Authors: Jason Elam
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 6:30 A.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
Slowly, the plunger slid down the inside of the carafe, pushing all the grounds to the bottom. Left above the wire mesh was
rich, dark coffee with all of the oils still in it, not sucked out as they typically are by a paper filter. Riley inhaled
deeply and let the aroma fill his senses.
“Skeeter,” Riley said to his friend, who was leaning on the other side of the kitchen’s granitetop island, “this may be the
cup of coffee you tell your children and grandchildren about.”
Skeeter, looking unimpressed, said, “Not going to know unless you pour it, am I?”
“Point well taken.” Riley tipped the French press toward Skeeter’s insulated tumbler and filled it to the top. Then he poured
some into his own ceramic mug. Riley’s thin sweats didn’t do much to protect him against the cool morning air. But that just
made the feel of hot cup against cold hands that much more pleasurable.
Screwing the lid onto his tumbler, Skeeter said, “Gonna go talk to Scott’s boys out front, then walk the perimeter of the
property. Thanks for the coffee.”
“No prob. Tell the guys thanks.” In mornings past, Riley had tried to send coffee to the security detail in front of his house.
They always turned him down, preferring to drink out of their government-issued thermoses.
Don’t
know what
they’re
missing.
Riley watched Skeeter walk out dressed in his usual all black. His HK45 was tucked tightly against his side in a shoulder
holster, and Riley could see the bulge around his ankle where his Glock 29 was tucked away.
Most people never see their guardian angels,
Riley thought.
There goes mine walking out the door. Thanks again, Lord, for sending
Skeet my way.
It had been a long night. Riley had replayed the scene with Khadi over and over in his mind. A few times he had almost called
her. But she said she wanted space, and calling her right now would be invading that space. Around two o’clock this morning,
he had finally resolved to try her on Friday. That would give her three days to think, and him three days to try to figure
out what in the world he was going to say to her.
A quick glance at the clock on the oven told Riley that he still had ten minutes before he was scheduled to iChat with his
folks. He took his mug and sat down with the
Rocky Mountain News
at the kitchen table. Kicking his feet up on the chair next to him, he separated the newspaper. Out of habit he turned to
the Sports section first and quickly scanned the football columns. The stories themselves didn’t interest him that much. He
mostly wanted to check whether any of his free-agent friends had signed.
Not seeing anything of interest, he tossed that section aside and went back to the front page. Not surprisingly, there had
been no new breaks in the weekend’s attacks. Riley had been trying to fish information out of Scott and Khadi but had yet
to get a decent bite. It was definitely hard being on the outside of the information stream. Even Skeeter knew more than he
did. But Riley knew it would have to be some pretty extraordinary circumstances for his friends to compromise their clearances.
“NEBRASKA FAMILY LAID TO REST” read a top-of-the-fold headline. Riley blew on his coffee, took a sip, and then scanned the
story.
Munroe family of Hyannis, Nebraska . . . All four members killed
Friday night as part of a coordinated terrorist attack. . . . Note left behind
in which the Cause took credit. . . . Responsible for the bombing at Platte
River Stadium last December. . . . Attack thwarted by Colorado Mustang
Riley Covington. . . . Small town of just under three hundred people
quadrupled in size as people flooded in to pay their respects and express
their sorrow. . . . Governor Atlee broke down as he spoke. . . . Secretary of
State Watts, Undersecretary of Homeland Security Blackmon, and Senators
Boyles and Hollenback were in attendance. . . . Small group protesting
America’s
involvement in Iraq . . .
Riley laid the paper down and closed his eyes. Anger surged in him again, and he opened his eyes to find himself white-knuckling
his mug. He took a quick sip, then pushed it away.
Ever since the incident at Saturday’s minicamp, he had been trying his best to put on a good face for everyone. Inside, however,
he was feeling very different. Beneath the smiling face there was rage, frustration, sorrow, fear, and a growing desire for
revenge.
Why did it have to be the Cause, Lord? If it had been any other group,
I might have been able to let it go. But not them!
