My Everything

My Everything by Julia Rachel Barrett
Chapter One



Summer, 2008



Tom called on the secure line. It was the first time Ben had heard his voice in thirteen months. The line was for emergencies only, and the call indicated that either Tom was in trouble or he was. Tom said little, just that he had a job for him. That was the tip-off. Ben knew Tom didn’t have any more jobs for him. Ben had insisted they end their professional relationship a year ago. Tom said he’d meet him in two days at three twenty-one, their code for Something’s up. I need your help. Tom was talking about the hotel. He meant he’d already blocked room 321 at the Sheraton in Pomona, California, so it would show up as occupied by Benjamin McCall on the hotel’s computer. It was a decoy in case they needed to smoke someone out. Ben would stay down the hall.

He couldn’t say no to Tom. They’d been best friends since long before either of them dreamed of entering the military or training with Special Forces and finally opening a security agency together. Long before Tom married his high school sweetheart and had two daughters, and many years before Ben’s wife, Julie, was killed by a car bomb outside the U.S. Embassy in Jakarta, Indonesia. She was only twenty-six, and she was pregnant with their first child. She wasn’t supposed to die.

Ben had been in charge of the ambassador’s security. He ordered a change in cars at the last minute. There was no real hint of anything suspicious. He was merely following his instincts. He planned to personally inspect the other limo when they returned. Unfortunately, his order to stay clear of the vehicle was deliberately misdirected. When Julie left to accompany the ambassador’s wife on an unscheduled visit to a local school for orphaned girls, she was killed along with the ambassador’s wife, the driver and two bodyguards.

Thirteen months ago, Ben McCall vanished without a trace. As far as his associates knew, he was dead. Tom was the only person he trusted to keep his new identity and his location a secret. Ben was sick of death. He’d seen too many deaths and been responsible for more than his share. He wanted to get as far away from his work as he could, so he moved to a country without an army, Costa Rica. And he moved onto a mountainside in Cañitas, near a town that had only a single mile of paved road and one gas station. It was a four hour slog in and out of the area on narrow, winding, rutted dirt roads in good weather. During the rainy season, the roads were more often than not impassible and as far as Ben was concerned, the muddier, the better.

Having spent his early years in Brownsville, Texas, the only child of a white man and a Hispanic woman, Ben was bilingual. His olive complexion and his lean, muscular build made it easier to blend in. Costa Ricans were accustomed to Americans who spoke Spanish more like Mexicans. Within a couple months, he’d absorbed the dialect and his neighbors seemed to have accepted him. He carried an American passport and his birth certificate read Hector Luis Reyes, born in 1973 at Good Samaritan Hospital, Phoenix, Arizona.

If there was one thing Ben had learned over the years, it was never stand out. Blend into your surroundings. He did that very well. His home was modest and similar to every other home in the area, small and unpretentious. The stucco was painted a pale blue. The front door opened onto a large tiled courtyard. Serious crime was almost non-existent in Costa Rica but there were episodes of petty theft. Ben hoped to avoid any unexpected guests. He still had some equipment and paperwork to protect, and some armaments. He locked them in a woodworking shop that opened directly off his kitchen.

Ben had what he considered the best security money could buy, a German-bred German shepherd dog. Louie weighed just over a hundred pounds. He was fast, strong and his teeth were as hard as steel. The bite of a German shepherd was nearly as crushing as the bite of a wolf. Ben’s dog could break a forearm with ease, but Louie was so laid-back that you’d never know it. Most Costa Ricans had street mutts that came and went, not trained purebreds. The dog was one area where Ben wasn’t willing to compromise.

As Ben checked and rechecked his bags, he wondered what he’d be walking into and if he would be up for it. He probed the recesses of his brain, trying to consider every possibility. He felt like a rusty nail. He’d left the country to forget, to heal, and to find a reason to start over again. After Julie died, he’d dived into his work with a zeal that astounded Tom. Mostly because he wanted to hunt down and kill the bastard who’d killed her. Fifteen months ago, he’d succeeded, but by then his rage had caught up with him and he’d burned out. He had to vanish. He’d become a danger to himself and everyone he worked with.

