Ships Passing Read online

  Placing my lips against the top of her head, I inhaled deeply, the scent of her shampoo filling my nostrils.

  Everything that made a city like Corvallis so charming also made it difficult. While there was definite allure to a town that worked so hard to stay small, there were just as certainly limitations that made lingering almost impossible.

  No matter how much I might want to.

  “And I’m sorry,” I replied. “You’ve seen me these last nine months. You know I have to do this.”

  “Do you?” Mira snapped. Releasing her grip on me, she pushed herself back. More red had worked its way into her eyes, at odds with the sudden distaste on her features. “Do you really think running off and joining the Navy is what you have to do?”

  Also far from the first time she’d said as much in the last weeks, I knew better than to respond. To even attempt going back at her.

  Just as I knew it was more frustration than anything, emotion getting the better of her.

  “You grew up in Nebraska,” she continued. “You’ve never been around it like I have. Not a single day of my life went by in San Diego without seeing someone in uniform. You really want to be one of those guys? You want a life with zero say in where you go or how long you’re gone?”

  She didn’t push it as far as I knew she could, but she didn’t have to. Already I knew what was really bothering her, the part she’d voiced only once, and even then in support of a comment my mother had made when she came to visit.

  I knew without a doubt that she loved me. And that as hard as watching me go through the last year had been, she would happily do it for another if it meant we could be together.

  I was also aware that she was okay with me moving on – from Corvallis, if not her – if that’s what I needed to.

  It was this particular path she wasn’t as okay with. Not just the notion of my being shipped to far off places, but never knowing exactly what I might be doing. If I was safe.

  If I was coming home.

  My lips parted slightly to respond, but no sound passed them. There was no point, nothing I could say to her that I hadn’t already shared a hundred times over.

  I wanted a future with her – had every intention of just that – but for that to truly work, for me to feel worthy, I needed to do what was right for me as well.

  I needed to be my best self.

  Reaching out, I placed my hands atop her shoulders again. For a moment, I felt her body go rigid beneath my touch before finally relenting and pulling herself in tight.

  A pose we both held until the sun passed well below the horizon behind me.

  Chapter Five

  The average height of a Navy enlisted man is five-eight. Somewhat skewed by the presence of those that work in submarines, the average for SEALs is slightly higher, clocking in at five-ten.

  A figure that puts Chief Jeff Swinger somewhere between five and seven inches taller than most every other male on base.

  Coupled with a build that hints of time spent in the gym and a sleeve of colorful ink adorning his left arm, he is recognizable in an instant as he makes his way toward me. There is no need to push his way through as he comes closer, the crowd instead seeming to part for him, always allowing him a wide berth to move forward unencumbered.

  A fact that today is aided in no small part by the expression on his face, one mixed with determination and latent hostility.

  By his side is Ensign Emily Stapleton, her too a veritable giant by traditional naval standards. Coming in just a few inches shorter than my six feet, her features look much the same as Swinger. Without regard for protocol or who might be watching, she is the first to reach me, raising her hands and sliding them around my shoulders.

  A moment later, Swinger does the same. Standing to the side, he wraps his enormous arms around both of us, pulling us against his chest. Making no effort to fight either, I am barely able to respond in kind, my every focus on simply keeping myself from breaking down again.

  “How you doing?” Stapleton asks, the first to release, signaling for Swinger to do the same.

  A smart retort is the first thing to come to mind. There and gone in an instant, I know better than to voice it. She means well in asking. Both of them have gone above and beyond the normal call of friendship in the last week.

  Seven nights ago, I lost my best friend in the world. In no way am I going to let my frustration alienate one of the closest I have remaining.

  “Thank you guys for coming last night,” I reply. “I know you must both be exhausted.”

  Neither respond to the comment in the least.

  “The house?” she asks.

  “Ash.”

  “Any sign of the Wolves?” Swinger adds. His voice is low as he casts a sideways glance. For as much as we might not have cared who saw our opening embrace, we can’t completely forget where we are.

  The military is completely built on maintaining the rank and file. Decorum is to be followed at all times. Everywhere there are eyes and ears to ensure that.

  “Not that I saw,” I reply, “but admittedly, I was a little distracted.”

  Both grunt softly. They know exactly what I meant without further comment, having been there themselves. Like me, they had been forced to stand idly by, watching as any final remnants of my wife and our life together were incinerated.

  “Police?” Swinger asks.

  “They took a statement this morning. One of the firefighters was there with them, said that based on smell and the speed of the blaze, it was pretty clear an accelerant was used.

  “They’re going to send an arson investigator out as soon as it burns down far enough to get in there.”

  Not that there is any need. The home is completely destroyed, any hope of trying to determine exactly what happened now a paste of ash and water.

  Besides, we already know exactly who did it. The bigger question – much like the decision to target Mira in the first place – is why?

  “Have you eaten?” Stapleton asks. “I have a few minutes, we can run over to the mess hall.”

  Waiting until my gaze flicks her way, she adds, “Get you some of the finest base chow known to man.”

