When A Warrior Comes Home Page 7

 

  The desk sergeant, stern-faced and balding, checked the arrest record and gave Sarah the car’s location. “Paul Cassidy’s a lucky man,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “If he’d taken a swing at me, I’d have charged him with assault.”

  “He was violent?”

  “Officer Wilson brought him in, and if he hadn’t ducked, the haymaker that young man threw might have knocked his head off.”

  “I don’t understand?” Sarah said.

  “Me either, but Wilson’s a former marine. Luckily for Mr. Cassidy, he does understand. Get him home and make sure he doesn’t drive again. His license is revoked.” He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a flyer, and handed it over. “Here, this explains the legal process.”

  Back at the car, Sarah handed the leaflet to Rosa. Butch sat in the rear. No one spoke during the fifteen-minute drive to The Blue Note. When they arrived, the Toyota was the only car in the bar’s parking lot. “Apparently,” Sarah said, “the police stopped him before he reached the road.”

  “Thank God. Driving that drunk, he could have been killed.”

  “Or killed someone else.”

  Rosa glanced at Sarah and she immediately regretted the words. Her friend needed support, not more guilt.

  They helped Butch out of the back seat and he stood, unsteadily, while Rosa searched his pockets for the car keys. Once he was loaded into the Toyota’s passenger seat, Rosa reached out of her driver’s window and squeezed Sarah’s hand. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Sure you’ll be all right?”

  Rosa nodded. “I’ll put him to bed. Mom’ll keep Noe while we sort through things. I don’t know what—” Her voice cracked and Sarah waved her away.

  “No problem. I’ll follow you home, just in case.”

  When Rosa pulled into her driveway, Sarah waited in the road, not wanting to interfere. Her friend was embarrassed enough. At the front door, Rosa turned and waved. Sarah shouted out the passenger window, “Call me and let me know how things go. I’m here for you, okay?”

 

  Rosa opened the door, and Butch stepped through. His feet crunched glass shards into the carpet, and he bent to pick up their broken wedding photo.

  He spun around. “What happened?”

  Before she could speak, he brought his hand up and caressed her bruised cheek with the back of his fingers. “Who did that to you? What’s going on, Rosa?” Concern filled his eyes.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  Butch shook his head, innocence, and bafflement on his face.

  Rosa closed the door, took a deep breath, and faced him again. “You hit me, Butch.” She pointed to her face. “Then you stormed out and slammed the door so hard the picture fell and broke.”

  Butch’s mouth opened. He reached out and gathered her in. She pressed into his chest and sobs shuddered through her. Butch murmured into her hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember. I’d never hurt you. I love you, Rosa. I—”

  He held her shoulders and eased her away, stared into her eyes. “Noe? Did I hurt Noe?” He sucked in a breath and a huge man-sob shook his chest.

  She stroked his cheek. “Hush, now. Noe’s with my mom. He’s fine.” She took his hand and led him into the kitchen, sat him at the table, put on the kettle, and spoke in a soft voice with her back to him. “Butch. Noe’s fine. I’m fine. The wedding photo can be repaired. But you’re not fine.” She faced him. “Butch, I want you to get help.”

  Shoulders rounded, head lowered, he stared at the tabletop. Whatever demon he was fighting, the battle was over. The demon had won. Her warrior was defeated, broken. A shroud of sadness numbed her mind. She ached for him, ached to help, ached to fix what was wrong. But this enemy was beyond her, beyond them both. Butch had never raised a hand to her, hardly ever raised his voice. But since his return from Iraq, he frightened her. Three years ago, she fell in love with his gentle nature, his powerful body, his Christian values. In a matter of a few weeks, her hero had transformed into a drunk who slapped her face, flew into wild rages, endangered his son, stormed out of the house, and remembered none of it. What the hell had happened after he left home last evening? Did he know? Could he know?

  She sat at the table and tipped his chin up so she could meet his eyes. “I understand why you don’t want to report this… problem. But how can the army make things worse than they are? You can’t go on like this, not remembering what you do, hurting those you love.” She leaned in, stroked his arm, and whispered, “Neither can Noe. Neither can I.”

