Taylor Made Owens (50 page)

“Daddy, Daddy. Help me! Don’t let them take me! Don’t make me go.”

“Kara, I’m sorry,” he said with tears streaming down his face. “Daddy loves you. We’ll be together again.” The four left with his main reason for being. He sat on the floor, covered his face with his hands and cried for hours. Later he contacted a lawyer to see what could be done, but prospects looked bleak.

Jennifer, overcome with guilt, called him that evening to assure him Kara would be loved and well cared for, and that he could visit her when he wanted. He said nothing to her until the end when he said, “I’ll hate you forever.” Jennifer started crying.

Nothing could be worse than this, he thought. No, but something just as devastating was in store. He learned the next day that Kristen had accepted Mark’s proposal of marriage the previous Saturday. Mark had taken her to an exclusive restaurant, bought a five hundred-dollar bottle of wine, and presented her with two dozen roses and the engagement ring. When she opened her mouth to accept his offer, something checked her.
No!
shrieked her soul. It was a momentary distraction.

She smiled and said, “Yes.”

On the way to Robert’s office to inform him, she was struck by the same wave of panic that had washed over her when she was considering Andrew Katz’s proposal of marriage. A powerful voice from deep inside cried,
I have to marry my soul mate!
When she entered his office to deliver the news, the words wouldn’t come at first.
I’m supposed to be with him!
her soul was screaming.

As the words came out, it was as if someone else was uttering them: “I thought I should tell you Mark Loftus has asked me to marry him, and I said … yes.”

Tears rushed to his eyes as he hurried her out of his office with a laconic, “Congratulations.” She was out the door and it was shut before she knew what was happening.

Second thoughts immediately ushered into her confused head as she stood outside his door and listened to his sobs. He had put his back to the door and sunk to the floor. She knelt and put her hands on the door, her agonized soul desperately trying to reach him. Tears poured from her eyes.

She scoffed at the comparisons she’d done between the two men that had made Mark seem so superior. Her love for Robert couldn’t be fully comprehended or explained. No checklist of strengths and weaknesses could account for it. When it came to what mattered most, her love for Mark was as a candle to Robert’s sun. She fought to deny it to herself, so painful were the regrets Robert evoked; she had put the pain behind her and didn’t want to look back. But what did his tears signify? Part of her, most of her, wanted to march back into his office and declare, “If you want me just ask!” She put her hand on the door knob.

No!
insisted her fragile ego.
Not again. He loves someone else. He said he doesn’t want to know me anymore. I have someone better. Don’t be a fool.

She got up, turned, and left. The door stayed closed.

Miriam came to Kristen’s office a few minutes after Kristen returned. As she approached the closed door, she could hear Kristen weeping. She knocked. Kristen claimed in a shaky voice that she was busy and couldn’t be disturbed at present. “It’s Miriam, Kristen. Are you all right?” No answer. “May I please come in so we can talk?” She tried the door; it was locked. Kristen composed herself and opened the door. “What’s the matter?” Miriam asked.

“I’m okay now. I should get going. I have patients to see.”

“Not looking like that you’re not. If a patient sees you, he’ll be convinced you’re going to deliver dreadful news. What is it?”

“Oh, it’s just foolishness. I told Bob I’m marrying Mark, and he rushed me out of his office, then he started to cry, and so did I, and I … I can’t seem to stop.”

“You’re telling yourself you’ve made a ghastly mistake. It’s so obvious you love each oth—”

“I have patients to see!” she yawped as she hurried off.

Losing his daughter
and
Kristen was all Robert could take. He decided to call General Turnbull to get him to disabuse the media about the mountebank. He’d retired two years earlier, so Robert had to track him down. It took a few days, but Robert found his whereabouts and called.

“Good to hear from you, son,” said the general. “What’s up?”

“Have you not heard that some clown named Patrick Rocha is claiming to be the soldier who helped Hendrix get the news about the smallpox out?”

“What?”

“It’s big news up here. The media are making a big deal out of him.”

“But hasn’t anyone denied the story?”

