And Then She Was Gone(12)

“Jack,” she called out before he reached the exit. A flurry of mixed emotions crossed her face, and then she solemnly said, “Thank you for serving.”

The words knocked the cocky grin right off Jack’s face. He nodded politely.

As Jack walked out of the old government office, the bricks and tiles had a different feel. A huge mural of a WWI soldier in a doughboy helmet charging up a hill made him stop. Jack stared at the stark expression of the man, ready to face death, and it dawned on him: even though they’d serve a hundred years apart, he and the man would now be inexorably linked.

Jack put his shoulders back and lifted his chin. The full impact of his decision to join the Army started to sink in. In three months, he would be going to basic training, and after that, Afghanistan, or possibly Iraq.

He pushed open the door, and when the bright June sun warmed his face, he smiled. I have three months. One last summer. All his worries about his future blew away in the warm summer breeze. He walked across the outdoor courtyard and headed for his pride and joy.

His 1978 Chevy Impala.

He’d had to work a whole summer for the parts, and another summer to make the body pristine. He’d gotten some help from the guys at the high school auto shop. Jack’s dad had helped work on it too. They’d both spent days at a time under the hood, or pulling dents and sanding rust. To Jack, the Batmobile and the Millennium Falcon had nothing on his Impala.

But there was still a long list of stuff on the internals Jack knew he needed to fix: the piston rings were worn, the water pump was grinding, and it needed a valve job. The outside was mint, but the inside was messed up.

Just like Jack.

He hopped in and rubbed the dash. “Hey, baby.” Talking to the car wasn’t superstition; it was a greeting. He loved his car.

He gave her another pat and started her up. To save some money, one of the guys in the school auto shop had suggested he use an old motorcycle muffler they had out back. As Jack’s foot hit the gas, the car sounded as if someone had mated a monster truck with a Jaguar.

Traffic was light for the middle of the day. It took only ten minutes to drive over to Hamilton Park, where he and Chandler had planned to meet. Hamilton Park was the centerpiece of downtown Fairfield. A jogging path surrounded the rectangular park’s beautiful eleven hundred acres, thick with a variety of mature trees. A wide, paved walking trail studded with benches formed a figure eight through its gentle slopes, and at its center it passed by a gorgeous four-tiered fountain with a stone catch basin.

As Jack drove down Main Street, he saw a line of police cruisers and several unmarked Ford Crown Victorias parked in front of an office building. Jack sat up in his seat to get a better view of what was happening. At first he thought it may have been a bad traffic accident, but he didn’t see any fire trucks or ambulances. That also ruled out a medical emergency.

As Jack drove past, two men in suits, followed by a patrol officer, escorted a pair of sobbing women to one of the Crown Vics. Jack scanned the area around the building but saw no police tape marking the scene of a crime. He wondered what it was all about.

Farther down the road, on the southwest corner of Hamilton Park, was a large, rundown parking lot next to a couple of aging basketball courts. Jack pulled in and shut the car off. In this area, an addict was liable to smash your windows, looking for loose change, but Jack knew if they didn’t see anything valuable typically they would leave the car alone. Still, he popped the door panel out with a snap, dropped his favorite sunglasses inside, then snapped it shut. If someone did break in, they’d take whatever was in the glove compartment, which had nothing of value, while Jack’s secret compartment was as safe as the Batcave.

He locked the car and headed toward the basketball courts. A crowd of twenty people sat on aluminum bleachers that rose four rows high, watching a pick-up game. It was easy to spot Chandler in the crowd; even sitting, he towered over everyone around him.

“You’re late,” Chandler’s deep voice called out as he waved Jack over.

“You can’t be late for a pick-up game.”

The yellowish green of Chandler’s t-shirt contrasted with his ebony skin. The slogan on the front of the shirt, “Army Strong,” emphasized his massive chest. “Where were you?”

“Getting my passport.”

Chandler shook his head. “You were late for that too—I got mine last week.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I have you to mother me.” Jack smirked as he knuckle-bumped his friend.

Chandler gestured to the attractive girl with long, dark hair who sat next to him. Her high cheekbones accentuated her big brown eyes. “This is Makayla.” Makayla extended a slender hand. “Makayla, this is my brother, Jack.”