trying to make his way in it.

He’s trying to live the American dream, which is different to everyone. For Julie Giacalone, it was probably to be a big shit in Naval administration, but with a husband and a house full of little brats.

The pain in his temple bursts and he nearly gasps with the pain as he thinks of someone else’s dream.

Beth Fischer’s.

Her dream? To escape Lake Orion. To get away from the drunken clutches of her mother.

Anna Fischer.

Anna the Lush.

She should have kept her nose in a bottle and out of her daughter’s life. Because now she’s involved. The call came out of the blue, he has to admit. Sitting at his desk, working hard for the benefit of Paul Rogers who seemed to be beside himself with worry about Julie Giacalone. Wondering where she could be, going on and on about how she’s never been late in five years of working. Like that’s a good thing. Christ, get a life, Samuel thought.

Paul Rogers scurrying about like Chicken Little, and the whole time Samuel had to play the concerned co-worker, offering suggestions, helpful advice, wearing an expression of worry.

The whole time envisioning Julie Giacalone hanging from the goddamned ceiling fan.

And then Anna Fischer had called him. Drunk. Going on and on about the packages with Beth’s highlight video. How he’d sabotaged THE DREAM, as she emphasized it. On and on about trust. How he’d hurt her more than he could ever imagine.

Samuel smirks at the thought. Anna Fischer knows nothing about pain. He presses on the accelerator and the Taurus’s scrappy V-8 responds, smoothly cruising past traffic, a white streak in the fast lane.

Maybe he’d be able to charm his way past Anna, convince her that the post office must have lost the packages. Maybe even lie that he has tracking numbers and that he called and that the packages are still in transit, or mistakenly shipped to Mada-fucking-gascar. She sounded so drunk that she’d believe anything.

The question is, will she remember any of it when she’s sober?

Maybe he’d have to step things up a notch with Anna.

Like he did with Julie Giacalone.

That way, Beth’s dream of getting out of Lake Orion can come true. And that will play right into Samuel’s pursuit.

Get the recruits.

Get back to Coronado.

Get on with becoming a SEAL.

It’s simple.

It’s right.

It’s the American way.

Just win, baby.

Eighty-One

“Beth, thank you so much for coming to help,” Mrs. Forbes says. “I know he’ll turn up. He’d better turn up or he’s going to be in some serious trouble.” She puts an I’m-a-brave-trooper smile on her face. But Beth can see that the veneer is cracking. Worry is rapidly being replaced with outright fear.

“Call me on my cell as soon as he comes home,” Beth says, cursing herself for nearly saying “if.”

Mrs. Forbes nods, her face now fallen into the likeness of granite. Beth sees her jaw muscle bulge. It’s nearly impossible to suppress tears without showing some signs of the effort.

“Do you need a ride home?” Mrs. Forbes asks.

“No, I have my Mom’s car. I’m not up to walking it just yet.” Beth’s home, although clearly separated socioeconomically from the Forbes house, is about four miles away. In the summer, before the injury, Beth and Peter would often walk it together. Taking their time. Holding hands. Goofing around.

“Thanks again for all your help, Beth. You’ll call me if you hear from him?”

“Immediately,” Beth says. The two women embrace, and Beth leaves the house, shaken by the fierceness of Mrs. Forbes embrace. It was the hug of a mother who fears she’s lost her child. Beth instinctively knew it was the kind of embrace Mrs. Forbes is waiting to unleash on Peter, and Beth was simply the current stand-in.

Beth walks across the front yard and halfway down the block to where her car is parked. She stops and looks at the sky. A solid sheet of oatmeal gray.

Peter, where are you?

There are no answers up there.

Beth unlocks the car and gets behind the wheel. Her left leg is still in its thick brace and despite its Herculean support, shafts of pain drive into the joint during the awkward act of getting behind the wheel. She’s still got a long way to go. The knee is still being drained on a regular basis. She is continuing her therapy sessions with the hospital therapist.

But progress is slow.

Maybe it would go faster if she were into the rehabilitation, but she isn’t. Beth realizes that she should do everything she can to heal as fast as possible so that the therapy sessions can end, but she can go into the DEP program for the Navy — Delayed Entry Program. For up to a year at least. So in that sense, there’s no hurry. And despite her usual steadfast discipline, this time, she’d rather just avoid the pain than face it head-on. At this point, she just doesn’t want to deal with the pain. Why suffer through the agony when time will take care of it?

She fires up the car, puts it in gear and pulls out into the street. She passes the cars parked on either side of the street. Friends, family, Peter’s teachers. They’ve all come to help.

Time will bring Peter back, too. Beth feels this despite the bad feeling in her stomach. It’s not like Peter to do this at all. She imagines him wrapped around a tree somewhere, his car crushed. He’s probably in a hospital room somewhere watching Jeopardy as some cute nurse tapes up his bruised ribs.

That’s the version she wants to believe.

Or maybe he was shot, caught in the middle of a convenience store robbery somewhere and the police haven’t been able to identify his body yet. Peter dead. The thought chills her.

She forces it from her mind.

Beth turns onto the highway and puts the accelerator to the floor. Maybe there’s a message at home from Peter. Be positive, Beth, she tells herself.

Peter’s fine.

He’s just… somewhere.

Eighty-Two

The booze welcomes Anna back with open arms and unbridled warmth. Like an old friend who’s always there in times of crisis.

Halfway through the first bottle of whiskey purchased from Mack Avenue Liquor, Anna’s anger nonetheless remains undiluted. If anything, it’s sharper and more focused than before she’d started drinking.

She trusted him.

The recruiter.

He’d played her like a drunken old fool. And she’d practically handed him her daughter on a silver platter.

When would she ever learn?

More importantly, when would she ever stop hurting Beth?

The last thought elicits a soft moan from deep within her. That’s the part that really hurts. The part of her that despite the booze and the wasted years, never really stopped being a Mom.

She can forgive herself many things.

But the mother part — that essential aspect of her being will never, ever forgive her for the mistakes she’d made with her daughter.

Even the booze can’t wash that away.

She raises the glass to her lips and takes a long drink of whiskey. It no longer burns her throat. Instead, it slides down with astonishing ease. Smooth as silk until it spreads out in her belly like some heaven-sent mushroom cloud, vaporizing any last remaining shreds of doubt.

