The Recruiter (A Thriller) (12 page)

Like all great moments of pure pleasure, there is an element of agony combined with the ecstasy.

Peter Forbes, scrunched into the backseat of his parents’ Ford Explorer, is keenly aware of that dichotomy. He is sprawled out on the back seat, his back pressed against the side of the Explorer. His pants are off, and between his legs, the Tank is doing something she has clearly performed many times before.

Peter has never experienced anything like it. The feeling is one of pure, intense pleasure.

She swallows him whole. He is overwhelmed by the sensation and makes sounds he’s never made before during sex.

The agony isn’t entirely sexual, however. For as much as his mind is inflamed by what Vanessa is doing, he can’t help but think of Beth.

Two hours ago, he was at a party having a great time. Drinking plenty of Chad Cleveland’s booze, talking bullshit with the guys. The next, he’s talking to a girl who seems vaguely familiar. A few more drinks are down the hatch before he realizes who she is.

A sudden burst of pleasure makes Peter shudder.

Oh God oh god oh god.

He shifts and Vanessa reacts. She is completely naked except for her socks, and she smiles at Peter and he closes his eyes.

Slowly, she moves up, and she straddles Peter, drops herself onto him. Peter nearly shouts with ecstasy as he feels himself drive deep inside her. “Oh God!” he cries in a hoarse whisper. Vanessa grunts, a deep, powerful sound. Like an animal.

Peter feels heat run through him. His eyes are shut tightly, pure pleasure signals coming from his nerves to his brain in a relentless procession.

He’s going over.

His hands clench her buttocks fiercely. His body is thrusting up toward her, as hard as he can. He’s gritting his teeth. Can feel the Explorer rocking with their thrusts.

He opens his eyes, and a white oval hovering just outside the Explorer catches his eye.

He freezes.

A new sensation, freezing cold, stabs at his stomach.

“Oh God,” he says. He pulls away from Vanessa and tries to untangle his legs from her.

“What?” she asks. She’s sweating, and her breath is in ragged gasps. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh God,” is all he can say. It’s all he’s been saying for the last twenty minutes. “Oh no. Shit!” He scrambles and gets his pants on and stumbles from the Explorer. Already, he is consumed with a head-spinning mix of guilt and panic. A million excuses, stories, rationalizations flood his mind.

Beth is hobbling toward her car, he can hear her wailing. It’s the most heartbreaking sound he has ever heard in his life. It drives the guilt deeper inside him, like a knife. He runs after her in his bare feet. The gravel, the cold, not registering.

“Beth, stop! Beth!”

She stumbles and screams in pain.

He gets to her and can see her holding her knee. Her face is catching the moon’s reflection full on—it’s covered with tears. She’s writhing on the ground, holding her knee, holding the thick brace. Peter can see snot running from her nose. Her lower lip is bleeding.
She must have bitten it,
he thinks.

She struggles back to her feet and faces Peter, like a boxer who’s just gotten knocked to the canvas. Her eyes are filled with tears, her face a hurt, angry smear. All she can say is one word.

“Her?”

Peter opens his mouth, but all the excuses and rationalizations evade his grasp.

Beth wails again and hobbles back to her car. He tries to help her as she stumbles forward, but as soon as he grabs her arm to help support her, she pivots and whips a backhand across his face. It snaps his head around, and the sheer force of it knocks him backward, and he lands on the ground on his butt. He can taste blood in his mouth.

Beth screams as she drops into the driver’s seat, grabbing her leg. She slams the car door shut and starts up the engine. Peter gets to his feet. “Beth!” he calls, but she takes one more glance at him and above and behind him—toward the Explorer—before she whips off the plateau in a roar of screaming engine and spinning wheels.

Peter hangs his head, his entire body numb with guilt, fear, shock, and cold.

The cold seems to drive spikes through his body.

He lifts his head and, for a moment, listens to the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below.

Julie Giacalone, a model of practical efficiency and clear focus, is daydreaming about the new recruiter. Sitting comfortably at her desk, a sheaf of papers forgotten on her desk, she is staring at a spot on the wall, her mind elsewhere.