“No. In fact, Canadian politicians are falling over themselves to try to hog some of the limelight. He’s Canadian and was in the U.S. Army then, and says he was in Baghdad that night. Everyone believes him, including the only people I care about. My ex-wife actually took my daughter from me because of it. The woman I love thinks
I’m
the phony and is marrying someone else. My son … I don’t know. No one trusts me anymore. This thing is ruining my life! Please help me, General.”

“I’ll take care of it. Very few people knew of your involvement, so it may take some time.”

“Thank you, sir. Um, if at all possible, I still don’t want my name released. You should’ve seen how those idiots in the media swarmed over him. That’s exactly what I wanted to avoid. Oh, and, sir, could I possibly get a replacement medal? My son lost the one you gave me.” The general said he would see to that. “One more thing, sir,” said Robert. “Can I possibly have a copy of the recording of Hendrix’s phone call?” The good general said okay, but it would take some time to get it to Robert.

M
ark Loftus, local hero and candidate for Parliament, thought it would be grand to associate himself with Patrick Rocha, the newest national hero. Seeing the two heroes side by side, the voters could only conclude they were from the same mold and recognize what a splendid Member of Parliament he would make. Patrick was just starting a lucrative speaking tour. Mark and Kristen worked together quickly to set up a candidate’s fundraiser with Rocha as the guest speaker. The timing was impeccable: the federal election was widely expected in April or May. Bookings were going quickly, and Mark wanted to strike while the iron was hot. They chose Rocha’s first opening, the next Thursday, giving them just six days to make all the arrangements.

The idea worked magnificently. Nearly 750 people attended at a hundred dollars a head, leaving almost forty thousand dollars for Mark’s campaign after paying Patrick’s twenty-five thousand-dollar fee and the expenses for the fundraiser. Not only that, the local media showed up as well. What a coup! Television cameras recorded the two, hands clasped with arms above their heads and broad smiles: the new generation of Canadian heroes. No terrorist would ever strike Canada with those two at the helm.

When Patrick arrived, Kristen, anxious to make his acquaintance, introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Kristen Taylor, and I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“And I’m always real happy to meet a babe, too,” said Patrick.

“I’m Mark’s fiancée,” Kristen hastened to point out. His smile disappeared. She resumed: “I’ve heard all about what you did, and, of course, I’m impressed. I wanted to ask you if you met someone I know while you were in Iraq. Bob Owens?”

“No, that don’t ring no bells.”

“That’s odd because he was in Delta Force and was in Baghdad that night.”

“Uh, well, I was just regular Army and didn’t know none of them supposed hotshots.”

“When you were with Hendrix, was there any other American soldier around?”

“I didn’t see no one else. Anyways, I have to get ready for my speech, so—”

“I understand. I’m looking forward to your speech. Thank you for coming tonight.” Patrick went on his way, and Kristen furrowed her brow.

Mark made the first speech, stating with passion and certitude his platform. Besides healthcare—and you can never spend enough on that in Canada—he plied voters with a law and order theme. Normally, that would be a low priority for an election campaign in Canada, but London had recently suffered some well-publicized motorcycle gang violence. Rival gangs had been killing each other, doubling London’s murder count this year. Some innocent bystanders had been killed or injured as well. Just the week before, a jury member for a murder trial of one gang leader had been strangled, causing a mistrial.

Mark declared his frustration with laws that seemed to protect the gangs and tied his hands as police chief to bring them to justice. “Elect me, and I’ll push for legislation to stop these animals. If it were up to me, I’d lock them all up forever. That fiasco last week when the bikers murdered the young lady on the jury must never be repeated. I swear to you, I’ll get them. The murderers will not get away with it! The integrity of our justice system is at stake.”

As Robert Owens, who was one of those who came to see Patrick, listened, he became distinctly uncomfortable with this bluster from the police chief. The gangs had shown no hesitation to strike hard when they perceived a threat, and Loftus was definitely a threat. Robert worried that Kristen might be caught in the next crossfire.

Patrick took the podium to raucous cheers. His speech was uninspiring except for his rousing account of the scene with the tank. He described how, dressed in the enemy’s uniform, he knelt between Hendrix and the tank to give him time to get the critical message out. He told of the tank and soldiers from the south approaching, and how imminent their death was. The audience was spellbound. He finished the tale with his running to cover, firing at the approaching soldiers, and assuming Hendrix was following. Much to his shock, Hendrix stayed behind.

