action items.
He parked the Mach One as close to the church as he could. There were many cars already there, and the parking spaces relatively few. The church was a somber-faced stone monolith built in the latter part of the nineteenth century when the architectural commandment had been, “Thou house of worship shalt have more turrets, balustrades, Ionic columns, broken pediments, arches, gables, doors, windows and cool masonry curlicues than thy neighbor.”
It was at this holy temple that Presidents, Supreme Court justices, members of Congress, ambassadors and other, lesser dignitaries of varying degrees did their praying, singing and, very occasionally, confessing. Political leaders were often photographed or filmed going up or down its broad steps, Bible in hand and God-fearing looks on their features. Despite the separation of church and state in America, Web had always believed that voters liked to see a little piety in their elected officials. No HRT members had attended this church, yet the politicos had to have a grand stage to say their words of consolation. And the little backwoods house of religion near Quantico, where some of the members of Charlie Team had actually done their worshiping, apparently didn’t cut it.
The sky was clear, the sun warming and the slight breeze refreshing. It was too fine an afternoon for such a depressing thing as a memorial service, it seemed to Web. Yet he went up the church steps, each click of his polished shoes on the stone simulating the ding of a wheel gun’s cylinder being turned, one chamber, one bullet, one potentially spent life at a time. Such violent analogies were Web’s lot in life, he supposed. Where others saw hope, he only witnessed the raw sores of a festering, degenerating humanity. God, with that attitude, it was no wonder he was never invited to parties.
Secret Service agents were everywhere, with their shoulder holsters, poker expressions and curly ear cords. Web had to go through a metal detector before entering the church. He showed his gun and his FBI creds, which told the Secret Service the only way Web and his gun would be parted was if he was dead.
As soon as he opened the door, Web almost bumped into the rear of the mass of people that had somehow squeezed itself into the space. He took the rather uncouth tactic of flashing his FBI shield, and the seas parted and he was allowed to move through. Over in one corner a camera crew had set up and was broadcasting the entire spectacle. What idiot had authorized that? Web wondered. And exactly whose idea was it to invite the whole frigging world to what should have been a private ceremony? This was how the survivors were to remember their dead, at a circus?
With the help of some fellow agents Web managed to wedge himself into one of the pews and then looked around. The families were in the front two rows, which had been roped off. Web bowed his head in prayer, saying one for each of the men, lingering the longest on Teddy Riner, who had been a mentor to Web, a cracker-jack agent, a wonderful father, a good man all around. Web dropped a couple of tears as he realized how much he had really lost in those few seconds of hell. Yet when he looked up front to where the families sat, he knew he had not lost as much as those folks had.
The truth was beginning to set in with the younger kids, for Web could hear their wails at Daddy being gone forever. And the sobbing and screaming continued through all the tired speeches, from the get-tough-on-crime bullcrap from the politicians to the preachers who had never met any of the men they were eulogizing.
They fought the good fight, Web wanted to stand up and quietly say. They died protecting all of us. Never forget them, for they were all unforgettable in their own way. End of eulogy. Amen. Let’s hit the bars.
The memorial service finally was over, and the congregation heaved a collective sigh of relief. On his way out, Web spoke with Debbie Riner and offered some words of comfort to Cynde Plummer and Carol Garcia and exchanged hugs and snatches of more words with some of the others. He squatted down and talked to the little kids, held small trembling bodies in his arms and Web just didn’t want to let go. This simple physical giving threatened to make Web start bawling. Tears had never come easily to him, and yet he had shed more of them in the last week or so than he had in his entire life. But the kids were just killing him.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. As he rose and turned, Web thought he would be comforting one more bereaved person. However, the woman staring back at him did not appear to need or want his sympathy.
Julie Patterson was the widow of Lou Patterson. She had four kids and had been expecting a fifth but had miscarried it three hours after learning she had become a widow and single mother. A look at her glassy eyes told Web that the woman was heavily drugged with what he hoped were doctor-ordered prescriptions. And Web could smell the liquor. Pills and booze was not a good combo to serve oneself on a day like today. Of all the wives, Julie had been least close to Web, because Lou Patterson loved Web like a brother and Web had easily sensed that Julie was jealous of that relationship.
