I Spy Something Bloody

We landed at Shenandoah Valley Airport just after eleven o'clock in the morning, and I stumbled off the plane, exhausted and edgy, tensing as hurrying passengers brushed past, crowding me. Too many people -- and everyone's voice sounded harsh, too loud, nearly sending me out of my skin.

After what felt like several nerve-wrenching miles of this, Stephen appeared out of nowhere, striding towards me in that loose, easy way. I had never seen anything more beautiful. Tall and lean, broad shoulders and long legs, hair prematurely silver -- striking with his youthful face. He was fifty now. I had missed his birthday. Missed it by a month. By a mile. Just one of many things I'd missed.

At the sight of me, he checked midstride, then came forward.

"What the hell happened to you?"

I offered a smile -- to which he did not respond. "Long story."

There were tiny lines around his eyes that I didn't remember before -- a sternness to his mouth that was new.

"Another one?" The tone was dry, but his expression gave me a little hope.

I hadn't realized how much I missed him till he was standing arm's length from me, and then it was like physical pain: He was so familiar, so...dear -- like a glimpse of land after months at sea. The boyishly ruffled pale hair, the spring green of his eyes...

I thought for an instant he might even take me into his arms, but no. Instead he took my bag, took my elbow, took charge. His fingers were warm -- if a little steely -- wrapping around my arm. And although it was not exactly what I wanted, it was a relief. A welcome relief to rely on someone else -- to rely on Stephen. There was no one else in the world I trusted. Not even the Old Man. Not anymore. Only Stephen.

The feeling no longer appeared to be mutual.

"We'll have to hurry," he said crisply. "I'm on call." And he glanced automatically at his wristwatch. The watch I had given him on the one birthday I'd been around for. An artifact of a relationship lost to time and distance; there seemed something ironic in my choice now.

"You needn't have come yourself," I said, hobbling along. "I could have grabbed a cab."

Wrong answer again. He gave me an austere look, his hand tightening wardenlike on my bicep, unconsciously lengthening his stride. He must have talked to one of his mates in the Justice Department. I hadn't expected him at the airport, and hadn't offered any flight info.

Sweat broke out along my back, my underarms. It was oppressively hot in the airport terminal -- or maybe it was just me. Stephen looked as cool and poised as a marble statue in a crystal fountain -- if marble statues wore jeans and black polo shirts. His profile was impassive as he steered me along, impersonal and efficient. Overhead the loudspeaker announced another arrival -- or perhaps another departure. It was all starting to run together.

We stepped outside and the late May sun blasted down, shimmering off the pavement in waves. I swayed a little and Stephen's arm came around my waist, hard and reassuring.

"All right?"

I offered a crooked grin. "A bit tired..."

"The Jeep's just over here."

The "Jeep," which was in fact a black SUV, was parked in one of the lots adjacent to the general aviation terminal. The smell of asphalt and jet engine exhaust hung in the still, humid air as we walked across the parking lot.

Stephen unlocked the front passenger door, tossed my holdall into the rear seat, and helped me up. I dropped back in the seat and wiped my forehead.

He lowered the window a few centimeters. "Sit tight." The door slammed shut; Stephen locked me in using the remote key fob and was gone before I got myself together enough to tell him I didn't have any luggage.

I sat there, head back, feeling woozy with heat and exhaustion -- the dregs of alcohol still moving sluggishly through my bloodstream. I stared up through the twin sunroof windows at the unmoving clouds in the blue sky. Blue as water. Deep water. For an instant I had the sensation of falling forward into it.

I shook my head, reached back for my holdall. Unzipping it, I fished out the steel and polymer pieces of my Glock 18, assembling them quickly. The grip felt right in my hand. Familiar. Reassuring. I slapped the magazine in.

Untrue about the Glock not setting off airport metal detectors. The metal barrel, slide, magazine -- not to mention the ammo -- could all be detected by X-ray machines. But my employers had a certain...licensing agreement with the U.S. Government. And I'd taken advantage of that. These days I never traveled unarmed. Not that I was expecting trouble. No more than usual.

I let my head fall back again, pistol resting in my lap. Closed my eyes telling myself it would just be for a moment. Just to rest my eyes. Christ, I was so...tired...

