Fallen Father Read online

  Fifteen seconds of relative silence passed. Gage hoped the two idiots were finally done. Maybe they’d worn themselves out. He turned his eyes to the screen. In the first flashback, the main character thought back to his mother who had passed away while he was deployed. This hearkened memories in Gage’s mind of his family who’d been killed in a car wreck. Until…

  “That boy’s mama’s kinda hot. You know that milkman was gettin’ him some, droppin’ off his own cream ever’ Tuesday.”

  “Ha! Phil, boy…you somethin’ else. You would be daydreamin’ ‘bout another man’s cream, wouldn’tcha?”

  “Shhh!” a woman to Gage’s left hissed.

  “You shhh, you old bitch!” one of the punks countered.

  Gage had gripped the arm rests, just preparing to stand when the couple who had left reappeared, followed by what appeared to be the youngish theater manager. The manager wore a burgundy vest and carried a small flashlight. He was slight enough that a stiff breeze might knock him over. The husband pointed to the two assholes. The manager walked to them, leaning down and speaking quietly to the two men.

  “You go to hell,” one of the punks replied.

  “Yeah, I’d like to see you make us leave,” the other one chimed in.

  Gage squeezed both eyes shut, his fingernails biting into the hard plastic of the armrest.

  “I’m not going to escort you out,” the manager said, straightening. “I’ll just call the police and let them do it.”

  “Won’t do you no good,” one of the punks retorted. “We do this shit all the time. Takes the cops an hour and they don’t even charge us with nuthin’, if they even come at all.”

  “Yeah, mister fancy pants…so why don’t you piss off back to your boyfriend with that little vest of yours.”

  After they’d called his bluff, the manager was clearly bewildered over how to handle the situation. The twenty or so people in the theater watched the scene playing out in front of them, rather than the movie they’d come to see.

  “So, you won’t leave?” the manager asked.

  “Do the words ‘fuck-you’ mean anything to you?” one of the punks asked, the two fist-bumping afterward.

  “Fine,” the manager said. “I’m calling the police.”

  Gage stood. “Don’t call the police.”

  The manager’s head whipped around. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t call the cops.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ll handle this, that’s why.”

  As the lights danced onscreen, the two punks gleefully turned around in their seats.

  “Somebody ready to get an ass whippin’?” one of them challenged, his voice having dropped several octaves.

  Gage flung the bottle of Dasani water like a fastball from close range, striking the left punk squarely in the middle of his face.

  A liter of water, at room temperature, weighs approximately 2.2 pounds. In comparison, a softball weighs less than half a pound. Meaning, the bottle of water was quite heavy—and Gage threw it with great force.

  The punk yelped as his head was snapped backward like he’d been punched. Dazed, he slumped to his side and rubbed his face. Gage marked him as about 20 years old with a thin, athletic build.

  Now the other one was on his feet. He was heavier and more imposing. “Hey man, who the hell you think you are, hittin’ Phil with a bottle?”

  Gage eyed the manager. “You got a radio?”

  “Yes,” he answered, unclipping a Motorola from his belt.

  “Call upstairs and tell them to stop the film, then bring the lights up.”

  “But I’m not allowed to do—”

  “Do it.”

  The assistant manager raised the radio to his mouth.

  Gage exited his aisle and walked to the ten-foot deep gap between the front row and the movie screen. Both punks were now standing. The unsteady one who’d been hit with the water bottle was saying something to his buddy, but Gage couldn’t hear them.

  As the screen went dark, the lights came on, casting ugly, harsh light over the theater. What had once looked shadowy and cozy now appeared filthy and worn. But all eyes were on the man standing front and center. He wore a faded black t-shirt, old jeans and a pair of black engineer boots. Most people would guess he was in his mid-forties, clearly still physically fit and built like an NFL safety. His short sandy hair was mussed, his face covered in stubble. But it was the fierce, concentrated scowl that left no doubt over what he aimed to do.

  With the film having been stopped and silenced, Gage pointed his index fingers at the two punks. He then curled them, as if to say, “Come on.”

  Neither moved. The audience was rapt.

