The Recruiter (A Thriller) Page 5

  “Yes sir.”

  Lowry jots something down in the folder, then looks up at Samuel. “Are you planning to try again at BUD/S?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Now it’s Lowry’s turn for a slight nod.

  “Well, welcome aboard. Report to Hangar F2 tomorrow morning at 0800 sharp. Your supervisor will be Lieutenant Thorn. That’ll be all.”

  Samuel stands and salutes, then leaves the office.

  Outside, he steadies his hands. The sun has disappeared, hiding behind a thick wall of black clouds. The air is cool.

  Rain, Samuel thinks.

  Eighteen

  Samuel is pleased to learn that he’ll have his own room. Apparently, space is so limited that the only bunks available are the private rooms normally reserved for officers. A single room is a rarity among the lower ranks of the Navy. Not that Samuel’s a newbie, exactly. He’s already an E-3.

  The room is very small, about eight feet by ten feet. A single bed takes up one wall. A desk and dresser are along the other side. Samuel stows his gear in the footlocker at the foot of the bed. Before closing it, he reaches into the sleeve on the outside of his duffel bag. From it, he pulls a single sheet of paper, folded several times. He takes it to the desk and carefully unfolds it. Smooths it out along the top of the desk. From the desk’s top drawer he takes a push pin and tacks the paper to the small bulletin board on the wall above the desk.

  Samuel goes to the bed and lies down on his side, so he can look at the picture. It’s of a Navy SEAL, his face in camo, a knife in his hand. The eyes jump from the page. Deep blue. Bright. Dangerous. It’s the same picture that Samuel has been looking at since he was very young. It was from a magazine. A National Geographic maybe. That face. Those eyes. They’ve given Samuel strength during times when he’s desperately needed it. Now, he looks into those eyes.

  They remind Samuel of his own eyes.

  He can see himself in their place. Stalking. The knife in his hand. He’s done that, in fact.

  He doesn’t know how long he sleeps. He dreams of Nevens. Samuel awakes in a cold sweat. He sits up, his head pounding. He rubs his temples, massages his forehead. When his heart slows and his breathing becomes normal, he rises slowly, gets his running gear out from his duffel and runs along the course outside the barracks. The air is cool, cleansed by an afternoon rain. He pushes himself along the jogging path.

  Another phase, he thinks. Nevens gone. A fresh start. And now, more physical training for his next shot at the BUD/S course.

  He runs approximately seven miles, then finishes his work out with pull-ups, push-ups, and sit-ups.

  When he’s done, his body is flooded with adrenaline, his mind drenched with endorphins. He feels powerful. Ready for battle.

  Nothing will stop him.

  Nothing.

  And no one.

  Nineteen

  “If you ain’t ordnance, you ain’t shit.”

  Samuel wants to laugh at the short, squat lieutenant. Murphy. Lieutenant Murphy. Crew cut. Pale face. A zit or two.

  “That’s our motto around here,” he says. “You like it?”

  “Yes sir,” Samuel says. He thinks Lieutenant Murphy is shit, and that the pathetic pride he takes in being in charge of ordnance is shit too. But he keeps it to himself and tries to ignore the faint pounding in his head.

  Murphy walks ahead of him, along a row of missiles and bombs. Samuel sees more pimples at the base of Murphy’s head. “These are drones we use for training,” Murphy says. “You’ll work with these for approximately three months before we assign you to a ship where you’ll use the real deal. Maybe you’ll get a chance to give some sand monkey a wakeup call; know what I’m saying, Samuel?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Murphy walks Samuel around a corner where an ordnance team is working on loading a bomb rack. They move fast, hoisting together at the count of three, sliding bombs into racks, clamping them down, moving missiles suspended by thick chains along a pulley system.

  “One team I trained,” Murphy says, “finished here and two days later I saw them on CNN, on a carrier, loading the real thing to drop over there. One of them wrote, ‘This Bomb’s For You’ on the missile. That’s the kind of group we are, Samuel. We don’t take shit from anybody.”

