Address to Die For (13 page)

Sometimes listening is the greatest gift. I learn so much from my clients' stories.

 

 

 

 

J
ason moved between me and the impaled squirrel, backing David and me into the house while he dialed his phone.

“I want a patrol team walking the road in front of the house until dawn,” he barked into the phone. “At six, I want them going door-to-door asking questions. Put our best guys on it. If anyone in this neighborhood saw anything or knows anything, we need to know too.”

We reconvened in the kitchen. Jason topped off our coffee and started a new pot. He took a sip and placed a hand on David's shoulder. He looked at Stephen and Munchkin.

“Are you two okay to stay here for what's left of the night?” he said.

Stephen nodded. If anyone had asked me later, I would have sworn Munchkin did too.

“That's not necessary . . .” I began, but Jason interrupted me.

“No arguments, Maggie,” Jason said. “This is serious stuff. This vandal is escalating and we need to know you're safe. We have to catch him before he does anything worse.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Jason cut me off.

“Stop,” he said. “Stephen is staying here. He's Marine Corps retired, Special Operations Command. He does this sort of thing for us often. He'll take good care of you so that I can focus on the investigation and catch this guy before he actually injures someone.”

“Maggie, David, go on up to bed,” Stephen said. “And take Belle with you if she'll go. Munchkin and I will hold the fort down here. Mind if I build a fire?”

“That's fine.” I put my arm around David and we trudged up the stairs. I looked over my shoulder at Stephen, but he flapped his hand at me, urging me up the steps.

“Go on,” he said. “I'll be fine. So will you.”

At the door to his room, David stopped. “Mom, do you think we should stay in Brian's room so we can tell him what's going on as soon as he wakes up?”

I took that to mean that David would feel safer if we were all together. I felt the same way. We grabbed our sleeping bags from the top of the attic stairs where they were still waiting to be put away and moved them into Brian's room. Brian stirred but didn't wake.

“Mom, are you going to tell Dad what's going on?” David asked, whispering.

I nodded. “Right now, actually. Is there anything you want me to tell him?”

David shook his head. “Just that I hope he comes home soon.”

I smiled, nodded, and held up my phone. David was asleep before I'd scrunched into my sleeping bag, trying to find a comfortable position on the floor. I sat leaning against the wall and opened the email app on my phone. I hesitated before I started typing. Should I ask Max to come home? It would make all of us feel more secure. But was it necessary? Surely the police would catch the vandal quickly and tonight's excitement would be forgotten—probably before Max's plane landed in San Francisco. I sighed and started typing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I put down my phone and listened to the kids, both of whom were fast asleep. I climbed out of my sleeping bag, grabbed my throw—which was serving as my bathrobe—and snuck back down the stairs. A cheerful fire burned in the fireplace, highlighting the tiles with the knights on them. Stephen must have heard me, because he turned toward me as I stepped off the last step.

“Do you need anything?” I asked Stephen. “More coffee?”

“Tea would be great,” he said. “I'll make it. What kind?”

“Mint, please,” I said, “With caffeine and honey.” We had a full cupboard devoted to tea: black, green, caffeinated, decaffeinated, and herbal. Stephen stood, threw another log on the fire, and moved to the kitchen without making a sound.
Special Operations
.

After he brought me a steamy cup of perfectly brewed tea, we sat in silence watching the fire. Munchkin snored under the big square coffee table, which bore the scars of family games and crafts.

“Can't sleep?” Stephen said.

“Nope. Not sure whether it's nerves or a desire to catch the twisted little brat in the act.”

“Catching twisted little brats in the act is what I'm here for . . . and Munchkin too.”

Munchkin, hearing his name through his dreams, thumped his tail and went on snoring.

“He'll be a big help,” I said.

“Oh, he's a good soldier. Sleeps when he can, but is never more than a second away from full alert.”

“How'd you two meet?” I said. “Last week, in the barn, you promised you'd tell me one day.”

“It's a long story . . .”

“Tell me.” We needed to pass the time and I needed to know this man better if he was going to be spending the night on my couch.

Stephen took a deep sip of his tea and passed his hand over his bald head. He sighed, leaned back against the couch cushions, and began.

“Jason mentioned I was Special Ops?” he said.

I nodded.

“I was in Afghanistan, heading up an expeditionary force of bomb-sniffing dogs and handlers. We'd been there about six months. The dogs, the handlers . . . we were a tight group. We found more improvised explosive devices—you know, IEDs—and saved more lives than any robotic unit ever has. Eventually, the insurgents figured out it was our unit that was throwing a wrench in their plans.”

A log shifted in the fire and sparks flew up the chimney. Stephen got up, grabbed the poker, and rearranged the logs.

“Was Munchkin one of those dogs?”

Stephen laughed. “The way he eats? He'd have broken the Defense budget beyond repair. No, we met up after . . .” He paused and picked at nonexistent lint on his jeans.

“You don't have to tell me,” I said, not wanting to probe a painful wound.

“No, it's okay. They say it helps to tell.” He fiddled with what looked like a wedding ring on his left hand.

“Make a long story short, my dog and I headed out, clearing a path for the patrol behind us. My dog, Paxon, cut his foot and I stopped to bandage it. While I was doing that . . . well, I was the only one who made it out.”

“Paxon?”

“The whole patrol. It started with a
thud
. One big
thud
—not even a sound, but more like a feeling under your feet, like someone picked up the whole world and dropped it on its ass, leaving your stomach somewhere up around your chin until it falls with the same
thud
and knocks you flat. I have no idea what happened. Paxon hadn't alerted me to anything. Near's I can figure, some brand-new baby grunt forgot he was in a war, stepped off the trail and onto a mine.

“Paxon recovered sooner than I did and he took off, running in circles, sniffing and whining, looking for our buddies. A sniper picked him off. I dove behind a rock and called for air support, but by the time they arrived, the snipers had killed everyone.” Stephen sighed, slumped, and touched the side of his head. “I got off with a head wound and a shattered leg.”

I didn't say anything. Dozens of sentences half-formed in my head, but they all sounded lame. I couldn't begin to imagine this man's pain or the sacrifices he'd made. He looked up from his tea, rubbing Munchkin's paw with his foot. I couldn't tell whether he wanted comfort, understanding, or silence.
When in doubt, go with the truth.

“Stephen, I'm afraid to say or do anything that would make your pain any worse.” He stared into the darkness beyond the fire, expressionless, saying nothing. “I can't even begin to understand the depth of your sacrifice . . . or theirs. Thank you for trusting me with your story. I'm honored.”