Despite years of suppressing the memory, a storm of images began streaming through Tom’s mind. His heart rate immediately began to race as a horrifying montage of scenes – pitch black night, shouts of surprise and anger, blinding muzzle flashes and deafening gunfire, running, falling, stumbling – collided and twisted together. He quickly pushed the images from his mind and concentrated on the hard facts. Eight marines had set out for a routine patrol in the southern district of Arghandab on that clear night of May 23. Approximately three hours into their patrol, Tom and his men had come under heavy fire from a large group of insurgents. Less than an hour later it was over. Of the eight men who had set out on that patrol, seven didn’t come back.
And that was all that anyone could possibly know.
Tom rapped the knuckles of his hand against the corner of his desk as he considered his next move. He knew it would be pointless to speak with the psych examiner who’d diagnosed him and try to persuade her to reconsider; assuming he could even find her. Besides, pressing the issue would only weaken his case – or worse, help justify the agency’s ridiculous conclusion about his condition. As remote as his chances might be, Tom wasn’t giving up. He was used to tough challenges, and the Marine Corp, the Phoenix PD, and certainly his current job with The Department of Homeland Security had taught him that patience was the key to overcoming almost every steep pile of shit heaped in front of him.
One way or the other, he was going to be a CIA agent.
He just needed to find another way in.
Tom spent a few unfocused hours reviewing case files and scratching notes before conceding to his distracted state of mind. He needed more time to sit and think. He needed a quiet place to clarify his thoughts and start developing a strategy. More than anything, he needed a drink.
After quickly filing cases and meticulously cleaning his desk, Tom grabbed his leather jacket and gloves and switched off the yellow overhead fluorescent lights. He strolled past the large Homeland Security crest mounted in the hallway as the concussion of his office door slamming to a close signaled his departure.
18.
“What the hell’s going on around here, Jeri?”
From across the counter of the crowded saloon, Chip stared wide-eyed at Jeri with a genuine look of surprise. He gazed again towards his usual barstool that was now hidden within a large group of flannel-clad co-eds and shook his head irritably. “That’s my spot,” he muttered as he sat down at the opposite end of the bar and brooded.
Standing at the beer taps busily pouring drinks, Jeri glanced over at him and smiled. “You know the rule, Chip. First come, first serve.”
The older man nodded slowly. “But it’s Monday afternoon for chrissake. What are all these people doing in here on a Monday?”
“Drinking, just like you,” Jeri replied as she loaded the drinks onto a tray and ducked under the bar. She collected the tray and headed off to the tables before the old man could respond.
Rust-orange rays of late-afternoon sunlight drifted into Joe’s Last Stand Saloon as Jeri slowly wove her way through the crowd. Looking around her, Jeri could understand Chip’s surprise. On what should have been a quiet October afternoon, heavy with the scent of burning leaves and approaching snow, Joe’s Last Stand was packed. Groups of hip, twenty-something students along with their middle-aged professors were crowding into the saloon, filling the warm dark interior with the incongruous aromas of perfume, patchouli and beer. Jeri maneuvered her way into the densest part of the crowd – the corner where the shrine of letters and pictures from her Mysterious-Joe’s-Last-Stand-Guy were hung. The men around her turned and stared intently as she passed. “Four Guinness and a Smithwicks,” Jeri called out loudly, trying to recall a previous time when the noise of the saloon required her to yell.
A short man in faded corduroys and an oversized wool sweater turned and waved her towards his group of friends. “Yo - right here,” he replied. He passed the drinks to his friends, who nodded and smiled at Jeri in thanks. The man then looked at Jeri as he sipped at the frothy head of his beer.
“So, are you her?” he asked.
“Her who?” Jeri responded, assuming an air of obliviousness.
“Jeri. You’re Jeri in the letters, right?” His eyes quickly flickered over her figure before returning back to her impassive stare. “You’ve got to be her.”
“I am indeed,” Jeri replied as she nodded at the man and quickly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That’ll be twenty-four dollars please.”
“Right.” He quickly pulled out a wad of crumpled bills and handed them to Jeri, smiling up at her with an earnest smile. “I can see why he writes to you. You’re a very beautiful woman.”