BARE HUNTER

Saturday in VA

I found an impossible-to-find parking spot on Ohio Drive SW and hoofed it over the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Captain Howard was hard to miss, waiting for me in uniform. Since my time in the Corps, he had advanced a few grades. Now a 2-star general, he stood at ease near the Arlington National Cemetery Welcome Center. I suddenly felt naked or at least underdressed.

I saluted him and fell in step as he deliberately stalked down the walking paths past old friends and ghosts, through the magnificently cared-for grounds. “So, Marine, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that, sir.”

“Your boss has no background. I checked.”

“What? What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean, his previous life has been expunged. Officially, he does not exist. There is no Gregory Atkinson employed at Willco Accounting.”

“I don’t understand. We’re just a small-time accounting firm out in the boonies in Upstate New York.”

“No, that’s not what it is. Willco Accounting is a decoy facility run by the Department of Defense.”

“Decoy? I don’t get it.”

“Decoy, as in every piece of paperwork you do, ends up in an industrial shredder at the end of each shift. This is why nothing is recorded permanently on computer files or uploaded onto the cloud. Nothing is retained. It is a decoy, waiting for bad actors to nab material that will expose them while telling them nothing of importance.”

“So, all our hard work and labor is for nothing?” I said, infuriated by the cloak-and-dagger shit.

“That’s what I’m telling you. Unofficially, Gregory Atkinson works under the auspices of the DOD. He’s a retired CIA spook, Ted. A very dangerous man. Even more dangerous than you.”

“Shit, Cap, er, General. I can’t up and leave. I have a family to think of. I may not like my ex-wife. But she doesn’t deserve to get mixed up in this shit. My baby. What about him?”

“You don’t have to worry about anything, as long as you follow directions and do what Greg tells you to do. One thing I know about you is your strict adherence to the honor code and ability to follow orders.”

“What if he asks me to take out someone?”

“Do it.”

“What? No. I’m not in the military anymore. I can’t go around shooting people,” I protested, feeling sick.

“Anyone you are asked to assassinate will be an enemy of the State. If you know about the operation and refuse to comply, you’ll be the target, or they may threaten your family to get compliance. I told you Greg is as bad as they get on our side.”

“I gotta sit down, Captain,” I said, stumbling to a nearby bench.

“Get a burner phone and put my emergency cell number in it. Switch it out every couple of days. Only call if it’s a life-or-death emergency. I have a couple of guys up near your location who can be there in a half hour. Oh, and Ted, It’s General to you.”

Sweat was pouring off my forehead and trailing down my back, as I processed what Captain or General Howard had just told me. I held my throbbing head in my hands and fought back the bile that was creeping up my throat.

“I don’t know if I...” I looked up to find I was talking to no one. He was gone. Disappeared.

I drove all this way for answers and got none, only more questions, and a sinking feeling of helplessness. I popped an Advil and tested my legs, to see if I was steady enough for the hike back to my car. An old Veteran was being wheeled past by someone who looked like his wife. I stood still and saluted him until they passed me.

That was what I craved. Normalcy. A nice, normal, long life with a faithful wife pushing me in my wheelchair on vacation. Was it too much to ask? With all I’d given to this country, I didn’t think so.

I wanted to call Sandy to make sure she and Timmy hadn’t been harassed. Not wanting to alarm her, I decided not to. More than anything, I wanted to talk with Sharon. Maybe she could help me figure out the morality of my situation. Then, again, that would expose her to danger. I had three very important phone calls to make when I got home.

Once again, when I clicked my key fob to unlock my car, it locked instead. That was crazy. I turned off the radio and put the pedal to the metal, winding my way around a congested sightseeing Saturday in DC. When I hit the beltway, I took the 95 North exchanges until I cleared the traffic. Then took the 476 North to Allentown and found my way to Route 81 from there, stopping only to relieve myself at rest stops and close my eyes to keep the migraines at bay.

Outside of Scranton, I stopped for a real meal, then continued North again. Considering my pounding headache and fatigue, I arrived home in record time, pulling into my apartment driveway at seven PM. My first phone call, once I settled in, was to Becca. I didn’t care if she thought I was trying to get back together or not. All I wanted to know was that she was safe and not in danger.

‘This phone is not in service. Please try again.’

Maybe she changed her phone number, anticipating I would regret losing her. I looked up her parent’s number in Lafayette. Her mother answered on the first ring,” Becca? Honey? We’ve been trying to reach you.”

“No, Mrs. Walters, it’s um, Ted Bronsky. I’ve been trying to reach Becca too. I thought maybe she changed her number.”

A chill came over the line, “Oh. Ted. Perhaps she did change her number. I will pass your message on. Goodbye.”

“Great. Now I was the monster.”

I opened the fridge and rooted around for something to drink, took a few swigs of OJ, and called Sandy next.

‘You’ve reached 513-478-7610. Please leave a message.’

‘Sandy, it’s Ted, call me when you can, please.’

The last call was to Sharon, “Hello? Ted? Is everything all right?”

“Wow, Sharon, I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

“Okay. Well, I guess that’s nice. Are you feeling better?”

“Much better, thanks.”

“Did you take your trip?” she asked, surprising me.

“Yeah,” I answered tentatively, not remembering whether I had mentioned it to her or not.

“Oh, that’s nice. How was the traffic?”

“Not bad. I made good time.”

“You’re probably too tired to hang out after a trip like that. Maybe tomorrow we can get together for lunch?” she asked.

“That sounds great. You figure out where and when and call me in the morning.” I said, ending the call with something tickling my mind that I couldn’t put my finger on.

I turned the TV on in my bedroom and caught the end of a pre-season baseball game before passing out. When I came to, I was watching paid programming for cleaning products and cosmetics. I looked at my watch, 3 AM. My witching hour. The drive must have knocked me out. As I stumbled into the kitchen, a cold draft of air from the back door caught my attention. What the fuck? The door was banging open and shut in the wind from the thunderstorm. I was certain that the door was secure when I left for DC.

Was it the IT guys, trying to scare me off their tail? I almost wanted to call 911 but realized that was a bad idea all the way around. That was it, damn it. I pulled down the lockbox next to my War Box and found the key in my top dresser drawer. There had been break-ins in our neighborhood a few years ago, making me reconsider my vow never to hold a weapon in my hands again. I’d purchased a Glock G17 Semi 9mm handgun to protect Sandy before I stopped loving her. Before the baby. Before she turned into a shrew. Before she turned my life into a new nightmare.

Taking it out and examining it in my hands, just feeling the weight of it turned my stomach, as the old thoughts flipped through my mind. The suffocating heat and sweat rolling down my back, the eyepiece burning marks into my face, the tang of the powder, and the force of the recoil, as the puff of scarlet exploded in a far-away-land. Captain Howard on the radio. “Take care of the leftovers. Four leftovers on the run. Take them down! Take them down!”

I had to put the handgun down to find my Rizatriptan when the banging and clanging in my head began. Running to the kitchen for a drink before I was incapacitated. I washed two pills down with OJ and tossed the empty container into the trash, then wobbled to the bedroom and closed the blinds, hoping to block out bloody memories. Leftovers. That’s what he called them. Leftovers. Trash, garbage, not worth saving. Human beings with lives and futures ahead of them. Innocent of whatever their husband and father had done. Leftovers. Yet, here I was, still breathing. Would “Just following orders” suffice when my time came?