  “Come on down boys,” Gage said in a conversational tone. “Time to show your cards.”

  “We didn’t come here to fight,” the punk who got hit with the bottle said.

  “Neither did I, but you made it clear that a call to the police won’t stop you. So, come on. Talking’s over.”

  Both punks’ eyes found the floor.

  “Now,” Gage demanded.

  The two punks murmured something to each other.

  “Don’t talk to each other. Talk to me.”

  “We don’t…um…we don’t want to fight you,” the heavier one said. After nodding at one another, both men sat down.

  Gage rested his hands on the front row seat backs. “Why not?”

  “We were just having some fun.”

  Gage motioned to the audience. “Were they having fun? They came to watch a movie in peace. You two set out to make sure they were miserable.” He paused. “Show everyone you can back up all your big talk. Come on.”

  Neither man moved.

  Gage walked around and entered the row just in front of the punks as they cowered backward into their seats. “I told you to stand the hell up,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Clearly scared, the punks obeyed.

  “Get your eyes up and apologize to everyone here. And if you delay or object, you’re dealing with me whether you want to or not.”

  “I’m very sorry for acting out,” the heavier one said without any hesitation.

  “Yeah, I am too. I’m sorry,” the taller one added, rubbing his face afterward.

  It was a confrontation few in the theater would ever forget.

  “Alright, fellas…let’s go,” the manager said, wagging his radio toward the lobby.

  “Nope,” Gage said, shaking his head.

  The manager’s face ignited with recognition. “You’re going to make them watch the movie quietly, aren’t you?”

  With an expression that might have been caused by a bad odor, Gage shook his head. He pointed to the fire exit at the front of the theater. “Where’s that lead?”

  “To an alley behind the theater,” the manager answered.

  “Alright, let’s go.”

  After a bit of urging, the two punks sheepishly exited the row. Gage opened the fire exit door and shoved each punk out, one by one.

  “Never come back,” he commanded. Then Gage told the manager to come get him if they showed themselves again.

  The twenty or so audience members clapped and cheered.

  After collecting his water, Gage dipped his head and sat one seat away from where the punks had sat. It took him 15 minutes to settle down. When he did, he enjoyed the film. Afterward, Gage didn’t want to deal with well-wishers. He slipped out of the theater, exiting through the same door he’d shoved the punks from after the incident.

  It had been a good afternoon. Maybe he’d made the world a tiny bit better today.

  He had no idea how his own world would soon change.

  * * *

  On the ride home from Fayetteville, Gage noticed the engine in his old pickup was skipping. It was possible that a spark plug or a plug wire had gone bad. Gage typically changed his own oil and rotated his tires, but when it came to ignition and more complex items, he trusted his truck with an Army buddy who had a small shop in Hop
e Mills. A glance at the odometer revealed that the old pickup was only a few thousand miles short of a quarter-million. While he’d certainly gotten his money’s worth out of this truck, he didn’t have the desire to invest in another.

  Because he didn’t want to overstress the engine, he turned off the air conditioner and rolled the windows down. The fresh air felt better, anyway, as the rushing breeze was comfortable on this late fall day. Despite the warm spell, someone was burning a fire—perhaps burning off excess leaves or brush. The smell of wood smoke further enhanced the autumn feel of the afternoon.

  Thanksgiving was only a few days away. Though the trees were almost fully barren of what had been beautiful fall colors, eastern North Carolina had been unseasonably warm for a week, with temperatures soaring into the low 80s each afternoon. On the local news this morning, the meteorologist had claimed the record high for this date was 84 degrees. She said there was a good chance of breaking it. Gage concurred. Fortunately, these temperatures lacked their typical summer humidity. It was supposed to cool down markedly the following week, with temperatures touching the freezing mark at night, climbing only into the 50s during the day. After a long, hot summer, he looked forward to the cooler weather.

  Gage had no inkling of the frigid winter he would soon endure.

  As he pulled around to the rear of Colonel Hunter’s property, he noticed a shiny silver Cadillac parked in the turnaround. The car was one of the newest models, sporting New York plates. Colonel Hunter’s truck was in its normal spot, along with Alice Hunter’s small SUV. It appeared they had a visitor.

