Promises to Keep (24 page)

The
next week went by quickly.

Laura
was beyond ecstatic when she quit her job and gave up her apartment. The
prospect of moving out of state was similar to the escape she'd so desperately
wanted with Bob.

Laura
felt she and Jack shared a deep connection—more than she'd have ever had the
chance to share with Bob.

They
were on the same wavelength.

They
fit together, reaching a level of understanding, fulfillment and closeness that
she and Bob could never have attained.

Their
experiences from opposite sides of the earth, although as different as first
world rich, and third world poor, had numerous aspects in common. They'd both
been living life in survival mode, just trying to get by for a start.

Although
they continued to be cautious and alert, looking over their shoulders—every day
they woke up, looking forward with excitement to another day together.

They
took the opportunity to tour the area and to surf almost every day. Laura found
she was still a natural. She adored surfing as much as Jack did, happily
staying out on the water with her board for hours at a time.

Their
mutual love of the ocean was another thing that brought them together.

Unable
to keep their hands off of each other, they made love over and over again both
night and day. Jack’s apartment bed got quite a work out—but so did many other
places, like the car, the kitchen, against a wall, in the shower, on the beach
and in the ocean.

It
was ridiculous.

To
Laura, every single time they made love was unique and special. It only made
her more desperate for him. She’d never known such desire as she experienced
with Jack.

Laura
finally understood what addiction felt like, because even after experiencing a
mind blowing climax, she wanted him again.

She
couldn’t get enough of Jack.

Although
they'd only recently met face to face, they'd both already been emotionally
invested for months. Having each other's letters to read and look forward to, they'd
grown to care about each other, and even to rely on each other from afar.

Right
now they had no money concerns weighing them down, and no stress about work. To
Laura, it seemed as though she was on a honeymoon, just without the wedding.
They were never bored.

As
different as the worlds they'd come from were, they'd each been traumatized.
Each suffered from the aftereffects of their separate brands of Hell.

At
night, they both experienced frequent nightmares. Hers involved Ron and Jonah,
of course.

Jack
explained that VBIEDs, pronounced VeeBids, were
Vehicle Borne Improvised
Explosives
. Most of his nightmares involved these horrific bombs. They'd
caused countless useless deaths during his time in Iraq.

Jack
confided to her about his fear of burning to death.

Something
that proved helpful for Jack was that Laura could usually tell when his
nightmares began, as he'd start to whimper. As a light sleeper, she'd manage to
tap him just enough to make his dream-self go into reset.

Each
time she woke him, the bad dream went away—before it could develop into a
full-blown nightmare.

This
technique worked for Laura, as years at war had taught Jack to be alert to
sounds while he slept. A simple touch of her shoulder was enough to interrupt
her nightmares, too.

With
their PTSD sleep disturbances under control, they both managed to get a good
night sleep.

They
regularly checked in with the police about Ron's murder, more specifically, the
ongoing manhunt of tracking down Jonah. The police had made no progress and had
no helpful leads. Jonah couldn’t be found.

That
fact laid heavily on Laura’s mind.

While
she was awake, she could remember her gun and distract herself so she wasn’t
too anxious. However, Jonah had free reign while she slept.

Late
one afternoon, Jack and Laura went to Bob’s grave to pay their respects. It was
Laura's third visit since he’d died. The first time was to bury him; the second
was to tell him about the loss of his unborn child, and today was to say
good-bye.

There
was nothing left for her here.

Laura
dug a little hole and buried his ring.

“I
have to give this back to you, Bob,” she said. “I want you to know that despite
everything that’s happened, I’ve found happiness. I hope that wherever you are,
you’re happy, too.”

Naturally,
she and Jack talked about Bob on and off for the rest of the afternoon. They
told stories about him and his innocent, well-intended antics, making each
other laugh.

Later
that evening, back at the hotel, Bob remained in her thoughts.

After
a very late dinner, Laura cleared the dishes and loaded the dishwasher, while
Jack put the food back in the fridge.

“I
wish I could quit feeling bad about how things have turned out,” she said, as
she began washing a pan in the sink. “Bob is dead and I feel incredibly happy.
It seems so wrong.”

“I really
get that, sweetheart,” Jack said. “They call it ‘Survivor's Guilt’ and it’s a
common problem. You feel like you’ve done the wrong thing, simply by being
alive when others have died. Lord knows, I’ve had it myself many times.”

She
turned to meet his eyes, a cloth for wiping the table in her hand. “What did
you do about it?”

