Second Chances

Second Chances

Pt. 05

by G. Lawrence

This novel is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. Once again, a reminder. This is an alternate timeline from our own. The history is similar in some respects and very different in others. None of this story is political. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Summoned by General Fowler, Jack engaged in a covert operation to save two children from Tashad terrorists in Afghanistan. Now he's headed back home to Jenny.

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now that each chapter begins with Jack being held prisoner by a terrorist organization in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines will eventually come together.

* * * * * *

National Archives

700 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW

Washington, D.C.

Dear Mr. Franklin,

Now that John Lawrence has been officially declared dead, it is my responsibility to dispose of his belongings. Jack owned few possessions. My daughter is keeping his guitar. My son is retaining his combat decorations. Other items have been donated to the Smithsonian. There is a box of original documents that may be of interest to the National Archives. Let me know your thoughts. With appreciation, Patricia Blair

Chapter Five

THE PAST COMES CALLING

Winter in Sar'ret was approaching. Ma'amet gave me a warm fur coat and leather boots, and the boys provided a small stove for my stone cell at night. My willingness to help with tasks made me a common sight around the village. I asked for nothing, and my mild manners won enough confidence that I was allowed to tend the sheep when the shepherds were busy. I enjoyed the chores, spent my free time studying the Qur'an, and read Dr. Askari's medical books.

My few hours of time outdoors gradually increased, eventually lasting from breakfast to sunset. Khillan and Ishan became my full-time guards, sometimes together, at other times taking turns. Being young and confident, they didn't realize I could hurt them if I wanted to. Khillan was tall, thin, and prone to scholarly pursuits. Ishan was middle height, athletic, and curious about the world beyond Sar'ret. I enjoyed their company but did not talk a lot.

"You do not sleep well. Khillan says you have nightmares," Ma'amet said to me one evening, sitting in his home while his wife cooked. It was a nice brick house with thick fur carpets, running water from the lake, and access to an electrical generator.

"It is true. It is good he and Ishan lock my room at night," I said, tasting the bread. Lalia was a wonderful cook.

"Some nights your room is not locked," Ma'amet said, which I didn't know.

"Do you seek to test me?"

"Some still fear you might attempt escape," he said, the question hanging.

"To escape, I would need to travel hundreds of kilometers through a hostile land," I said.

"Is that such a concern?"

"Why ask such a question?" I inquired.

"The war in the lowlands grows quiet in the winter. Tashad may retreat to the mountains. They are not your friends," Ma'amet warned.

"Don't you think I know this? Do you not think my heart stops every time I hear trucks coming up the mountain road? They put me before a firing squad once, and Abari has promised to do it again."

"Then why don't you flee?"

"Tashad would make your village pay a heavy price if I did."

"Do you owe us so much not to try?"

"Allah will not give mercy to anyone, except those who give mercy to others," I said, quoting the Qur'an.

"I forgot, you have become a scholar," Ma'amet said with a smile.

"The ink of the scholar is more holy than the blood of the martyr."

"You may stop now. I understand," Ma'amet said, holding up his hand. "In your first days, you spoke of becoming one with those around you, as you have become one with us. It is a rare gift."

"The world thinks I'm dead, and I have no one to go back to," I said, enjoying the hot tea. "Better to end life here, among friends, than spend my last days in desperate flight."

"Is this what troubles your dreams? Fear of Abari?"

"No, I've had troubled dreams since the war. Doctors gave me medication to control them, but the medicine is gone. Ishan and Khillan must be careful around me. They are fine young men. I don't want to hurt them."

"There is something I must show you. All the men have read it. We were not sure if you should see it."

"What could cause such apprehension?" I asked.

"It is a book. About you."

"I care nothing of what men write about me."

"This is not an ordinary book. You are the author," Ma'amet said.

It was a clothbound book printed in Arabic. Well leafed through, with some of the page corners bent back. It had been published in Egypt. It was Diminished Capacity by John H. Lawrence.

"This is difficult to grasp. To see my own thoughts come back from another world," I said, flipping through several sections.

"These are, indeed, your thoughts?" Ma'amet asked.