  Samuel doesn’t say anything, watches the sailors working on loading the bombs. A senior ordnance officer watches, pushes them. Barks orders.

  Christ, he thinks. Why did he ever put down an interest in weapons when he first joined up? Samuel thinks about it. His memories of his mother dying when he was in high school. The foster home he went to where they openly despised him but loved the paycheck that social services sent them for his expenses.

  “…points…”

  “Sorry, sir?” Samuel sees Murphy watching him.

  “Nip points,” he says, pointing at the pulley system surrounded by an ordnance team of three. “I was telling you that one of the biggest dangers of working in ordnance is nip points. Places where two moving parts come together. They can pinch off fingers, hands, even limbs. Nip points. You’ve got to be careful.”

  Careful, Samuel thinks.

  I can be careful.

  Twenty

  The dream is in sepia tones: warm browns, burnished golds, rich shadows. It’s late autumn, late in the day, and Beth is a young girl. She’s sitting on her father’s shoulders. A basketball is in her hands. Beth is just strong enough to lift the ball. Beneath her, her father maneuvers the two of them closer to the basket. When they’re right under it, he reaches up and lifts her as high as he can. The rim is just a foot away. Beth tries to push the ball up, but she loses control, and the ball falls from her hands. Her father laughs and sets her down. He chases after the ball and brings it back. He’s about to scoop her up into his arms, but he steps back, his face full of mute horror.

  “What’s wrong?” Beth says.

  She looks down at her left leg, and it’s bent backwards, all twisted and mangled. She’s wearing Barbie tennis shoes, and her left one is pointed backward. Blood is on it. Her father starts screaming, and she turns to him, to tell him to stop screaming, that he’s scaring her. But her father is dead. The blotchy skin on his face hugs his bones. Now Beth starts screaming, and he smiles at her, a gruesome baring of his teeth.

  Beth is still screaming when the sepia tones begin to blaze, turning the whole picture smoky, leaving the images in a heap of charred remains.

  Beth awakes in her hospital room. Her mouth is dry and she’s crying. Her tongue feels thick and wooden. She’s awake but everything seems unreal and disconnected.

  “Drugs,” she says. “I’m on drugs.”

  A sound reaches her ears. It’s not a pleasant sound. But it’s familiar. She takes a certain comfort in that. But not much.

  “Water,” she says. A vague shape crosses in front of her and a moment later, it looms over her. Something is held to her lips, and she instinctively drinks. The water is cool but not cold. It slides down her throat; her parched tissues soak it up instantly.

  “Beth?” The voice is even more familiar to her. Mom. Her mom? The thought works its way through Beth’s highly medicated consciousness.

  “Mom?”

  A gasp at the sound. Then the voice calling out: “Nurse! Nurse!”

  “Mom.”

  “Shh. Everything’s all right. Nurse!”

  “Where am I? Oh, you’re calling a nurse. Duh.”

  “The hospital. Beaumont Hospital, Beth. I’m here too.”

  The sepia colors come back. They wash over Beth like the first stages of deep sleep. She succumbs to them for several minutes. Then she opens her eyes again. This time, there are no shadows. No vague shapes. She sees her mother sitting in a chair, wringing her hands. Next to her is a giant bulletin board tacked with cards and balloons. A door is to the left. It’s open, and Beth can see a small room with a toilet inside.

  Beth looks at the television bolted to a shelf suspended from the ceiling. The screen is blank.
She wonders where the remote control is. Beth looks down at her body. It’s hidden beneath the blankets. Her pajama top is white with blue stripes.

  I can’t feel my leg.

  The images start ricocheting through her mind. The basketball game. The Tank. The end where she steals the ball and races down the court.

  The collision.

  The screaming.

  Beth remembers looking down at her leg. Her strong, smooth, beautiful leg. How it was mangled and bent and…destroyed. Like in the dream with her father.

  “Mom?”

  Beth sees her mom get to her feet, unsteadily. She’s drunk, Beth thinks. Well, of course she is.

  “Beth. You’re awake again. I’ll call the doctor.”

  Beth reaches out and grabs her mother’s arm. “Not yet,” she says. “I need to know something.”