  Gage parked in the very rear at his cottage, which was nothing more than an old shipping container that had been converted to his living quarters a number of years ago. His dog Sheriff wasn’t in the cottage, meaning Colonel Hunter had him over at the house. This was typical. Hunter loved the dog as much as Gage did and peacefully battled for the canine’s affections.

  In his cottage, Gage found a pound of ground beef in the freezer and placed it on the counter to defrost. He then made sure he had enough potatoes and a box of frozen broccoli. Simple dinner tonight—roasted vegetables and grilled meat patties.

  Yum.

  “Gage!” came the bellowing yell from across the yard.

  Gage poked his head outside, seeing Colonel Hunter standing on his own back porch with Sheriff beside him. Sheriff sprinted across the yard and greeted Gage.

  “Come over here, son. You’ve got a visitor.”

  “I’ve got a visitor?” Gage asked. “Who?”

  “Just come on,” Hunter said, calling to Sheriff.

  Gage checked his charcoal supply, estimating that he had just enough to do a long roast of the potatoes followed by a quick grilling of the meat. He washed his hands and crossed the yard, the warm western sun blazing behind him. Again, Gage eyed the Cadillac, puzzled by who might be visiting him from New York. A mild spike of concern went through him—Gage’s identity provided a background from New York. The real Gage, born as Matthew Schoenfeld, was actually from Wisconsin. But that had been erased over 20 years ago.

  Hunter wouldn’t be acting so casual if this was an official visit of some sort. And no one from the government would arrive in a Cadillac. Relax…

  Gage smelled fresh coffee as soon as he entered the Hunter home. A host of voices could be heard from the front, coming from the old fashioned mint green room Alice called “the parlor.”

  “In here,” Hunter said.

  Gage stepped into the parlor, seeing Colonel Hunter and Alice sitting in the matching wingback chairs to the left. They both held cups of coffee. Gage rotated his eyes to the two strangers.

  Sitting on the end of the sofa was a striking older woman—Gage guessed she was in her early or mid 70s. The woman was quite thin. She had platinum hair held back by a shiny onyx headband. Her lined face was bright, her eyes expressive and light blue. Her outfit was conservative but seemed expensive, for whatever reason—not that Gage would know. She wore a glimmering silver blouse and a long skirt of deep purple with flowers woven into the pattern. She beamed at Gage as her hand continued to pet Sheriff, who sat beside her. Gage noticed an empty wheelchair in the corner.

  On the far side of the room, behind an unoccupied chair, was a man of perhaps sixty, standing dutifully with his head slightly bowed. He had dark skin and a white Caesar crown. His black vest and stark white shirt seemed to indicate a uniform. Though he had a protruding belly, his arms and shoulders indicated great power. He nodded at Gage.

  “That’s Anthony,” the older woman said with a light accent. “He’s helping me while I’m here in the U.S. on my visit.”

  Since she’d introduced him first, Gage walked over and shook the man’s hand. The man responded with a firm handshake and steady eye contact.

  Gage then walked to the woman and offered his hand. “Hello, I’m Gage Hartline.”

  She gripped Gage’s hand with surprising strength, smiling as she apologized for not standing. “I’m Claudia Vogel, Gage. I’m from Germany, a place I understand you once called home.”

  Gage glanced at Colonel Hunter, who seemed amused but gave Gage a slight shake of his head—it was Hunter’s expression of “I know what you know.” Gage turned back to Ms. Vogel and nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I did live there. I learned the language a long time ago and I hold a special place in my heart for your country.”

  “Und Deutschland hat einen besonderen Platz in seinem Herzen für Sie, Herr Hartline,” she replied in her dignified native German. Translated, it meant that Germany had a special place in its collective heart for Gage. Her accent sounded like that of a Frankfurter.

  He had no idea what was behind such a statement, so he merely nodded. As did she.

  In all actuality, the moment was a bit awkward. Given the lady’s Frankfurt dialect, Gage hoped—and quickly prayed—this visit didn’t have something to do with Monika’s murder.