  “You’re right. I’ll go to the primary care manager and ask for help.” Butch stood and turned to leave.

  She laughed. “Hold on, big man. First, you need to shower and change. Can’t go out in public looking and smelling like a vagrant.”

  He nodded again. “I’m sorry.” He snatched a glance at her, then averted his eyes and padded upstairs like a whipped puppy.

 

  As Sarah pulled into her drive at home, Daniel, dressed only in a T-shirt and jeans, was shoveling slush and ice from the front path.

  She jumped from the car and ran to her son. “What are you doing? It’s freezing out. Leave that. Get in the house.”

  He glanced up—face and neck blotched red, eyes bloodshot—shook his head and went back to work. She grabbed his hand and stopped him scraping. “What’s the matter? What is it?”

  “Dad’s here, and he’s mad because the place looks so messy.” Her son’s chin quivered; he was close to tears. “Dad called me a lazy bastard. Mom. I’m sorry.”

  “Mike’s home?” Why hadn’t he told her he was coming? And why shout at Daniel. Nerve endings, exposed and raw from the Butch incident, ramped up her heart rate. She shivered, not with the cold, not with anticipation of his homecoming, but with uncertainty. What the hell was going on? She prized the shovel from Daniel and laid it on the lawn. “Leave this. Come in and get warm clothes on, and I’ll handle your dad.”

  “You go first,” he said in a shaky voice, fear in his eyes. In the hall, Mike’s kitbag leaned against the wall. A clattering of dishes came from the kitchen. A voice she hadn’t heard in the home for over a year, a voice she’d longed for, shouted, “Friggin’ mess!”

  She whispered to Daniel, “When did he get here?”

  “Thirty minutes ago.”

  “Go to your room. Now. I’ll deal with this.”

  Whatever this is.

  Daniel thumped up the stairs two at a time. The noises in the kitchen stopped. Mike shouted, “You wait there until I inspect that path, my boy! You can’t slack off with me. I’m not your mother.”

  Daniel kept moving. His bedroom door slammed.

  Sarah stepped into the kitchen. Pots and pans and dishes and canned food cluttered the countertops. Every cupboard gaped open, empty. Mike, still dressed in cammies, held a saucepan in each hand and glared at her. “This place is a pigsty.”

  “Honey. I didn’t expect you. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “So I could see what you’ve been doing. Or who you’ve been doing while I was fighting for your freedom. And it doesn’t look as if you’ve been doing much of anything except spoiling my sons.” He slammed the pans down on the table. One rocked and clattered to the floor. He swept his arm at the room. “And serving them food from dirty plates. I want all of this washed, and these cupboards cleaned, ASAP.” He glared at her.

  Something had happened to cause this, but he was home. She’d waited so long for him to return. “We can get to that, Mike. It’s so good to have you back. She moved to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek into his chest, warm and strong. I missed you so much.” He remained rigid, arms at his sides.

  “I see that.” He pushed her away. “I’ve been traveling twenty hours. I’m going to shower and rest. Get this mess cleared up. Then we have some serious talking to do.” He grabbed an aluminum walking stick off the chair, limped from the room, and clomped up the
stairs with his kitbag.

  Sarah scanned the wreckage of her kitchen. For weeks, she’d envisaged Mike’s homecoming: she’d cook his favorite spaghetti dinner, wear a nice dress, get her hair and nails done. Then, later, soft candlelight in the bedroom.

  Slumped in one of the kitchen chairs, her head sank into her arms. Last year when he returned, Mike had been so happy to see her and the children. He couldn’t keep his hands off her, even embarrassed Daniel with the way he touched her and kissed her and held her hand as though they were on their honeymoon again. This homecoming wasn’t part of her fantasy. Disappointment coiled around her chest and squeezed. Silent tears trickled, pent up from Rosa’s terrible night, and now this. Her bedroom toilet flushed. Shower water ran through the pipes. She crept up the stairs, tapped on Daniel’s door, and went in. Daniel, bent over his computer with his back to her, jerked upright and spun around. Sudden fear in his eyes softened to relief. He must have expected his father. This wasn’t the homecoming he’d envisioned, either.