“You really think you should be here, Web?” said Julie. She tottered in her black heels, her eyes not entirely able to focus on him. Her words were slurry, her tongue moving on to form others before they had completed the last. She was puffy, her skin pale yet blotched red in spots. She had not carried the baby long enough for her belly to swell, and this lost opportunity seemed to have deepened the woman’s hurt. She should be home in bed and Web wondered why she wasn’t. “Julie, let’s go outside and you can get some air. Come on, let me help you.”
“Get the hell away from me!” Julie shouted in a voice loud enough to make those within twenty feet of them stop and stare. The TV crew saw this exchange too, and both the cameraman and reporter apparently simultaneously saw potential gold. The camera swung in Web’s direction and the reporter headed over.
“Julie, let’s go outside,” Web said again quietly. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, you bastard!” She ripped Web’s hand off and he grunted in pain, cupping his wounded hand near his body. Her fingernails had bitten right into the hole there, ripping out the stitches; it started to bleed.
“Wasamatter, your little hand hurting, you gutless sonovabitch? You with the Frankenstein face! How’d your mother stand looking at you? You freak, you!”
Cynde and Debbie tried to talk to her, console her, but Julie pushed them away and got close to Web again. “You froze up before the shooting started, only you don’t know why? And then you fell down? You ’spect us to buy that bullshit!” Her liquor breath was so intense Web had to close his eyes for a moment, and that only magnified his sense of faltering balance.
“You coward. You let them die! How much did you get? How much did Lou’s blood get you, you asshole?”
“Ms. Patterson.” This came from Percy Bates, who had swept up next to them. “Julie,” he said very calmly, “let’s get you to your car before the traffic gets really bad. I’ve got your kids right over here.”
Julie’s lips trembled at the mention of her children. “How many are there?” Bates looked confused. “How many kids?” Julie asked again. One hand slid to her empty belly and stayed there, and wet spots from tears marked the front of her black dress. Julie focused once more on Web, her lips curling back in a snarl. “I was supposed to have five of them. I had five kids and a husband. Now I got four kids and no Lou. My Lou’s gone. And my baby’s gone, damn you! Damn you!” Her voice edged upward again, her hand was making crazy circles on her belly, as though she were rubbing a magic lamp, perhaps making a wish for the baby and husband to come back. The camera was eating up all of this. The reporter was scribbling furiously.
“I’m sorry, Julie. I did all I could,” said Web.
Julie stopped rubbing her belly and spit in his face. “That’s for Lou.” She spit again. “That’s for my baby. Go to hell. You go to hell, Web London.” She slapped his face, hitting him right on his ruined cheek, and she almost fell over with the effort. “And that’s for me, you bastard! You . . . you freak!”
Julie’s energy was spent and Bates had to grab the woman before she
collapsed to the floor. They got her outside and the nervous crowd started to drift away into small pockets of discussion; many of them cast angry backward glances at Web.
Web did not move. He had not even wiped away Julie’s spit. His face was red from where she had hit him. He had just been proclaimed a freakish monster and a coward and a traitor. Julie Patterson might as well have cut off his head and took that with her too. Web would’ve beaten to death any man who had said those things to him. But coming from a bereaved widow and mother, her insults had to be accepted; he felt like taking his own life instead. None of what she said was true, yet how could Web deny her any of it?
“Sir, it’s Web, right? Web London?” said the reporter at his shoulder. “Look, I know this is probably a really awkward time, but the news sometimes can’t wait. Would you be willing to talk to us?” Web didn’t answer. “Come on,” said the reporter. “It’ll only take a minute. Just a few questions.”
“No,” said Web, and started to leave. He wasn’t sure until right then that he actually could even walk.
“Look, we’re going to talk to the lady too. And you don’t want the public to have only her side of things. I’m giving you a shot to tell your story here. Fair is fair.”
Web turned back and grabbed the man by the arm. “There are no ‘sides.’ And you let that woman alone. She’s had enough for the rest of her life. You let her alone. Stay away from her! You understand me?”
“Just doing my job.” The man carefully edged Web’s hand off his arm. He looked at the cameraman. Excellent, was the unspoken thought that seemed to travel between the two men.
Web walked out the door and quickly left behind the church of the famous and well heeled. He climbed in the Mach, fired it up and headed off. He stripped off his tie, checked his wallet to make sure he had some cash, stopped at a liquor store in the District and bought two bottles of cheap Chianti and a six-pack of Negra Modelo.
