Cody McFadyen - Abandoned

Firecrackers went off, but the Boy barely heard them.

“Anyway, I buried Daddy, and then I lit out and joined the army. I ended up at the hard end of the Korean War. Managed to fake my age and get in where the fighting went rough.” Father paused, staring off into the then again. “I saw things you couldn’t imagine, boy. Men firing rifles with their guts hanging to their feet. Cannibalism in the snow. A dead woman getting fucked ‘cause the man raping her hadn’t realized she’d gone and died.” Father kept on staring, his eyes wider now, in some kind of wonder. “People think we were righteous then, and maybe most were, but there were savages in all that rock and bone too. Men-beasts who lived for war. I wasn’t quite one of them, but I understood the notion.”

His father turned to him then and looked down on him with a huge fierceness and intensity. It was a look from the void, and the Boy glimpsed, just for a moment, what a man-beast might be. Men who’d eat men and sell their children and have sex with the dead.

“So when that time comes, and you question what I’ve taught you and what makes me the man to say, remember what I told you today. It’s because I been, Son. Been and done and come to know. There ain’t no God in this world. I’ve seen that truth, right down to the dirt we walk on. There’s just the eaters and the eaten.”

The look continued until the Boy began to sweat because he felt an absence of his father in spite of his physical presence. He felt himself toppling into the chasm that had opened up in his father’s eyes.

Then his own voice spoke to him, like the voice of that God who didn’t exist, huge and booming, full of authority and fire.

I am my father’s son!

It was a sudden thought, random as a bolt of lightning, and as powerful. It flashed once, lighting up all the dark landscape inside him, and it brought a feeling of pride he understood and a sorrow he didn’t.

He blinked and it was done. Father had turned away from him, back to the grill, where one burger had burned to black. Firecrackers exploded somewhere.

“Burgers are done,” Father said, his voice normal again. “Let’s eat.”

It wasn’t the first time they talked about killing, or the last, but it was always the most memorable. For reasons he couldn’t define, ever since that day he equated the coldness of death with the rich burst of cooked flesh in his mouth. Not as a point of sensory enjoyment but more as a sense of déjá vu.

He frequently thought of firecrackers when he killed.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“It’s time for an answer, Smoky.”

The director called me on my cell phone not long after my first cup of coffee and has arrived at this statement without much in the way of preamble.

“I’m still waking up, sir.”

He chuckles. The condescending tone of it puts my teeth on edge. “Come on, Agent Barrett. You’ve already decided. I just need you to tell me what your decision is.”

His confidence irks me, though much of that is the early morning grumps. Bonnie, in a moment of loving clairvoyance, brings me another cup of coffee. I roll my eyes heavenward in thanks. She grins and goes back to helping Tommy with breakfast.

“Fine, sir. My answer is yes. My team and my family are on board too, but everyone essentially said the same thing—their view may change if and when a Quantico move occurs.”

“That’s normal in any relocation. You’ll lose some if that happens, there’s no way around it.”

“So what now, sir?”

“Now I do my job. I have a number of things to accomplish behind the scenes, including getting this whole idea approved and funded. We’re still a few months away. I’ll be in touch.”

He hangs up, no good-bye or thanks, Smoky , irking me further. I scowl into my coffee and take a gulp, when I usually take a sip. The taste and the caffeine, as always, mollify me a little.

A knock comes on the door, and I groan. “Why?” I complain. I plod over to answer it myself, defying anyone stupid enough to come knocking this early to have any problem with my hurricane hair and frayed bathrobe.

I open the door to find a woman in her early forties. Age and personal style have cast her looks somewhere between pretty and matronly. She already has herself fully together this early in the morning; her makeup is perfect, her hair is styled, and she’s wearing shirts and slacks with a thin sweater. The slacks are something I would wear, while the sweater reminds me of my grandmother. It’s slightly surreal. Her smile is cheerful and blinding.

All morning people should be killed. Except for Tommy and Bonnie, of course.

“Yes?” I ask, keeping my voice on the neutral side of pleasant.

“Good morning,” she says, saying it with that long o that I can’t stand: good moooorning. It seems to be favored by overly cheerful people who come selling magazine subscriptions or God. “My name is Darleen Hanson? I’m on the current homeowner’s association board?”

Another thing I can’t stand: people who turn all their statements into questions.

I sip my coffee, fighting the urge to snarl. “Yes?”

She soldiers on, undaunted by my unfriendliness. “Well, now, we’re a new board, and we want to get off on the right foot—a good start, you know? I think you’ll agree that the last board was a little bit lax. Letting people leave their trash cans out on the curb for an hour longer than they should per the bylaws, things like that.”

“Okay.”

My one-word responses don’t seem to be getting through to her. “Anyhoo, I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but I have to get to work, as I’m sure you do too”—another blinding smile is flashed, a we’re-all-in-this-together-aren’t-we smile—“and I’m coming by to ask you for a little favor.”

“Really? What’s that?”

“Well, now, one of the bylaws states that vehicles need to be parked inside the garage. Leaving them out on the driveways everywhere is so unsightly, don’t you agree? So if you could just start parking your car inside each night, we’d really appreciate it. Okay?” She ends with her biggest, most beaming smile yet.

I lean forward and look at my driveway. Yep, there’s my car. I lean back again and sip from my coffee, staring at Darleen, who’s waiting for a response.

I decide to be polite. This woman means no harm, I’m sure. She’s asked nicely enough, and not once did her eyes widen at the sight of the scars on my face or flick with disapproval to my state of disarray.

“Listen, Darleen. I work for the FBI. There are times when I need to leave immediately, times when, quite literally, ten or twenty seconds can make a difference. So I’m more comfortable parking my car in the driveway. I’m sure you can understand.”

She nods, smiles again. “Of course I can—and how interesting! Our very own FBI agent! But I’m afraid a bylaw is a bylaw, and you’ll have to park inside. I appreciate your cooperation, I really do.”

The smile remains, but something in the quality of it has changed. I have misjudged this woman. There’s more steel than vapor behind that smile and those eyes, along with a touch of ugly busybodyness.

Cool. I can play this game, too!

I smile at her, nice and wide. I take a sip from my cup, wink, and say, “It’s never going to happen.” Then I close the door in her face.

I walk back over to the table, where Tommy and Bonnie are laying out plates of waffles and eggs and bacon. I have a warm, happy feeling in my stomach.

“Can’t say that was well handled,” Tommy remarks.