  Her mother lets out a wail. “It’s bad, honey. It’s real, real bad.” Beth can smell the booze on her mother’s breath.

  “Not my leg, Mom. The shot. Did I make the shot. Did we win?”

  Beth watches her mother process the question.

  “Your leg…”

  “Answer the fucking question, Mom.”

  Tears well up in her mother’s eyes.

  “You won, Beth. You made the shot. You won.”

  Beth looks at the bulletin board on the wall. She wonders if there is one from Peter. Certainly, Peter would have been here. Would have left some kind of message for her. She thinks maybe she should ask her mother to check the cards for one from Peter when a faint rumbling sounds and then a gust of air from the vent overhead stirs the balloons into action. They bounce against each other as if in celebration.

  Beth watches the balloons for a moment, forgets what it was she was going to ask her mother about, and then closes her eyes and falls back into a deep sepia dream.

  Twenty-One

  Anna Fischer holds the Styrofoam cup beneath the ice dispenser in the hospital’s cafeteria. She fills the cup halfway with ice then adds Diet Coke. She carries the cup to the elevator and takes it up to the floor Beth is on. When she gets off the elevator, she goes into the women’s bathroom and pulls the pint of whiskey from the inside pocket of her light jacket. She pours it in until the cup is completely full, then caps it, and pokes a straw through the hole in the top. She takes a long, deep drink.

  Why does life have to be such a struggle? It’s just one thing after another. God shits on her. But no, she corrects herself. There is no God. No God would have put Vince through the hell he went through.

  It’s like the world wants to piss on Anna Fischer. That’s what it is. She thinks of the rich folks who live in big houses. Their husbands don’t die. Their daughters don’t wind up in the hospital with a leg that…with injuries. And the scholarship. Anna starts to cry. The fucking scholarship. What’s going to happen now? Will the scouts, the coaches, will they all wait until next season when Beth will be better? How does it work? Anna has no idea. Vince would have known. Anna silently curses herself. If she had a dime for every time she’d had that thought, she wouldn’t be in the rotten position she’s in.

  Fuck you, world. She wants to scream it out loud.

  Instead, she takes another long drink.

  The images of Beth underneath the basket, of the girls screaming, of the leg all mangled and crooked.

  Anna slumps against the bathroom wall. The Styrofoam cup falls from her hand. When it hits the tile floor, the plastic top pops off and the contents—ice, coke, and booze—spill onto the floor. Anna watches it spread across the tile. Her shoulder pressed against the wall, she slides down the wall to a sitting position. It’s several minutes before she realizes the Coke and whiskey mixture is soaking into her jeans.

  She gets up just as a nurse comes into the bathroom.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Yes. I just…”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I …slipped.”

  Anna pushes the door open and steps into the hallway.

  She thinks, where is Beth’s room again?

  Twenty-Two

  In the end, it is the flowers that help Peter Forbes make up his mind. The flowers and the scout.

  The flowers are beautiful roses. Red, yellow, even a few white ones thrown in for good measure. An even dozen.

  The card is nice too.

  If a little impersonal.

  He is going to send them, but decides it’s a chicken-shit move so he comes to the hospital in person. But a nurse who looks like Ernest Borgnine tells him Beth is sleeping. He sneaks into her room and puts them on the table next to her bed. He watches her sleep, is tempted to stroke her hair and kiss her, but doesn’t. Doctor’s orders.

  Instead, he goes down the hall to the little lounge area and takes a seat among the rickety furniture and two-year-old magazines. The television is off, so he corrects that and turns the channel to ESPN. In spite of the circumstances, he watches for any mention of Marquette University in Milwaukee. Peter has just signed a letter of intent, accepting a full, four-year scholarship to play for the Flying Eagles.

  Beth doesn’t know.

  He has to tell her.

  He shudders at the thought.

  It is precisely at the moment when the scout arrives. Unlike the flowers, she isn’t pretty. She is tall and ungainly. She is the only scout who is interested in Beth, from the only school who is considering Beth for a scholarship: Northern Illinois University. Without that scholarship, Beth will be devastated. Peter knows Beth’s mother is a drunk and that any money brought into the household is spent immediately. Except for whatever Beth can hide.