  “Look, Daniel, your dad’s been traveling for twenty hours. I guess he got wound up. He’ll be okay once he’s had a rest.”

  “He called me a bastard.”

  “Dad didn’t mean it. You’ll see.”

  “What about the front path?”

  “I’ll handle that. Did you eat?”

  “I had cereal while you were out.”

  “Good. Play online for a while. I’m going to check on him.”

  He nodded, but his eyes were wary. She closed his door and headed for their bedroom. Mike was toweling off with his back to her. A glimpse of his broad shoulders and tight buns sent heat flooding through her belly. She watched his biceps flex as he pulled the towel back and forth. “I could help with that,” she said, her voice husky with need.

  He stiffened. She swallowed. Was still angry? But when he turned, a familiar smile lifted his face and softened his eyes. “I’m sorry about—” He finished the thought with a wave of his hand. “I guess I was upset you weren’t here when I arrived.”

  “You should have called, Mike. I had a special homecoming planned for you.”

  Anger ghosted across his face for a second. He took a deep breathe, steadied himself. “I’m not due home for two days, but when the medics released me, I hustled and found Space-A on a supply plane.”

  “Well, you’re here now, and that’s what matters.” She pointed to the ladder of red stitch marks on his left calf. “How is it?”

  “It’ll always have limited motion, but they cleared me to rejoin the unit.”

  She moved to him and laid a hand on his bare back. “Why don’t you finish drying, then climb under the sheets. Let me shower. I’ll join you in two minutes?”

  He bent and kissed her forehead. Shivers trickled down her neck, spiked her nipples, and stole her breath. After closing the bathroom door, she yanked off her clothes and tossed them in a pile.

  Showered and perfumed in ten minutes flat, she snuck back into the bedroom, slipped naked under the covers, and snuggled against his chest, feeling the warmth of her man for the first time in over a year. She kissed his neck and dragged fingertips across stomach muscles still taut from active duty. Why couldn’t they lie here forever? Mike pulled away from her. He seemed about to speak, but then he grabbed her shoulders, flipped her over, and took her from behind. Roughly, satisfying an animal need. He finished fast, way before she was ready, then his breathing slowed and deepened and sleep took him.

  Feeling used and unsatisfied, she rolled over and propped up on an elbow, studying his face. The lines around his eyes, on his forehead, and at the corners of his mouth were new. White streaks peppered his sandy hair. This last deployment had aged him five years. Was there something else? Something he and Butch had both suffered? Had it been the rocket attack? She would never ask, and probably never know. Mike would handle it. This army wife understood that unwritten rule of combat.

  Sarah kissed his cheek and slipped from the bed, leaving him sleeping. Between the exhaustion and jetlag, who knew when he’d wake. Now he’d released his anger and frustration, she’d give him the homecoming she’d planned. When he woke, they’d forget about the kitchen incident and start over.

  She showered and dressed. On her way downstairs, she knocked on Daniel’s door, poked her head in. “Dad’s asleep. He’ll be more himself when he’s rested. Don’t hold a grudge, Daniel. Forget earlier—scraping the path and the shouting. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good boy. I’m headed to the grocery store. Spaghetti Bolognese for dinner?”

  “Cool.”

  She smiled, closed his door, and skipped down the stairs, humming to herself. It took a few minutes to find her purse buried under the chaos on the kitchen table. I’ll fix this when I return—needed a spring cleaning anyway.

  Chapter 9

  The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor, and the young woman Brian met two days earlier at Gamesoft’s HQ smiled at him and offered her hand. “Thanks for coming at such short notice.”

  Brian found her Hispanic features especially attractive. Her broad white smile, long black hair, and chocolate eyes sent a heat wave tingling through his cheeks. He cleared his throat and stepped out of the elevator.

  “Mia Hernandez,” she said. Brian shook her hand — small, soft, warm.