“Julie?”

She jumps, the voice startling her.

Paul Rodgers is looking at her, a curious expression on his face. “Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”
What the hell is going on with me? Jesus Christ, what am I doing? Get a grip, Jules.

“You looked like you were a million miles away.”

Julie smiles, her composure returning at last. “Nope, right here.”

Paul looks back over his shoulder. “Samuel’s back. Want me to get an update how he’s doing?”

Julie shuffles the papers on her desk, pretends to make an important note—perhaps scheduling a meeting. “No,” she says, her manner as offhand as she can manufacture. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Okay,” Paul says, and Julie wonders if she detected a trace of sarcasm.
Whatever,
she thinks.
I’m the CO here. I can do whatever I want.

Paul leaves, and Julie reconsiders her last thought.
Actually, no, you can’t do whatever you want.
Ever since a few recent scandals, where several sailors were accused of assault, the Navy has instituted more severe policies for dating, especially between officers and enlisted men. Julie is familiar with the rules and knows there are plenty of loopholes. Besides, they’re mostly designed to protect women from men.

She can’t believe Samuel would be the kind to object—

“Ma’am?”

Julie looks up and instantly feels heat rush to her face. Samuel is standing in the doorway.

“Paul said you wanted to speak with me.” He looks the same: lean and strong, the blue eyes intense.

Julie curses herself. “Yes, I wanted to…get an update.”

She watches Samuel take a seat in front of her. He moves so gracefully, no wasted motion. “How’s it going?” she asks.

“Okay,” he says. Julie waits, figuring he’ll say more, but he doesn’t.

“Okay? That’s it?”

Samuel smiles easily. “Well, better than okay, I guess. My first two appointments were busts. Both cases the kids had no interest whatsoever; the parents were just using the threat of the Navy to try to get them to shape up.

“So do you think you’ll meet your quota for the first month?”

Samuel’s face pales.
Uh-oh,
she thinks. Is she pushing too hard? He just started.

“I think I should be able to,” he answers.

“Good, very good,” she says, more her old self. “So how is everything else going? Are you settling in?”

“I’m home,” he says.

“Good,” she says.
Christ, that’s the third time I’ve said “good” in the last twenty seconds,
she thinks. She’s making a fool of herself. But she’s drawn to him. To his quiet intensity. His body. His face. His lips. She’s making a fool of herself all right, but she’s about to make an even bigger fool of herself. But what the hell…here goes.

“Big plans for the weekend?” she says as casually as possible, considering her fingers are knotted on the arms of her chair, and her entire body is one long, coiled muscle.

“Oh, a little unpacking. Not much. You?”

“I…uh…was wondering if you wanted a tour of the District. I mean, I know you’re from here, but there are some areas where we’ve been very successful in terms of recruitment numbers. Not that it’s…the tour…is work.” She feels herself blush. “And not that it isn’t…work…but—”

“As long as we can fit a few beers somewhere,” he says. Julie raises her eyes to meet his and sees that they are clear of guile. Over the years, she’s had to learn to read people, especially young men, and although Samuel is older than most, she feels like she gets a clear reading from him. Those blue eyes aren’t lying.

He is telling the truth.

And the message to Julie Giacalone is crystal clear.

He’s interested.

In her.

“Fischer for three!”

Her voice echoes off into the night. It’s a thin sound, like the hollow resonance of a fake laugh. The ball bangs off the backboard and veers off into the shrubs along the house. She hobbles over to it, scoops it up, pays no attention to the fact that it’s wet and cold, and that her hands are losing their feeling. Her shoes are untied, mud caked along the white bandage. Her shirt is untucked, and her hair is in loose, wet strands. A lopsided grin is on her face as she turns and faces the basket.