  Without a scholarship, Beth will have to stay home, and struggle to pay for community college. If she could afford it at all.

  The scout, her name is Monica Davies, walks into the lounge area, recognizes Peter and walks over.

  “Peter.”

  He stands. “Hi. It’s…”

  “Monica. Monica Davies, assistant coach from Northern Illinois?” She offers her hand, which Peter takes. They’d met when Monica had made a recruiting visit to Beth’s house. Beth had asked Peter to sit in on it.

  “That’s right. Hi, Monica.”

  The scout takes a seat next to Peter. “How are you?” she asks.

  “Been better.”

  She nods her head. “So has Beth.”

  She’s not going to beat around the bush on this one. “It sucks,” he says.

  “She made the shot, though. She was such a competitor.”

  “Was?” Peter turns to face her. His eyes are stone cold.

  “You know what I mean,” she says.

  Unfortunately, I do know, Peter thinks. He knows what’s coming, the only question is how it will be put.

  “She’ll be better next year,” the woman says.

  “For what?”

  “She can do it. Miracles can happen in rehab.”

  Peter looks at the television. SportsCenter is replaying highlights of a Duke/Kentucky game. Peter can’t watch it. His eyes won’t focus. Finally, he turns to the scout. To the woman who represents Beth’s chance to get out of Lake Orion. To move on to bigger and better things.

  “You’re taking away her scholarship, aren’t you?”

  “The injury took away her scholarship.”

  Peter almost laughs, but his mouth is dry. The scout pulls a letter from her purse. “Do you mind giving this to her? It might make it easier for her. Coming from you, I mean.” Peter mutely accepts the letter. He doesn’t want to give it to Beth. Can’t imagine it. But how can he refuse?

  On top of everything else?

  The scout stands.

  “Thanks. And good luck. You’re going to Marquette, right?”

  Peter nods. How did she know? Probably his coach. They all talk like grandmothers at a Bingo hall.

  The scout leaves and Peter sits in the lounge. The letter feels like it is made of lead. His hands are sweating, and Peter sees the paper starting to get soggy in his hands.

&nb
sp; Peter thinks again of the flowers. The card isn’t so impersonal, he reasons. A nice note inside.

  He signed it, “Love.”

  Maybe that was enough.

  Chicken shit.

  The words sound in his head. He stands, walks toward Beth’s room. The letter is in his hand. His heart is in his throat.

  He gets to the door. Sees the doctor standing at the foot of her bed. Can barely see her mother sitting on a chair. A cup in her hand.

  Probably booze, he thinks.

  Peter Forbes stands in the hallway, uncertain. He knows he should wait. This girl loves him after all. And he, well, he loves to be with her, but he doesn’t love her.

  He watches the doctor. More bad news?

  Peter tucks the letter into his jacket pocket and leaves.

  Twenty-Three

  “The damage is extensive.”

  Doctor Cunningham is a short man, powerfully built, with blazing red hair and freckles. His voice is thin and reedy, somehow making the news sound even worse.

  Beth says, “It’s bad.”

  “I don’t like to put things in terms of good or bad,” Dr. Cunningham answers. “Like I said, the damage is extensive.”

  “Oh, Beth,” Anna says.

  “When can I play again?” she says, ignoring her mother.

  “Play?”

  “Basketball.”

  “Basketball.”

  “Yeah. When can I play basketball again?” Beth says, her words slow and overly enunciated.

  “Beth,” her mother warns her.

  “Why don’t I first detail what has happened?” Dr. Cunningham says.

  “Yes,” Beth says. She keeps her voice steady, but it is a struggle. Tears threaten to come into her eyes, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to cry in front of her mother. That’ll just set her off too. Or make her take another drink from the cup on the table next to her. Like she’s fooling anyone, Beth thinks. For a moment, Beth looks at her mother and thinks, why don’t you hold me? But then the thought is gone, replaced by Dr. Cunningham’s voice.