Anna looks at the clock.

She’s got a few minutes yet.

She tops off her glass and walks unsteadily toward her bedroom. She’s got a vague idea in her mind. Like most thoughts during a drunk, they’re rather fuzzy and not terribly well-defined. But it’s an idea that holds a certain power for her. She walks into her bedroom and sets the whiskey glass down on her dresser. The framed picture on the dresser top catches her eye. It’s of Vince. He looked so much like Beth. The strong jaw. The challenging light in the eyes. A strong personality quietly offering to take whatever the world can dish out — and then give it back in spades.

Beth has that same spirit.

Or at least she used to. Before her wretch of a mother took over her life.

Anna sets the picture down, it wobbles and topples over. When she picks it back up, she sees the glass is cracked and spiderwebbed.

The tears come then, slowly and steadily. Several minutes later, they’re gone. Anna puts the picture back in its place and takes another drink, turning her back to the picture so Vince can’t see her. Shame is another emotion the booze can’t suppress.

Anna goes to her closet and reaches up to the top shelf. The shoebox is still there, a thin film of dust on its top. She takes it down and sets it on the bed, then sits next to it. She looks over at the picture and Vince is looking at her. Challenging her.

She doesn’t know what to do.

She takes the top off and reaches in, her fingers recoiling initially from the feel of the cool metal. She picks up the heavy automatic and holds it in both hands. Don’t think, she tells herself. Just act. Just take care of the problem you created.

Vince taught her how to handle a gun. One of the many lessons she should have learned from him, but that for the most part died with him. But now, it comes back to her. She reaches into the shoebox and retrieves the magazine filled with the heavy bullets. She slams it into the butt of the gun, feels it lock in place. She turns off the safety.

Okay, she thinks.

It feels totally unnatural and for a moment, she’s outside herself, looking down with detached horror.

But then she comes back to herself.

The feeling of disconnectedness is gone.

She feels good.

She’s doing something.

Taking action.

It’s about time she righted a few wrongs.

Time. What time is it? She looks again at the clock. He should be here any minute. The message she left the recruiter — that she knows what he’s done and that she’s going to put a stop to all his plans — was designed to put the fear of God into him. Anna knows he’ll rush right over, trying to protect his investment, so to speak.

Well, he’s in for a few surprises.

Anna stands and feeling like a corny t.v. cop, she reaches behind her and slides the gun between her jeans and the small of her back. She pulls her sweatshirt down over the back so the recruiter won’t notice anything. She has no plans to kill him, just scare the life out of him.

She goes back to the dresser and picks up her glass, takes a long drink.

The whiskey slides down her throat and she looks at the picture on her dresser. On cue, a small shard of glass drops the frame and lands on the dresser, spinning for a brief moment before coming to rest.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

Anna freezes for just a moment, then drains the rest of the whiskey and hurries toward the front door.

Eighty-Three

“I need your full attention, do you understand?” Esposito says into his cell phone. His voice is calm and steady.

After a short moment, the voice on the other end responds. Paul Rogers informs Esposito that the detective does in fact, have his full attention.

Esposito, standing in the driveway of Julie Giacalone’s house, waiting for the crime scene technicians to arrive as well as the first of the Lake Orion cops, speaks slowly.

“Where is Samuel Ackerman?”

“He’s out of the office right now,” Rogers says carefully.

“I didn’t ask where he isn’t, I asked where he is. Now, if he’s not at the office, then where his he?”

A shuffle of papers. “Probably meeting with recruits.”

“Which recruits?”

Another shuffle of papers. “Hold on just a second.” Esposito can hear the man’s labored breathing as he hurries across the office. “I’ll have to check his status sheet.”

The sound of computer keys tapping followed by a soft whir of a hard drive. “Um. My guess would be Fischer. Beth. 928 Cherry Street, Lake Orion.”

“Give me the phone number.”

Rogers does and Esposito thanks him, and tells him that if Ackerman returns to the office, to do nothing, to just go about his business as usual. As soon as he disconnects with Rogers, Esposito calls his Chief and as quickly as possible, explains the situation. More cops will stake out the recruiting office and wait for Ackerman’s return. Meanwhile, an APB will be issued. As well as alerts on Ackerman’s car.

Esposito hangs up with the chief and calls the Fischer number.

Christ, let someone be home, Esposito thinks.

Whatever happens, don’t let Ackerman be there.

The phone rings as Esposito hurtles down the freeway.

It will take him ten minutes to get there.

He hopes he’s not too late.

Eighty-Four

“Can I get you another drink, Anna?” Samuel asks, his voice smooth and one hundred percent sincere. “Your vocal cords must be sore after that lecture you just gave me.” His smile is big and warm. Inside, his stomach his quaking, but on the outside, he appears to be in complete control. Although the scenarios ricocheting through his head have set his heart off on a wild series of palpitations, when he catches a glimpse of his face on the dining room’s mirror, he looks serene.

Anna looks up at him and Samuel can tell that she’s checking to see if he’s serious about the offer to fetch her a drink. She’s just read him the riot act. Accusing him of a terrible crime; sabotaging Beth’s dream so that she would go into the Navy. Amazing how perceptive a drunk can be.

“How can you stand there looking so… smug?” she asks him. Her eyes are half-lidded, her jaw slack. “You know you did it!” The words come out heavily slurred.

Samuel crosses the room, snatches the bottle from the dining room table in one swift move, and splashes three fingers of whiskey into Anna’s glass. He walks back to Anna and offers the glass which she accepts with both hands. Samuel fights back a smirk.

“I swear to God I put those packages in the mail,” Samuel says.

“I don’t believe you.” Now she sounds petulant.

Dark swirls roam through Samuel’s mind. His temple throbs with activity. The pain is shooting through his forehead. He thinks back to when he was a boy. The time he ran away from home and his father caught him when he was only three blocks away. His father had tied him to a tree in the backyard. It was just about dinnertime. And Samuel thought after dinner his father would untie him. And then after dinner, when no respite came, Samuel thought he’d untie him before bedtime. But once the lights in the house were turned off and everyone was sound asleep, Samuel was still tied to the tree.

He stayed there all night. In the morning, he awoke to find the rope had cut through his skin and he’d bled profusely. Mosquitoes had made mincemeat of his face.

