Page 19 of Triple Threat

I spread my hands in a humble bow. “My culinary experience involves the foods of France and my home, England. I have an interest in the dishes of vintage Americana. The spatchcock was a French technique. I can make fish and chips but find it overly sentimental.”

“Vintage Americana?”

“Oh yes, the foods of the ‘50s through the ‘70s. Tuna casserole, Midwestern style meatloaf, deviled eggs, all those strange salads presented in aspic.” She made a face.

“What’s aspic? It sounds disgusting.”

“I believe you call it Jell-O.”

“Gross,” she muttered and my smirk escaped its careful prison.

“My turn to ask a question.” She nodded in agreement. “All Lach told me was what your name was, and he was out the door again. I’ve tried my different methods of doing background searches and you’re an enigma.”

“What, do you want my social security number or something, a driver’s license?” she asked and snorted a laugh.

“Well, that would go a really long way,” I admitted.

“You’re out of luck on that. I couldn’t tell you my social if I wanted to, I don’t know what it is. I’ve never had a driver’s license but if I had to, I could drive. I have driven, some. Wasn’t fun.”

“When is your birthday?” I asked. “I’ll make you a cake.”

“My birthday I actually do know.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s April 5th.”

“Year?” I asked.

“Uh-uh, that’s two questions. Now it’s my turn. You don’t play this game very well. How did you lose your leg?” she asked.

“That’s a short and ugly story, and not at all an original one,” I said. “I was serving with the Royal Marines in Afghanistan and we were doing a routine patrol, going village to village, making sure the Taliban hadn’t moved back in after the Yanks had gone through. The Afghani knew that they could dust up with the American Army, shoot at them, and they would duck and take off. Those guys were, reservists, I think. Weekend warriors who signed up for one weekend a month and two weeks a year and ended up in convoys and patrols for six months to two years. The American Marines, now those blokes were right mad. Some Talibani pops a few rounds off at one of them and they would come out of their vehicles, go charging into the hills and a few minutes later their great ugly jets would come shrieking over.” Her eyes were large.

“But anyway, those lads would go ahead, and we would come along behind them. If there were baddies, they would come out after the American Marines had left and we took care of them. My patrol ran over a roadside bomb. Tore the Humvee in half, killed two of my mates, took my leg, and most of the hearing in this ear,” I tapped at it absentmindedly. “Almost died. Would have bled out if it wasn’t for the commander putting a tourniquet on me before returning fire with the baddies who were coming down on top of us.

“There was a firefight incident, on report. Fancy name for a bunch of Marines, Royal and American showing up like the cavalry in a western, and I remember laying on the ground, medic sticking needles in me, and shouting, and I could see this skinny American kid, on the radio. He goes to shouting over and over, danger close, danger close!”

“What does that mean?” she asked. I smiled and thought about taking her to task over an errant question of her own.

“Meant that whatever the cavalry was calling in, they were calling it in right on top of our heads. About thirty seconds, or three years, my concept of time wasn’t great, everything just exploded everywhere. There was just this awful booming roar like every concert I’ve ever been to but the volume turned up to one hundred. I passed out. Came too later on an evac helo and then it was to a mobile hospital, a quick debriefing, and then I was flown to a hospital in the US,” I said. “The rest was rehab, discharge with honors, and fast track to US citizenship.”

“That’s awful,” she said. “Do you know why everything blew up?”

“The official word is that we were shelled by Taliban artillery and an air force strike package eliminated the battery. Truth was that the cavalry commander was green as a goose shite, and called in the air strike on top of us. A big bomber a couple of miles up dropped a bunch of smart bombs and blew up the baddies and half of us in the process. The rest was the brass covering their collective arses. Passed out a bunch of medals, posthumous promotions, and all that. My turn, what is your given name – first, last, and middle, no nicknames and I’d like to have that year as well, please.” I raised an eyebrow and won a smile from her.

“This is to find out who I am with your background search?” she asked. I nodded. “You’re going to be disappointed. I’m really no one, from nowhere, and I’ve never done anything,” she said, her voice thin and a little sad. She told me her name as I’d requested it, then spelled it, then gave me the year I was looking for. “How does Lock know me?”

“That I don’t know, love,” I confessed. “He only told me he knew you and to take care of you until you were ready.”

“Ready for what?” she asked, apprehension on her fair face.

“Again, I don’t know what his motivation is, or how he knows you. I assume you know each other from your respective childhoods, perhaps. You’re both near the same age,” I said. “You said that you are no one, from nowhere, but that’s not true. Everyone is someone from somewhere.”

“It doesn’t matter where I was born,” she said. “I’m from Indigo City, lived there for a long time, or it seemed like a long time. It wasn’t like a sitcom family; we just sort of existed. Both my parents worked, I was an only child, and it was stuff like just making ends meet. We didn’t have a lot, you know? But we were happy.” She looked up and I could see in her eyes what she was talking about. I nodded. “Then boom, it was all gone. I don’t even remember where we were going, but we were in a car accident. They were taken away from me in the blink of an eye. I was fighting with my mother, and my dad shouted something, and then I can’t describe what it was like, but when the car stopped moving…” She wiped at her eyes. “When the car stopped moving, I was hanging upside down, and I could smell this weird smell, it was bad.”

“Petrol, maybe blood,” I guessed. She nodded.

“There was something else in it,” she said. “The front of the car was completely destroyed, and my mom and dad...” She choked up and gave a halfhearted shrug. I sat next to her and offered her a shoulder. To my surprise, she accepted it and I put my arms around her while she cried. I was keenly aware of how small she felt, and the heat that came from her. I spoke again once the outburst of tears seemed to slow.

“I apologize for the bologna sandwich,” I said. “I’ll bring you something proper.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “It’s really fine.”

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