Riley reached for his cup and took another swallow of coffee to try to keep his emotions down. He sighed deeply, then folded
the paper and slid it to the other end of the table. Reading it was doing him no good.
Another look at the oven told him it was still five minutes until the iChat, but he figured he’d try his parents anyway. Knowing
his dad, he’d probably had it up and ready fifteen minutes ago.
Riley pulled his MacBook out of the computer case sitting next to the table and lifted the screen. When he opened up the iChat
program, an icon indicated that his parents were already online. He clicked it, then waited for an answer. A moment later,
a futuristic sound effect indicated that a new window was opening on his screen, and there was his dad’s face.
“Morning, Riles.”
“Morning, Pop.” Riley’s dad appeared ready for a day of work on the farm. He looked just like an older and darker version
of Riley, and his voice had the same deep tones. Dad was wearing a Colorado Mustangs cap and holding a Colorado Mustangs coffee
mug, both of which looked like they’d seen better days.
“Mom said she’d be here soon. She’s still getting herself together this morning.”
“Does she not understand that I’m the only one looking at this?”
Dad laughed. “Sure, but you know how she is with cameras. I think she figures that somehow every other picture of her will
get lost or destroyed, and the only image her great-grandchildren will have of her is this old lady with no makeup and her
hair tied up in a scarf.”
“This isn’t even being recorded,” Riley said, shaking his head. His mother had always been big on posterity; never mind that
her only son was yet to even marry.
“I’ll let you explain that to her. So, how’re things? You look like you’ve been thinking a lot.”
Riley often wondered what it was like for kids who could pull the wool over their parents’ eyes—the kids who could get away
with saying ‘fine’ when asked how things were. He’d never had that luxury. Riley’s folks—especially his dad—read him like
a book.
“I’ve been trying to keep a stiff upper lip, but haven’t been succeeding much.”
“Ah, the old ‘keep a smile on your face and your emotions stuffed down deep and no one will ever know the difference’ routine.
You were never very good at that.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Consider that a compliment, Riles. It’s much better to live a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of life than it is to have
people always wondering if you’re really telling them the truth.”
Riley just nodded. Listening to his dad’s voice and seeing the familiar surroundings of the family kitchen on his computer
screen was already helping to lighten his mood.
“So, you want to talk about it?” Dad offered.
Riley thought for a few seconds, then answered, “I don’t think so, Pop. Not yet. Just keep praying that God keeps my mind
pure. Some of the ideas for revenge that pop in there are pretty detailed and pretty graphic.”
Dad leaned back in his chair, causing the picture to pixilate briefly. “I know what you mean, Son. Once you’ve seen the type
of things you’ve seen, it’s hard to keep them out. When you do want to talk more, you know where I am.”
“Thanks. You know I’ll take you up on it when I’m ready. So, how are the goats?”
Eight years back, Riley’s parents had decided to convert their small acreage to an organic goat farm. Since then, they’d started
building a bit of a reputation for their dairy goat products, particularly their cheeses.
“They’re as obnoxious as always. Last week a couple of them got out and found our newspaper recycle bin. They ate half the
papers in there before I finally rounded them up.”
Riley had despised the goats ever since one of them had snuck up behind him and bit him on the backside. It had been three
days before he could sit without pain. “Remember, if you get tired of them, I still have a recipe for
mbuzi
stew that I picked up on that missions trip to Uganda. Then you could get your milk from—oh, I don’t know—a cow maybe! You
know, like God originally intended!” Riley still couldn’t understand why they had gone with goats. He’d been trying for years
to get his parents to get rid of them and start a real dairy farm.
They both laughed. Then his dad leaned in close to the computer screen and said quietly, “That reminds me. Your mom is going
to send you some cheese—a new
chèvre
recipe that she’s trying out.”
“Why does she do that? She knows I can’t stand the stuff. I just end up giving it all away.”
“I’ve never understood what your issue is with goat cheese,” Dad said a little defensively, taking a long drink out of his
coffee mug.
Riley shook his head. “I don’t know. It just makes everything taste so . . . so . . . Greek.”
