Charles Henderson - Terminal Impact

Oh, she had a heart, but she also had a brain. A very good brain, and a dream for her, and for Jack. Good old noncommittal slide-along Jack, who cared little about either money or one day owning a fine villa in France, but headed for the Marines. Liberty mused, there he’ll learn all about commitment and discipline. He could do his Marine thing while she did college, and they’d meet in the middle, later.

“What’s your obsession with money and all that crap that goes with it?” Jack had asked her on that last warm night in El Paso, sitting in the dark, making love, and imagining tomorrow.

“Money isn’t happiness,” Liberty told her beau, “but it’s a whole lot easier to find happiness with money than without it.”

Jack couldn’t argue that point.

Conversely, Paul Cruz had preached the Constitution of the United States to his daughter from childhood. She dreamed up the Statue of Liberty Halloween costume more to please him than herself. Liberty, his red-white-and-blue sparkler, torch in hand, standing for freedom and justice for all. Just like Captain America and Superman.

As for bad guys, Liberty had no use for them. Put ’em away or shoot ’em. Preferably shoot ’em and save the taxpayer the bundle for defense attorneys like her dad. She saw his clients and detested them.

While Paul Cruz thought he knew his tall, good-looking, well-built, long-black-haired, dark-eyed daughter, Jack Valentine knew her best.

During the dinner party, the families also reminisced about Marco and Jack, fast friends as little boys, Marco a year older than Jack and towering over him from age nine onward. The two years of football with Jack at tight end and Marco at center had brought the two boys’ families close, going to the games and all the surrounding activities for parents of players. Then when Marco was murdered, the two families bonded into one. Harry and Elaine helped them grieve and survive. His homosexuality never came up in conversation although it swam uncomfortably close, just beneath the surface.

When the dinner began, Harry had Jack make a grand entrance from his bedroom, dressed in his class-A, Marine Corps Kelly-green uniform. Proudly above his left breast pocket, Jack wore his gold jump wings and silver SCUBA/UBA head above his few service ribbons and his silver expert rifle and pistol shooting badges.

“Force Recon!” Freddy Montoya had said when Jack stepped into the living room, looking hard and sharp. The police sergeant bounced to his feet and pumped the young Marine’s hand. “Put her there, bro. I was First Force Recon out of Pendleton in my day.”

“Less than two years and you’ve made lance corporal. I’m impressed,” Judge Archer added. “You’ve done well, son. I appreciate your parents having Anita and me over for dinner, so we could see you. Once in a while, in my court, we do strike gold.”

“I have you to thank, Your Honor. I expect to get promoted to corporal soon after I report for duty at Second Force Recon,” Jack announced. “I got the highest pro-con marks of any non-rates out of Amphib-Recon. My time in grade for corporal closes next month.”

After dinner, while they sat on the patio under mosquito-repelling Tiki torchlights, drinking coffee in the cool desert evening, and Jack had changed into a sport shirt and slacks, Freddy Montoya gave Jack a serious look.

“Maybe I got some good news for you, Jack, and maybe it might be disturbing news,” Freddy said, and gave a concerned look at the parents of Marco Gonzalez.

“Spill it, Freddy,” Harry Valentine said to his pal.

“Well, Jack, I know you got here a few days ago, and you’ve been here at your parents’ house twenty-four/seven, unless you’re going someplace with Harry or your mom, right?” Freddy said, trying to sound reassuring. “But in case a detective might come calling, wanting to ask a few questions, I don’t want you to get alarmed or anything. It’s just routine.”

“What is it, Sergeant?” Paul Cruz asked, picking up on the policeman’s awkward tone and never considering anytime a detective questions a client a matter of routine business.

“You remember that scumbag, Chui Baca? The one who beat the crap out of Jack, and we all think murdered Marco Gonzalez?” Freddy told the lawyer, then looked at the dead boy’s parents and offered an apologetic grimace.

“I thought for sure the DEA had him for life on those charges,” Paul Cruz added, remembering the gangster. “Chui Baca’s made of Teflon.”

Patricia Cruz added, “Bad warrants and federal prosecutors lost all the evidence. Witnesses vanished.”

“Yeah, too bad about all that,” Freddy said, and looked at Jack who sat expressionless, cool, waiting.

Everyone now sat silently, watching the cop, waiting for the shoe to finally drop.

“Somebody popped Chui,” Freddy announced. “Did it two days ago. Caught him center mass, right in the chest with a high-velocity .30 caliber rifle slug. A 175-grain Sierra MatchKing, just like military snipers use. Blew his heart and lungs apart. His buds that was with him said he stepped out of his car and bam! Took him right out of his shoes. He thrashed on the ground for about ten seconds. Scared those sorry bastards real bad. They never heard the shot or saw where it came from. Just bam, when it hit Chui, and killed him like a dog.”

Harry Valentine nodded at his son, then at his cop friend. Unfazed.

Herman and Lola Gonzalez both smiled with the news.

“Breaks my heart,” Jack said, and shrugged at Freddy.

“Mine, too.” Freddy smiled back. “But, given you wanted to kill the bastard and all, a little over two years ago, detectives might come knocking. Don’t worry about it. Nobody’s gonna look that hard for whoever committed this public service.”

Paul Cruz looked at Jack and didn’t say a word.

No one questioned Jack or Harry Valentine about it, then or anytime afterward.

Just as Jack Valentine had stretched out on his bunk a hard knock came on the barracks door, and without waiting to be asked to enter, a lean, high-and-tight brush-cut, tough-looking Marine captain stepped inside.

“Looking for Lance Corporal John Arthur Valentine,” said the captain dressed in crisp desert-camouflage utilities, roughed-out desert jump boots, and a wide-brimmed desert-camouflage flop hat gripped in his left hand, along with a brown manila file folder.

Three other non-rate Marines sharing quarters with Jack snapped to attention and pointed to the last rack, where Lance Corporal Valentine lay, propped on his elbows, eyeballing the officer as he walked inside.

“That would be me, sir,” Jack said, getting to his feet and standing at attention.

“Elmore Snow’s the name,” the captain said. “Take a seat, son.”

Jack took a seat on his bunk, and the captain sat on the metal folding chair by it. He held the lance corporal’s Marine Corps Service Record Book in his hands, and opened it across his knees.

Then he looked over his shoulder at the three other non-rates in the hooch, and told them, “Why don’t you lads give me and John a little privacy.”

“Yes, sir,” the three said, and happily disappeared.

“Says here you graduated first in your class in the ten-week Scout-Sniper course at Pendleton, then shot the gap directly south to Amphib-Recon school at Coronado,” Captain Snow said, looking at several pages of training. “Not even a ninety-six-hour pass?”

Jack shrugged. “Didn’t want to lose my steam.”

“Platoon guide out of boot camp, meritorious PFC. Honor graduate at the School of Infantry,” Snow went on, thumbing through the pages. “Got picked for Recon two months after showing up at Fifth Marines. Jump school at Benning, won the Iron Mike. Then off to Pickle Meadows for survival and mountaineering. And last August you graduated top of your class at Amphib-Recon. I’m truly impressed. You remind me of me. Son, you ever take any time off?”