His father had freed him just before lunch.

Samuel hadn’t tried to run away again.

“-not going to happen,” Anna finishes saying. Samuel snaps out of his memory.

“Pardon me,” he says, his voice tight with emotion.

“I said it isn’t going to happen. Beth isn’t going in the Navy. You can take your bullshit sales pitch somewhere else.” Anna is gesturing with the glass and a splash of whiskey falls to the carpet.

“Don’t you think you should leave that up to Beth?” Samuel asks. He’s fighting to keep this from escalating. He can feel the anger surging in his body. The darkness in his mind is receding, and the crystalline logic of murder takes its place. The boy’s disappearance could be explained. Julie Giacalone’s suicide could be explained. But now the death of another recruit’s family member? The cops would eventually find the link; Samuel Ackerman. The best way would be to keep this drunk old bitch alive. He could convince the cops on the rest of the disappearances, but if she went away, the spotlight on him would be relentless.

Still, if she absolutely refused to leave Beth alone, to let her daughter make her own fucking decision, well, he would have to take matters into his own hands.

“I will leave it up to Beth,” Anna says. Samuel feels a surge of relief. But then, just as quickly, Anna shatters it. “Once she has all the facts. Like the fact that you tossed those packages in the garbage somewhere. It’ll break her heart. But it’s the best thing for her. We both know that.”

For a brief moment, the last remaining dark swirls in Samuel’s brain dissipate and then suddenly, a shaft of bright white pierces his consciousness and he’s moving, standing over Anna Fischer, his fists clenched.

“You’ll let her make her own decision and you’ll stay the fuck out of it,” he says, his teeth clenched, his voice raspy.

Anna freezes as if she hasn’t heard right. She looks up at him. A strange light in her eyes.

“Fuck you, asshole,” she says, and takes a sip of whiskey.

Suddenly, the anger, frustration and sheer violent impulse overcomes Samuel and he unleashes a right hook. It’s a smooth, powerful motion that Samuel expects to end with the old bag’s jaw disintegrating.

Instead, the old woman manages to just turn her head enough so that the blow glances off her chin and it carries his punch past her.

With astonishing quickness, she tosses the whiskey from her glass directly into Samuel’s face. It burns his eyes and for a moment, he can see nothing but an amber-colored watery blur. He stumbles backward two steps and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. When they’re clear, he catches a quick glimpse of Anna rushing into the back bedroom.

He pounds across the room and kicks open the door that she has just slammed behind her. He barges into the bedroom and makes a beeline for Anna. He is three feet away from her when he catches a quick glimpse of dark metal in her hand.

Samuel sidesteps to the left as the gun goes off. The sound echoes in the small room and then Samuel plows into Anna, crashing her into her dresser, sending picture frames and earrings and pill bottles onto the floor.

They land in a heap but Samuel is quickly on top of her, the gun in his hand. He presses it to her temple.

“You shouldn’t have gotten in my way you drunken bitch.” His finger curls around the trigger but then he stops himself. Blood splattered all over her bedroom wouldn’t be good. He relaxes his finger on the trigger, then raises the gun and brings it crashing down on top of her head.

Anna goes completely still and Samuel puts his ear to her chest. He hears her heart beating.

Samuel retrieves a pillow from the bed and stands over Anna Fischer.

“Beth will decide what she wants to do without you,” he says.

And then he leans in above her, pressing the pillow over her face.

Eighty-Five

Beth pulls into the driveway, her radio on, her thoughts centering around Peter and any scenarios that might involve him being away. She’s been over it again and again and she comes up with the same thing: nada.

That’s why it’s so jarring to see Samuel standing next to his car in front of her house.

He has the trunk open.

In her excitement to see him, she temporarily puts thoughts of Peter on the back burner and emerges from her car with a smile on her face. Samuel walks toward her and they hug on the sidewalk directly in front of the house.

“What are you doing here?” she asks him. She reaches up and runs the flat of her hand across his forehead. “You’re sweating.”

“Like a pig,” he says, laughing. “I had a great idea and I’ve been going like a madman trying to get everything ready.”

She glances back over his shoulder toward his car. “What’s the idea?”

“I want to take you to my cabin up north.”

She feels a lightness in her stomach. A fluttering in her heart. Going away with Samuel for the weekend, the thought of it sends her head reeling. Not for the weekend itself, but for what it means. She sees Samuel smiling at her and recovers.

“You have a cabin? Where up north?”

“Near Alpena. It’s nothing fancy-”

She throws her arms around him. “Oh, Samuel I would love to! I’ve been up north a few times. I love it! It’s so beautiful!” She shoots him a sly smile. “And so romantic.”

“Like I said, it’s nothing out of Architectural Digest.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that,” Beth says. “That’s half the fun, you know. Roughing it a little bit. Getting back to nature.” She pauses, nearly breathless. “How exciting!” She takes his hand and begins walking toward the house. “Will we leave tomorrow morning? Maybe after breakfast?”

“No. Now.”

She turns and stops. She looks at him, surprised by the sudden urgency of his voice.

“I guess I just got kind of excited by the idea,” he says, giving her a sheepish grin. “Plus, we can beat traffic, and I have tomorrow off. I know it’s all of a sudden, but I just… really want to do this. With you.”

Beth looks into Samuel’s eyes and her knees turn to water. She momentarily thinks of Peter. Should she stay? Help Mrs. Forbes in some way? She’s done everything she could possibly do. Called every single person she could think of. She won’t be doing anyone any favors by hanging around. If Peter does come back while she’s gone, well, she’ll find out somehow.

Still holding hands, they walk to the front door. Beth pulls out her keys and inserts them into the lock.

She turns the key, but nothing happens. She puts her hand on the doorknob and turns it.

It opens.

“That’s weird,” she says. “Usually Mom locks it.”

They walk into the house together. “Ma?” Beth calls out.

Silence answers her.

She walks through the living room toward the kitchen then stops. The smell tickles her nose. “She’s drinking again,” she tells Samuel.

Samuel, standing behind her, says nothing, and then the phone shatters the silence of the house.

Beth answers.

“May I speak to Anna Fischer, please?” a woman’s voice says.

“She’s not here right now, may I take a message?” Beth has carried the phone into her bedroom and throws a pair of jeans into her duffel bag. Socks, underwear, her toothbrush are already in. She reaches into her second dresser drawer, looking for that frilly nightgown she has.