The sound of the automatic locks flicking over jerked me awake. The door opened and I lunged across the console and shoved my pistol in Stephen's face before I realized it was Stephen.

"Jesus Christ! Are you crazy?" he said furiously, even as I brought the pistol down.

A legitimate question. I wasn't sure myself of the answer anymore. He was staring at me like I was from another planet

"Sorry," I got out. "Stephen, I'm...sorry. You startled me."

"It's mutual." He got in, slammed the door with barely restrained violence. He rested his hands on the steering wheel, not looking at me. "Maybe you'd better tell me what's going on."

A right rollicking cock-up from first to last, Mr. Hardwicke.

I'm sorry, sir.

Sorry? Sorry is for lovers and politicians. If the press gets wind of this...

"Can we have...the air?" I requested. I mopped my face with my sleeve. It was stifling -- impossible to breathe in the close confines of the vehicle.

He did look at me then. A hard long look. He turned the key and cold air blasted out of the dashboard vents; it steadied me like a slap. I took a couple of deep breaths. ICBM. Instant Calm Breath Method. And I was okay again.

I realized that Stephen had made no move to start driving -- still waiting for me to talk.

I wondered if he'd do it. If he was angry enough, disgusted enough to shove me out of the car and leave me. I found the idea funny, and I knew I had a weird smile on my face -- could tell by the way his brows drew together. I said, "There's not a lot to tell, really. The job...went south. I had some leave coming..."

"And you wanted to spend it here? I'm honored." He didn't sound honored. He sounded acrid.

I wasn't sure what to say. That last had clearly been wrong -- giving no clue to how much I'd missed him, how much I wanted to make it all up to him. I was so bad at this kind of thing. Always. Until Stephen made it easy. Probably because he had done all the work.

My vision blurred, and I rubbed my eyes, trying to focus on his face. But Stephens's profile didn't encourage further heartfelt confidences. He started the engine.

We pulled out of the airport car park without further discussion. I thought of the pain pills in my bag, decided they weren't worth the bother.

Stephen expertly negotiated the SUV's passage through pedestrians and other vehicles. Before long we were on the main motorway, picking up speed. I relaxed a fraction.

Signs flashed by, offering information, urging caution, spelling out the rules. So many rules in a civilized society. How did people remember them all? So many things to be careful of, cautious of.

Stephen turned on the radio.

"...stated in a press briefing, "U.S. and coalition forces operating in Afghanistan are to continue to have the freedom of action required to conduct appropriate military operations based on consultations and pre-agreed procedures..."

He changed the channel, sliding through talk radio, adverts, static, and settling at last on a classical music station. Ballade no. 1 in G Minor.

I realized I'd been holding my breath, and I exhaled softly. Focused on the scenery sailing past. I'd forgotten how pretty it was here. "Daughter of the Stars," that was what the Indian word Shenandoah was supposed to mean. It was one of the loveliest places I'd ever been. Green as England, but a nicer climate. I remembered cool, crisp mornings and lazy, sunny afternoons -- and the stars at night. A sky full of stars glittering like diamond dust. I had left before the first snowfall, but I could imagine how pretty it was in the winter. Like an old-fashioned greeting card. There were a lot of farms here, and we wove our way through a patchwork quilt of gold fields and green orchards.

To the east were the Blue Ridge Mountains, to the west, the Appalachians, and through the rich and fertile valley, the famous river itself glinted and tumbled along its rolling way. Compared to the ancient worm-holed history of Afghanistan, this part of the world seemed relatively young and untouched. But that was an illusion. The American War of Independence, the War Between the States -- the valley had been a strategic target for both the South and North.

Most of Stephen's family had fought for the Confederacy -- and their fortunes had fallen with it. But they had been lucky. The Thorpes had Northern relations and loyal, influential friends; picking up the pieces after the war had been easier for them than for most. The family had recovered its fortune within a generation. Now Stephen belonged to a committee dedicated to preserving Civil War battlefields in the Shenandoah Valley.

"What's wrong with your leg?"

I forced my attention back on Stephen. "Nothing really."

"Were you knifed or shot?" He sounded angry again.

I said vaguely. "A screwdriver, actually." Then, at the tension in his face, "Don't ask if you don't want to know."