Bottom Feeder (3 page)

How do I know? Because he taught
me.

Every weekend he took me to the mall,
Forsyth Park, and many other public areas to test me. I learned
American Sign Language, how to read lips, body language, and
involuntary facial microexpressions. The science isn’t perfect, but
it’s pretty close. Sometimes I studied photographs or videos of
random people. Daddy would ask if I noticed certain expressions or
emotions on their faces. Even if someone hides things in a masked,
neutral, or simulated expression, each person has their own facial
and body blueprint. A twitch of the fingers, white knuckles clamped
into fists, the nervous tapping or shifting of feet.

The UPS
lady
.

She wasn’t a new driver. She knew what
was in the envelope. Great. One more thing to add to the growing
list of Crap I Need to Figure Out.

“
What’s this
about?”

I need Dixon to be able to say with a
straight face—no smile, dilated eyes, quirks of the jaw or twitch
of the eyebrow—that he has absolutely no idea about
anything.

“
I’ll explain what I can
on the way.” I scoop up the backpack; the weight of its contents is
a heavy burden to carry. I can feel the evil cutting into my back
and skin, wrenching deep into my core without mercy. “I’ll pick you
up in an hour.”

Dixon perks up. “We’re taking the
Beemer?”

I nod. It’s a risk, but one I have to
take.

I make a detour on the way home,
stopping by a pay phone to call the number listed on the website.
After several transfers I finally reach an agent. Alexander
Mace.

“
What did you say your
last name was?” the agent asks.

Actually, I did not say my name at
all. “Is that relevant?”

“
Carrington, was it?” I
remain silent. “As in, Cordell Carrington?”

Again, “Is that relevant?”

“
Any information on
Cordell Carrington is relevant to me. Especially from Madelyn
Carrington.” Agent Mace pauses dramatically before adding,
“You
are
his
daughter, am I correct?”

Jackson

January

I celebrated my nineteenth birthday in
the mountains of Afghanistan. There was no cake. My only gifts were
lessons learned and body counts adding up on both sides. Shitty
gifts, if you ask me. I learned all it takes to survive is an
untied bootlace.

Nineteen years on this earth and my
life has dwindled down to one birthday on foreign soil where I
fired my weapon at a real person for the first time. That night I
rested my head inside my Kevlar helmet and made sure my boots were
laced and tucked. That night began the first of my
nightmares.

May

I am going home today for the first
time in two years. Over twelve months of training, followed by a
twelve month deployment kept me away from Georgia. When my feet hit
American soil thirty-four days ago, I wanted nothing more than to
be in my own home, underneath the ratty stitched quilt that’s been
draped across my bed since I was two.

I was supposed to come back weeks ago.
The Army had other plans for my transition back to everyday life.
Those plans did not include anything I wanted or needed. Bi-weekly
psych evaluations were issued to ensure my mind still functions
correctly. Each session consisted of recreating twelve months in
hell.

Whether or not the fighting is in your
own backyard or someone else’s, no one wants to revive their war
experience. The psych assigned to me does not seem to understand
this, proved by his endless prodding into my head.

Along with nightmares and
flashbacks, the paranoia is enough of an everyday reminder of my
experience downrange. The psych says these are symptoms of
post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. Whatever. When I returned
to Fort Bragg it didn’t take long to discover I wasn’t the only one
with these issues. The psych doesn’t have the last word when I
leave each session with, “Regardless of war, we all have conflict
to deal with. One of these days, Doc, I’ll ask what
your
problem
is.”

I may not be able to control the
nightmares or flashbacks, but I am in command of my actions.
Whatever those may be. I purposely place myself in the middle of
large crowds to learn how to control my heart rate, my breathing,
and my instinct to react in hostile responses once someone in that
crowd touches me. There are times when just a little something sets
me off. I hate that I feel anger and animosity toward innocent
people.

At the end of the day, what I do with
the aftermath of battle is up to me to figure out. I don’t need a
psych to tell me my mind is messed up. I already know it is. These
days my life revolves around the effects of war. Which is why this
trip home is so important. I need the normalcy.

By the time I was seated on the plane
leaving Raleigh, I had not slept in thirty-six hours. As soon as my
required twenty-four hour duty was over, Private First Class
Dominguez drove me directly to the airport. For once I am thankful
for his constant chatter. I am exhausted, but don’t dare sleep in
public, even around another soldier. The nightmares are
relentless.

Being an Airborne soldier, I spend
hours in planes on a regular basis. Then I jump out of them. The
thrum of the engine is nauseating, yet almost comforting, and my
eyes threaten to close immediately once we are in the air. Good
thing the excessive turbulence keeps me awake. Not to mention the
screaming babies, the unknown stench seeping from the pores of the
gentleman next to me, and two ladies behind me arguing because one
is trying to use her cell phone after the flight attendant asked
her not to.

Claustrophobia settles, closing around
me like a tomb. I begin to sweat. To get angry. To get angry at
being angry. I touch my head to my knees and breathe. In. Out. In.
Out.

When the plane touches down in
Savannah, I cannot get out of my seat fast enough.

I step through the gliding doors of
Savannah International and overhear the security guy hassling
someone for sitting at the curb too long. Before I see her, I hear
the person he’s talking to threaten to tell his mother about his
lack of manners. The poor bastard flushes red and quickly
apologizes. Seeing the woman in action is the first indication that
I am truly home.

Mama runs to me with a smile. The
scent of flowers wafts in the air as she throws her arms around my
neck. The final confirmation that I. Am. Home.

