Chapter Three
Etta finished rereading the information she’d been given on Jasper, then closed the file. Too much had been redacted for things to make sense. She needed more information. A quick check of the time made up her mind. She would wait to place the call, but she would make it. That was going to be the most likely way for her to gain access to that information and she was going to get it.
Besides, she wanted to look in on Jasper. The ranch was a five-minute walk from the main house. Etta had just reached the first of the equipment sheds when she saw them. Jasper and Deacon. They leaned on a wooden railed fence, watching a horse running in the paddock. Jasper had his shirt off, draped over one shoulder and baring most of his back.
It was clear that the horse was disturbed by the way its tail was raised, the wide-open eyes, and the way it ran, stopped, pawed the ground and snorted. She wondered if it was a new horse. She didn’t remember Deacon mentioning any horses with problems.
As much as animal behavior interested her, thoughts of the horse faded when she got close enough to see Jasper’s back. A sick feeling rose. She slowed and stepped off the drive into a small stand of trees.
She’d seen a wide array of scars, scars that were the result of people being shot, stabbed, beaten, and burned. But she’d never seen anything like this except in photos. Jasper had been whipped to the point that his back was a complicated tangle of mutilated skin.
Etta turned and hurried back the way she’d come. She needed to make that call and she better be given some answers because there was far more to Jasper Jack’s story than what she’d been told.
As she walked, she tried to shove the sight of those scars from her mind. What must he have suffered? She couldn’t imagine, and it made her feel ill to even try. The moment she reached her office, she placed the call.
It was answered on the second ring. “Etta Whitestone calling.”
“One moment, Dr. Whitestone.”
Not many people could call a Rear Admiral and be put through immediately, but Etta and the Admiral had a long history.
“I’d put money on this not being a personal call,” he said in lieu of a hello.
“You’d win, sir. I need the file on Jasper Jacks.”
There was a momentary pause. “I heard you’d taken on his rehab. He’s lucky.”
“Not so lucky if I don’t have the facts.”
“Were you not sent his file?”
“Redacted, sir. Heavily. I need all of it.”
“You know that’s classified.”
“I do, sir. And I know this SEAL gave more than most so I’m calling in a chit. And if it helps, Deacon is here with me.”
“You always have an ace up your sleeve, don’t you, Etta?”
“I try, sir.”
“Do you have secure email?”
“I do.”
“Give it to me.”
She recited her email address and he said. “You’ll have it in fifteen minutes, Etta. Read and destroy.”
“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t make me sorry for this.”
“Never, sir.”
There was a long pause before he spoke again. “Do you still think about him, Etta?”
“Every day, sir.”
“Me, too. Take care.”
He didn’t give her a chance to say good-bye, but it didn’t offend her. Rear Admiral Frank Angel was not a man to waste words.
She unlocked the bottom right drawer of her desk and took out a small twelve-inch laptop. This wasn’t a model sold on the open market, but one provided to her by the government. It would connect via Sanctuary’s Internet, but then would be routed through a maze, then bounced around the world in a complexity she couldn’t begin to understand and didn’t need to. All that mattered was that it was secure.
Etta turned in her chair and stared out of the window. Speaking with Admiral Angel was never easy for her. It brought memories to mind that she had spent years trying to manage, memories that, if allowed free rein, had the power to bring her to her knees.
Fortunately, she had little time to dwell on such things, because as promised, in twelve and a half minutes the email arrived. Etta sent the file to the printer, printed the pages and then deleted the file. She picked up the stack of printed pages and looked down at the cover sheet.
So, what’s your real story, Jasper Jacks?
*****
Deacon spotted her when he stepped out onto the small front porch of the house he now called home. When she saw him, she raised one hand, but didn’t smile. That, and the manila envelope in her hand, was a clue. Something was up.
Etta walked up and stopped at the bottom of the steps. “I need you to see something.”
“Outside or in?”
“In.”
He gestured to the door and waited for her to enter. She went straight to the kitchen and placed the envelope on the table. Deacon followed, looked at the envelope, and then at her.
“Talk to me.”
“Jasper Jacks.”
“What about him?”
“His file had been heavily redacted. I called Angel and asked for the original.”
“You called Angel.” It wasn’t a question but it had taken him off guard. Etta made a point of avoiding contact with the Admiral unless there was no way around it.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And he gave me what I asked for. I need you to read it before I destroy it.”