Beth reaches down to the narrow cement path that runs between the driveway and the house. The whiskey bottle is almost empty. Holding the basketball under one arm, she unscrews the cap, takes a long pull from the bottle, wipes her mouth with her sleeve, puts the cap back on, and sets the bottle down. She releases the ball from under her arm, catches it with the other hand, and starts dribbling the ball on the driveway. She pounds it hard against the pavement, and as drunk as she is, the movement is so natural and so ingrained that it’s a perfectly timed, perfectly executed, unconscious movement.

“Three seconds to go, Lake Orion is down by one, all eyes are on Beth Fischer.” Her enunciation is diminished, but her volume is not. Her words broadcast far into the night. Before the last one leaves her mouth, a light appears in the house next door.

Beth doesn’t notice.

“She fakes left,” Beth says, then hobbles left, the pain in her knee cuts through the whiskey fog and momentarily wipes the hysterical grin from her face. She grits her teeth and bears down on the ball. “She dribbles right.” A crablike motion gets her in that direction. “She’s like poetry in motion out there folks, I gotta tell ya, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” Beth, moving in nearly slow motion, mimes a slow head fake. “She’s got space between herself and her defender.” Beth, in a reckless but remarkably fluid motion, brings the ball from a dribble to a half hook shot. The ball sails through the air. “She shoots! The ball rotates beautifully, her follow through is magnificent…this girl has got the goddamn, motherfucking eye of the tiger, folks.” The ball careens at the basket like a missile but misses the hoop entirely and goes over the roof of the garage. She hears it bang off the roof, roll down the other side, and crash into the garbage cans. A cat hisses.

“Whoa, that one got away from her, folks.” Beth sways on her feet, her arms upraised in mock victory. “But what do you expect? A knee made of rubber, a boyfriend fucking the opponent…it’s all just another day in the life of one Beth Fisch—”

“Beth.”

She whirls around

“That’s enough,” her mother says. Anna is in a bathrobe, her hair squashed against one side of her head, sticking up on the other. Her white tube socks and slippers seem to glow in the night. “Come inside.”

“Welcome to the game, Mom, but you’re too late. It’s over. We lost. I tried for the game-winning shot but it ended up in the garbage. Along with everything else, huh?”

“Beth, I don’t know what’s going on, but you should come inside.”

“We make a great team too, Mom. Don’t you think?”

Anna doesn’t respond. She looks beyond Beth. Another light has turned on in the house next door.

“Beth.”

“You drink yourself into a stupor, get your stomach pumped, and I—”

“You what, Beth?” Anna’s voice is soft. Beth, drunk herself, notes that her mother’s words don’t seem to be slurred. Is it some kind of reverse alcoholic effect? When you’re drunk, alcoholics sound sober?

“I…” A whirlwind of thoughts and images ricochet around Beth’s head. She sways on her feet, takes a faltering step toward the basketball hoop. Anna lunges toward her, but she’s too late. Beth collapses, landing face down on the driveway.

When she comes to, she’s not in the driveway anymore. She is in her bed. She’s wearing warm pajamas and the brace, bandage and all, has been cleaned and replaced. By her mother. By her mother? Is this possible? Through the numbing sensation clouding her brain, Beth again wonders what’s going on.

The world must be ending,
she thinks.

Beth’s eyelids feel heavy. She isn’t sure what pills her mother gave her, but the pain is gone, and she is very close to sleeping. Unlike the last few weeks, the sleep that’s coming feels peaceful. An emotion she hasn’t felt in some time.

Anna comes into the room. Beth opens her eyes and looks at her. Beth can see the pain in the mother’s eyes. She can see that her mother wants to know what happened, but the last thing in the world she wants to do is tell her mother what shit she just went through. How Peter shattered what little was left of her hope. No, she definitely doesn’t want to go into that now.

But before Beth can stop herself, she says, “Peter was…screwing…Vanessa Robinson.” The words come out choked and hesitant. Like a confession.

Anna’s face doesn’t register anything at first, but then her face sags inward and her mouth forms a silent “O.”

Beth nods. “She’s the one who did this,” she says and gestures at her knee. “First she fucked me, then Peter.”

“Oh, Beth. I’m sorry.”