Tom recognized it, and the two of them made the arrangements. They implemented the contingency plan Ben had set up when he and Julie married. He still carried Julie’s unused passport and new birth certificate in the lining of his worn leather jacket like talismans, holdovers from his previous life.

The past year spent in the solitude of the mountains had helped. Ben was beginning to feel human again. No phone other than his connection with Tom, no television, no radio, no newspaper. A couple of times a week he hiked or rode his motorcycle into Santa Elena, the town center, to do some shopping and grab a cup of coffee or some juice at one of the internet cafes. He never logged in but he liked to listen to the local gossip and any news of the world the young backpackers and tour groups shared among themselves. Ben was fluent in French, Spanish, German, Hebrew, Arabic and Farsi, and he knew enough Italian, Japanese and Russian to follow a simple conversation. But he never let on that he understood. He simply listened without comment as he drank his coffee and then he returned to the isolation of his mountain.

Ben looked up from his carry-on bag. The tropical sun shone through his bedroom window, and his eyes lit on his hummingbird feeders. He figured there were twenty or thirty hummingbirds out there, all different sizes and colors, vying for time at one of the feeders. Costa Rica was home to close to forty species of hummingbirds, some of them bigger than the sparrows back in the States. Ben found himself reluctant to leave the birds, the monkeys, and the three-toed sloth that resided in one of his tall cecropia trees, but he felt he didn’t have a choice. Tom needed him.

Ben shrugged. He reminded himself to speak with Ernesto about the hummingbird feeders and the dog. Ernesto was a contact from long ago and he did double duty as Ben’s one-man security guard and caretaker. He lived in a small cottage on the property with his own large nondescript street mutt. Ernesto and his dog were light sleepers, and the man was good with a gun.

Ben watched a bank of clouds build up in the west. He remembered the first time he’d seen Julie. They’d met in Paris. He was drinking coffee in a café on the Left Bank one cold November morning when he noticed a woman standing in front, her lovely freckled face turned up to the rain. He could tell from her open expression that she was an American and he couldn’t resist. He went outside to offer her an umbrella. He ended up buying her a café au lait and a croissant. She was the first time he’d taken a risk in years. He allowed himself to fall in love. It was a mistake that cost him everything.

Ben shook his head. Julie had been dead two years. He didn’t want to revisit that time. It hurt too damn much. He dragged himself back to the present. Why the call? He wondered if Tom had been forced to make it. It could mean that someone else knew he was alive. He and Tom had been cautious, but that didn’t mean they’d been perfect.

Ben’s father had died when Ben was ten years old. His mother, Monica Medina McCall, had left Brownsville and moved to Austin. Between grants and loans, she got herself a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology and went on for a Master’s. She currently coordinated a system of shelters and resources for abused women in central Texas. Ben regretted the fact that she probably believed her only son was dead but he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t want to put her at risk, or his step-father and his half-sister. Angel was fourteen now, nearly fifteen. She’d be graduating high school in a few years. Ben sighed. When he allowed himself to think about it, he missed them. He could be with them. Ben would have remained more or less anonymous, officially a security consultant, if it hadn’t been for the car bomb that changed everything.

Ben forced himself to take a deep breath. Dark days, he reminded himself, very dark days. Julie’s death still felt like an open wound, and open wounds hurt if you probed too deep.

Ben returned to his packing and sifted through his paperwork. He’d use Hector Reyes’ passport until he got through customs in Houston. He had a reservation from Houston to L.A. in another name, one he rarely used, Matthew O’Connor, the same name he’d use at the Sheraton. He’d need to make a point of answering to it. The corners of his mouth twitched. Yeah. It had definitely been a while.