“Now?”
“Please.”
“Then start cooking because I’m hungry and I can’t read and cook.”
“Fine.” She went to the refrigerator and opened the door. Deacon watched for a moment as she pulled out vegetables and a plate of leftover chicken, then he sat and opened the envelope.
What he read made him angry and sad all at the same time. Jasper Jacks had lived through hell. The fact that he’d escaped with Intel that had led to one of the deadliest terrorist cells in the world being exterminated was a feat. The fact that he was functioning at all after the torture he’d suffered was darn near miraculous.
Deacon took his time and read every page carefully, sometimes reading sections more than once. By the time he finished, the smells in the kitchen should have made his mouth water. What he’d read was trying real hard to rob him entirely of his appetite.
Etta put a lid on the skillet, stirred the rice, and then turned to lean against the counter. “Well?” she asked.
“It’s a bad idea for you to work with Jasper Jacks.” He knew that wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but he also knew she wanted honesty from him and he believed what he said.
“It’s my job,” she argued.
“Yeah, it was your job back then and it almost finished you. You sure you want to open the gates of hell again?”
“I have to.” Etta walked to the table, pulled out the chair adjacent to him and sat. “And you have to help me. We have to help him, Deacon. Look what he gave. He deserves to be saved and I don’t mean just physically freed from that hell. We have to help him free his mind from it.”
“It won’t bring back the dead, Etta.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“I do. Will you help me?’
“When have I said no to you?”
She smiled and got up to tend to the food. Deacon watched as she served up two plates and brought them to the table. She poured them each a glass of iced tea, took a pan of bread from the oven, then raked the thick slices onto a plate that she set on the table.
“Looks good.” He commented. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I hate eating alone.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. Thank you.”
After that, there was no talk. They ate and when they were finished, they both worked to clean up the table, put away the leftovers, and wash the dishes.
“Want a drink?” he asked.
She looked at the bottle he pulled from the pantry. “Are you serious? That’ll make your hair fall out.”
“Pretty decent shine.” He poured himself a drink and looked at her again.
“What the hell. Pour me one.”
Deacon poured her a glass, handed it to her, and then made his way to the porch. An old-fashioned porch swing hung on one end, its wooden frame padded for comfort. Etta sat with her legs curled up to one side, leaning against Deacon. He kept the swing moving gently and in silence they watched the last of the light fade from the sky and the stars appear.
Etta finished her drink and put her head against his shoulder. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
“If you need.”
“I do.”
“You tired?”
“I am.”
He stopped the swing and stood, waiting for her. She took his glass from him. “I’ll wash these and set up the coffee maker. Do you have it on a timer?”
“There’s supposed to be one. I don’t use it.”
“I’ll set it. What time?”
“Four.”
“Talk about getting up with the chickens,” she grumbled and headed for the kitchen.
Deacon took off his boots and left them in their customary place beside the door. He then went into the bedroom, turned back the bedcovers and lay down on his back. A few minutes later, Etta entered, kicked off her shoes, turned off the light, and climbed onto the bed.
She snuggled up to him, resting her head on his chest and for a while, they were quiet. When she spoke, it was in a whisper.
“Why wouldn’t you be with me, Deacon? Back then?”
He had always dreaded her asking but had been waiting for her to do so. Even after all this time, he regretted having to answer for fear that it would hurt her.
“Because you were damaged and looking for something or someone to make the pain stop. Not me, just someone.”
It was a long time before she spoke again. “I would have loved you.”
“You do love me, Etta.”
“Yes, I do. I always will.”
“I know, and I’ll always love you.”
“I wish—”
“Be quiet, girl, and go to sleep. I’m not meant for you or you for me in that way, but we’re a perfect fit for this.”
“You’re my best friend, Deac. You know that, right?”
“I do. Now go to sleep.”
It wasn’t long before the sound of her breathing changed. Deacon lay awake long after that, thinking about what he’d read in Jasper Jack’s file, and worrying that this time, Etta might be taking on more than she could handle. She just might be diving into a pool of hurt that would end up finishing her.
He wasn’t sure he could handle that, so he’d do as she’d asked and try to help. But his help also included intervening if it looked like she was in danger of being hurt. Because what he’d said was true. He did love Etta, and had sworn to look out for her until the day she no longer needed a guardian angel.
And that day had not yet come.