He drove home, locked all the doors and pulled the shades on all the windows. He went into the bathroom, turned on the light and looked at himself in the mirror. The skin on the right side of his face was slightly tanned, relatively smooth, a few odd whiskers in spots he had missed with his razor. A nice side of skin, not bad at all. “Side of skin.” That was how he had to analyze it now. The days were long gone when anyone could remark on his handsome face. Julie Patterson had had no trouble commenting on his mug, though. But Frankenstein? That was a new one, Julie. Given time to think about it, he wasn’t feeling quite so understanding towards the woman right now. You would’ve lost Lou a long time ago if Frankenstein hadn’t done what he’d done that cost him half his damn face. Did you forget that? I haven’t, Julie. I see it every day.
He turned slightly to fully reveal the left side of his face. No whiskers sprouted there. And the skin never really did tan. The doctors had said that this might happen. And there didn’t seem to be enough of it, the skin was stretched so tight. Sometimes, when he wanted to laugh or smile really wide, he couldn’t because that side of his face just wouldn’t cooperate, as though it were telling him to kiss off, buddy, look what you did to me! And the damage had reached to the edge of his eye such that the socket was pulled more to the temple than normal. Before the operations, it had given him quite an unbalanced appearance. Now the look was better, but the two sides of his face would forever be misaligned.
Under the transplanted skin were lumps of plastic and metal that had replaced destroyed bone. The titanium in his face set off the airport detectors just about every damn time. Don’t worry, guys, it’s just the AK-47 I’ve got stashed up my butt.
Web had endured numerous operations to bring his face back to this point. The docs had done a good job, though he would always be considered disfigured. At last the surgeons had told him they had reached the end of their professional skills and even their medical miracles, and they’d wished him well. It had been a more difficult adjustment than he had thought, and to this day he couldn’t say he was actually through it. It wasn’t the sort of thing you ever really got over, he supposed, since it stared back at you in the mirror every day.
He cocked his head a little more, inched down his shirt collar and the old bullet wound on the base of his neck was fully revealed. It had come in above his armor line, and how it missed all vital arteries and his spine was nothing short of miraculous. The wound resembled a cigar burn, a big-ass cigar burn on his skin, he had joked when lying in the hospital bed with one side of his face missing and two large holes in him. And all the guys had laughed with him, though he had sensed the nervousness amid all the chuckling. They were reasonably sure he was going to make it, and so was he. Yet none of them knew what physical and emotional nightmare lay under those bandages. The plastic surgeons had offered to cover up the bullet wounds. But Web had said no. He had had enough with doctors stealing skin from places on his body and gluing it to others. This was as good as old Web was going to get.
He touched his chest where the other “cigar burn” was in full, blooming glory. It had entered his body and exited at the back of his shoulder, somehow skirting his Kevlar on both ends, and still had enough kick left to erase the head of a guy behind him who was about to cleave Web’s skull with a machete. And who said he wasn’t lucky? Web smiled at himself in the mirror. “Lucky is as lucky does,” he said to his reflection.
HRT had always held Web in the highest possible regard for the heroism he had shown that night. It had been the school hostage situation in Richmond, Virginia, executed by the Free Society. Web had recently switched from sniper to assaulter and was still feeling his way a bit, eager to show his mettle in the front lines. The explosion had occurred from a homemade concoction thrown by one of the Frees. It would have hit Lou Patterson if Web hadn’t leapt and knocked him out of the way. The fireball caught Web dead on the left side of his face, knocking him down and melting his shield against his skin. He had ripped the shield off along with a good part of his face and kept fighting, the adrenaline that always came with battle the only thing blocking out the horrible pain.
The Frees had opened fire and Web had taken a bullet through his torso, and the second round had tagged his neck. Many innocent men would have died but for what Web had done after receiving these injuries. Instead of weakening him, the shots seemed to have energized him, for how he had fought, how he had killed men trying to kill him and his team! He had dragged injured comrades to safety, including the late Louis Patterson, who had taken a round through the arm a minute after Web had saved him from the flames. The acts Web performed that night had far surpassed what he had done in that courtyard; for he had been so badly wounded at the time, no mere hand scratch that time, no simple Band-Aid that day. To both veteran and new operators at HRT, Web was a legend. And at the highly competitive alpha male agency, there was no better way to elevate oneself on the pecking order than bravery and skill shown in the heat of battle. And all it had cost him were a few vanity points and most of the blood in his body.