The tug of sleep is pulling at Beth, and she closes her eyes. Just before sleep overwhelms her, she clarifies.

“Thoroughly. Fucked thoroughly.”

A moment later, the only sound coming from her mouth is that of a soft, gentle snore. Anna pulls the blanket up tight beneath Beth’s chin. She strokes Beth’s forehead. Anna’s eyes are misty, and she hums a soft sound as Beth drifts off to sleep.

She looks at the wall, at the empty walls where Beth’s basketball posters used to be. The ones she tore down and threw into the garbage.

Anna curses everyone and everything.

But she saves the worst for herself.

Anna is on the second label when the shakes hit her. At first, the sensation feels like when you’re at a movie theater, and you go to uncross your legs only to discover that your foot has fallen asleep. It’s a weird, detached feeling, and Anna quietly observes the tremors worming their way around her fingers and hands.

She puts the pen down and pushes the sheet of stick-on labels away from her. The package cost her five bucks and she’s not about to ruin them by scrawling unrecognizable letters across their faces.

That would defeat the purpose, now wouldn’t it?

The shakes advance up her forearms like an evil little army that has infiltrated the very nerve center of her being. The army sends out a battalion of chills, and Anna shivers as a cold sweat breaks out along her forehead. Her face flushes hot and cold, her heartbeat accelerates, and she instinctively thinks about the whiskey bottle sitting out on the driveway. Is it still there? Is there any left? Did Beth finish it? She can see herself walking out, picking it up, and taking just a small drink—just a little one to combat these fucking withdrawal symptoms.

Withdrawal.

The word sounds so strange to Anna. She’s thought about it in the past, sure. Even read a little bit about it. Got as far as the AA’s parking lot before heading for the nearest tavern.

She imagines herself standing up at an AA meeting and saying “I’m Anna Fischer, and I haven’t had a drink since I collapsed on the living room floor and my daughter called 911, and an ambulance came and got me, took me to the hospital where I had my stomach pumped. Then later, I found my only daughter in tears, drunk, and shooting baskets at two in the morning.”

They would all stare at her quietly and then say, “Hi, Anna.”

She pushes away from the table, away from the stack of padded envelopes and blank sheets of paper.

She has to be careful not to push it, not to try to do too much too soon. She needs to move, to do something to take her mind off her body’s desperate screaming for alcohol. She needs something to hold on to, both literally and figuratively.

Anna thinks for a moment, her body cold and hollow inside, and then comes up with the answer.

In her room, she opens her top dresser drawer and pushes aside the odd assortment of pennies, spools of thread, old letters and pictures, reaches for the back of the drawer. Her hands scrape the cheap plywood bottom of the drawer, and then she feels the tiny steel links.

She pulls it from the back, and she hears it rattle slightly. And then she lifts it, scattering the papers and pictures, turning it all into a slightly different mess.

The dog tags are dull and feel heavier than she’d imagined. She holds the chain, imagining the feel of Vince’s neck, of the sweat that must have poured from his skin onto the chain as he fought.

Anna drops the dog tags into her palm, and her fingers close over them. She likes their heft, likes the tactile sensation of the edges pressing into her palm. The edges are sharp enough to hurt if she squeezes hard enough, but not thin enough to cut her skin.

Anna closes her hand again, the shakes are coming back and then they are upon her. She sags against the dresser, holding onto Vincent’s dog tags with everything she’s got. She’s dizzy and, for a moment, isn’t sure if she’s going to faint.

And then it passes.

She opens her hand, and the edges of the dog tags, sharper than she’d thought, have made neat lines in her palm. She gives the tags a squeeze. Vincent would want her to do this.

If she wants to keep what’s left of him alive—that part of him inside her and inside Beth—she’s got to keep from drinking. She’s got to save what’s left of her relationship with Beth.

She’s got to do what Vincent would do.

Anna shuts her top dresser drawer and drops the dog tags into her front pocket.

Together,
she thinks.

You and me, Vincent.

Together, we’ll help me stop drinking.