“Oh.” He grasped the back of the chair and drew it to his chest, lifting the chair’s front two legs. Then he leaned forward, bringing the back of the chair toward the table. He rocked the chair back and forth on its legs for several moments. “Does that mean she can come home soon?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know,” Joe said.
“Can we visit her tonight?”
“Sure, buddy.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “How ’bout I get you a snack first?”
“Um…I’m not hungry.”
Joe sighed. “Me neither.” He looked back at the mail on the table. “I’ll put those away later. Captain Lockhart gave me the rest of the day off. I’ll clean up for a sec, then we’ll go to the hospital, okay?”
“Okay.”
His uncle disappeared into the back of the apartment, and he heard the rush of the bathroom faucet. He looked over at the TV, which held no interest for him. His mom didn’t like him to watch it anyway. He tightened his grip on the chair. He wished he’d never made her take that money and go to the doctor a year ago. Things hadn’t been the same since he’d overheard her and Joe use that word—that awful C word. His mom had been in the hospital for weeks now. Grant bet his dad didn’t even know she was sick.
A glossy store circular sat atop the mail on the table, and Grant reached for it. Thumbing through the pages, he paused at the toy section.
Bummer
—the Creepy Crawlers set he wanted was still too expensive. He wondered if he could somehow make his own molds to create realistic insects. That’d really freak out the girls at school.
He didn’t want Joe to know he coveted the toy—he’d already spent way too much on him—so he jettisoned the advertisement to the table. It came to rest near an opened letter, and he noticed the hospital’s logo on the envelope. He slid the paper from the stack and found himself looking at a bill. His eyes scanned the number listed next to
You Owe
.
Fifteen thousand dollars?
How would they ever pay that? Though Uncle Joe had tried to hide it, he knew money was already tight. His mother’s tests and doctor visits had to be the reason Uncle Joe hadn’t let him play any sports this year—not his claim that he wanted Grant to become more well-rounded by reading the military history books that lined the bookshelves in the apartment.
“I told you not to look at that!” his uncle boomed from behind him.
Grant spun around and pressed into the edge of the table as Joe charged forward. His heart galloped as he saw the fury in his uncle’s eyes. “Sorry, sir!” He tried to get away, but the table held fast. He reached out to catch himself on the corner before he fell back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
His uncle instantly stepped back, splaying his hands out and offering his palms. A look of sadness and anger filled his eyes: the look he always gave when Grant messed up. The anger Grant understood, but the sadness confused him. Joe reached for his hand and led him away from the table.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower, calmer. “I didn’t want you to see that bill.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” He looked down. “How…how many pushups should I do?”
Joe made a strangled noise, and Grant looked up just as his uncle lunged for him—he’d finally made him mad enough to hit him, he realized—but instead Joe grabbed him in a fierce hug. His mind raced as his cheek pressed into his uncle’s uniform. Why was he hugging him?
“You’re not in trouble, Grant,” he said, his deep voice echoing in his chest. “I just didn’t want you to worry about this. You worry about too much already.”
“But how can you pay that bill?” He tried to breathe—tried not to let his voice shake so much. “What’ll they do if we can’t pay? Will they make Mom leave the hospital?”
Joe pulled back and stared down at him. “You see? This is what I wanted to avoid. This isn’t your problem, Grant…You’re twelve years old. I’ll take care of this. I’ll figure it out.”
He nodded.
“Don’t tell your mother about the bill, either.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You ready? Let’s go, son. Let’s go see your mother…”
“You ready for this?” Agent Bounter asked.
Grant glanced at the nameplate next to the door:
Captain Archibald Lockhart
. It hadn’t been until after his mother’s funeral that Joe admitted Captain Lockhart had loaned him the money to pay the medical bills.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. “Ready.”
Bounter entered first and approached the lieutenant seated at the desk in the outer office. Captain Lockhart’s door was closed.
“We’re here to see Captain Lockhart, sir,” Bounter told him.
The lieutenant looked up in surprise, then frowned as he examined his computer screen. “The captain told me to expect two civilians.”
Grant glared at Bounter. “Petty Officer Hunter, you didn’t inform the captain of our arrival?”
“I…” For a second the FBI agent’s mouth hung open. “I must’ve made a mistake…sir.” He turned back to the real lieutenant. “Please notify the captain that Lt. Saylor and Petty Officer Hunter are here to see him, sir.”
The lieutenant shrugged. “All right. You gentlemen can hang your coats there and take a seat.”
Grant found a hook for his jacket and cover as Archie’s assistant announced their arrival over the phone. When he sat down next to his fake subordinate, he felt a sharp elbow stab his rib. Bounter mouthed,
Next time
I’m
the officer.
Grant grinned.
His grin vanished when the captain’s door flew open, revealing eyes that sliced into him with their wrath. He’d known the captain would never forgive him for holding him at gunpoint, but Lockhart
had
agreed to this meeting with the FBI, hadn’t he? Grant popped off his chair and braced to attention, feeling Bounter follow suit next to him.
Captain Lockhart stood at six-four, his brown hair now completely gray, the slight protrusion of his belly the only soft part of his physique. He studied them for what felt like almost a minute. “Inside,
now
.”
Grant made a precise turn and marched through the doorway with Bounter close on his six. Holding the door open, the captain seemed to emit heat as he passed. He stood at attention facing the desk, even though the ruse was unnecessary now that the captain had closed his door.
“How
dare
you wear that uniform!” he spat. Then he was right in front of Grant. “You were discharged for a reason. It’s a slap in the Navy’s face for you to show up like that.”