  An extension of a running joke we’ve shared for years, both of us allow a hint of a smile to form.

  “Thanks, but Wendell brought me breakfast before I came here,” I reply, not bothering to mention I made it through no more than a third of the burrito before stopping. Any more and I might have been forced to vomit, the nausea rippling through me at the thought of what happened too much to overcome.

  “Showers?” Swinger offers. “The exchange?”

  Glancing his way, I consider both offers before gently shaking my head. As much as I need a shower, and a change of clothes, and a hundred other things, I have to prioritize right now. When word first arrived about what happened, I was barely keeping myself upright. Now with another night of missed rest and the combined weight of all that occurred, I can feel my senses flagging.

  Right now, I have to recognize that I am little more than a zombie. Any decisions I make, any reactions I have, will be out of nothing more than emotion. Anger and sorrow and frustration and a hundred other things, all melded into a ball and flung at the first possible target.

  A move that will no doubt see me do something stupid, risking myself or my friends.

  “Hiram is being discharged this morning,” I say. “I’m going to head over there to tell them what happened, see them on their way.”

  Standing across from me, Stapleton and Swinger both have their arms folded. The expressions they wore earlier remain, mixed with clear concern.

  “You sure?” Swinger asks. “One of us can go with you.”

  Even with the word choice, I know what he is really hinting at. He wants to make sure I’m not about to act on my own, seeking instant retaliation for what was done to my home.

  A course of action that will definitely come with time, but not right now.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “After that, I plan to rack out for a while. Wendell is off today. If I decide to look into anything this afternoon, I’ll be sure to give him a call.”

  Chapter Six

  The streaked soot I left on my face for the visit with Botkins was for a reason. Before even showing up, I knew I was on her radar. Not simply because I was getting out, but because she was beginning to see through the parts that weren’t adding up.

  The increased strain and lack of sleep I was under. The scabs on the knuckles of my right hand.

  Letting her see the new addition on my cheek - replete with a handful of stitches - would have only garnered more scrutiny.

  Having not yet shared with her what happened to my Mira, in no way wanting to get into the full litany of all that had transpired in the time since her passing, I’d instead grabbed for the lowest hanging fruit.

  Last night, my home did burn to the ground. The loss of so much did bring me to tears. And it did mean I was awake all night.

  All a perfect cover to get through the morning. A ready-made scapegoat to help me past yet another session.

  Once that was complete, I knew I couldn’t make my next stop in such a state. While the lieutenant commander might have accepted the story, showing up at a medical facility looking that way would only draw a lot of stares. With them would likely come questions, perhaps even a call to the police.

  Things I have zero time - and even less patience - for.

  Of the myriad offers that Stapleton and Swinger made, the sole one I accepted was for a change of clothes from my friend. The cargo shorts and Oregon State baseball t-shirt I was wearing are now stowed in the front of his truck, swapped out for a pair of blue gym shorts and a San Diego Chargers long-sleeve pullover.

  In matching the man’s enormous size, bo
th are a bit too large. As I pass through the front doors of the Paradise Valley Hospital in Chula Vista, I find myself constantly pushing the sleeves up my forearms, trying to keep them in place.

  Gone from my face and neck is any of the soot from the night before. Scrubbed clean in the same restroom where I changed my clothes, I had used globs of generic hand soap, working at my skin until it glowed pink in the mirror.

  The smell of smoke I can do nothing about. Still clinging to my hair, it fills my nostrils, the scent one I don’t foresee leaving anytime soon. Much like the face of Mike Lincoln, the man that appeared in the park and shot my wife. Or the look on the face of the Wolf last night after I shot his partner as they were parked outside of the Ogo home.

  Or a thousand other things from this past week I’d just as soon do without.

  The fourth time in the last couple of days I’ve been inside Paradise Valley, I don’t bother consulting the signs on the wall. I don’t even glance to the desk arranged in the center of the front foyer, peeling off to the right and riding the elevator to the second floor.

  Three minutes later, I arrive at my brother-in-law’s room to find him awake and sitting upright in bed for the first time in a couple of days. Dressed in a hospital gown, his doughy features look even pastier than usual, his dark hair askew atop his head. Reclined at an angle, an empty tray rests on a stand beside him, a tangle of wires leading from various places to a bevy of monitors along the wall.

  A smile on his face, he is locked in conversation with his mother – my mother-in-law – as I tap lightly against the door with a knuckle.

  At the sight of me, the smile fades. He casts a quick glance to his mother before focusing on me, making it clear that my attempts at cleaning up fell woefully short.

  “What happened?” Angelique asks. Positioned by the foot of the bed, I can feel her stare on me. Only uttering two quick words, I can hear the steel in them, sense her immediate demeanor shift.

  A spitting image of what my wife would be in a couple of decades, I don’t have it in me to glance her way at the moment. My focus locked on Hiram, I say, “Happy Release Day. Good to see you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  Again, he casts a glance over to his mother. Forever the low man on the Martinez totem pole, never has he been one to buck the family in any way. A fact that means my ignoring the previous question places him in an awkward position, a hint of alarm flashing behind his eyes.

