CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

THE MCINTYRE RESIDENCE, ROMEO, MICHIGAN

It was three thirty in the afternoon and the shades were pulled down and no light was permitted to creep into Blaze’s bedroom. There were rarely sounds in the house other than the normal creeks that any house ominously makes when otherwise silence allows them to be audible. Blaze lay in his bed, empty. The bed creaked under his burden as he breathed heavy and shifted his weight. He felt as if a concrete block rested upon his chest.

Occasionally, in moments of heightened pain, Blaze would let out a loud scream of terror. He had showered twice only in the two weeks he had been secluded in his room after returning from the base in Iraq—the base where Gallagher explained the losses that had brought him to this newfound hell.

His face wore a full beard: unkempt and unruly. He wore nothing but boxer shorts and a robe and forced himself to sleep whenever God would allow him that escape. It was not even depression that had struck him, but some affliction of mind and spirit far more blunt, far more debilitating and entirely incomprehensible to understand outside of first hand experience. His flesh felt, at times, as if he was literally being poked by sharp objects that invisibly taunted him.

He thought of Job and envied Job’s faith in affliction. Blaze had no such faith in this state. Hope was a conspiracy. A will to live was an unachievable attribute. He tried to get angry but failed. It took ambition to be angry.

Occasionally, Blaze would rise to appropriate sparks of anger and punch the walls that enclosed him. These bursts were short-lived and produced no satisfaction. His soul was drained—bereft of any life. On a good day, he would manage to stumble to a chair by the window and stare out into the daylight. He’d lean his elbows on the cold, white tiles of the windowsill—hoping for hope. He tried to pray but could not. He could only muster a weak human wish. He wished that somehow the light would penetrate the darkness that owned him. He would sit and stare and wait. But the darkness never relented. And the light proved impotent.

Moments arose at times in which Blaze mustered up some defiance. He cursed God and howled at the heavens. What have I done but try to defend my country? Why did You take her? Why did You take my boy? What have You left me to do? How much do You think I can take? How do You call Yourself a God of love? Blaze knew in his heart the answers to his cries. He knew God’s nature was pure love, but he could not see it or believe it in his agony.

Memories of Diem and Shane stung in his mind and provided both strange comfort and cruel reminders of the loss that had plagued him. His body temperature rose and he became overheated. The emotional tumult drove his bio-chemistry. He thought of the joy that Shane had when he would play guitar and make music. He was getting really good at it and was even writing some impressive originals. The day Shane shot his first rifle stuck out in Blaze’s mind as well. He had been so proud of him. He had already become a good shot. The simple things he did with his young son continued to come to mind. Playing a round of horseshoes in the back yard. Grabbing a slice of pizza for lunch. Praying at the dinner table. Lighting fireworks in the back yard.

He remembered the sweet support of Diem. Her loving embrace, even when she was scared. Her understanding nod, even when she had no clue as to why things were happening. Her faith in Blaze’s instincts and nature. The way she managed the house and took care of the kids without complaining. She was an amazing mother and made it all seem so effortless. The images flooded his mind. He wasn’t sure whether to indulge in them or attempt to push them away. Either way, he couldn’t stop his mind and he had no will or energy to move. He lay staring at the ceiling for hours, occasionally leaning over to urinate in a bucket by his bed.

He was proud of Dennis already. Dennis was staying at his aunt Melissa’s, Blaze’s sister-in-law. Blaze was too distraught to even keep the company of his only living son. He knew Dennis needed him. Blaze needed Dennis too. They would come together and support each other in time, but not now. Blaze needed to heal alone and Dennis would find more tangible support in his aunt. Blaze saw him briefly before retreating to his dark bedroom. He wept profusely and gave Dennis a long, strong bear hug. Dennis was notably unemotional and displayed a strength and maturity way beyond his years.

“You’re still here for a reason, Son. You’re alive for a reason.” Blaze proclaimed to Dennis.

“I know Dad. Don’t worry about me. I’m all right. You’ll be too, just wait. Mom and Shane are safe in heaven now. We’re still here for a purpose. You’ll see. God doesn’t make mistakes.”

Blaze pondered the words his son had uttered and tried to let them soak in. He wanted to believe what Dennis had said. He knew in time he would. But right now they were an empty comfort at best.

He thought of what Gallagher had told him. It had finally happened. Everyone had feared that these types of horrors would ultimately emerge. It had been known for some time now that Iran, via Hezbollah, had made real alliances and partnerships with the Mexican drug cartels, but until now, America had not felt any harm from this nefarious marriage. Hezbollah even had the balls to take responsibility and leave their card. The enemy was getting brazen and their reach was getting longer. He thought of the other victims. Other CIA families effected. He knew this couldn’t go unanswered. This couldn’t be permitted to escalate.

Blaze forced himself to think about what happened. He imagined all the details that led to these hits that Iran commissioned, Hezbollah facilitated, and the cartel fulfilled. He tried to focus his thoughts. He tried to arouse his anger in search of some motivation or purpose. He lay in bed struggling through his thoughts, darkness all around him and deep inside him.

He had not eaten in over ten hours and his stomach was beginning to growl. His cell phone had been turned off for weeks. Blaze, in a single motion, swung his body up out of his bed and grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand. He determined to go fix himself something to eat. He turned his cell phone on as he made his way into the kitchen. He couldn’t go on hiding like this. He felt his anger and purpose. His phone rang.

“It’s about time you picked up your phone.”

“Really? You’re gonna talk to me like that after what just happened to me Chuck? Really?”

“Sorry, Blaze. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…well, we’re all just really worried about you. You can understand that, right?”

“Yeah, I understand. And you should be worried. I’m not fine. Not sure I’ll ever be.”

“There’s someone you should talk to. An old spook who went through something similar. A bit eccentric, but I know he can help. Will you see him Blaze?”

“Who exactly is ‘him’?”

“Yoda.”