Thirteen miles away, four members of Team Mohammed emerged from the pounding surf of Chesapeake Bay north of Buckroe Beach. With each step, another few inches of their bodies and equipment became exposed. As they inched from the waves, the waterproof night-vision goggles gave way to black uniforms and short, powerful automatic weapons. They moved in unison, each step synchronized, sweeping back and forth, scanning and assessing.
Once clear of the water, they moved to the grassy dune fronting the beach house. They lay on their stomachs, side by side. One man pulled out a map covered in plastic.
“Is this the place?” one soldier asked.
“It’s the last set of pilings before the entrance to the Salt Ponds Marina.” The man with the map pointed to the rotting row of pilings disappearing into the water. “The house is the one with the two ocean kayaks lying on the boardwalk leading to the beach. I recognize it from the photographs. This is it.” The man pointed with a vertical slash of his hand.
The house, a large two-story, with roll-down hurricane shutters above the windows on each level, sported a gray and white deck sprawled across its entire width. Three high-top tables with closed umbrellas, each surrounded by captain’s chairs, sat evenly spaced on the back porch.
The team leader checked his watch. “You all remember the floor plan?”
Each man responded with a nod.
“Good. You and you … check the street. Make sure we will not have visitors. I’ll wait here with Salaam. And for Allah’s sake, stay out of sight.”
The two men belly-crawled along the sand to the north. In ten yards, they turned left across the dune, churning sand, before elevating to all fours and slipping into the narrow space created by the neighboring house.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, they returned on their stomachs.
“All clear.”
“Excellent. We’ll wait ten minutes to make sure they’re all tucked in. Then we move!”
The waves pounded the sand. Each swell was an angry beast reflecting Michael’s mood. He couldn’t see them but he could hear them. He could always hear them. Michael stood at the window peering into the darkness. They were loud and thunderous, penetrating the walls. It had taken him a month to get a decent night’s sleep since moving here with his mother and stepdad. Only recently had he become accustomed to the briny smell and the noise associated with coastal living. But tonight the waves were winning.
Michael hadn’t liked being uprooted from their home in York County. Something had happened to his father. His mother and Michael had driven to the house of his Aunt Fran, his mother’s sister, in Richmond. His mother was a wreck for the few days they were there. Michael overheard some of the whispered conversations. “Danger” and “precautions” had been bandied about. Eventually, the panic passed and they returned home. Michael learned his father had been injured. Something had happened that put him in the hospital with serious injuries.
It was a car accident, his mother explained. But one day on the way to the hospital, they drove past his father’s house in Running Man. Michael spied his father’s bright red Mustang sitting in the driveway. Undamaged.
There had been no car accident.
A week later, a For Sale sign was planted in Michael’s front yard.
The memory still clung to him like a hangover.
Michael moved away from the window and plopped onto the bed with an audible sigh. He’d never told his mother about the night he’d visited his father in his hospital room. He simply lied and said his father was asleep.
That night returned to him now.
They had driven to Tidewater Regional Medical Center. As they walked to the elevator, Michael asked his mother if he could visit alone. She initially refused. But he begged for two full minutes. Finally, he demanded.
She relented, and told him she would accompany him on the elevator. His mother waited in the visiting area as Michael trudged to his father’s room.
“I’ll be waiting right here,” she said, a look of anxiety painted on her face.
Michael was very close to his father and loved him very much. He knew that he could convince his father to tell him the truth.
On previous nights, cops and a man in a suit wearing an earpiece were stationed outside his father’s room. On that night, they were not present. Relieved he had one less confrontation to deal with, Michael turned the corner to enter the private room. He was stopped by the sound of an unfamiliar voice coming from behind the privacy curtain. A woman’s voice. A voice he’d never heard before. It didn’t belong to that bitch, Sheila Boquist. It possessed a higher timbre. And it was filled with concern.