I toss my bag in the trunk and melt
into the front seat of her ten year old Honda Civic. On top of the
console is a container of sweet tea and Ziploc bags filled with
pralines and gooey butter cake.

Just as the last bite of the most
delicious gooey butter cake is settling nicely in my stomach, Mama
breaks the news.

“
We are attending a party
tonight for Cordell Carrington’s daughter, Maddy.” I groan,
wondering if this day will ever end.

“
Now Jackson,” she
continues in her Georgia drawl. “I wouldn’t be going if the
graduation party were for anyone else. I don’t like Cordell—he’s a
pretentious butthead—but I love that child. She’s a quiet little
thing, nothing like her daddy.”

I force my eyes closed, hoping for one
minute of rest and hoping I don’t fall asleep. Some days, without
closing my eyes, death surrounds me. I see it, hear it, feel it
deep within every cell of my body. Other days I am plagued with the
smell. Death has a pungent, sulfuric stench; an aroma permanently
engrained in my nostrils. My eyes pop open as my stomach snarls in
protest.

“
Besides,” Mama says,
“You’re looking for a car. Cordell owns several new dealerships in
and around Savannah.”

My entire body seems to fold in on
itself when she swerves to miss roadkill.

This is not Afghanistan.
Get it together.

Insurgents sometimes used
roadkill to serve as camouflage for improvised explosive devices,
or IEDs. This method is not as common in Afghanistan as it was in
Iraq, but it does happen. It
did
happen. Once. To my team. That’s all it
took.

The psychs tell me the paranoia will
pass with time.

This advice might be good for the
future, but it sure as hell isn’t helping right now.

I am set to auto pilot as I shower and
dress in semi-formal clothes to attend a party for a girl I don’t
even know. I know about Cordell, though. Sort of. He is something
like a legend here. No one really knows him, but everyone knows
him. If you know what I mean.

Our arrival at the estate on Tybee
Island is an intense reminder of Cordell’s wealth. He has a foot
dipped in everything from pipelines to real estate to bars to
clothing boutiques and an international import/export business.
What that entails, exactly, no one seems to know.

He also owns several large warehouses
on the outskirts of Savannah. I am unsure what kind of work goes on
in them, but apparently it’s something big because the man is
loaded. He does not donate wings of buildings, he donates blocks of
buildings and contributes millions every year to nationwide
charities that aid in diminishing poverty.

While that is all well and good, what
I am interested in are his auto dealerships. Specifically his
private collection of Classics. My personal favorite is a flat-onyx
1971 Plymouth Barracuda convertible, equipped with a hood scoop and
a hemi. Yes, a hemi.

A moment of silence while I drool over
that, please. I wonder if he’d let me sit in it . . .

Mama and I are greeted by a round,
platinum blonde, excessively-bubbly woman who introduces herself as
the party organizer—no name, just “I’m the party organizer.” I
glance nervously at the huge crowd, trying to gather the nerve to
keep my head together.

“
About three hundred
people,” Mama answers my unspoken question.

A marble floor and double
horseshoe staircase deck the entryway. Each of the antique wrought
iron wall sconces probably cost more than I make in six
months.
I’m Better Than You
seems to be the overall theme of the
house.

Even with the body heat illuminating
from the crowd, the place has an eerie chill that has nothing to do
with the air conditioning. An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of
my stomach.

“
Jackson, will you get my
shawl from the car?” Mama asks. “This dress is a little too low-cut
for my liking. I can’t be proper in a dress like this.”

Mama is a five-feet-five inch ball of
feisty fire, with a vocabulary that would make a Marine blush if
you backtalk her. But goodness forbid I allow her to be anything
but proper.

I bypass the valet and pull a spare
key from my pocket. I take my time walking to the car, inhaling the
breeze coming off the marsh. The crisp wind is a nice change from
North Carolina’s merciless humidity.

Mama is speaking with Cordell when I
return to the house. I remind myself of the importance of this
man—namely, his car collection. The crowd is beginning to overload
my senses to a dangerous level. Hopefully I can shut them out and
manage the exhausting task of conducting a decent conversation. I
square my hunched shoulders, straighten my spine and advance in
silence.

Mama smiles when I drape the shawl
across her shoulders. “Jackson, you remember Cordell
Carrington.”

“
Nice to meet you again,
Mr. Carrington.”

“
Call me Cordell, son.” He
looks me over like a carnival prize as we shake hands. “Violet
tells me you’re in the Army. Stationed at Bragg?”

“
Yes, sir.”

Cordell asks the usual questions about
rank, drill sergeants, jumping out of planes. I answer like a
rehearsed monologue. It’s always the same questions with the same
answers that both please and dismay. I give them a little, but not
too much.

“
What’s your job, son?
Infantry? Military Police?”

“
EOD, sir.”

“
Like that one movie?”
Since
The Hurt Locker
won an Oscar, this is usually the question that follows when
someone asks about my job.

Mama steps away to mingle. She does
not want to know what I do at work. I like to keep it that way.
Most people think the military is made up of puppets trained to
defend and kill. Although I am skilled in both of these matters, my
job is to defuse situations. Literally. And guarantee that I am no
one’s puppet.

“
It was a good movie,
sir,” I answer, deflecting the question.

A pretty blonde girl, dressed in a
white shirt and black slacks removes Cordell’s empty glass from his
hand, replacing it with a full one. She winks before walking
away.

Note to self: Find her
later.

I take notice of the deep caramel
color and strong scent of alcohol in Cordell’s hand. Very good,
very aged, very expensive small-batch bourbon. The type of liquor
that has one sole purpose: to knock the average man on his ass
after the first shot.