  “And why do you smell like a bonfire?” Angelique presses, not to be deterred.

  Nor am I, wanting us all to have at least one happy moment, clinging to a sizable chunk of the only family I have remaining, before again dropping bad news down upon them.

  Something I seem to be doing with alarming regularity as of late.

  “Kyle!” Angelique snaps from the end of the bed. Smacking her hand down on the footboard, the sound echoes through the room, loud enough to cause Hiram to visibly flinch.

  Across from him, I feel my eyes slide shut. Feeling like sandpaper as they move over my eyeballs, I open them a moment later, turning my focus to stare over at the diminutive lady a few feet away.

  “They burned it to the ground last night,” I whisper. The mere sound of the words is enough to pull moisture to the surface of my eyes. The edges of everything in the room become blurry as I pull breath in through my nose, willing myself not to break down.

  To at least wait until I make it back to the cheap motel room in the desert that was just upgraded from the place I am staying while I work through the grief of losing my wife to my temporary home.

  Angelique’s lips part slightly as she takes in what I’ve shared. One hand rises, making it as far as her chest, the look on her face being much the same as mine when I first pulled up the night before.

  “Every picture, every item of clothing, every everything,” I whisper. “All, gone.”

  “Was it...?” she asks. Her voice trails away, though she doesn’t need to finish the question for me to know where it was going.

  “Yes,” I reply. I didn’t see any of the Wolves onsite, but there is no question it was them. Even if I hadn’t seen them still sitting outside of the Ogo house, if the firefighter hadn’t mentioned the use of an accelerant, I would still know it was them.

  Years of training, of working in hostile environments, have imparted at least that much into me.

  “Are you...?”

  Much like the earlier question from Botkins, I am a lot of things right now. The full list is too lengthy to even attempt to quantify. Physically, though, I am okay.

  “Fine,” I say. “It happened late. I was already back to the motel.”

  With all the obvious questions exhausted, she falls silent. Retreating back into herself, I can visually see as another piece of armor rises to the surface. One more barrier she is forced to thrust into place, steeling herself for the continued tragedies that seem to be raining down upon us.

  Lines form around her mouth as she draws it into a tight line. Her shoulders rise an inch as she pulls in air, her stare locked on me.

  A stance that makes what I am about to suggest that much more difficult.

  “On the way over here,” I say, “I was thinking. With Hiram getting released, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you guys to head up to his place for a while.”

  I don’t bother glancing to the head of the bed. My focus remains on Angelique, the sole decision maker for the pair, the one that will dictate what – if any – action is made.

  “Not for long. Just until this kind of blows through.”

  It is obvious that there is no way such a thing will happen. Everything from her flaring nostrils to her body language tells me as much. I only hope she realizes that I had to at least suggest it, for my own psyche as much as their safety.

  It was my job to protect Mira. That was the maxim imparted on me the day we stood before our friends and family and exchanged vows. And I failed at that. In the worst possible way.

  Never will I be able to change that, but if I can do one tiny thing to begin atoning for it, I have to at least try.

  “Kyle, do you really believe this is the sort of thing that is just going to blow through?” Angelique asks.

  The question is a far cry from what I expected, my eyebrows rising slightly. It is also completely rhetorical, asked to make a point, not meant to invoke a response.

  “I didn’t think so,” she says. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  Chapter Seven

  The thin strip of sand sits twenty minutes north of La Jolla. To the west of it are the undulating waves of the Pacific Ocean, one whitecap after another deposited along the beach. On the opposite side, bluffs rise directly out of the ground, fifty feet of mud and rock stacked in a sheer vertical face.

  At half past ten in the morning, the sun is not yet quite high enough to have made it beyond the top lip of the cliffs above. Still shrouded in shadow, the damp sand below is cool to the touch as Elsa Teller makes her way forward. The straps of her three-inch pumps hanging from her fingers, she cuts a steady pace down the beach, her bare toes making faint impressions as she goes.

  Opting against bringing along a shawl, she leaves her shoulders bare, the sea breeze pulling her blonde hair away from her neck. The cool ocean mist kisses her skin as she goes, everything about this particular detour a harsh contrast to what her days normally consist of.

  A change she is none too sad to accommodate. Especially given the results it will likely yield.

  Ignoring the picturesque scene playing out alongside her, all focus is instead aimed at the Volkswagen bus parked fifty yards ahead. Tucked tight against the base of the cliff, the side panel door has been pulled back wide. Above it extends a makeshift awning, a pair of driftwood stakes planted in the sand, holding it in place.

  Along the top is a small collection of mismatched surfboards, every size and shape represented.

  Seeing no signs of life, Elsa walks directly up to it. With each step, she can feel tiny pinpricks rise through her chest, though she is careful to give no outward sign of it. Just as she was careful to leave her purse and the Smith & Wesson Shield 2.0 she normally carries tucked away in the trunk of her car.