A Victorian farmhouse
Near Berryville, Virginia
Jennifer Conner heard a sound. At least she thought she heard one. A noise had awakened her. At least she thought she was awake. Sometimes her brain played tricks on her. The doctors called it a TBI. They said she had PTSD. Letters. Acronyms. Jennifer called it noodles. That was the name of a blue unicorn her best friend, Kathy, had given her four years ago when Jennifer, her older brother, Benjamin, her mother, Sarah, and father, Gunter, had traveled from the United States to Egypt. Jennifer had been ten years old then and she’d taken Noodles the Unicorn with her to Cairo.
It wasn’t long after that when everything changed. When the TBI and PTSD happened. Jennifer remembered buckling a seat belt around Noodles in the family’s Land Rover outside their Cairo apartment. She remembered Benjamin, who was sitting up front in the car with their mother, looking back and teasing her.
“You’re too old to play with stuffed animals,” he’d scolded her. He was four years older and thought he knew everything.
“Stop irritating your sister,” their mother had said.
The three of them were going to see their mother’s parents. Sarah and her parents were Egyptians and none of their Cairo relatives called them by their American names. Their grandparents called Benjamin “Baabar,” which meant lion. They called Jennifer “Ablah,” which meant perfectly formed. Everyone was gathering at the grandparents’ house because it was Wafaa El-Nil, an Egyptian holiday that commemorated the yearly flooding of the Nile.
Jennifer’s American father, Gunter, wasn’t with them that morning because he’d been called away on business. Benjamin had told Jennifer that their father was a CIA spy but they couldn’t tell anyone—especially in Egypt. That seemed odd because her father was nothing like the spies, she’d seen on television, who were handsome, knew karate, and drove fast cars. Benjamin had made her promise that she couldn’t tell anyone and she hadn’t, except for Noodles the Unicorn. She knew Noodles wouldn’t tell anyone.
When Jennifer was finished putting a seat belt around Noodles in the Land Rover’s backseat, she attached her own belt. Her mother turned the Land Rover’s ignition and suddenly everything became black.
When Jennifer woke up, she was inside a huge mansion. She was alone except for Noodles the Unicorn. The mansion had lots of rooms and in each room was a window and when she went into the rooms and looked through each window, she saw different sights. Behind one window was a world where people had wings and flew. Another window looked out on purple hills covered with bright red flowers. There were frightening monsters with long fangs and scales living outside the window in another room. Jennifer was afraid when she saw them because she knew those beasts would eat her. Noodles was afraid too. Their favorite room in the mansion contained a window where people spoke to her, although sometimes what they said made her sad. A man in a white coat said her father had pulled her out of the Land Rover but he’d not been able to rescue Noodles the stuffed animal. Just the same, Noodles was with her inside the mansion and that made her happy because she had someone to talk to. A man in a black coat with a white collar told her that her brother, Benjamin, and her mother, Sarah, had been killed by a car bomb. That same man had explained that her father had brought her back to the United States from Egypt. One afternoon, her father, Gunter, had appeared on the other side of the window and said he was returning to Africa without her. Why would he do that? She wasn’t sure, but he’d left her behind.
Sometimes Jennifer got lost in the rooms in the mansion where she lived. One day, a woman named Miriam was waiting outside the window to speak to Jennifer. She was crying. She told Jennifer that her father, Gunter, had been murdered in Germany. He was supposed to be in Africa, Jennifer thought. Miriam said the Falcon had killed him. A bird? No, that wasn’t right. A man. A horrible man with a bird’s name.
Eventually, Jennifer didn’t leave the room with the window where people spoke to her. She liked being there. Slowly, the other rooms in the mansion began to disappear. One morning when she woke up, the mansion was gone and so was Noodles. It was as if Jennifer had stepped through the window and when she did, the mansion and Noodles had vanished. But Jennifer knew both were still somewhere inside her mind. That’s why she referred to her TBI and PTSD as Noodles. It made perfect sense to her.
A psychiatrist named Wren—no, that was the name of a bird she’d seen one morning. Bess? Maybe—anyway, she gave her pills. They helped the mansion stay gone. Wren gave her a lot of pills. Endless pills. Yellow, red, blue, orange, and white ones. Endless physical therapy. Miriam told her that Brooke Grant was now her legal guardian. She was a Marine colonel. No, she was a major now. Brooke had killed bad men. They worked for that bad man with a bird’s name. The Falcon. Yes, he was the bad man who had killed her father. Major Brooke had known her father in Africa. Her father had once saved Brooke’s life. That’s why she’d promised him to take care of Jennifer. They lived in a farmhouse. Brooke was Jennifer’s best friend now. Not Noodles.
