Authors: MaryJanice Davidson
Thirty-seven
Captain Pearson pulled up to the unbelievably showy mini-mansion and shut off the car. He glanced at his watch: oh-eight-thirty.
He got out. Marched up the walk. Rapped precisely three times on the front door, automatically making sure his slacks and shirt were neat, his shoes shined. His hair, military short, needed no adjustment, despite the mild breeze.
His boy had called and he had come.
The boy never called.
The boy was all he had of his dear wife, cruelly snatched away by breast cancer forty-two months and eighteen days ago.
The boy did not like him and was quite correct to feel that way. He, Capt. James T. Pearson (ret.), decorated veteran of the Vietnam conflict, had been a shit father.
He hoped to have a chance to make up for the past. For his carelessness and close-mindedness and cruel comments. Because his wife had been right all along, and he was just a stubborn old man who had made too many mistakes.
The door opened, and there he stood. His boy, tall and strong and handsome—so handsome! With (oh, God) his mother’s eyes staring out at him.
Book smart, too, plenty smart—a doctor! Two kinds of doctor, actually. And he wrote silly stories for the fun of it and even though it was just a hobby, the boy had turned it into a seven-figure-a-year income. In his spare time! The captain had tried to read one of the stories and didn’t care for it, but plenty of other people sure seemed to. He had researched the romance—what did they call it? The romance genre. He’d been astounded to discover it was a billion-dollar industry . . . and his boy had cleverly tapped into it.
Whenever he had to fly somewhere, he always checked the airport bookstores and was always pleased to find one or more of the boy’s stories on a shelf.
Once, it had seemed so vitally important that the boy serve his country. It seemed like a slap in America’s face when the boy had gotten a scholarship and gone to medical school. He had not spoken to the boy for many years.
He had thought the boy frivolous and silly and maybe, maybe even a coward.
He was a stupid old man.
“Hello, Captain.”
And, even though he was stupid, he would never show the boy how much it hurt to be called captain by the only son he would ever have . . . the only living reminder of his wife. Because he had it coming, all that and more.
How arrogant he had been to think that he would never have to pay for his sins. That the past didn’t have teeth.
“Good morning, Thomas. May I come in?”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain followed the boy into a large room that seemed to be a combination kitchen/dining room/living room. An exuberant blond fellow was fairly bouncing down the stairs, heading straight for them.
“Hey, hi there!” The man—compact and muscular, with a friendly smile—extended a hand. “I’m Jonas Carrey, I’m a friend of your son’s. It’s great to meet you.”
The captain shook hands. “Hello, Mr. Carrey. I’m James Pearson.”
“So, you really unleashed the thing that is Thomas upon the world? And you own up to it and everything?”
The captain was startled into laughter and, from the look on the boy’s face, he wasn’t the only one who was startled. “Yes, Mr. Carrey. I freely admit to it. He is my son. Fortunately, he takes after his mother.”
The boy raised his eyebrows.
“It’s Jonas, Captain Pearson. Thomas said you earned about a thousand medals in Vietnam, and led men into battle, and you were always the last one in retreat, and you saved a whole bunch of soldiers.” Mr. Carrey actually gasped for breath after this recitation.
The captain, shocked, glanced at the boy, who shrugged. He had no idea Thomas
ever
spoke of him, much less in complimentary terms he did not deserve.
“I did what I could for my country,” he replied carefully. “That’s the best any soldier can hope for.”
“Spoken like a man used to kicking ass. I like you, Captain Pearson, despite the fact that you fathered Thomas, here, who’s irritating in almost as many ways as my friend Fred. If you’re in town long enough, you ought to come to my wedding.”
What an interesting and—yes, it was true—odd man. Wedding? Jonas had seemed so bouncy and, er, overly friendly, the captain had assumed . . . Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he was wrong about one of Thomas’s friends.
“You’re very kind. Perhaps I will, if my schedule allows.”
“Lots of cake,” Jonas wheedled. “You want some coffee?”
“Please.”
Jonas bounced toward the kitchen, leaving the captain alone with the boy.
“You’re looking well,” he said after an uncomfortable silence.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I was surprised to hear from you.”
“No doubt, sir. Thank you,” the boy said formally, “for coming so quickly.”
“I was intrigued.” Inwardly, the captain cursed himself for lying. Or at least not telling the whole truth. Yes, he had been intrigued. But he would have come no matter what the boy’s request.
“Have you—have you had a chance to visit your mother’s grave recently?”
“Yes,” the boy said distantly.
“She, uh, always liked irises. Maybe sometime, we could—”
“Hi,” a female voice said, and the captain glanced over the boy’s shoulder.
Ah. The famous Fredrika Bimm. A doctor, like his boy. But not a
real
doctor—she was a scientist.
