David Baldacci - The Last Mile

He turned to see Jamison standing there in her workout gear.

“You coming or going?” he asked.

“Going. I got here right when it opened. I was in another part of the gym. I was leaving when I saw you.” She smacked him on the arm. “Way to go, Decker.”

He put the medicine ball back and shrugged. “Little by little, right?”

“You want to walk back with me? My place is just a little bit down from where you are.”

“I thought I’d walk around the track and cool down.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you at the office. And Amos, have you checked out your pantry and fridge yet?”

“I noticed there was stuff in there.”

She looked a bit sheepish. “I did your grocery shopping before you got here. Don’t kill me, but it’s mostly healthy stuff. That’s why I brought you that disgusting breakfast sandwich, sort of your last hurrah before going the healthy route.”

“How healthy?” he wanted to know.

She smiled uneasily. “I’ll let you have the pleasure of discovery. I’ll pick you up about a quarter till.”

She walked out.

A few minutes later Decker was done. He wiped his face and headed to the track, which was behind the gym and enclosed by a waist-high fence.

He walked around the track at a faster than normal pace until he felt like his knees were about to quit on him. Then he slowed. His heart was beating fast and the sweat was still coming. He felt both good and exhausted. It was cold and each of his breaths came out as tiny clouds.

Then something blew past him so fast he almost fell down. He’d never seen the person coming.

Todd Milligan turned around and jogged backward as he eyed Decker. He was wearing Under Armour and his physique was impressive. His six-pack was outlined against the compression fabric.

“Hey, Decker, you might want to pick up the pace or else you’ll get run over.”

He turned and sprinted away. The guy was fast and athletic.

And a prick.

A minute later Decker heard someone else coming up behind him and wondered if it was Milligan looking to lap him. He was moving over to get out of the way when he heard the voice.

“Good morning.”

Lisa Davenport jogged up to him and then stopped. She was in a warm-up suit. She put her hands on her knees and breathed in and out in several long sequences.

“Good morning,” said Decker.

She started stretching out her arms and legs. “I just finished my run and saw you.”

“I’m hard to miss, although Agent Milligan nearly ran into me. Go figure.”

“I’m sure,” she said dryly.

“I’m just making my way around the track. I did the gym first.”

“Exercising gives me so much energy. I love it.”

“Me too. As you can see.”

She broke into a smile. “But you played college and professional football. You must have been in fantastic shape.”

“I was, a long time ago.”

“But also more recent than that.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You were a police officer and then a detective. You must have been in decent condition then too.”

Decker started walking again, and she matched his stride, or tried to.

“That seems like a long time ago, too.”

“But it really wasn’t. It was less than, what, twenty months ago?”

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“I’m a curious person, Amos, and you’re a fascinating study.”

“Why, because my brain got blown up so I can’t forget anything and I see things in color folks don’t normally associate with red, yellow, and blue?”

“It’s my field. I can’t pretend I’m not interested. You realize how rare you are?”

“I actually never thought about it.”

She seemed to be about to say something but then paused. “Well, it was good seeing you. I’m going to grab a shower. See you at the office.”

She turned and jogged off in the opposite direction.

Decker watched her go for a long time, and then he waddled over and sat down on a bench next to the track.

He let his heart rate go back to normal and then stood, reasonably sure that he was not about to suffer a stroke. He walked slowly back to his place, showered, and changed into some of his new clothes. He had tried them on last night, but now they felt just a tad looser.

Must be my imagination.

He checked the fridge: soy milk, fresh-squeezed OJ, yogurt, apples, and a carton of organically grown eggs. The bread was nine-grain wheat. The chicken was extra lean. The ground meat was turkey. The “butter” was made with canola oil. There were also drawers of fresh vegetables. He looked in the pantry. Healthy cereal, low-sodium peanut butter, honey, low-sodium soups, organic pasta, something called orzo, bottles of vitamins, flaxseed oil, power bars, bananas, an energy drink that you mixed with water, and two dozen sport drinks in various flavors. There wasn’t a bag of chips, block of chocolate, or tub of ice cream in sight.

He filled a bowl with cereal that looked like twigs a squirrel had pooped out and then poured soy milk over it and cut up a banana as his topper.

Jamison had had mercy on him, because there was coffee. But the cream was fat-free and the sugar was the brown unprocessed stuff Decker had seen but not used. Jamison had apparently confiscated the processed sugar he had used the day before.

He made his coffee and carried his cup and bowl over to the table in the little dining area, sat down, and ate his breakfast.

Well, that was filling , he thought as he rinsed the cup, bowl, and spoon.

He checked his watch. The team was scheduled to meet in about a half hour. He had a bit of time to kill before Jamison came for him. He sat down in a chair and looked out the window onto a street that was bustling with activity.

Quantico had lots of people coming and going at all hours. And now Decker was a little cog in this huge ecosystem. And did he want to be? Really?

He closed his eyes, and though he didn’t want it to, his infallible memory whirred back to the deaths of his family in their house. To the months of agony he suffered afterward and to the eventual tracking down and punishment of their killers. And then to the realization that even with that conclusion, he had never felt even a bit of closure.

When he opened his eyes they were moist and he felt himself trembling.

Time did not heal wounds for him. Not for someone who could never forget. Their murders were as fresh now as when they occurred. Not just the visuals, but also the emotional hatchet attached to the mental images. They would be until the day he died.

He glanced out the window in time to see Jamison’s tiny car pull up out front. He wiped his eyes, rose, and slapped himself a couple of times in the face.

He could either live in the past or he could venture out and see if he was capable of having a future.

And some days the decision would be easier than others.

He headed to the door.

The rap on the door startled Mars. Then the door slot opened at the bottom.

“Get your ass over here,” said the voice.

Mars obediently rose from his bunk, turned his back to the door, placed his hands behind his back, and slid down on his haunches until his hands were level with the slot. Handcuffs were attached to his wrists. Then he rose and stepped away from the door as it opened.

It was Big Dick. He’d been here as long as Mars had. And the years had just made him meaner.

Big Dick was so wide his bulk filled nearly the entire opening of the cell door. A scowl and a smile fought for supremacy on his features.

“What’s going on?” Mars asked.

“Shut up! I tell you to talk, boy?”

Two other guards emerged from behind Big Dick and shackled Mars’s feet. He was hustled down the corridor, his chains clanking like Marley’s ghost.