“Now lay back and get some rest, Jason. The doctor said no moving around,” the woman said.
“I’m sick and tired of being in bed,” his father retorted. “I want to be out of here, Chrissie!”
“I know … I know,” she replied. “But you were seriously injured, Jason. You lost a kidney. You’ve just been moved out of intensive care.”
“Alright. Alright. But I feel fine,” he replied “How are you feeling?”
“Better. The headache is starting to go away. But I need to take it slow. Concussions are a bitch. I get dizzy if I move too fast. Thank you for saving my life. If you hadn’t been right behind that guy, I would be dead.”
“I let him get the better of me in the hallway. He never should have gotten away. I’m sorry I left you there alone afterward. I didn’t have any other choice.”
“I understand. That doesn’t matter now. What’s important is that you were there for me …”
“Yeah, but I brought a shit storm to your door.”
“If you hadn’t gotten involved …” The conversation continued. But Michael became distracted at that moment. The words were spoken, but didn’t register in his mind. He quickly regained focus. “ … you cared about Daddy’s legacy. You believed in him when I had stopped. You put your life on the line for his memory.”
“I’m going to be there for you from now on,” his father replied. “I never should have left. I wasted all those years. Chrissie, you are the only woman I ever really loved.”
Michael remembered the feeling in his chest as his father uttered those words. His father and the mystery woman were silhouettes behind the sterile curtain.
Wasted years?
What was he talking about? Had his father been saying he regretted marrying his mother? Had he not wanted a child?
That evening, Michael’s world entered a new, uncomfortable place. His father’s words clashed with the knowledge of the man he’d loved since his first memories of him. His dad had always been very attentive. And Michael had grown close to him. In his mind, he was the perfect father. He coached his baseball teams, made sure Michael was doing his homework and getting good grades. And even though Michael did not like it, when necessary, he chastised him for not doing his chores at his mom’s house or creating mischief.
Anger had welled that night. It swelled in him again now as he recalled the words and memories. The goings-on and the secrecy surrounding his father during that week confused and frustrated him. Those emotions attacked again. His first impulse was to charge in and confront them. He wanted answers. Those feelings short-circuited his self-control. And the impulse had taken over … only for a moment.
Michael took two quick steps toward the curtain, prepared to interrupt the private conversation. For some reason, the physical action triggered and, briefly, erased his anger. He was eavesdropping. His father had always told him it was not polite.
He stopped short.
His torn and dirt-stained tennis shoes scuffed on the tile. A loud rubbery screech shot through the space and the room.
The conversation on the other side of the privacy curtain stopped. Michael saw the shadows of both heads turn in his direction.
He swallowed hard … and ran.
Michael never told anyone about what he’d overheard. He wanted to pretend it never happened. Tears erupted from his eyes now, running down his cheeks and onto his pillow. He lay on the bed in the darkness of his bedroom. His father had probably already asked Miss Christine to marry him. And she had probably already said yes. That realization felt like a hot sword gouging his belly.
Michael had had a chance to confront his father about his feelings the day before, when he told Michael about the proposal. But Michael sat silently, withdrawn and petulant. They had a quick dinner before Michael asked to go home.
Michael promised himself that he would unload his thoughts on his father the next time he saw him. There was still a chance that he could turn things around. His father owed him answers. Michael deserved an explanation. And he vowed he would get one.
Angry with himself, he reached through the neck of his t-shirt and withdrew the medal hanging on the silver chin around his neck. His fingertips caressed the dime-sized circle, feeling the embossed image on the sterling silver.
St. George, the patron saint of England, and courage.
Michael recited from memory the inscription on the back.
Always do the right thing … no matter how hard it seems.
Michael’s crying intensified. He’d not shown much courage around his father, a giant in Michael’s world. A godlike figure. Tomorrow, he would summon his courage and get the truth. Once and for all.
He wiped the tears with the sleeve of his t-shirt, turned out the light, and tried to sleep.