I read another passage, wishing someone had edited the rough edges off the manuscript. It recounted waking up after the shooting of President Blair and not remembering. How I discovered the Thanksgiving Eve plot, escaped from the Cumberland Detention Center to ingratiate myself with the Tashad terrorists, and then foiled the attack on Boston. It also recalled my years in Windhaven as a teacher, and my time in Northfield, beginning as a brutalized victim before evolving into an angry avenger.

"A sad tale of violence, lost hopes, and broken dreams," I said, handing the book back to him.

"It is not a sad tale at all," Ma'amet disagreed, setting the book down in front of me. "Perhaps you should read it again."

____________

"Hi, Red. I missed you," I said, squeezing her tightly. She felt good in my arms, trim and feisty.

"No explanation for the last three weeks?" Jenny asked.

"Just doing my civic duty. Any excitement while I was gone?"

I was finally back in Manhattan, casually dressed, and carrying a bag without my name, rank and serial number stenciled on it. Passersby glanced at us and kept going. Some with smiles, more with frowns.

"Bobby's working on a new book. Won't say what it's about," she said, holding my arm as we walked through the airport. "Mr. Palmer called to make sure you haven't forgotten about Denver. And you missed the 4th of July."

"Don't worry, I saw plenty of fireworks," I said.

Jenny wanted me to move in with her, but it was too soon. And I didn't want to impose on Bobby, who lived a few blocks away. By an interesting coincidence, Alex finally got her transfer to New York and bought a modest two-bedroom condo on West 57th Street not far from Central Park. I became her roommate.

"Pretty nice," I said, looking out the window. Though the Hudson River was two blocks away, I could catch a glimpse of it through the trees. "It's got to be expensive. How can you afford it?"

"Signed a book deal, and my agent is shopping the movie rights," Alex said, showing me a drawer for my socks. My new bedroom wasn't large but had a nice view of the river and a fresh coat of white paint.

"Sounds intrusive," I said.

"I only write what I'm willing to let people know. It's not a big deal."

"It would be to me."

"I don't live in the shadows like you do. Now that you're in the big city, what are your plans?"

"Mr. Palmer is lining up speaking engagements for me," I said. "Two next week, two more the week after. I'm going to Denver, San Antonio, Salt Lake City, and San Francisco."

"You need better luggage," Alex said.

"Yes, I've noticed a canvas bag doesn't do wonders for my good suit," I agreed.

"I can go shopping with you," Alex offered.

"Jenny's going to help. I think she's a little jealous that we're living together."

"We're sharing a flat, not living together."

"She knows. Not everyone understands our relationship."

Alex laughed and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"And why is it we've never had sex?" she teased.

"Because you're too much woman for me," I answered. "But I did have you in my bed at Cumberland. Almost naked."

"Don't tell Jenny that," Alex advised.

____________

Living in the heart of the Big Apple made it hard to avoid the news, but I did my best. The rescue of Marjani and Hydar, though vague on details, had improved relations between Iraq and Iran, and the United States was about to establish its first Iraqi embassy in ten years. I was glad to hear the children were doing well.

A week after my return, I learned the Bates' brothers had taken a plea bargain, getting life in prison instead of the death penalty. Which disappointed me. Such creatures have no right to walk the Earth. Their mother was being sued by the victims' families and would probably lose her house, which I was happy about.

From time to time, I would see my name pop up on a web report. Some writers sought to portray me as a hero, often with rumor rather than facts. Others accused me of being a criminal mastermind exploiting a gullible public with lies and subterfuge. I did my best to ignore all of it, especially the gossip linking me with Jenny.

Though I enjoyed being in the city again, there were times it created uncomfortable moments.

"Lunch with the Secret Service?" I said, wary about the location Alex had picked out.

"My co-workers don't understand why I'm friends with ..."

"The man who killed a president on their watch?" I inquired.

"It does sting. But they get the PTSD thing, and Thanksgiving Eve, too. It's complicated," Alex said.

The Secret Service field office was on Adams Street near the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge. We took the York Street subway and walked the rest of the way.

"Don't be nervous," Alex said.

"Easy for you to say. I'll be the only person there without a gun."

"Since when do you need a gun to beat the crap out of everyone in the room?" she teased.

"Okay, you've got me there," I confessed.

There was an affordable cafeteria on the ground floor that served several government agencies. Eight of Alex's colleagues took seats at their usual table in the back, a mixture of various ages, sizes and sexes. The walls were decorated with portraits of presidents. There were no pictures of John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, or me.