He
shrugged. “I usually end up thinking something like ‘shit happens’ or ‘to Hell
with the bastards.’ Then I decide that I deserve to live. It should be easier
in your case because if Bob could see you now, I know he’d be happy for you.”

“That’s
true,” she said with a smile, remembering how kind and generous he’d been.

Laura
wondered if her emotions were intensified by being premenstrual. She felt a bit
irritable and out of sorts. Kind of on edge. She didn't mention this thought to
Jack.

They'd
already been talking about her feelings most of the day and into night. Laura
decided to give the poor man a break.

Jack
had been a great source of support and comfort for her, but when they sat down
on the couch together, she noticed he'd begun to grow quiet.

He
appeared pensive, as if something was on his mind. When she questioned him
about it, he took a few long moments for him to gather his thoughts.

"I
need to tell you something," Jack said, after getting himself a Sam Adams
Lager beer, and sitting beside Laura on the couch in his apartment.

“OK.”

"It’s
been on my mind since before we met, and I need to get it off my chest. I'm
afraid that it might change the way you feel about me—and about
us
."

"Nothing
could possibly make that happen,” she said, taking his hand in her own and
squeezing it. “I love you. You know that, right?"

"Laura,
I feel horribly guilty about how Bob died. I—well, I was responsible for his
death. It was sort of my fault that Bob was killed."

"What?"
Laura cried out.

Impossible.
How could that be true?

"Not
literally, of course,” Jack said, putting his beer down. “I'd never hurt him...
but I was the one who sent him out on his last mission. He didn't want to go,
but he’d been slacking off. It wasn't fair to the others, so I pulled rank and
ordered him to go. When he returned, he was mortally wounded. I couldn't save
him. Nobody could."

Laura
recoiled as anger boiled up inside of her. How could Jack have kept something
this huge from her?

Before
her own recent confession to Jack, she'd been so filled with remorse for
carrying the disgraceful secret that she'd never really loved Bob. Yet she'd
stuck her neck out, risking Jack's judgment and rejection.

She'd
carried that secret since Bob's death. She'd felt so friggin ashamed about
falling for Jack. She felt guilty for being happy while Bob was dead, but this?
This?

This
was really and truly screwed up.

Overwhelmed
with feelings of betrayal, Laura’s anger spiked.

"
You
?”
she gasped. “You sent him out to get
killed
?"

"It
wasn't like that," said Jack. "We all had jobs to do, we all did our
share. I told Bob to get out there and do what he had to do. That was
my
job. Laura, anyone who went on that patrol might have been killed—I had no way
of knowing. Every person on patrol risks life and limb. I'd gone out countless
times, myself. We all did."

Laura,
who had a hot temper—especially when feeling hormonal—totally lost it.

"That's
sick! That's just fucking sick." She jumped up off the couch. "You
warmongers! That’s what you government murders are—
war junkies
! All you
do is send kids out to 'do their job' and if they don't get killed, they end up
killing some other poor kid."

"C'mon,
that's not fair."

"That's
not fair?" Laura turned on him, livid. "
Bullshit!
What's not
fair was that Bob was a good guy and he didn't deserve this and he didn't need
some prick sending him out there to get blown away. You ordered him to go and
that makes you responsible."

Jack
stood up. "Laura, I was doing my job."

"That's
the same fucking excuse that every asshole uses. That's bullshit. You have to
do the right thing, job or not. You got him killed."

"You’re
not exactly Miss Perfect either. Didn't you tell me that you didn't
love—?"

"How
dare you! Don't you fucking dare throw that back at me!" Laura pointed at
him with an angry finger, while her other hand slipped her shoes on. "
Don't
you dare!
My little guilt trip has nothing on this. I felt bad about not
being everything I thought I should be for him.
You
fucking
killed
him."

"Laura—"

"Don't
talk to me." Yanking her bag up over her shoulder, she felt the heaviness
within. "Don't
ever
talk to me again."

She
stalked out the door, slamming it behind her.

Fuck,
fuck, fuck!
Jack ran after Laura, pushed open the door
and stood in the hall. She was gone.

Dammit.
Why
had he taken off his shoes? He quickly ran back into the room to grab them. God,
he was an idiot.

Way
to pick your time and place, Jack.

Laura
had been on edge already after visiting Bob’s grave, yet he’d selfishly plowed
ahead without considering her own state of mind. Now he hurt her, and may even
have lost her.

