Somewhere Along the Way (21 page)

Brandon laughed. “I am for a fact. If I show up and stay sober, I could be making more than he does in five years. I might just go home and kick his ass.”

Reagan shook her head. “Forget that. He’s not worth your time.”

“You’re right.” He patted her hand awkwardly. “You get better. When I’m around you, I see things clearer. Some people are levelers for others, like that tool with a bubble floating in it. You’re that for me, Rea. Without you I’d be a bubble off balance.”

Reagan laughed, then groaned in pain because she forgot that if she moved she’d start hurting all over.

Brandon seemed pleased with himself for making her happy.

“You got a place to stay?” she asked, knowing what it was like not to have one.

“Yeah, a guy I work with guessed I was sleeping in the junk heap of a car I drive. He offered me the extra room at his place. His wife left him about a year ago, and he hadn’t cleaned up since. She must have not been much of a house-keeper either, because it’s like digging through layers of the earth around the place. He said if I’d clean up, he’d let me have the room free until I got my first paycheck, and then he’s only charging me a hundred a month, plus I have to buy all the food. Only, he don’t eat much, he mostly drinks his meals. But he’s not a mean drunk like my step-father. He just passes out.”

Reagan smiled, guessing that was more than Brandon had talked to anyone in weeks. “Can you cook?”

He shrugged. “I can open cans.”

“Good enough.”

He backed away. “I guess you need your sleep. I’d better get out of here.”

“Wait.” She raised her hand.

He moved closer and took it. “What’s the matter, Rea, you hurting somewhere?”

“No,” she said, wondering if she was about to make a mistake, then rushing forward. “Do you know where I live?”

“Sure, down Lone Oak Road. That old Truman place has been there since the dawn of time.”

“Sunday.” She pushed forward before she changed her mind. “Come to dinner at six.”

“I don’t ...”

“I owe you a pie. If you want to collect, you’ll have to come.”

He shrugged. “All right, if you’re sure your uncle won’t shoot me on sight.”

“I’m not making any promises, but if you make it to the porch without any bullet holes in you, he’ll probably let you sit down to dinner. Don’t expect him to be happy about it. I think Uncle Jeremiah was born depressed, and it’s been a downhill battle ever since. I’ll invite a few other people so you won’t be the only target, fair enough?”

“Fair enough. I’ll come.” Brandon backed out of the room.

He bumped into Noah McAllen at the door.

Reagan almost giggled as the two boys, tall enough to be men, glared at each other.

“Hello, Preacher,” Brandon said. “Spilled any more brains over the rodeo dirt lately?”

Noah wasn’t so friendly. “What are you doing here, Bran?”

“Visiting a sick friend.” Brandon puffed up like a toad.

Noah glanced into the room.

Reagan nodded, backing up Brandon’s story.

“Well,” Noah said. “Since you’re leaving, I guess it’s my turn.”

Before either could move, a nurse appeared from nowhere. “Visiting hours are over, gentlemen. You both need to clear the hallway.” When Noah opened his mouth to argue that he’d just arrived, she added, “Now.”

He had no choice but to stand in the hallway and wave good-bye to Reagan.

As the door closed, she heard Brandon call back, “I’ll hold the elevator for you.”

Reagan puffed up her pillow and relaxed, wishing she could roll over on her stomach to sleep, but the cast was far too uncomfortable in that position.

“Home,” she whispered. Tomorrow she’d be home.

In a week she’d be back in school, at least for a half day, and in six weeks she’d be out of the cast and back to normal. Funny, she looked forward to going back to her Wednesday night job at the diner.

Of course, it wouldn’t be the same. She’d probably have to fight to keep from hugging Gabriel Leary’s neck when he picked up his takeout. He was her own private angel, she thought.

And Brandon would probably become a regular in the diner the night she worked. When no one else was in the place, she’d sit and talk to him. In a strange way, they
were
friends. Most of the time she didn’t like him—he smelled of cigarettes and cussed worse than a
Deadwood
character—but he seemed to need a friend, and that was about as good a reason to be his friend.

WEDNESDAY MORNING
FEBRUARY 13, 2008
LEARY FARM

GABRIEL ROSE AT DAWN AND DRANK HIS COFFEE, WATCHING the sun fight to brighten a gray, foggy day. His mood was no better than the weather. He’d planned to go into town before now, but each day he seemed to find one more reason to stay away. He told himself he wasn’t afraid to face Elizabeth. He’d never been afraid of anything much after he’d run away from home, but somehow that short little blonde had him stalling.

Just sitting in the cold kitchen, his hands seemed to warm thinking about the way her curly hair felt. Like her, it seemed to circle his fingers, pulling him closer. His attraction for her was perfect; he’d never met a more touchable woman. What he couldn’t understand was her attraction to him. He guessed he was two, maybe three years older than her; he had a high school education along with several specialist courses in the army, none of which would translate to civilian life; and at his best, before the bomb, he’d never thought of himself as good looking. Now, with the scars and the nightmares, he’d put himself near the bottom on the guys-you’d-want-your-sister-to-date list.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was a lawyer, which made her about twice as educated as him. She was drop-dead beautiful, even in her caulking outfit when she’d first kissed him. She came from a good family, the best he figured; they loved her, protected her, spoiled her, and occasionally drove her crazy, she claimed.

Gabe glanced through the kitchen doorway at one of his drafting tables, pushed near the window for good light. He could draw. Not paint, just draw. That didn’t exactly put him in the same league with Elizabeth’s sister and mother. Over the years he’d read articles about her mother’s pots selling worldwide, and her sister’s dark paintings were showing in places like Dallas and New York. They were real artists. With his pencils he saw himself as more of a craftsman. Claire Matheson’s paintings sold in galleries; his work sold at the comic book stands for a dollar.