Suddenly, she hears a slight buzzing on the phone.

“Mom, is that you?” There’s silence. But the buzz is still there. Must be the cordless. It’s never worked right. But usually, only the buzz comes when they both answer the phone at the same time.

“Pardon me?” the woman on the phone says.

“I’m sorry, I was speaking to someone else,” Beth says, tossing in a heavy sweatshirt. She starts to pull the phone from her ear, ready to hit the end call button. But the voice on the other end of the line stops her.

“Is this Beth? Beth Fischer?”

Beth puts the phone back to her ear. Solicitor, she thinks. Wanting a donation or a magazine subscription, totally unaware that the house they’ve just called has no money whatsoever.

“Yeah, listen,” she says, ready to hang up on the person. But again, the voice stops her.

“Beth, this is Jessica Jansen, Coach Jansen, at Albemare College.”

This time, she stops what she’s doing and looks at a spot on the wall. For the first time since she answered the phone, she’s actually listening.

“Coach of what?” Beth asks.

“Basketball. Women’s basketball.”

She’s going to ask me for a recommendation. Maybe if I know a player she’s recruiting. Maybe someone gave my name as a reference.

“I got the highlight reel your Mom sent and I think I’ve got a slot on my team for you.”

The idea of a reference is gone now. She knows what this call is about now, for sure. This is a joke, Beth thinks. A sick, fucking joke probably being played on her by Vanessa. Or by some former opponent who is relishing what happened to her.

The thoughts and emotions streaming at her make her head swim. Basketball. A highlight reel. That Mom sent. It comes at her in bursts.

“We went 12–12 last year,” Coach Jansen continues. “But we’ve got our frontline returning and I think we can go somewhere in the postseason. You would probably be a role player. Your mother mentioned your injury.”

“She did,” Beth says. Her mouth barely able to form the words. Beth tries to reconcile the image of her mother the drunk with a woman motivated enough to put together a highlight reel, find out where to send it, and then actually go through with it.

Somehow, the image didn’t reconcile at all with the image Beth has of her mother.

“The girl who left was a zonebreaker,” the woman on the other end of phone continues. “A sharpshooter from the outside. I think if you have lost some of your mobility, it would be okay. I watched you shoot and you’re a natural. A pure shooter.”

“Um… thank you,” Beth says. Her heart is pounding in her chest. The phone in her hand is slick with sweat. This can’t be happening, she thinks. And then she realizes what she’s missing. She’s not going to Albemarle College to play for Jessica Jansen. How could she be so fucking stupid?

“The problem is,” Beth says. “We… I… can’t afford college…”

“It’s a full scholarship, Beth. Didn’t I say that?”

Beth wants to answer. To say, no, you didn’t say that, but her mouth is hanging open and her vocal cords can’t seem to scrape together any sound.

“Beth? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” she says. Her voice soft and faint. The buzzing on the phone is now accompanied by the buzzing in her head.

“So let’s talk next steps. First, does this sound good to you? Are you interested?”

“Yes,” Beth says, her voice still distant and hollow.

“Okay, I’ve got a basketball camp out in Arizona next week, he’s going to teach a few of us about his offense, and I’m very excited about it. So that’s a week, and then I’ll be back. Before I leave, I’ll send out the papers to you, okay? There will be a letter of intent, as well as information about the college. And then I’d like to set up a time when you can come out. We can meet, talk, give you a tour of the campus, and meet a few of your teammates. Okay?”

“Okay,” Beth says.

“I’ve got to run, Beth. Oh, one more thing. What a wonderful mother you have — I love to see parents actively involved. She must really care about you. Okay, gotta run. We’ll talk more!”

Beth is standing there, listening to the dial tone, when the buzzing on the phone stops. The one in her head has graduated to a siren-like wail. She got a scholarship! She’s going to college!

She disconnects the phone and races downstairs. Samuel is standing in the living room.

She jumps into his arms.

“I’ve got the greatest news!” she says, her voice loud, her face split in a huge grin.

And then she stops.

Samuel’s face is shockingly pale.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing. What’s the news?” His voice sounds quivery to her. But the flood of happiness washes over her.

“I got a scholarship! I’m going to play basketball again! It’s a fucking miracle! And my Mom did it! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

She hugs Samuel.

She has it all. A scholarship. A love in her life. And her mother, finally has come through.

All she wants to do now is one thing.

She wants to find her mother.

Hug her.

Beg her forgiveness.

And thank her.

And then she wants to go up north with Samuel.

And celebrate.

Eighty-Six

Ten minutes later, Detective Esposito pulls into the Fischer driveway, joined by two of Lake Orion’s finest.

Esposito is not happy. His calls have gone unanswered, and he already knows what he’s going to find inside: either more bodies or nothing at all.

An emergency call to a cop-friendly judge secured the warrant in record time. Now, Esposito kicks in the back door and enters the house, gun drawn. Minutes later, he stands in the Fischer living room, breathing deeply the scent of booze — years of its odor soaked into the carpet.

He gazes at the pictures on the wall, mostly of a young girl. That would be Beth, he assumes, now the objective of Samuel Ackerman’s misguided recruiting efforts. Esposito gazes more closely. She’s pretty. And most of the pictures are of her basketball career. Holding a trophy here, being named All-Conference there.

Esposito has put out the call and now has every cop in the area on the lookout for Ackerman’s car. More cops are watching his apartment, should he return. And more are watching the office.

But Esposito has a bad feeling. There’s something about this Ackerman he’s gathered from the crime scenes. He’s smart. He’s obviously merciless. And most of all, he’s a survivor.

It won’t be easy to find him.

And once they find him, well, he’s guessing that won’t be easy, either.

Eighty-Seven

I-75 splits the state of Michigan neatly in half, running vertically from the heart of Detroit’s hard core urban ghetto to the awe-inspiring beauty of the Mackinaw bridge.

Halfway up the state, Highway 33 branches off to the east, and at a gentle curve of that highway, a few miles from the shores of Lake Huron, a network of gravel roads shoots off into a small patch of forest in which resides Bear Den Lake. Home to a smattering of cottages, including that of the Ackerman family.