Why
the Hell did you tell her that, dumbass?

Jack
knew why he’d confessed, of course. He couldn't stand the thought of this
secret standing between them. They had a lifetime ahead of them and he wanted
it to be based on honesty and openness.

Jack
bent over, slipped a sneaker on, and tied the laces.

But
why now?

Laura
had shown him her vulnerable side. She had her own strong feelings of guilt and
remorse, and she’d let them out.

It
was good that she did, it was a sign of trust. They were on line together. It
was only natural she share her regrets with him.

Jack
wanted to reciprocate, to open up and bare his heart and soul to her. But, his
timing clearly sucked.

She
was already upset and then I nail her with this shit! How did I think she'd
react? My poor girl. I've got to find her.

Jack
felt their connection—not just on a physical level, but emotionally and
spiritually too. She felt comfortable with him and he was comfortable with her.
It felt right to tell her the truth.

Besides,
she was so wrapped up in her own misery. Jack thought it might've been helpful
for her to know she wasn't the only one taking a guilt trip.

Bullshit.
You just thought it was the time to lay it out. She wouldn’t blame you since
she was blaming herself, too. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Jack
stood up after tying his other sneaker.

Maybe
his motives weren't pure as fresh snow, but he hadn't meant for her to freak
out about it.

What
did you expect her to do? You'd admitted sending her husband to his death.

Jack
suddenly recalled his snarky comment: “You’re not exactly Miss Perfect either.”
Jesus. Mr. Tactful, he wasn’t.

The
conversation he was having with himself wasn’t making him feel any better. He shook
his head. Laura had warned him she had a temper.

"Fuck,"
Jack said out loud.

He
looked around for a weapon. All he had was a Swiss army knife. That wouldn't be
much help if there was a murdering psychopath on the loose.

What
would he do with that? Corkscrew Jonah to death?

Of
course, Laura's ex probably wouldn't be out there, but the way everything had suddenly
gone to crap, he wouldn't be surprised. Jack wished he had a gun, and even more
importantly, he prayed the douchebag
didn’t
have a gun.

What
else could he use?

Jack
looked around and his eyes fell on the stainless steel towel rack. The Suites
was a snazzy hotel—only the best stuff was used for its fixtures.

He
tore the rack from the wall and slipped the rod from its brackets. It was only
about a foot and a half long, but it had some heft.

Jack
slid the rod up his sleeve as he ran out the door. It wouldn't do to have
someone see him running through the hotel with a blunt object in his hand.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, he wasn’t in an active war zone.

He ran
down the stairs and out of the front entrance. The parking lot was quiet. The moon
was just beginning to rise over the Atlantic Ocean to the east.

Nobody
was about except for one man who was loading newspapers into the vending
machine by the door. His eyes were puffy—he looked tired, as if he were coming
to the end of a long route. Jack figured all the poor man was thinking about
was getting the last of his load out of his truck, going home and then climbing
into bed.

"She
went that way," the newspaper man said.

"What?"

"The
girl—the one crying with a bag over her shoulder." The man pointed down
the waterfront. "She went that way."

"Thanks,"
Jack said gratefully.

"I
don't know what you did mister, but you'd better find you some flowers and
candy right quick, or you'll be in the doghouse for a month of Sundays."

"Thanks
again," Jack murmured, as he took off running in the direction the man indicated.

It
was about 10 P.M. with not a soul around. Laura wasn’t joking when she said
they rolled up the streets here at night. Street lamps were on and the light of
the full moon spread across the waters and into the town.

Through
the semi-darkness, he saw Laura walking on the shore and sped up. The air felt
thick in his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest as he ran and he panted in
deep, ragged breaths.

He
may have been used to heat, having spent the better part of the year in the
desert, but he sure as Hell wasn't used to this degree of humidity.

It
wasn't until he approached her that he realized that Laura wasn’t alone.
Moonlight shone off the faces of two people.

"Laura—I—"
Jack gasped.

"Back
off, asshole," the stranger said.

The
man facing Laura was more than unkempt; he was filthy. Unwashed and tangled
hair topped a face that was covered with a scraggly, several day's growth of
beard. His eyes were clearly bloodshot. Even in the shadowy light, he looked
desperate—and dangerous.

Laura
faced the man, clutching her bag in both arms. "Jonah, I’m not going anywhere
with you.
Please
leave me alone."

Fuck!
He’s the psycho killer! There’s no way this asshole is going to hurt Laura—not
on my watch.