Dad almost lost his coffee on the computer. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting that answer. That’s about the most ridiculous reason
for not liking goat cheese I’ve heard. I think I’ll have Mom post that on our Web site.”
“Swell.”
“Just do me a favor and pretend you like it—for your mom’s sake.
Besides, this is
chèvre
; maybe it’ll make everything taste all French instead.”
“And that’s supposed to be better?”
Just then Mom appeared on the screen back by the sink. She was silhouetted by a window that looked into the backyard and toward
the barn. “Jerry, is our son complaining about our livelihood again?”
“Come on, Mom. It’s not like that,” Riley protested.
Mom poured herself a cup of coffee and sat next to her husband. She looked like she was ready to go to Sunday morning church.
“Listen, sweetheart, just because some poor disillusioned woman raised you on Kraft Singles and Velveeta doesn’t mean that
you can’t broaden your horizons now that you’re out from under her rooftop.”
“Hey, I object. You were a good cook growing up.”
“Of course I was—as long as the recipe had the words
cheesy
,
bake
, or
casserole
in it. It’s no better than if you were raised at a church potluck.”
“Oh, please,” Riley laughed. “You were an awesome cook. Look at me; I turned out okay.”
“Yes you did, Riley. You turned out wonderfully. I’ll take that as one point on my side.”
“Tell you what,” Dad jumped in. “I’m going to leave you two to your mutual admiration society. I’ve got work to do. Take care
of yourself, Riles. Remember, I’m always only a phone call away.”
“Thanks, Pop. Good talking to you.” Riley watched as his dad walked off the screen. A moment later he heard the rear door
open and close.
“Your dad’s really concerned about you,” Mom said, turning the computer so that she was lined up directly with the built-in
camera. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him as agitated as when he read that the Cause was responsible for those horrible
attacks.”
Riley wanted to kick himself when he realized that he had been so wrapped up in his own feelings that he hadn’t asked his
dad how he was handling the situation.
Mom continued, “I know what you’re thinking, and don’t beat yourself up. Dad would have just told you that everything was
okay. He doesn’t want to worry you.”
“Are you okay with everything?”
“I tell you what, sweetheart. I just spend a lot of time praying—for you, for the team, for Scott and Khadi and the rest of
the gang. God taught me a long time ago that even though I may be totally helpless, He’s not. He just keeps reminding me that
whatever happens, He’s in control. The only time things start going haywire is when I try to take it back.”
“I hear you, Mom. I think that’s been my problem. I release everything to God; then I take it back. Then I release it; then
I take it back. It’s like I’ve got my trust in God on a yo-yo.”
Mom chuckled softly. “I know, dear. And don’t go thinking that I have it all together myself. Prayer is the only thing that
keeps me from being a nervous wreck, especially when it comes to your safety. Well, prayer and Skeeter Dawkins. Which reminds
me, is he around so I can say hi to him?”
“No, he’s out walking the property.”
“Well, tell him I asked for him. Say, does he like my cheese? If he does, I can send—”
Suddenly Riley’s speakers distorted and the picture on his screen momentarily froze.
“Mom? Mom, you there?” Then the signal caught up and Riley was able to see back into the kitchen. What he saw made his blood
freeze.
The view from the computer had shifted to the right. There was glass from the window scattered over the kitchen counter, and
water was spraying up from the sink’s faucet. The cabinets were all opened, and their contents were spilled onto the counter
and the floor. But what frightened Riley the most was that his mother was nowhere to be seen.
“Mom!” Riley yelled at the computer. “Mom!” He snatched up his cell phone and dialed Skeeter’s number. Skeeter answered it
on the first ring.
“Skeet, get back here now! Something’s happened at my parents’ house.”
“I’m there,” Skeeter replied.
Riley was breathing fast, and his mind was racing.
Lord,
what’s
happened? What should I do?
He picked up his phone to call Scott, and then put it back down. “Mom! Mom, are you there?”
“Riley . . .” a faint voice came over the computer’s speakers.