It’s an ancient, dilapidated log cabin — built by hunters just after the turn-of-the-century. The logs are stained nearly black, the outside a faded dark red. Gray chinking turns the exterior into a striped pattern. The lot itself is dense and thick with trees and overgrown vegetation. The nearest cottage on either side is a good acre or two away.

As Samuel steers the Taurus onto the gravel drive, they quickly come to a chain blocking the way. He hops out, uses a key to unlock the padlock, pulls the Taurus through, then re-fastens the lock.

They pull forward and Beth is struck nearly dumb with awe. The cottage is tiny and dumpy-looking. The lake is small. And the lot could be considered a mess.

But to Beth, it is absolutely beautiful.

The idea of a cabin up north was always a distant concept to her. Quite a few of the kids in school had places up north, and Beth even went with them a few times, but this is different.

This is the cabin belonging to a man she is rapidly falling in love with.

The two things together work to render her speechless.

Samuel pulls the car forward and parks just past the cabin, the trunk a good ten yards from the side door of the cabin. He shuts the car off and turns to Beth. “Welcome to the Bear’s Den,” he says, and gestures at the small sign above the front door. The words “Bear’s Den” are roughly carved into the wooden sign.

She puts her hands on Samuel’s face, pulls him to her and kisses him. “It’s absolutely beautiful,” she says. They both get out of the car and Beth breathes deeply, the strong scent of trees and the lake combine like a potpourri. She stretches, overcome with good feelings and a concept very strange to her; the feeling of peace and harmony.

“Why don’t you take a walk around while I unload?” Samuel says.

“Why don’t I help you first?”

“No, really. Take a walk,” he says. She hesitates at the sound of his voice. It seems a little… sharp. Beth looks at him and as their eyes meet, Samuel’s expression immediately softens. He smiles at her and Beth says, “Okay. I’ll take a walk.”

Although her offer to help unload the car was sincere, the truth is, she can’t wait to look around. See the water. The woods. The inside of the cabin.

And, she can’t wait to make love to Samuel.

Now, she walks around the front of the cabin to the water’s edge. She scans the horizon, the green bluffs surrounding the lake seeming to serve as a border for a beautiful work of art. Out in the middle of the lake, a lone loon calls out to her.

Beth turns from the water and takes in the old stone hearth sitting halfway between the front of the cabin and the edge of the lake, the old dock sticking out into the water, it’s metal wheels half-buried in the water. There’s a ring of stones for bonfires. And the smell of the lake; fishy, pungent and cool.

She steps onto the dock and looks over the side. A small school of fish swim out from beneath her, startled by the sound of the wood creaking under her footsteps.

She walks to the end of the dock and looks into the water, it’s clear and much deeper, the tops of weeds a few feet below the surface. Beth scans the surrounding shores and sees a few cottages here and there. But it seems very sparsely populated to her. Very private. Very romantic.

Beth walks back toward the cabin and she hears Samuel close the trunk of the car. On the ground near the cabin’s side door are a few bags of groceries, a twelve pack of beer and several bottles of wine. She scoops up the groceries and one bottle of wine and heads inside.

Immediately, the faint smell of wood smoke hits her and she sees that Samuel has already touched a match to the logs in the fireplace.

“Always have a fire ready when you leave, that way, you don’t have to scrounge for wood right away,” Samuel says. “Especially important when it’s cold and you want to heat things up right away.”

Beth sets the bags of groceries on the countertop and looks around the cabin. It’s small, but tidy. The main room holds the stone fireplace and some old, faded furniture. The floor is made of oak planks, and a bearskin rug is in the front of the fireplace. A door to the left of the fireplace leads to a small bedroom and bathroom.

A small kitchen area holds an old gas stove, an old refrigerator and a sink.

Samuel comes to the kitchen and helps Beth put away the groceries. Beth takes his hand and leads him to the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. She has slipped off her shoes and feels the warmth from the fire on the rug. She sheds her clothes and the pale sunlight washes skin in a light glow.

“Make love to me,” she says.

He does.

Eighty-Eight

Her breath comes in ragged gasps. To an impartial observer, they sound more like sobs. But the breath comes. The oxygen comes. It trickles into her lungs and her nerves respond. She opens her eyes. She becomes conscious.

And she realizes where she is.

In the trunk.

With that realization, other things come back to her. The vague memory, muted by the whiskey, of her confronting Ackerman. Of him punching her. Knocking her down.

And then it had all gone black.

Now, the memories bring the pain. Her jaw is on fire. Shafts of pain shoot through her mouth and face. She can feel without touching that the whole bottom of her face is swollen and inflamed.

Her body hurts as well. Her ribs. Her back. There, the pain is less intense, but its sheer pervasiveness shocks her and leaves her gasping for even more air.

She struggles to move, but finds that she can’t. Her arms are bound. Her hands taped behind her back. In the pitch blackness of the trunk, she can’t see anything. But the bindings on her hands don’t feel like rope. She shifts her weight, and feels the texture on her skin.

It’s tape.

Does he intend to kill her? She struggles to come to grips with it. Murder? Is he really going to kill her to get Beth to sign up for the Navy?

She doesn’t know a thing about him.

But if he would do this to her, Anna can easily imagine what he would do to Beth.

Suddenly, she’s paralyzed with fear. Where has he taken her? What is he going to do to her? Think, Anna. Think.

First off, where is she?

In her driveway? No. There’s no sound of traffic.

Is she parked somewhere? In a parking garage?

No, she can smell woodsmoke. The old-fashioned kind. Like from a fireplace.

So she’s not in the city. She’s out somewhere, rural. And probably near a cabin.

She’s up north, somewhere.

And then she realizes; Ackerman has a cabin up north.

He’s brought her here to get rid of her.

To bury her in the woods.

She moans, a half-cry half-scream and panics. She thrashes pulling and pushing her arms, kicking her feet against the side of the car. She keeps at it, thrusting her head forward and back. But it’s no use. The exercise leaves her breathless, covered in sweat, and wracked with pain.

She waits a moment to catch her breath.

The tears come then. Hot and furious, streaming down her face. Oh God, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. Not here. Not now.

Not with Beth out there, unprotected and vulnerable. Open to this psychopath.

The image of Vince floats before. She sees his eyes, so calm and so beautiful, the day he left for military duty. She remembers how he looked, climbing into the car with three friends, throwing his duffel bag in the trunk. So young. So proud. So strong.