"Everybody, this is Jack Lawrence, my new roommate," Alex introduced. "Jack, this is the gang. We're called the Foreign Transfer Tracking Unit."

I glanced around for eavesdroppers or hidden cameras. That earned me several smiles.

"We don't disclose classified operations here, but we can discuss general procedures," a serious looking Asian woman named Wendy said.

"Like the Black Web?" I asked.

"Whoa, where did you hear about that?" a skinny red-headed kid asked, hardly out of college. Yale by the look of him. The rest of the group was surprised, too. Half had no idea what we were talking about.

"Army Intelligence. And don't ask for classified codes, because you won't get them," I replied.

"Haven't you guys ever wondered where those tips kept coming from while Jack was at Cumberland? The Crenshaw case? Dash Triblock? The Woolly Hunter?" Alex said.

"That was you?" Wendy asked.

"How did you pull it off?" a senior agent inquired, a grim middle-aged fellow with a shaved head named Brewster.

"I asked Judge Smart for a computer to research my murder trial, then reconfigured access for the Black Web. A rogue's gallery of homicidal psychos considered me a hero for shooting Blair. Those who appeared dangerous were forwarded to the Secret Service, which is how I began working with Alex."

"And it's how he found Frac Khanani," Alex added.

"You really don't remember the shooting? Not any of it?" Brewster asked.

I paused, hoping not to answer. For eight years, I had done my best to avoid specific questions about the president.

"Jack, they already know. It's not a secret anymore," Alex said.

"I'm missing about twelve hours," I reluctantly admitted. "I was in my apartment packing for Miami, and then I was in a police station. Handcuffed. I've had dreams. Blurry images of a gun falling to the ground. That's why I don't watch reports of the shooting. How would I ever know what's real or what's been implanted in my memory?"

"I read about false memories in Dr. Livingston's paper," Wendy said.

"Which she had no right to publish, even if she didn't use my name," I complained.

"It's an explanation," Wendy insisted.

"It's an excuse, and I've never made an excuse for what happened," I replied. "I knew I was sick. If I'd gotten help when I should have, I never would have been in Jackson Park."

"That's a different issue," Brewster said.

"Not to me it isn't," I responded more harshly than I intended.

The table fell silent for a moment.

"Okay, Alex, we get what you've been saying," Agent Placer remarked.

"What do you think about the case being reviewed?" Wendy asked.

"What do you mean?" I inquired.

They exchanged embarrassed glances, turning toward Alex.

"You didn't tell him?" Brewster said.

"Tell me what?" I asked Alex.

"Jack, a team is looking into whether you really fired the shot that killed Blair," Alex sheepishly said. "Some contradictory evidence has emerged. I didn't say anything because you get mad sometimes."

"Not another of these stupid conspiracy theories?" I asked, a little impatiently. "It's bad enough Fowler claims I was framed by mysterious unknown forces."

"How do you know you weren't?" Wendy asked.

"Because those things don't happen in the real world," I answered.

"Let's not get excited," Alex said, waving to the waiter that we needed more beer. "No one is going to reopen the case without evidence."

I noticed another uncomfortable silence. What weren't they saying?

__________

I started running in Central Park, usually in the late afternoons. Wearing a hood or hat, I was rarely recognized, for New York City is a busy place where people tend to mind their own business.

"Hey, guys," I said, finding a band playing in a small amphitheater. "The 144th?"

There were four of them, one on lead guitar, a bass guitar player, one on an electric keyboard, and a drummer.

"We all served with the 144th in Second Afghan," a tattooed vet said, thick and bald, wearing an eagle t-shirt.

"So did I," I said, taking off my Mt. Vernon baseball cap and sunglasses.

"Jesus Christ, it's the Sarge," the drummer said.

They jumped up to shake hands, except the keyboard player, who was missing both legs. Their audience, a motley group of twenty park goers, also wanted to meet me. In days past, I would have avoided a crowd but was striving to get better. And I needed practice for the speeches I was giving for Mr. Palmer.

"I'm Garth Mathews," the bass player said. "This is Andrew Ralston, Chase Cavetto, and Joaquin Ignacio."

"Honored, gentlemen," I said, sitting on a cement bench to hear them play.

"Want to play with us?" Ralston the drummer asked.

"I don't want to interfere. My guitar is back home," I said.