A damned good-looking one, too. The hair—such an unusual color! And green eyes—true green, not hazel. Tall and slender, neatly dressed in a button-down shirt and khaki shorts. Bare feet. There was something fresh and vital about her, something he couldn’t help responding to, even though he was an old man.
He wished, again, that his poor wandering boy would settle down in one place and find someone to love, start a family. The boy deserved more family than he currently had: which was, of course, just the captain.
“Dr. Bimm,” he said and tried not to wince when she shook his hand.
Holy hell, she’s strong!
This was his first experience with a mermaid, though they’d certainly been all over the news lately. He’d been following the stories quite carefully. The military applications alone were so exciting, it was—
But then, that was why he was here, wasn’t it?
“Captain Pearson. Thanks a lot for coming. We’re just waiting on Prince Artur and then we can get started.”
“The one who wanted the meeting is late?” he said, more sharply than he intended.
And then the lovely Dr. Bimm ripped him a new asshole.
“Yeah, well,
Captain
, we don’t all run our empty, meaningless lives by a clock. Some of us,
Captain
, have families and loved ones to think about and those loved ones often throw wrenches into our schedules. Some of us,
Captain
, have entire kingdoms to worry about, as opposed to spending all of our time, hmm, I dunno, ignoring our only son.”
The boy’s eyes actually bulged. “Jesus, Fred!”
The captain laughed. And laughed. And finally had to sit down and hold his sides, because they ached so from such unaccustomed glee.
Thirty-eight
Fred eyed Thomas’s father with thinly veiled suspicion. He looked like a typical military hard-ass, and from the moment she saw him she could guess how it had been between Captain Kick-ass and a son who had no interest in a military career.
Correction: a son who wrote romance novels and had no interest in a military career.
It made her ashamed for how much she took Moon and Sam for granted . . . for her occasional embarrassment at their hippie ways. Well, Moon would have lit herself on fire before trying to direct Fred’s choice of career. Fred could have turned tricks and Moon never, ever would have cut off contact.
Funny. Funny to think that Moon and Sam had protested at Vietnam rallies in the sixties. Trying to end the war. Trying to get men like Pearson out of the jungle and back with his family.
Men like Pearson, who would have sneered at Moon’s bell-bottoms and Sam’s beard. Who would have called them fools for loving peace more than loving serving their country.
Yes, she could guess how it had been. It made her admire Thomas all the more for sticking to his choice, for denying his father’s wishes and going his own way.
It was just another version of stage mothering, that’s what it was. Or fathers pushing their sons into football so they could relive their long-gone glory days.
In a phrase, irritating beyond belief. She recalled a line from one of her favorite novels,
The Prince of Tides.
“Fuck the fathers. They should know better.”
And wasn’t that the truth.
Still. She could have chosen her words with a little more care. It was too bad she’d lost her temper a little.
Well. A lot.
And then he’d laughed. And laughed. And laughed!
So now Fred had no idea what to think, and she didn’t like the feeling one bit. She didn’t even know she was going to say it until it was out. And, like so many other things she said, once it was out, there was no taking it back.
There were so many things, she thought, staring at her now-present fiancé, you couldn’t take back.
She couldn’t deny it felt good to stick it to the old man—the thought of this guy not appreciating someone as wonderful as Thomas was fucking
infuriating
—but realized instantly that she’d antagonized their only source of military intelligence.
Amazingly, he hadn’t minded.
Weird.
Really quite weird.
And then Artur had arrived, and she had to focus on the matter at hand.
The captain, to his credit, shook hands with Artur while looking him straight in the eye and
not
looking over-awed, as most people did when they met the imposing prince. They’d all had a seat at the big dining-room table.
Jonas had made coffee, put out platters of scrambled eggs and toast and jars of jelly, and had sat unobtrusively at the end of the table (most unusual!).
“Good sir, I am grateful you have come.” Artur, who loved surface-dweller food, had a pile of scrambled eggs on his plate that resembled a yellow pyramid, three pieces of toast, and two cups of coffee. “My king has a problem and we need your assistance.”
The captain, sitting ramrod straight in his chair (his spine didn’t even touch the back!), nodded. He took a sip of his coffee and replied, “So my son implied. What’s the trouble?”
Artur laid it out, quickly and precisely. The captain’s eyebrows arched a few times (and how he looked like Thomas when he did that!) but he seemed to readily accept telepathy, missing Undersea Folk, the king’s astonishing telepathic range, and how he and Artur discovered the problem. Fred was slightly amazed.
“I do not mean to impugn your honor by implying your government may be involved,” Artur said carefully, “especially as Thomas has explained to me what a great warrior you were for your people.”
Again with the eyebrow arch. Another glance at Thomas. And Thomas shrugged, something he was doing a lot with his father around. He was hardly saying anything at all—major-league unusual.