  “Nice to see you again. Working weekends, I see.” The call he’d received last night from Adam Barnes had shocked him—nine p.m. on Friday. Apparently, rumors of the CEO’s workaholic tendencies weren’t an urban myth. Adam liked the LightCube. He wanted to meet and discuss the possibility of hooking it to a GameSoft product.

  She started walking. “If you work with Adam Barnes, you work all the time. He does.”

  “Are you tech or marketing?”

  “I’m a technical project manager, but let’s wait for Adam to explain.” Nervous energy skittered through Brian’s belly. This could be his big break

  At the end of the hallway, she opened a door and let Brian into a corner office. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked an ornamental lake at the rear of the building. Adam rolled his chair away from an uncluttered desk, stood, and reached across to shake hands.

  “Thanks for coming, Brian.” He pointed to a conference table set against one window. “Why don’t we sit. Do you need anything? Coffee? Water?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Excellent.”

  They settled around the table and Adam said, “Mia is project manager for a game we’re developing. So new it doesn’t have a name. We call it Soft16. It’s a first-person shooter slated for delivery in — ”

  He turned to Mia who said, “Twenty months.”

  “Right,” Adam said. “Soft16 will be our first 3D game. Or at least that was the plan, but after your demonstration, Mia and I discussed the possibility of packaging Soft16 with your LightCube.”

  “Wow! That’s exciting,” Brian said.

  Mia, smile gone, face and tone all business, said, “On the positive side, the 3D capabilities fit well with the immersive nature of your retina display. However, GameSoft has never delivered hardware before, and we’d have to develop and package the cube and the heads-up display.”

  Adam smiled. “No offense, Brian, but something a tad more appealing than black swimming goggles.”

  Brian laughed. “I understand. The army’s version resembled a pair of designer sunglasses — far cooler.”

  “Right,” Adam said. “Which brings up a major concern. Do you own the code?”

  “Absolutely. The demo you saw is built on code I have written over the past ten years. The US Army owns a version I modified for them to control the VCOM. But—” Brian tapped a finger to his forehead. “The knowledge of the changes we incorporated lives here.”

  A smile passed between Adam and Mia. The CEO rubbed his hands. “Excellent. So here’s our proposal. Mia will provide access to the Soft16 code and technical support to help interface the LightCube. How long will that take?”

 
Brian eased back in his chair. “Without seeing your code, that’s difficult to estimate.”

  “Finger in the air, Brian. I won’t hold you to it. Years? Weeks? Months? Days?” Adam leaned in. “Minutes?” Sharp eyes pierced Brian’s, and his scalp prickled. He didn’t want to hang a long estimate on the work and kill the project before it started, nor did he want to be overoptimistic and disappoint by missing the deadline.

  “Based on my experience working with Militec, four to six months.”

  Adam’s gaze switched to his project manager. “Can you staff it, Mia?”

  She nodded, and Brian quietly let out the breath he’d been holding.

  The CEO pressed her. “Without delaying Soft16’s 3D implementation?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Nice try, Adam. We can support him to build a prototype. To repackage and deliver Soft16 with marketable hardware is a different discussion.”

  “Understood.” Adam refocused on Brian. His stomach churned. Things were moving fast. “That leaves just one question. Do you want the project? You’ll have to work on site. I can’t allow GameSoft code to leave the building even on a remote link. We’ll provide a workspace and computer access. You’ll bring your existing code and modify it here. If the prototype is successful, we’ll want to negotiate an exclusive license for the LightCube, right, Mia?” Adam glanced at his project manager. She nodded her approval. Adam, grinning, faced Brian, and waited.

  He tried to clear his mind. This was a huge opportunity, but he’d jury-rigged the demo. The LightCube needed work, a lot of work—at least three months of sixteen-hour days. How would he live, and how would he pay for upgrades to the hardware? Damn it all. If he hadn’t bought the condo. But if GameSoft funded him, he’d surrender ownership—he’d just be a paid contractor. Whereas, a licensing agreement with one of the biggest gaming companies in the world would mean a perpetual royalty on every game. And, if Soft16 was successful, on future games as well.

  This was the brass ring—not the time to chicken out. He’d figure out the money, somehow.