"Play this one. I have a banjo," Ignacio urged.

It sounded like fun. We played half a dozen songs, all popular barracks ballads, with each one getting better as I grew accustomed to their style. Cavetto played a mean keyboard. And someone was ratting us out. The audience, using their cell phones, were taking pictures and sending text messages. Our fans grew from twenty to a hundred. The donation hat that had held ten dollars was soon overflowing with dollar bills.

"Cops," Cavetto said, releasing the clamps on his wheelchair.

Two of New York's finest strolled into the amphitheater. When the crowds were small, they didn't mind a few veterans playing for pocket change, but this was growing into something larger.

"Need to break this up, fellas," Officer Murphy said. "Sorry guys, you know the rules."

The band started packing up their instruments but were interrupted.

"Hey, Dodge, wait a minute. That's the Sarge," his partner said.

"Goddamn, it is you," Murphy said, stepping up to shake my hand. "Dodge Murphy, 7th Air Cavalry."

"My honor, officer. You guys saved my butt at Lavanna Valley," I complemented, giving the guitar back to Ignacio.

"No, wait. Play a few more," Murphy said.

"Really?" Mathews asked.

"We'll keep order. There won't be any problems. Right?" Murphy said to the audience. Everyone raised their hands in agreement.

"Okay then," I said, taking the guitar back. "This one is for my friends in the Air Cavalry. Garryowen."

We played for another thirty minutes, the crowd swelling to two hundred. Half a dozen cops came to help. I did most of the singing, Mathews not being very good, and the performance was well received. And why not? I had been a street kid who knew how to play for food money.

"Thanks, officers," I said as the makeshift concert disbanded.

"We've got a thousand dollars in the hat," Cavetto said. "We've never had anything like that before."

He started to give me two hundred, but I gave it back. They needed it more than I did.

"Let's do this again. Next Sunday," Mathews suggested.

"We'll never get a permit," Cavetto said.

"Sunday afternoon, two to four. We've got you covered," Officer Murphy said, offering a salute.

Everyone looked at me. I hadn't planned on joining a band, but I didn't leave for Denver until Monday morning. And there was plenty of time for church before the gig.

"I'll bring my own guitar next time," I agreed.

I looked for a neighborhood bar on the way home, knowing I'd want a place to hang out, and found Flanagan's on 58th. I ordered a beer, made some introductions, and headed back to the apartment.

"There he is. What have you been up to?" Jenny said, sitting on the couch next to Alex. They had been friends for a year, at least, but I still thought Jenny might be checking up on me.

"No place special. Went for a run. Had a refreshment."

"And held a concert?" Alex asked.

"Played a few songs in the park," I replied.

"Jack, look," Jenny said, showing me her tablet.

They had one of the internet feeds on. Central Park. The 144th Band. And Sarge Lawrence. The sound quality wasn't the best.

"It's going viral," Alex said.

"I need another beer," I groaned, going to the kitchen.

Alex had found Squirrel Nut for me. I sat down between my girls. The apartment was still filled with cartons from Alex's move. My two boxes were already unpacked. Jenny held the tablet in her lap.

"We're not so bad," I observed as we watched the amateur videos.

"You're good," Alex said. "Where did you find those guys?"

"Just loitering around. We're playing again on Sunday," I said.

"Can I provide the sound?" Jenny asked. "I can get my agency to provide the equipment. It has our logo on it."

"I suppose, if the band doesn't mind," I tentatively agreed. "How was work today?"

"How was work? Wow, look how domestic we're getting," Jenny laughed.

"Oh, am I too tame for you?" I asked.

I scooped Jenny off the couch, marched into my bedroom, and kicked the door closed with my foot.

"What will Alex think?" Jenny said as I was setting her on the bed.

"She's Secret Service. She knows exactly what to think," I replied.

____________

After church on Sunday, I met up with Jenny and Alex, who were Presbyterians. We walked together to the small cement amphitheater, only to find it empty.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Jack, look. Detour signs," Alex said, pointing to a line of markers.

We followed the flags to a far bigger theater near the lake. There were hundreds of people waiting for the concert, and hundreds more in line. A dozen cops were watching the area, two of them on horseback. Jenny saw her sound crew and went to check-in.

"You didn't mention this," Alex said.

"I had no clue," I replied.