“But perhaps you may have some ideas about where we may look. Or perhaps you may strongly feel we are going in the wrong direction and can share that with us so we waste no more of your time. My people, and my father, would be grateful for any assistance you can give us, in whatever form that may be.”
The captain smiled. It did amazing things to his craggy face: the years fell away. He had the same dimple Thomas did. His eyes, arctic blue, actually seemed to thaw. “Prince Artur, you will be an excellent king. I’ve rarely heard such potentially dangerous questions posed so diplomatically.”
Artur inclined his head.
“You should see him juggle bowling pins,” Jonas piped up from the end of the table, chomping on toast slathered with roughly an inch and a half of jelly.
Fred smirked in his direction.
“But I’m afraid our government would never, and has never, had anything to do with kidnapping, unlawfully detaining, or killing any of your people.”
“Not the good people who brought us Fat Man and Little Boy,” Fred said mockingly. “Or Agent Orange, the nuclear submarine, Japanese-American internment camps, the Thompson submachine gun, the long-range bomber, land-based ballistic missiles, or the B-52.”
Thomas was actually covering his eyes. “Fred,” he groaned.
Fred couldn’t have stopped if someone had stuck a gun in her ear. “Of
course
the government isn’t up to no good. Perish the thought!”
The captain quirked an eyebrow at her and the corner of his mouth turned up. “Why do you hate America, Dr. Bimm?” he asked pleasantly.
She threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, don’t even start with that crap, Captain!”
“You look about the same age as my son. Hmmm. Let me guess: your parents were hippies? Antimilitary? Vietnam War protesters?”
“
Are
hippies,” she corrected. “And yes. And yes.”
“In other words, they were free to protest their government’s actions because the military secured that freedom for them.”
“Children,” Jonas said around a mouthful of eggs. “Play nice.”
“Quite right, Jonas.”
“Sorry,” Fred muttered.
“Quite all right, Dr. Bimm. As I was saying, my government has not harmed or unlawfully detained any Undersea Folk. Not for military applications, not for border skirmishes, not for money, not for oil. Not for anything. I regret the loss of your people, but my government is blameless.”
“I see.” Artur was silent for a moment. “I am sorry to have wasted your time, Captain.”
“It was no trouble. I was glad for the chance to see my boy again.”
Thomas choked on his coffee. Fred had to pat him on the back when his face turned an alarming shade of purple.
“And, of course, I made a stop yesterday to visit some cronies at Sanibel Station—the naval base they have just down the road?”
“Sanibel Station?” Fred repeated, startled.
“There’s a naval base on this teeny island?” Jonas asked.
Fred had no idea how to answer him. The navy often allowed marine biologists (or consulted with them) on various projects, and so Fred and Thomas, during their years of education and fieldwork, both had a working knowledge of most naval bases in the country.
And Thomas, of course, was the son of a naval officer. From the look on his face, he’d never heard of Sanibel Station, either.
“Well, perhaps I’m mistaken.” The captain shrugged. “I’m getting old. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
Thomas snorted into his coffee.
“Perhaps it’s called something else. Or perhaps it’s some
where
else. But regardless, it was nice to talk to some old friends. One of them—” The captain laughed, a freeing, joyful sound. “He’s a sentimental idiot.”
“That’s . . .” Fred paused. “So sweet.”
“Oh, he’s always talking about how I carried him on my back through ninety yards of rice paddies to the chopper pickup. What crap! I keep telling him he’s got the wrong guy. On paper, I was sixty miles away. That’s what my orders said, anyway.” He shook his head, still snorting laughter. “Like I said, he’s an idiot. But it was nice to talk to him, all the same. Trading war stories. Finding out what former squad members have been up to. Silly old man stuff.” Pause. “And it was very nice to see my son.”
Thomas was staring at his father as if the man had sprouted a bathtub faucet from his forehead. For that matter, so was Fred.
The captain stood. Artur and Thomas stood. Fred and Jonas remained seated, Jonas because he was still chomping away, and Fred because her brain was working furiously to figure out just what the hell was going on.
“It was nice to meet you, Prince Artur.”
“And you, Captain Pearson. I see now where Thomas gets his warrior spirit.”
The captain shook his head. “No. He’s his mother’s son. For which I thank God every night.” They shook hands, surface-dweller style.
Fred had to stand up and smack Jonas on the back. He really ought to stop eating until the captain left, she thought.
“Good to see you, son.”
“You, too, sir.” Thomas stuck out his hand.
And the captain put a fat file folder in it, with CLASSIFIED and EYES ONLY and PROJECT JAMMER stamped all over it in red.
Then he smiled.
Hugged his son (who was standing, frozen, and Fred feared he would drop the folder, or faint, or both).
Left.