Jennifer rolled in her bed and glanced toward the window in her second-story bedroom. It was a real window, not an imaginary one. Something moved outside it. Was it a shadow? There was enough moonlight to see an image. A man. A man watching her. How could a man be outside her window? Men didn’t have wings, did they? The Falcon. Did he have wings? Maybe she was dreaming.
The psychiatrist had taught Jennifer a trick to help her tell the difference between what was real and what were dreams. Turn on a light. That’s what the psychiatrist had said to do. If a light came on, she was awake. If it didn’t, she was dreaming. Jennifer didn’t know why it worked, but it always had.
She pulled the chain. The bulb came on, causing her to blink. Jennifer looked at the window. A man was watching her and he was very real.
She screamed.
Brooke Grant grabbed her military-issue Beretta M-9A1 pistol from her nightstand when she heard Jennifer screaming. She scrambled across the hardwood floor in her bare feet into Jennifer’s bedroom.
“What’s wrong?”
“The window!” Jennifer said. “A man’s face. He was real.”
Brooke switched off Jennifer’s bedside light and made her way to the window. It had an alarm, a reinforced frame, and thick bullet-resistant glass. Just the same, Brooke positioned herself along the wall and then turned to peek out the window. Brooke didn’t see anyone.
The motion detection lights that edged the Victorian farmhouse had not come on. She lowered her pistol and moved to Jennifer’s bed. “C’mon, peanut, just like we practiced,” she said. Brooke was not about to take any chances. An intruder might have found a way to circumvent the motion detector lights.
Crossing the room, Brooke opened what appeared to be a closet door. But behind it was a reinforced steel door that led to a safe room. Jennifer scampered inside ahead of Brooke and settled onto a bunk bed near a wall of monitors. After sealing the door, Brooke picked up a phone that was a direct line to a private security company located about ten miles from the farmhouse.
“Possible intruder,” she explained. “Monitors are clear. I’ll turn on exterior lights and wait for your arrival.”
A few seconds later, Brooke sat next to Jennifer on the bunk bed.
“I did what the doctor said,” Jennifer explained. “I turned on the light.”
“That was what you were supposed to do,” Brooke replied. “Would you like to go back to sleep?”
Jennifer shook her head, indicating no.
“How about a snack? There’s milk and candy bars in the fridge.”
“Will you eat one with me? I like the $100 Grand bars the best.”
“I know, because they make you feel rich,” Brooke said, smiling. “I’ll just be happy having a good old Payday!”
Jennifer laughed.
Brooke removed two cartons of milk and two candy bars from a refrigerator. Returning to the bed, she handed Jennifer a milk and a $100 Grand candy bar but put her drink and candy next to the bed. She ran her fingers through Jennifer’s long auburn hair, soothing her. She could feel the bumps on the girl’s skull, reminders of the repeated surgeries needed to remove shrapnel from the car bomb that had destroyed the front half of the Land Rover and instantly killed Jennifer’s mother and brother.
Jennifer chewed the candy bar quickly, pausing only to take slurps of milk through a straw. “You liked my daddy, didn’t you?” the teenager asked.
“Yes, I’ve told you this before,” Brooke replied. “Your daddy and I were in Mogadishu, where I was a military attaché. Our embassy was overrun by an evil man named Abdul Hafeez. Everyone but your daddy and I were taken hostage. He saved my life when a different bad man was about to hurt me with a knife. Your daddy shot him. He was a hero.”
“I like hearing the story. But then a bad man hurt my daddy.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Was it Half-sneeze?” Jennifer asked, mispronouncing Abdul Hafeez’s name.
“No. It was a much worse man who always wears a mask. We don’t know his real name so people call him ‘The Falcon.’”
“He sent someone to kill my daddy in Germany. In a hospital.”
“Yes. You remember. Good.”
“Why do they call him ‘The Falcon’?”
“Because he’s like a bird flying above all of us where we can’t see him until he does something bad.”
Brooke hadn’t hidden the truth from the teen. During Jennifer’s therapy and recovery, Brooke had answered her questions without sugarcoating no matter what she’d asked. Jennifer’s psychiatrist and therapist had agreed it was the right course. But Brooke wasn’t certain if talking about the Falcon at this moment was a good idea.
“We don’t have to worry about the Falcon,” she said, “because I’m a Marine. And Marines stick together. You pick a fight with a Marine and every Marine out there will fight with you. That means every Marine is watching over us. Marines are like our brothers and sisters.”
“Sergeant Miles is a Marine,” Jennifer said, referring to the Crow Indian who’d helped Brooke thwart a suicide bombing in Somalia. “Is Sergeant Miles your brother?” Jennifer asked. She began giggling.
Jennifer was childlike in many ways. She often missed social cues because of her traumatic brain injury. But at other times, she was no different from any other teenage girl. The doctors said it had to do with which parts of her frontal lobe had been damaged and how those parts were gradually rewiring themselves.
“You know Sergeant Miles is a Marine,” Brooke said, “and you know he’s a good friend of mine and yours.”