Web didn’t even remember the pain. But when the last bullet had been fired and the last man had fallen, he too had slumped to the ground. He had touched the open wound on his face and felt the blood pouring out of him from the two wounds, and Web knew it was finally his time to die. He had gone into shock in the ambulance and by the time the doctors at the Medical College of Virginia got to him he was almost flat-line. How he had come back that night was anyone’s guess, Web certainly didn’t have an answer. Never a religious man, he had started to wonder about things like God.
The recovery had been the most painful thing Web had ever done. Though he was a hero, it was no guarantee that Web would be able to rejoin HRT. If he couldn’t carry his full weight, they wouldn’t want him, hero or not—it was just the way things were. And Web would never have wanted the terms to be anything else. How many weights lifted, how many miles run, walls climbed, choppers rappelled from, rounds fired? Fortunately, the wounds to his face had not affected his eyesight or aim. Without perfection there, you were go
ne from HRT. The psychological battering of his recovery, however, had been even worse than the physical cramming. Could he fire when called up? Would he freeze in a crisis and place his team in jeopardy? Well, no, he never had, at least not until that damn courtyard came along. He had come back, all the way back. It had taken almost a year, but no one could say he didn’t deserve to return on his own, with no corners cut. Now what would people say? Would he make it back this time? The trouble wasn’t physical this time; it was all in his head and thus was a hundred times more terrifying.
Web made a fist and put it right through the mirror, cracking the drywall behind it. “I didn’t let them die, Julie,” he said to the shattered glass. He looked at his hand. It wasn’t even bleeding. His luck was holding, wasn’t it?
He opened the smashed medicine cabinet and took out the bottle of mismatched pills. He had collected them over time from a variety of sources, some official, some unofficial. He used them to help him sleep occasionally. He was careful, though, because he’d almost become addicted to the painkillers while they were rebuilding his face.
Web flicked off the light and Frankenstein was gone. Hell, everybody knew monsters were more comfortable in the dark.
He went downstairs and carefully laid out all his bottles of booze and sat in the middle of them, like a general with his aides going over a battle plan. Yet he didn’t open a single bottle. The phone rang every few minutes, but Web never answered it. There were knocks on the door; he let them go. Web sat there and stared at a wall until it grew quite late. He rummaged through the mismatched pills and took out a capsule, looked at it and then put it back. He leaned back against a chair and closed his eyes. At four A.M. he fell asleep on the floor of the basement. Web still had not bothered to wash his face.
14
Seven in the morning. Web knew this because the mantel clock was chiming when he lifted himself groggily off the basement floor. He rubbed at his back and neck; as he sat up, his foot hit one of the bottles of wine and it fell over and cracked slightly and Chianti leaked across the floor. Web threw the bottle away, grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up the spill. The wine stained his hands red, and for a dazed moment his sluggish mind told him he’d been shot in his sleep.
The noise outside the rear lower window made him race up the stairs and grab his pistol. Web went to the front door with the intent of circling around back and getting the drop on whoever was out there. Maybe it was just a stray dog or squirrel, but Web didn’t think so. Human feet trying their best to keep quiet just had a certain sound to them if you knew how to listen, and Web knew how to.
When he opened the door, the surge of people toward him almost caused Web to pull his gun and fire. The reporters were waving microphones and pens and sheets of paper and calling out questions so fast, they cumulatively appeared to be speaking Mandarin. They were screaming for him to look this way or that way so they could take his picture, film his video, as though he were some celebrity or, perhaps more apt, an animal in the zoo. Web looked past them to the street, where the media ships with their tall electronic masts now were docked outside his modest rancher. The two FBI agents assigned to watch over his house seemed to be attempting to hold back the masses but were clearly losing the battle.
“What the hell do you people want?” Web cried out.
One woman wearing a beige linen suit, her blond hair sculpted, pushed forward and planted her high-heeled feet on the brick stoop bare inches from Web. Her heavy perfume made Web’s empty stomach turn queasy. She said, “Is it true you’re claiming that you fell down right before the rest of your squad was killed but can’t explain why? And that’s why you survived?” The hike of her eyebrows signaled exactly what the woman thought of that preposterous story.
“I—”
Another reporter, a man, shoved his microphone near Web’s