At the memory, Anna’s heart skips a beat and she clenches her hand.

And something strange happens.

She feels something cutting into the skin of her arm. She manages to move it down to her hand.

Anna knows what it is.

A bottle cap.

For a brief moment of absolute clarity, she knows what she has to do.

Kicking and making noise isn’t going to do any good. There’s probably no one here but Ackerman.

Second, kicking the trunk door open, even if it were possible which it probably isn’t, doesn’t really do anything.

So, first things first.

Get your hands free.

She works the bottle cap from her palm to her fingers, praying to God that she won’t drop it.

She feels the sharp edge on her finger tip and quickly presses it against the widest part of the tape holding her hands together. She pushes the bottle cap down.

And then she runs it back.

Then back and forth.

And slowly, Anna Fischer develops a plan.

Eighty-Nine

Property searches sound easier than they actually are. You would think it could be accomplished by entering the subject’s name, hitting a command keystroke or two, and up on the screen would pop a few addresses.

But Esposito knows the truth about property searches: they’re a giant pain-in-the-ass.

It took him nearly two hours to get the fucking thing in motion. And now, sitting at his desk, he can only wait. Wait for the city assessor to look up the information that he, Esposito, had to receive authorization for from a judge. Goddamnit, the wheels of justice don’t grind slowly, sometimes they positively become entrenched.

He looks at the papers on his desk. Folders, case notes, all waiting for him to slog through it all.

He looks at his cell phone.

Somewhere, Ackerman has got a young girl who probably has no idea who she’s with. The bad feeling in Esposito’s gut is mutating and growing.

He looks at the phone again.

Ring, goddammit. Ring.

Ninety

The fantasy momentarily soothes Samuel. It is a gauzy, filmy dream in which all sins are forgiven, in which his past is clear of violence, of slit throats and women hanging from ceiling fans. It is a blissfully uneventful past, leading to a wondrous, fulfilling future.

In the fantasy, he and Beth are married. They make love long into the night. In the morning, they sleep in, eventually sharing a pot of good coffee and even better bagels for a late breakfast. Maybe a couple years down the road they’re up all night taking care of the baby.

Samuel can almost picture himself a father.

The thought frightens him initially. The nightmare images of his own childhood, of his father’s flushed, insane eyes come at him and he lapses into a fear of what would happen if he would become his father. But the fear passes. He thinks, fools himself into believing anyway, that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes, be the same monster his own father was.

He nearly laughs out loud.

The hypocrisy of it all.

“Beth?” he asks.

They have moved from the rug in front of the fireplace to the bedroom. Samuel has no idea what time it is. They’ve made love; how many times Samuel doesn’t know. He’s lost track.

Beth, half-asleep with her right arm and leg draped over his body, murmurs into her pillow.

“What are you planning on doing, Beth?” he asks.

She rolls over onto her back and opens her eyes.

“About what?” she asks, yawning in the process.

“About the phone call. From the basketball coach.”

Please let her give the right answer, he thinks. Instead, she sits up in bed and asks him, “Do you want something to drink?”

She gets out of bed, throws on shorts and a T-shirt, and pads into the kitchen.

Samuel does the same and he takes a seat across from her at the counter. She pours a beer into a glass and hands it to him. She opens another beer and takes a sip.

“We have to talk about this, don’t we?” she asks.

He nods silently.

She takes a long drink and looks into his eyes.

“I’m not going into the Navy.”

He says nothing. The words reverberate in his head and a cold wave washes over his body. The feeling makes his head spin and his eyes seem to burn back at Beth, he can feel the frustration threaten to implode.

“Are you all right, Samuel?” she asks him, concern on her face.

He can’t even muster a response.

“It’s just that, after my injury, I never thought I’d play ball again. Never thought I’d go to college. Never thought any of my dreams would come true. And when I was faced with that,” she holds her hands out. “I just had to get out. Any way to get out. But back then, I didn’t have a choice. Now I do.”

She walks around the end of the counter and puts her arms around Samuel. “It’s so weird. I went from having a shitty future, of having none of my dreams come true, to all of a sudden having two of them come true. Basketball. And you.”

She kisses him and he feels the warmth of her lips, feels the moisture from her eyes on his cheek. She’s crying. She loves him.

But he won’t accept it.

He won’t accept that everything he’s worked for, all of his dreams, are crashing to the ground. Like a shithouse going up in flames. Goddammit. Everything he’s worked so hard at, all of his plans, his energy, his ideas. All for naught.

The fury sweeps over him and he puts his arms around her. Beth snuggles in closer to him.

He hugs her to him and she tells him, “I love you Samuel. I love you with all my heart.”

He hugs her tighter. Can feel the bones in her rib cage protecting her. He squeezes harder.

“Okay, Samuel,” she says, and pushes away from him, but he pulls her tighter. “Ow, I can’t breathe,” she says, pushing even harder. But he keeps his face buried against her chest. He grits his teeth, a red mask of fury suffocates his brain and all he wants to do is kill. He wants to rip apart everything and every one whoever got in his way. The pain in his head is phenomenal and he cries out in pain.

Keeping one arm around her, he lifts his other arm up and encircles her throat, clamping her like a vise grip, cutting off her air flow.

She struggles harder, pushing and kicking but he easily lifts her off the ground.

She’s dying in his arms.

And then a brighter, more intense pain explodes in his head. He can actually see colors, like a rainbow before him. The nerves in his arms become numb and Beth squirts out from his arms.

He falls of the chair, stunned, landing on the oak floor with a thud that sends shooting pains the other way up his arm.

He looks up.

A small shovel from the fireplace is still in the air.

It’s connected to a small pair of old, arthritic hands. The hands travel down to bony, chicken-skin arms.

And then Samuel sees the face of Anna Fischer.

“No one fucks with my daughter,” she says.

Ninety-One

“334 Bear Den Lake Road.”

The woman’s voice on the other end is breathless. Did she actually run to the phone, Esposito wonders. If she did, she deserves a gold fucking star.

“Got it,” he says and slams the phone down, mentally reminding himself to find out who she was and thank her properly.

He snatches the phone back off the cradle and immediately calls the dispatcher, gives her the address and tells her to notify the local police and have them immediately send all officers available to the address. He gets basic directions from the dispatcher and she tells him it’s no more than fifty miles north of the city.