  As springs of sweat emerged on his temples, matched by a thudding pulse in his neck, Gage again turned to Colonel Hunter, hoping he’d somehow break the ice.

  “You want some coffee?” Hunter asked.

  “Sure.”

  Alice stood. “I’ll get it.”

  Gage widened his eyes at Hunter, who took the cue.

  “Ah, Gage…why don’t you have a seat?”

  Gage sat on the other end of the sofa from Ms. Vogel. She continued to massage Sheriff between the ears. Sheriff’s eyes were closed in his moment of bliss.

  “What brings you here, Ms. Vogel?” Gage asked.

  “Claudia,” she corrected perfunctorily.

  “Excuse me…Claudia.”

  Claudia smiled as if Gage were her pupil and finally pronounced a word correctly after many tries. “I’ve come here for what will almost certainly be my final visit to the U.S., Gage. I flew into San Francisco and met Anthony there. He’s done a fabulous job of escorting me during the past month. We toured the California coast, the desert, the middle of the country, Chicago, New York, Washington and now here.”

  “Wow,” Gage said. “That’s a lot of miles.”

  “I love it here,” she said. “I graduated from William & Mary, many, many years ago. They were the only four years I’ve ever lived away from Germany. During that time, I grew to love the United States and its carefree people.”

  “You certainly retained your English better than I’ve held onto my German.”

  She shooed his statement away. “Nonsense. I understand your German is native.”

  Gage looked at Hunter who offered a scant shake of his head. So, Hunter hadn’t told her that. Meaning: Claudia Vogel had done her research.

  “I know many things, Gage,” she explained, beaming, clearly reading the silent communication between the two soldiers. “Your good colonel hasn’t betrayed you one bit.”

  Alice Hunter returned with a tall glass of black ice coffee for Gage. She looked at Claudia and said, “I know him like a son. Ice coffee in the afternoons, especially on a hot day.”

&nb
sp; “Splendid,” Claudia said. “I’ll have to try that sometime. If you order ice coffee in Germany, it comes with ice cream.”

  “Have you waited long for me?” Gage asked. “I hope not.”

  “Ten minutes, perhaps,” Claudia answered. “I’m so sorry for not phoning ahead,” she said, making eye contact with the Hunters. “Quite rude of me.”

  “Ain’t no biggie,” Hunter said, earning a corrective pinch from Alice.

  “Would you think it also rude if I ask to speak to Gage alone?” Claudia asked.

  The Hunters seemed relieved to escape the awkwardness of the situation. “Absolutely not,” Alice said. “You two visit as long as you like. Please, stay here and make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Unless it’s an inconvenience, I’d prefer to meet in the other house, Gage’s charming home behind this one,” Claudia said. She motioned to Anthony. “Gage will help me, dear. Why don’t you sit here and talk to the colonel.”

  Claudia, the matchmaker, turned to Hunter. “Colonel Hunter, like you, Anthony is a veteran of the U.S. military.”

  Hunter arched his brows and looked at Anthony. “Sure enough?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, colonel,” Anthony replied in a booming baritone. “I’m a Marine, served in ‘Nam…Walking Dead battalion.”

  “First of the Ninth,” Hunter replied instantly, appraising Anthony through a new, more satisfied lens. “We might’ve brushed shoulders, friend. What years?”

  “One tour of duty, seventy-one and two, right after high school.”

  “If you were there in early seventy-two, then we definitely brushed shoulders. Lam Son-Two?”

  “Damn straight, colonel. Got a nasty scar on my leg courtesy of Charlie’s punji sticks.”

  “Trap?”

  “Yessir. We were double-timing to support another unit. Back then, I was lighter and faster…leading the way. I didn’t see it—went right in.”

  “You get infected? I know they used to put bacteria-laden substances on the ends.”

  Anthony shook his head. “Thankfully, no. I hid it, too. Wrapped it in a t-shirt and kept on fightin’.”

  Hunter nodded respectfully. “My kinda Marine. You fancy a cold beer, Anthony?”