“The poor guy was blown up by the tank,” news that everyone knew yet, in context, it saddened the crowd. “We can all thank God he got the message out, though,” he finished to cheers.

Reporters were given the first opportunity to ask questions. They posed questions he’d answered a hundred times before. He answered them again to applause. TV crews then packed up to give them time to prepare the story for the eleven PM broadcasts.

Then the audience was given a chance to ask questions. A microphone was provided to those interested. A lady was given the first opportunity, and she declaimed, “I simply wanted to say thank you.” Patrick smiled, and the crowd cheered. “You may have saved everyone in this room.” Robert screwed his eyes skyward and grabbed the mic from her. “Ignorant asshole,” she labeled him.

He asked Patrick, “Were you scared at all?” Kristen looked and scowled upon seeing Robert and realizing what he would try to do.

Patrick had answered this many times and had his stock answer: “When a dude’s in the middle of something that intense, your adrenaline gets a-going, and you forget your fear. I really didn’t feel no fear.”

That riled Robert, who’d been terrified in that circumstance, but he calmly stated, “Hm, I would’ve thought anyone in that peril would be petrified, that the real courage consists of overcoming the fear because your friend and your country are depending on you.”

Some muttering began around him.

Kristen, who’d worked feverishly to make the night a success, was angry over his spiteful conduct. She went to him and begged him to stop. “I know why you’re doing this. Please stop it. This evening is crucial for Mark’s future.”

He ignored her and directed another question at Patrick. “Why didn’t you get a medal if you did what you say you did?” That spawned hissing and shouting from the audience. He has the nerve to question our national hero?

A few people shouted, “Shut up!”

Patrick also had a ready answer for that one. “It’s true I didn’t get no medal, probably ‘cause I wasn’t offed, but a couple a politicians just admitted this was a big time screw-up, and told me I’ll get a Canadian medal, maybe even the, uh, something Cross, you know?”

“The Victoria Cross, and he deserves it!” Mark declared. The audience cheered. “I’ll work to see he gets it when I’m elected.” More applause.

Now Robert was furious. “Good men gave their lives that night in earning their country’s highest medal, Rocha. How dare you dishonor them by presuming to deserve the same honor. You’re a goddamn liar! You weren’t with Hendrix that day!”

Patrick’s face went white, and a chorus of boos erupted.

Kristen grabbed Robert’s arm and implored, “Stop it. You’re ruining everything!”

He yanked away his arm and continued, “Where were you, Rocha? Hiding in one of the buildings there?” The crowd persisted in jeering him. Patrick stood there in stunned silence. Robert challenged, “Why didn’t you help? You could’ve helped save him. He died because of you!” Robert knew this was unreasonable, but it felt good to make the imposter squirm. People cursed at him and shoved him.

With Patrick unable to defend himself, Mark apologized for the “ignorant fool,” and ordered his officers to eject Robert.

“We have a right to free speech in this country, Mr. Loftus. You have no right to kick me out just because you don’t like what I have to say,” he screamed at Mark. “Are we supposed to elect someone who is so cavalier with our constitutional rights? Are we supposed to vote for a dupe who advocates for the country’s highest honor on behalf of a cowardly charlatan?”

“Robert! Shut up!” a fuming Kristen bellowed. Mark, who never liked Robert in the first place and was infuriated with him at that moment, repeated his order. An officer came up to him, took away the microphone, and escorted him out. Robert waited in the parking lot for Mark.

Mark and Kristen emerged twenty minutes later. She saw Robert and went on the offensive. “Your behavior this evening: You ruined everything! You undermined the man I love. You caused a ruckus. You insulted our guest of honor. Are you satisfied?” He said nothing.

Then Mark said, “You destroyed a perfect evening that could have locked up the next election for me. You did this because you’re jealous that I got Kristen, right? But you had no right to do that to me. I’ve been completely civil to you.” Robert merely glowered at him. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” Mark demanded.