He’d been drawing all his life. When he was about ten he started tracing the characters in comics and rewriting their stories on his own. His school notebooks were full of, first, cartoon heroes and superpowered avengers he’d read about, then with his own characters, molding and changing with each drawing.

In the army, on long rides or when bored at remote camps, he often drew underworld warriors fighting crime or a band of superpowered soldiers who fought evil all over the world. During the months of recovery, writing the stories and laying out the plot in panels that would fit together into a graphic novel kept him busy. The fantasy kept him sane.

Thanks to the Internet, he’d taken a few courses, developed a voice and style that were unique, and, most important, found talented people to collaborate with. There’d been a dark grittiness to his first series about seasoned warriors fighting evil from an underworld, but some of the horror of war faded when he started his second series about postwar specialists who returned home as crime fighters, all scarred, all gifted.

Pirate pulled him out of his thoughts. The dog loved his morning run. He liked to shoot out the door, barking and running until Gabe whistled. Then Pirate would stop, take care of business, and run back. When Gabe walked out with him, the dog stayed at his side as if on guard.

Gabe walked through the house, shut off the alarm system, and opened the front door. “Take off, boy,” he commanded.

Pirate darted out into the crisp air so thick with fog it swallowed him after twenty yards.

Gabe laughed, listening to the dog bark as he ran.

Once he’d forgotten to turn off the security system. By the time Pirate made his run, the panel on the far wall of what had once been a living area was lit up like Christmas. Gabe had spent weeks placing sensors around his home when he finally was able to walk. The security system and two guns within reach of his bed were the only things that made it possible for him to sleep at night.

Gabe listened as the dog’s bark came from farther away. He wished he could run like that. Before the bomb he used to love to run in the rain, feeling almost like he was crossing into another dimension. Now, when he tried to run, it was more a straight-legged hop across the ground, one that had caused him to tumble more times than he could count before finally giving in to the idea that he’d never run again.

He whistled and knew Pirate had turned back. In a few minutes he’d hit the porch wet, exhausted, and probably muddy. He reached for an old towel he kept on a hook beside the door. He’d learned the hard way that it was easier to clean Pirate up on the porch than to clean the floor inside.

The last spot of snow a few feet from the door caught his eye as he waited. For a second, he stared at it, thinking it might be some kind of freak of nature, and then he recognized the sign pressed into the snow and his heart felt like it might pound out of his chest.

In the dirty snow, an arm’s length away, someone had drawn a smiley face. A circle head, a smiling curve for a mouth, and two spent shells for eyes pushed into the snow until, at first glance, one might think they were gold buttons.

He grabbed the empty shells, cold as ice to the touch. M16s, the same kind they’d always used on assignment. A secret code. Only a handful of men had ever known of it, and most, if not all except him, were dead. The smiling face was a joke. The marking was sometimes left at a spot that had been cleared but that no one believed was truly safe. If Gabe had to translate the friendly face with bullet eyes, he’d say it said,
Come on in, friend, the bullets are waiting
. Only this time it marked the snow next to his home and not the sand in another land.

Pirate bounded past him, shaking Gabe into action. He dropped the unused towel, closed the door, locked it, turned on the alarm system, and rushed to an extra bedroom he rarely entered.

Once there, he stripped down to his underwear and opened a trunk neatly packed with what he’d need: a warrior’s uniform almost exactly like he’d worn as a soldier. Only this one was put together, one piece at a time, from Internet orders. He dressed with practiced speed, not needing the light, checking each weapon to make sure it was ready for use.

Four minutes later, he stepped back into the living space fully armed and dressed in battle gear.

Whoever had left the sign in the snow wanted Gabe to know that he was out there, walking on his land, getting close enough to the house to look in the windows, easily within firing range. He also wanted Gabe to understand that he knew the truth about Gabe’s past. Whoever was out there knew Gabe would know what the sign meant and also figured that Gabe would be ready when he came to call.

The only question Gabe had: Was the stranger a friend, leaving a message of greeting from the past, or an enemy dropping the gauntlet before the battle began?

Logic told him that with his bad leg, he’d have little chance standing on equal ground outside, but inside he had the advantage.

He pulled a chair to the middle of the house so that he could see both the front and back door as well as most of the windows that were not boarded up. Then he shut off the security system, opened the front door, and sat down in the chair, his rifle resting at his side.

Gabe guessed that he wouldn’t hear anyone coming. If whoever was out there had already gotten so close without being detected, he could do so again.

Pirate sensed something was wrong. He sat at attention next to Gabe’s chair. “Easy, boy,” Gabe whispered. “We won’t have to wait long.”

When the dog suddenly turned his head toward the back door, Gabe lifted the rifle, swung around, and took aim in one swift movement.

A shadow of a man, framed by the watery sunlight, froze.

Gabe held his finger a hair away from firing. The man before him was tall, broad shouldered, and dressed in the layers of a hunter.

The shadow slowly lifted his hands. “I’m not armed,” he said almost calmly. “Sergeant Wiseman, don’t fire. It’s Lieutenant Denver Sims.” He hesitated, as if forcing a breath out. “Or I was in another lifetime.”

It took Gabe a moment to place the name. Denver had been in their unit on his first tour of duty. He’d been hit in the shoulder by a sniper, but Gabe had heard he returned to duty. He remembered being happy when, a few weeks before the bombing, he’d heard Denver was scheduled to be assigned near his company. They might not work together, but they’d be stationed at the same post. If they’d had more time, they might have been friends. Not best friends. Neither had any. They might have been each other’s only friend.

“I’m not Wiseman,” Gabe said without lowering the weapon. Five years ago Sims had been a good man, a good soldier, but in five years a lot can change. “You’ve got the wrong man.”