Esposito races for his car. He can be there in an hour. Something in his gut tells him he needs to go. That Ackerman is there. And the girl.

God knows what he’ll find when he gets there.

Ninety-Two

Gasping for her breath, Beth watches as Samuel gets to his feet with a roar. In his hand is the fireplace shovel, the very same one her mother used to clobber Samuel and break her free. Now, as a scream flies from her throat, the shovel swings in a high arc and smacks with a meaty thud on the side of her mother’s face.

Beth hears bone crunch and watches as Anna falls to the floor.

Samuel steps over Anna without so much as a glance. Beth is wobbly and disoriented. This can’t be happening, she thinks. This can’t be happening.

“Samuel.”

“You shouldn’t have changed your mind, Beth.”

His voice is the same. But everything else is different. His eyes are almost yellow with an insane light. His face is waxy, a streak of blood from his scalp streams down the side of his head.

“But why are you doing this?” Her voice is empty and thin, she can hear herself pleading. She starts to go toward her mother, lying motionless on the floor, blood now pooling around her head. She stops, knowing what Samuel will do if he gets the chance.

“Why? I just needed a recruit,” he says. His voice low and gritty. His jaw is clenched. The muscles in his face bulge as they become slick with blood.

He is coming toward her now, backing her against the wall.

“All I needed to be a SEAL was to get a few lousy fucking recruits — one of who was supposed to be you, Beth — and then in a few months I would have been on my way. But no, you had to change your mind and decide you want to play basketball. Because that was your dream, right? Well, what about my dream, Beth? Huh? What about my fucking goddamn dream that everyone seems to want to shit all over? Well the good goddamned fuck if I’m going to let everyone else live their dreams while mine go down the fucking toilet, now do you understand, Beth?”

Beth sees the spittle hanging from Samuel’s mouth. She understands everything now. Samuel is completely insane and will kill her unless she can think of something. Anything.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go in the Navy if you let me go.”

“Too late, Beth and I’m not that fucking stupid. The minute you leave here it’s all over. In fact, it’s over anyway. It’s too late for me now, too. His voice trails off and he holds his arms wide.

A soft moan escapes Anna’s mouth and Beth turns, just for a split second, shocked that her mother is still alive. In the brief slice of time, she realizes the move is a mistake.

She snaps her head back just in time to see the flash of silver as the shovel whips at her face.

Beth reacts, unthinkingly, her basketball reflexes still lightning-quick despite the months of rehab. She ducks her head at the last moment and the shovel smashes down on her shoulder. At the same time, she lashes out with her foot, catching Samuel in the solar plexus. He sinks to his knees as Beth is knocked backwards against the cabin wall.

She recovers first, staggering to her feet, stepping toward her mother. Her legs wobble beneath her, the pain in her knee is searing. The cabin floor tilts upward at her. She regains her sense of balance. She looks again at her mother.

She’s dead.

She has to be.

Her face is gray.

Her mouth is open.

The pool of blood is big and spreading. A gasp catches in Beth’s throat. She starts to walk toward her, wanting to hold her and stroke her hair, but just then, Samuel gets to his knees. He shakes his head and then his eyes clear and he looks at Beth.

She holds his gaze for just a moment.

And then she follows the only course of action available to her.

She runs.

Ninety-Three

The cold night air hits her like a slap. It speeds the focus of her thoughts and she considers which way to run. The road. Samuel is faster. He’ll catch her for sure. Off the road — in the woods. Maybe she can duck into the woods somewhere and Samuel will run by.

Even as she half-runs across the front lawn of the cabin, she knows it won’t work. He’ll be thirty yards behind her and will see her before she can hide, and try to get back to her Mom.

She hears the cabin door bang open as Samuel crashes through it. Instantaneously, she veers toward the water’s edge, toward the small boat pulled hastily up on shore. Beth breaks for it, a sudden lightning rod of pain striking her knee and she nearly falls. The agony of it nearly topples her as she feels muscle and ligament, freshly healed, now tearing again. She screams, a moan and a wail all rolled up into one.

And then she is on top of the boat, pushing it into the water. It’s her only chance. Samuel can swim, but he can’t beat her in a boat. And there isn’t another one nearby. Maybe she can row across the lake and get help before he figures out a way to get to her.

Her entire body is shaking as she pushes the boat into the water, not bothering to slow down or break stride. She hits it full force and the boat rockets form the sand and skids into the water, Beth behind it pumping and pushing. Before long, she is in thigh deep water. With one last heave she launches herself up and into the boat, landing in the bottom with a thud. Her shoulder crashes into the bench and pain stabs into her ribs. Her head is inundated with pain, her shoulder from where Samuel hit her with the shovel is throbbing.

She struggles to the back of the boat and her hand grasps the pull cord of the small outboard motor.

She yanks on it and nothing happens.

“Oh God,” she pleads. “Please, please, please…”

She yanks again on the cord.

The motor remains silent.

Beth dares a look at the cabin.

Samuel is across the grass.

He’s charging into the water.

She regains her focus and turns back to the engine. She spies the choke and pulls it all the way out.

She yanks on the cord and this time, the engine roars to life. But the boat’s not going anywhere. Beth sees the motor is in neutral. She pushes the lever to reverse and the boat slams backward.

She puts her hand on the throttle and twists it all the way to the right. The motor screams and suddenly, the boat rocks. At first, she thinks it’s from the motor, but then something wet, cold and hard snakes around her throat.

“Gotcha,” Samuel says.

Ninety-Four

Beth is facedown in the boat, Samuel leaning on her with his knee in her back. The boat is rocking, pounding the waves as he steers it out toward deeper water.

“You just don’t give up, do you, Beth?” he says.

“Let me go.”

“Can’t do that. I don’t quit either. That’s why we liked each other so much, Beth.”

She pushes against him but it’s no use. Her knee is useless, her lower left leg flopping around like a loose rope. A stream of water pours into her mouth and she gags. Is this how she’s going to die? Is he going to kill her first and then throw her overboard? Stop it, she thinks. You can’t let him win. You can’t let him win.

“Is this what SEALs do, Samuel? Kill old women and injured girls? “ The words shoot from her mouth and she knows they land with unerring accuracy. When he speaks, his voice is a mixture of acid and ice.