* * * * *



Grace pasted a smile on her face. She was exhausted and she could feel a migraine creeping up behind her like a midnight stalker in a dark alley. Why on earth had she agreed to come to this techno-club? She’d flown into LAX on the red-eye, waded through the line at the rental car agency, maneuvered through the ubiquitous L.A traffic, arranged for early check-in, thrown her bags into her hotel room and headed straight to the campus for the Geriatrics Seminar. She’d lectured nonstop on pain management and then sat with the panel for the discussion on Death and Dying. When Dr. Nguyen and Dr. Westfall invited her to come for drinks with the group, she accepted readily, excited to be included with this prestigious company, never dreaming they meant a night out at a loud, crowded L.A. hot spot.

My God, she felt brittle. If one more person touched her, Grace thought she’d shatter. She’d only had two glasses of wine but that was obviously two too many in her current state. Dr. Westfall was saying something in her direction but Grace couldn’t make out a single word. There was a big, fat, shiny, blind spot where Dr. Westfall’s face should be. Grace knew it was time to go. Fortunately, she hadn’t driven to the club but unfortunately she’d still have to take a cab back to her car before she could make her way to the hotel. It might take her over an hour to get back and Grace prayed she could handle it. She’d ended up in the ER six times in the past year with a migraine headache just like the one she could feel coming on. Grace could tell already this was going to be a whopper.

Grace felt for her purse and mumbled her excuses, her stomach even now beginning to perform somersaults. She’d be lucky to make it to her car without throwing up at least once. Funny, Grace thought as she stood on the curb attempting to flag down a cab, here she was with a group of doctors and it didn’t occur to her to ask for help, and she was a pain management specialist. The headaches were an unwelcome weakness she didn’t want anyone to know about. When one struck, she was helpless. She’d had them since she was twelve years old, but they’d gotten worse after her husband Josh died. Grace missed his hands. He had the most sensitive hands and fingertips. His touch was like butter, like soft, smooth, liquid gold. On those rare occasions during their too brief marriage when she’d gotten a headache, he’d used his firm yet gentle fingers on her neck and shoulders. He would massage the back of her head, helping to soothe her until she’d finally drift off into a drug-induced sleep.

Her parents had never understood her debilitating headaches. They accused her of faking and said she was making excuses. Even when it got so bad that she was slurring her words and could no longer see because of the blinding aura, they’d push her to race until she was puking into the bushes at the side of the road. It wasn’t until her track coach insisted she see a neurologist that her parents finally relented, but they never let Grace forget how disappointed they were that she missed the state championships her senior year.

After Grace left home for college, the frequency of her headaches decreased. She began running again and even joined the cross-country team. She did well until she met Josh. One thing led to another and Grace decided she’d better get on the Pill. Big mistake. Six months of weekly migraines was enough to put her off birth control pills forever. They made do with condoms. Josh was a good sport. He never complained and occasionally they’d slip, but they were lucky and Grace never got pregnant. When she thought about it now, Grace didn’t feel so lucky. If she’d gotten pregnant, she’d still have a tangible part of Josh. Instead she had memories. Memories didn’t hold you close at night. Memories didn’t laugh at your stupid jokes and tilt your chin up, lean you back against the kitchen sink and kiss you passionately when your hands were covered with soap suds. Nope, even after two years, memories didn’t do that.

Grace shook her head and concentrated on flagging down a cab. She was growing maudlin. Well, she worked almost every single day with people who experienced loss, and like she told them, it was never easy. One corner of her mouth tilted up. She would be wise to take her own advice. After she made it to her room at the Sheraton and climbed into bed. First things first.