“I know, but he’s not your brother. I think you love him.”
“What’s this about?” Brooke asked. “Are you jerking my chain?”
She could tell from the puzzled look on Jennifer’s face that the teen didn’t understand the metaphor.
“Are you teasing me?” Brooke explained.
“I was just wondering if you and Sergeant Miles were going to get married one day. You’re young and you’re pretty.”
“Well, thank you, but I’m not that young. I’m almost thirty now and being pretty doesn’t have anything to do with getting married. It has to do with being in love.”
“I know you love him and I know he loves you.”
“Who’s putting these thoughts into your head? I’m a major in the Marine Corps and he’s a sergeant. We’d both get into big trouble if we started dating. I think it’s time for you to get back to sleep and quit asking me questions about Sergeant Miles.”
“It would be nice if you married him,” Jennifer said, handing Brooke the empty milk carton and candy bar wrapper that she was holding as she curled up on the bunk bed. “We could be a family then.”
“For right now,” said Brooke, as she covered Jennifer with a wool blanket, “the two of us are all we need.”
Brooke tossed the trash in a container and returned her unopened milk carton and uneaten Payday to the mini refrigerator. After dimming the safe room’s interior lights, she took a seat in front of a dozen monitors and checked the digital recorders that were linked to motion detectors outside the farmhouse. If an intruder had been watching Jennifer through the upstairs window, he might have tripped one of the hidden detectors, which would have activated a recorder. Brooke checked the machines. Nothing.
Jennifer must have imagined seeing a man, she thought. How many nights had Brooke been awakened by a sound and mistaken a shadow for an intruder?
A camera showed two SUVs from the private security company turning off the main blacktop onto the mile-long driveway that led up a hill to the farmhouse.
Brooke and Jennifer had moved into the green-trimmed, white clapboard Victorian three months ago. Built in 1893, it was a few miles north of Berryville, Virginia, a rural town best remembered because Confederate colonel John S. Mosby, the “Gray Ghost,” had raided a Union supply train there during the Civil War and escaped with much-needed supplies. The farmhouse was surrounded by ten wooded acres and was off the beaten path, which is why Brooke had bought it. Her role in helping save a U.S. ambassador in Somalia and stopping a suicide attack in Mogadishu had given her an unwanted high profile. It had also made her a priority target of the Falcon’s. Some forty million television viewers had watched a documentary on the Al Arabic network about her heroism in Somalia. She’d been fêted at the White House after she’d returned. Moving with Jennifer to the outskirts of sleepy Berryville had been a way to retreat from the spotlight.
The monitors showed the private security guards arriving outside. Six men and two women exited from the two vehicles, splitting into two teams. One began searching the grounds. The other typed a code into the house’s front door’s digital lock and began sweeping each room.
A movement on a different monitor caught Brooke’s eye. A familiar truck was turning into the driveway. Sergeant Walks Many Miles was also responding to the alarm. Miles had rented an apartment in Berryville to be near them. She would wait for him before opening the safe room door.
He parked his weather-beaten Ford pickup next to the security guards’ vehicles and hurried up to the front porch. He was wearing the Marine Corps standard combat utility uniform (MarPat), better known as camo, with its dark green woodland design. From the day they’d first met in Mogadishu, Brooke had found him handsome. He was slightly under six feet with a muscular build that came from hard labor and daily runs as well as lifting weights in a local gym. Sergeant Miles enjoyed getting his hands dirty—repairing his truck or an old Indian brand motorcycle whenever he had downtime, which was rare. Some weekends, he did construction work for a friend. She liked his rugged looks, which included a broken nose—a testament to his violent childhood on the Crow reservation. His abusive, alcoholic father had regularly beaten him until Miles had become strong enough to knock out the old man and leave him bleeding on the kitchen floor. Being punched as a defenseless child had taken away any fear that he might have felt in high school when a gang of local white boys taunted him with racist slurs. He’d refused to turn away and had won more fistfights than he’d lost. The Marines had been his ticket away from the reservation, although his roots were still planted deep there. Now in his early thirties, he’d mellowed, but he remained a man whom other men instinctively knew would not shrink from a fight, a man who was unlikely to stop until he was either the last man standing or unconscious.
Brooke and Miles had developed a close bond in Somalia that could only be understood by their fellow combat soldiers. She trusted him with her life and he did the same.
“I didn’t know you were on duty this late at night,” she said, flashing him a smile when she opened the safe room door.
“What makes you think I’m on duty?”
“You’re wearing camos.”
“I sleep in my camos,” he replied, teasing her. “But clearly you don’t.”
Brooke suddenly realized that she had darted out of bed without grabbing her robe. She was wearing a dark red, clingy silk pajama top and tap pants that left little about her figure to the imagination.
Sergeant Miles took it all in and he liked what he saw.