“Shut the fuck up, Beth. Or I’ll kill you the hard way — with a lot of pain.”

Suddenly the boat stops moving and the engine throttles down. Beth is yanked to her feet and she faces Samuel. His eyes are flat and cold. His hands move up around her throat. She kicks and hits him but to no avail.

His hands tighten.

Beth holds her breath, but the kicking and hitting takes her oxygen and soon she has to gasp.

But no air will come.

She spits into Samuel’s face but he remains impassive, looking at her with cool disinterest.

Beth feels her eyes cloud over. She feels unnaturally light, like her feet are off the ground and she’s floating.

This is what it’s like to die, she thinks.

And then Beth hears a roaring in her ears.

Not what she expected at death’s door, a roaring, but there it is.

And it’s getting louder.

Suddenly, Beth sees Samuel look away from her. His hands relax for a moment, enough for her to turn her head.

And she sees out of the corner of her eye a police car with its lights and siren going.

Samuel’s hands relax even more around Beth’s throat.

Ninety-Five

The blow to his testicles is brutal, and the pain blossoms throughout his body. He sinks to his knees. He rolls over and looks up into Beth’s eyes.

“Beth,” he says. “I love you.”

She hesitates for just a moment and he kicks out, hard, catching her in the solar plexus. Then Samuel is up and into Beth, knocking her backward where she lands against the motor, breaking it from its wooden platform. The propeller comes out of the water, moving slowly, while the engine races in neutral.

“You should have just drowned, Beth, it would have been far less painful,” Samuel says.

“I don’t give up,” she gasps.

“Admirable.”

“High praise coming from a SEAL wannabe,” Beth says. “You’ll never make it, you know,” she says. Her hair is in wet tangles and her face is a sheet of pure white.

“I won’t?”

“You’re a coward inside. You’re a quitter. You take the easy way out. That’s got nothing to do with being a soldier. A soldier is all about honor and courage. You’ve got none of that. You’ll never be a SEAL. But you’ll always be a piece of shit.”

He springs at her but she rolls out of the way and swings the oar from the bottom of the boat. It catches him in the middle of the forehead and stunned, he lands on his stomach on the bottom of the boat. He reaches out and grabs Beth’s left ankle. He wrenches it with everything he has and she screams as Samuel feels the knee collapse. Beth falls forward, over the motor. Her leg knocks the gear and it drops into forward. The boat lurches forward.

Samuel rolls onto his back, still holding Beth’s left leg. He wrenches it again the other way and Beth screams.

And then Samuel looks up.

He sees the motor in Beth’s hands.

Sees the prop comes down.

Suddenly, the engine revs and the propeller is an invisible blur.

And then she plunges the motor down.

Into Samuel.

Epilogue

The gym is less than half-full. This surprises Anna. She had always pictured college basketball games as gymnasiums packed full of crazy, screaming kids with their faces painted in the school colors, waving banners and yelling at the referees.

But here, the bleachers are empty for the most part. And not very many kids are here. It seems mostly to be parents, who tend not to paint their faces and wave banners.

Anna shifts her weight on the hard wood surface. Her body has not fully recovered from the insanity of a year and a half ago. She had nearly died that night. She remembers nothing after cutting through the tape that had bound her, breaking the trunk release and confronting Samuel. The last image was of him swinging the fireplace shovel at her. After that, the new memories start in the hospital. Having her jaw re-wired, her ribs taped. CAT scans to see if there was any brain damage from when Ackerman had strangled her.

But she was as good as can be, considering her life.

At times, she still can’t believe the miracle. Initially, she had tried to email Beth’s highlight video to the prospective colleges, but the file had been too big and every attempt to email it had failed. That was why she put the video on a thumb drive and asked Ackerman to mail them.

But, one of her email attempts had actually gone through.

And it had gone to the right coach at the right time.

A miracle.

Anna’s thoughts are broken by the sound of the pep band blaring the opening notes to “Sweet Georgia Brown.” The teams run onto the court and Anna automatically searches for Beth, spotting her instantly. Anna watches her, amazed as always at the recovery. After the scene at Ackerman’s cabin, Beth had yet another surgery on the knee and then had thrown herself into rehab like a woman possessed. No more feeling sorry for herself.

Now, Anna watches Beth move through the pre-game warm ups. She is moving smoothly and confidently. Maybe not as quick as she had been as a senior in high school, but with the same easy grace.

Now, watching Beth, Anna thinks of the homicide detective from Detroit. Esposito. The one who’d told her all about Ackerman. About Peter Forbes, and that poor woman he’d killed and tried to make look like a suicide. She had been wounded far more deeply than the physical assaults. All those people. Gone. All because one sick mind put everything he wanted above everything else — above life, even.

The shrill insistence of the referee’s whistle makes Anna look up. The teams are assembling at center court.

The referee is ready to toss the ball.

Anna finds Beth sitting on the bench. She watches her daughter shout out encouragement to her teammates. Beth is happy. Happier than she’s ever been in her life.

She has thrown herself into her classes and is studying psychology. So far, she is acing all of her classes.

The referee tosses the ball and the game begins. It is not until shortly before halftime that the opposing players drop into a 2–3 zone. Beth is immediately called from the bench by her coach and placed in the game. Anna knows that Beth has spent most of her time in practice perfecting her shot. Relieved of ball-handling duties, she has turned her uncannily accurate, purely fluid shot into something even more precise and deadly.

The point guard on Beth’s team, a small, lightning quick girl brings the ball up the court. Beth fans out to the left side of the court.

Anna sits back in her seat. She is calm. She knows what’s going to happen, and for her, it signifies the new life she and Beth have reconstructed since Samuel Ackerman walked into their lives and blew the old one apart.

The point guard drives into the middle of the lane and the opposing players collapse the zone to protect the inside. With a subtle flick of her wrist, the point guard shoots the ball over to Beth who has squared up toward the basket, her feet behind the three-point line.

Beth catches the ball deftly and in one silky motion brings the ball in and then up. Her arms and legs all working together effortlessly. The textbook demonstration of a pure shooter.

As the ball lofts through the air, the backspin perfect, Beth’s hand hanging in the air in a perfect follow through, as the ball swooshes through the net with barely a whisper.