Jack,
still breathless from his mad run, positioned himself between them, facing
Jonah. He calmly but forcefully said, "Walk away, man. You got enough
trouble as it is."

"Trouble?
What the fuck you know about trouble? I got more trouble than you can ever
imagine, sailor boy."

"How—?"
Jack started, surprised that Jonah knew who or what he was.

"I've
been watching you two. I've been watching real good." Jonah spat—a green bilious
blob that twinkled briefly before it impacted on the ground with a splat.

"My
girl here thinks she's gonna latch on to another one of you morons in uniform—take
you for all she can just like she took that other sucker for a ride. I bet she
rode him real good too."

Jack
slid the towel rod out from his sleeve. "I said,
back off,
" he
surprised himself when his words came out as an enraged snarl.

Jonah
grinned and the irregular shape of his teeth reminded Jack of a carved
Halloween pumpkin.

Jack
could see the brown discoloration on what should've been his pearly whites.
That staining indicated heavy meth use. The pipe and the crap within it stained
a user's teeth permanently.

The
way Jonah twitched with every word, the way his eyes darted back and forth, and
the way he held himself, told Jack that Jonah was currently wired. Like a
tightly wound spring, the asswipe was ready to go off at any moment.

Psychotic
and high as a kite,
Jack thought.
A dangerous combination.

"What're
gonna do with that?" Jonah asked, as he slipped a large knife from his
waistband. It had a long, curved blade with brass knuckles for a handgrip.

Jack
had seen killing daggers like it in old war movies. It was called a trench
knife because soldiers used it to cut, stab and bash any enemy unfortunate
enough to wander into the trenches.

An
ugly, perilous weapon like this would scare any rational human being.

He
looked from the blade, up into Jonah's eyes and Jack saw something he’d only
seen once before.

Mad
eyes,
Jack thought, stunned with shock.

In
less than a second, yet more than an eternity, his mind flashed to an earlier
moment in his life—when he'd been in a similar situation.

Suddenly,
he was back there.

They’d
arrived at the school and the Marines fanned out in a desperate attempt to find
the bomb. The informant told them that there was an IED, but he couldn't say
exactly where it was. Max the dog was a heck of a bomb sniffer, but it would
still take time.

Jack,
Chief and a female Marine tried to corral the kids into the safest corner of
the playground. Without the team interpreter, affectionately nicknamed,
"Tito," this would've been an impossible task.

All
seemed calm, until Tito came up to Jack and said, "Doc, the teacher says a
kid's missing."

Fuck.

"Where
in Hell?"

His
question was answered in an instant. Around the corner, running away from the
baying of Max, the dog, was a picture of insane intensity.

Disheveled
and dirty, the insurgent had dark, angry, irrational eyes. Jack instinctively
pulled his pistol, but held his fire because the maniac had his arm wrapped
around the neck of a little girl with a dirty, tear-stained face.

The
man half dragged, half carried her across the playground as he babbled and
shrieked at Jack and his friends.

"Tito!"
Jack yelled.

"He
says he’ll kill her if we don't let him through!"

Fuck!
Fuck! Fuck!

"Tell
him to calm down." Jack noticed the blade, tight against the little girl’s
neck. He inched forward as carefully as he could.

"I
don't think he's going to do that, boss." Tito's voice was panicked. A man
could see a hundred dead men, but a single hurt kid could reduce him to tears.

"Keep
him talking," Jack said, inching still closer. "Everything's good as
long as he's talking."

Out
of the corner of his eye, he saw Chief circling the man to the right, and the
Marine circling to his left. As long as he stayed focused on Jack, they might
get the jump on the bastard.

Just
a few more steps.

Suddenly,
the insurgent's ranting took on a higher pitch. He pushed the tip of the knife
into her skin and the little girl screamed. A trickle of blood dripped from
under her chin and stained her white blouse crimson.

They
were out of time.

With
the sudden action of a trained athlete, the female Marine, blonde hair
streaming out behind her like a shaft of golden sunlight, dove for the child.
She caught the little girl in a double-armed rugby tackle and ripped her from
the mad man’s arms.

Together,
they flew past him and rolled to the dirt in a heap.

Stunned
for an instant by the rapid change of circumstances, the insurgent and Jack
simply faced each other.

For
the briefest moment, Jack looked straight into the eyes of pure madness. He saw
sheer loathing and hatred ooze from those dark, maniacal eyes.

Without
hesitation, and with perfect accuracy, Jack shot him in the face.