* * * * *



Hector Reyes headed to Houston on a Continental Airlines flight from San Jose. He squeezed into a coach seat between an elderly woman traveling to visit her daughter and a young American college student. Hector spoke only Spanish during the flight. The woman was chatty. The college student tried to follow the conversation but he eventually gave up and watched the in-flight movie. When the woman nodded off, Ben took the opportunity to close his eyes. He needed time to gather his thoughts. He was a little concerned about the hotel. He’d have to be very careful, someone could be watching for him. Obviously, Tom couldn’t tell him much over the phone. Ben wondered if someone at Aris Security was a problem, and that was what Tom was trying to tell him.

In any case, he could skip the hotel’s front desk. He had a key card that would let him into the side entrance and the room. The computer had already been hacked and it would show that Matthew O’Connor checked in yesterday afternoon. After customs in Houston, Ben would pull out O’Connor’s ID, hidden carefully in a secret compartment of his check-through bag. Matthew O’Connor, an agri-business management consultant from Sioux City, Iowa, had a reservation and a pre-printed boarding pass on a Southwest Airlines’ flight from Houston to Ontario Airport in Orange County. The Ontario Airport was much smaller and far less busy than LAX. Other than security, it would be nearly empty, especially at night. It was a quick walk to the baggage claim and anyone suspicious would very likely stand out like a sore thumb. It would be a lot easier to see if he was being followed. Ben would catch a random cab and take a circuitous route to his storage unit. He didn’t want to bring a firearm from Costa Rica just in case his luggage was searched. He had a permit but he was reluctant to set off any red flags so he figured he’d stock up when he reached L.A. Ben always traveled light, a small shoulder bag for his laptop and overnight essentials and a larger well-worn doeskin bag that he always checked through. It came complete with several inconspicuous compartments. He could stash a few essentials. If anything showed up on x-ray, it looked like the books he used as cover. Eyes still closed, Ben smiled to himself. This past year he’d actually had time to read them.



* * * * *



Grace caught a cab back to campus. Her estimate was correct. The drive took almost an hour through heavy traffic. Despite the fact that she could only see out of one eye, Grace possessed an innate sense of direction and she managed to help the cab driver navigate the narrow campus alleyways. When he pulled alongside her rental car, she thrust a handful of bills in his direction. He thanked her and was nice enough to wait until she unlocked her car door and sprawled inside.

“Thank god the hotel is nearby,” Grace mumbled to herself. She would be driving half-blind. She was tempted to simply recline the seat and sleep in the car but she didn’t want campus security to find her. Everybody who saw her in the middle of a bad migraine assumed she was drunk. Her speech became slurred, she couldn’t walk a straight line if her life depended upon it, and she tended to puke, a lot. All Grace wanted to do was get back to the hotel, shove a pill or two in her mouth and fall into bed. Fortunately her lecture wasn’t scheduled until early afternoon tomorrow. Grace glanced over at the clock with her one good eye. Oh yeah, she realized, that would be today.

Grace reached the hotel and drove slowly through the lot searching for an empty parking place. The lot was packed. She finally found a space in the rear of the building at the very end of a row. She figured it had probably been ignored by the other guests because of a large blue van that was parked facing out, crooked and crowding over the line. Grace had rented a sub-compact, and at this point, she didn’t care how little space she had. She squeezed out the driver’s door, practically falling into the thick hedge bordering the lot.

Grace got to her feet, hoping there was an entry door in the back of the building because there was no way she’d make it all the way to the lobby. Searching her purse for the key card was enough of a challenge. Grace saw a lighted archway, and she lurched toward it. There had to be a door. Please god, let there be a door. Now what was her room number? Three-twelve? Three-twenty? Grace couldn’t remember. As she reached the lighted area, she tried to focus on the little paper folder the desk clerk had wrapped around her key card. She knew the number was on that. Between her blurred vision and the dim lighting, she could just barely make it out. Three twenty-one.