Grant remained silent. He felt as small as he had three years ago when he’d faced Captain Lockhart in a standoff. He could almost feel the cold metal of Logan’s gun in his unsteady right hand. He couldn’t come up with the words he needed to diffuse the situation, and his lack of response seemed to incite the captain more.
“I’d never have agreed to this meeting if I’d known you’d pull this stunt.”
“Captain, it was our idea,” Agent Bounter offered.
“And who the fuck are you?” he stormed. “You’re certainly no sailor with a stance like that.”
Bounter gave up his attempt at standing at attention and reached into his back pocket. “FBI Agent Lucas Bounter, sir.” He handed over his badge.
“Organized Crime Task Force,” the captain read before flinging his badge back to him. “All I know is the FBI called this meeting. I didn’t think I could refuse, so I agreed.
Then
they inform me Grant Madsen’s coming in.” He slid back in front of him. “Joe told me you got out of the state pen. Have you committed a federal crime now?”
“No, sir.” This was going a
lot
worse than Bounter had said it would.
Bounter cleared his throat. “Captain, Mr. Madsen’s been pardoned for his crimes. Will you calm down, sir?”
“You come in here in fake uniforms, and you expect me to
calm down?”
“We did it to protect you!” Bounter exclaimed.
He finally paused. “What do you mean?”
“Will you let us explain before you give yourself a goddamn stroke?”
Grant’s eyes widened. He’d never heard anyone speak to the captain that way.
Captain Lockhart laced his arms across his chest. “Fine,” he conceded. “Sit. This better be good.”
Grant relaxed and followed Bounter to the conference table. A deep line creased the captain’s forehead—probably a sign of disgust. He pursed his lips and nodded toward the table, where Grant took a seat. As he joined them, Grant noticed that he and the captain sat ramrod straight on their chairs, making Bounter look like a slouch.
“Captain Lockhart, you have a drug problem on this base,” Bounter began.
He blanched. “I most certainly do not.”
Bounter opened the folder he’d brought and removed several enlarged photos, which he fanned out on the table. He waited for the captain to inspect them. “I believe these are your men here, smoking weed?” He pointed to another photo. “Buying meth?”
“How do you know that’s methamphetamine?” Captain Lockhart demanded.
Bounter arched his eyebrow. “We know, sir. It’s what we do.”
The captain sat motionless for several moments. “Okay.” He scooped up the photos. “I’ll have these men arrested today.”
“No, you won’t.” Bounter snatched the photos back. “Arresting these men won’t put a dent in your problem.”
“And why is that?”
“There are officers involved.”
“That can’t be true. I trust my officers.” He gave Grant a sideways glance. “Well, most of them, anyway. Why should I believe you?”
Grant finally spoke. “Because I’m setting up a sale to them as we speak, sir.”
His lips parted.
“Captain, allow me to explain,” Bounter said. “Grant’s working undercover for us, infiltrating the Russian Mafia down in the city. When the don and his guys discovered Grant was former Navy, they wanted him to be the go-between. They’d already established contact with men on this base, but thought the officers would more likely trust one of their own. This drug problem runs deep. That’s why my bosses had us dress in uniform to protect you.”
“Why do
I
need protection?”
“Because after this deal goes down and you arrest the ringleaders, we can’t let the Russians or the officers connect the dots between you and Grant. We have to keep this on the down-low.”
The captain sat back in his chair, his hands folded in a tent. “That’s why you had me pretend this meeting was with Lt. Davis. The uniform’s for Grant’s protection too, then? So nobody recognizes him later?”
Bounter nodded.
The captain took this in. “You’re going undercover with the mob?” he demanded after a moment.
“Yes, sir,” Grant replied.
“Why?”
“I…” He swallowed. “I just have to.”
“What does Joe think about this?” he asked.
“He’s not happy about it, sir, but he said it’s my decision.” He sighed. “I apologize for the uniform, sir. I tried to tell Agent Bounter it wasn’t a good idea, but he insisted.”
Captain Lockhart nodded. “I still don’t like it.” He paused. “But I have to admit you look good in khaki again.”
“Thank you, sir.” He decided to take a risk. “And I assure you I don’t have a gun on me this time.”
The captain’s mouth twitched as he shook his head. “You better not. How’s Joe?”
“Good, sir. His ship should return to Norfolk in a few weeks.”
“I’m sorry about your brother.”
Grant flinched. The captain always had been direct. “Thank you, sir.” When he swallowed, his throat was tight. “And I’m sorry…for what happened between us. For threatening you, sir. It wasn’t right, especially after all you’ve done for me.”
“It
wasn’t
right,” he agreed. “But Joe’s told me why you attempted that inane robbery: Logan promised to kill him if you didn’t. You should’ve gone to the authorities. But still, I understand what you thought you had to do.”
“Look,” Bounter butted in, “it’s nice you two are catching up and all, but we need to set up this drug deal.”
The captain turned to him. “There
is
no deal unless I trust the players involved.”
Bounter’s smirk faded. “Right. Makes sense, sir.”
“And speaking of trust, is there any evidence Commander Laurent is wrapped up in this mess?”
“No,” Bounter said. “He hasn’t been involved to our knowledge.”
“Thank God. He knows his officers, and I want to bring him on board to arrange the sting, if the FBI’s okay with that.”
“That would be fine, sir. We’re hoping it will go down within the next week.”
Captain Lockhart rose and went to his desk to call the commander.
Once the call connected and the captain’s booming voice filled the office, Bounter leaned in. “Wow, he was pissed. I take back what I said. You can still be the officer next time.”