* * * * *



Ben retrieved his bag and caught a cab without incident. As far as he could tell, there was no one waiting for him at the airport and nobody followed the cab to the small storage facility in Pomona. He paid the cab driver and waited in the shadows until the cab pulled away and disappeared around the corner. He waited several additional minutes before he strode to the electric gate and punched in his code. He walked straight to his large storage unit. Inside was a black Pontiac Firebird with tinted windows. The car keys hung on a hook to the right of the door. Ben shoved them in the pocket of his jacket. He reached for the small leather bag he kept stowed in the rear of the storage unit. He chose judiciously from his supplies. He didn’t need everything. He retrieved some cash, a couple of credit cards and assorted small arms and ammo. He slid a knife into the slot in each of his boots and slipped the worn leather holster over his shoulders. He snapped in his Colt .45 semi-automatic and put his leather jacket back on. He felt better. He placed the bag in the trunk of the car. Tomorrow he’d attempt to contact Tom.

Ben exited the unit and stood still in the shadows before he returned to the car. He scanned the area for anything untoward, but he saw nothing and heard nothing aside from the usual night noises. If the crickets had stopped chirping, he’d assume there was someone out there, but they kept right on with their cheerful noise. Still alert, Ben climbed into the Pontiac. Thanks to Tom’s maintenance, it started immediately. He backed out of the storage unit, left the car running as he closed and bolted the door then he turned the car around and headed to the hotel.



* * * * *



It took Grace six tries to open her door. She couldn’t seem to get the stupid stripe on the key card facing the right way. Once the door opened, she nearly fell inside. She needed to find her suitcase. That’s where she’d stuck the toiletry bag containing her migraine pills. Grace tossed her purse and the room key on the bed then stripped off her clothes as she scanned the room for her suitcase. Even the touch of the lightweight cotton sundress against her skin was unbearable. She found the bag sitting where she’d left it near the closet. Completely naked now, she went down onto her knees next to the suitcase and flipped it to the side. She unzipped the front and felt around for the toiletry bag. When she couldn’t find it, she began pulling clothes out and piling them onto the floor next to her. At last Grace found the bag. She opened it and searched for the plastic bottle. The pain in her head was so bad tears welled up in her eyes.

Grace stumbled to the bathroom, the bottle in her hand, and she remembered that the hotel had soft water. The salty taste of the soft water would make her throw up. She couldn’t take the pills with soft water, and she couldn’t swallow them without a drink. She turned to the small refrigerator and threw open the door. The refrigerator was empty. Grace could hear herself whimpering. God, she was pathetic. She thought she’d seen a vending machine down the hall. If she had a dollar she could get herself a Coke or something else cold to drink. Suddenly that’s all Grace could think about, something cold and bubbly. Yes, that’s what she needed.

Grace dug a dollar out of her purse, at least she thought it was a dollar, set the open bottle of pills on the desk and headed to the door. As she felt for the knob, she realized she was naked. Grace was almost beyond caring, but she returned to the pile of clothes and reached for a tank top and the threadbare boxers she used for pajamas. Head aching, Grace pulled the tank over her head and then stepped into the boxers, rolling down the waistband a couple times as the elastic was stretched out. They hung low on her hips.

She grabbed the dollar off the floor and left the room. Peering through her one good eye, she wove her way down the hall, following the sign to the vending machine. Once she found it, Grace leaned close, trying to tell what was what. With difficulty, she stuck her dollar in the slot, and at last, an ice cold Coke dropped down. Grace sighed with relief. She grabbed the bottle, weaved her way back towards the room, and stopped in her tracks. She’d forgotten her key card and her room number. Grace felt like screaming but her head hurt too much to utter a sound. She pressed the cold plastic bottle against her temple with one hand while she used her other hand to count doors. She hadn’t the faintest idea how many doors she was from her room, but she made the effort anyway.

After stumbling twenty feet or so, Grace leaned her back against a door and sank to the floor. She’d gone as far as she could go. If somebody found her and called the police, then so be it. She only hoped if somebody found her in this condition that was the worst they would do. Grace was utterly helpless.