SEVEN
Anna
I wasn’t sure what problems existed between Fisher and the man we’d driven across the United States to see, but I had my suspicions. I stood nervously at his side while the neatly dressed gentleman walked past us and sat down on the sofa.
He was in his forties, tan, lean, and tall. His hair was cut close to his scalp on the sides, and the top was barely long enough to comb. His eyes were dark and filled with wonder.
He waved his hand toward a loveseat that was on the other side of the room. “Have a seat.”
Fisher walked to the center of the room, turned to face the man, and crossed his arms. “I’ll stand.”
I stepped beside him and rested my hand against his lower back.
“I spent seven years thinking about it,” Fisher said. “Two thousand, six hundred and forty-five, to be exact.”
“I’ve given it some thought as well.”
“You didn’t testify at my hearing. The one fucking person who could have exonerated me, and you didn’t show up. You knew Hickman fired that shot.”
Fisher took a step toward him. “You fucking knew it,” he seethed. “But you didn’t say anything. They scoffed when I said it. Hell, ballistics could have proved it. Your sorry ass let me rot in prison for seven years.”
“Sergeant Knox. I was…”
“Shut the fuck up, Pratt. I’m talking, you’re listening.”
Pratt fixed his eyes on Fisher. “Continue.”
The tone of the conversation had me so tense that I was shaking. I pressed my hand hard against Fisher’s back to steady myself, hoping he didn’t notice how nervous I’d become.
“During my court-martial, I asked myself why you didn’t show up. Why you didn’t testify. Hickman was dead, so there was no loss in revealing the fact that he fired that shot. Then, it came to me. The gold. Staff Sergeant Hickman and I were the only ones who knew about it. With him dead and me in prison, you had nothing to worry about.”
Gold? What gold?
Wait a minute.
You didn’t kill that man?
Pratt seemed as confused as me. He scrunched his nose. “Gold? I have no idea--”
“It wasn’t on the manifesto. Don’t lie to me. I wrote Corporal Jones, and had him check. It wasn’t listed. You were the Captain. You filled out the daily reports. It wasn’t reported.” Fisher gave the room a quick survey with his eyes, and then looked at Pratt. “My guess is you paid for this with it.”
“Listen, I don’t know--”
“Hell, I paid for this fucking place,” Fisher said through his teeth. “One day at a time. Seven fucking years worth.”
“That gold was shipped to the base camp,” Pratt explained. “If it wasn’t on the manifesto—”
Fisher pointed to the floor between them. “It was shipped right fucking here. Lie to me again, and I’ll twist your head off your shoulders and toss it in your swimming pool. That’s a fucking promise. You know me. Ask yourself if I’m willing – and able – to do that. Your selfish and greedy decisions cost me seven years of my life. I’m right, you’re wrong. Own up to what you did.”
Pratt seemed to be digesting what Fisher said. After a moment of fidgeting in his seat, he stood. His face had lost its glow, and was now a pale white.
I feared where the conversation was going, and what Fisher might do if Pratt didn’t satisfy him fully. As I envisioned Pratt’s head bobbing in the swimming pool, he responded.
“What is it that you want?” he asked.
“I’ve been asking myself that same question,” Fisher said. “For years. Seven of them, to be exact. I struggled with taking some of your gold, but I told myself it wasn’t right. So, I tried to decide who was entitled to it. By military law, it’s the government’s property. But, they didn’t shed any blood to get it, and they didn’t watch their brethren die in the process of taking that little village where we found it. In the end, they’d squander it like they squander every other dollar they get their hands on. So, who’s entitled to it?”
He raised his index finger. “My world is black and white. Everything’s either right or wrong. That gold was Saddam Hussein’s property. He slaughtered his countrymen to get it, so by all rights, they should be entitled to at least some of it. That much I’m sure of.”
Pratt’s eyes narrowed. “You want to give it to the civilians in Iraq?”
“Some of it.” Fisher cleared his throat. “I watched six men in my platoon die in that battle, then I spent seven years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit. So, I should be entitled to some of it. I paid for it, no differently than the men and women in that dustbowl we fought in. As far as I’m concerned, the one person who isn’t entitled to it, is you.”
Pratt’s gaze was fixed on the floor. He held it there for some time, and then looked up. “You’re not going to report this?”
“If I did, you’d go to prison. After you give me what’s mine, I’ll give you one week to disperse the remaining funds. Split evenly to a veteran’s suicide fund and the Iraqi people,” Fisher responded. “The only way I could come to terms for what you did to me, was if you paid for it. If you make right, on those terms, I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again.”
I’d grown to like Fisher. A lot. He was much different than any man I’d ever met. I sure wouldn’t want to end up on his bad side, but even so, he was fair with his enemies.
I waited nervously for Pratt to say something.
“I’ll give you twenty-five pounds of it if this is the last time I ever see you. If you come back here after today – for any reason – I’ll--”
Fisher straightened his stance and raised his clenched hands in front of his chest. “Don’t threaten me, you piece of shit. I’ll cut your fucking throat and leave you here to bleed out. If my memory serves me correctly, there was roughly three hundred pounds of it that wasn’t reported. I imagine you had to pay some people along the way, so I doubt you made it here with all three hundred. You can either give me a hundred and fifty pounds of it and disperse the rest, or I’ll cut you once for each day I spent locked up. By the time I’m done, you’ll like a piece of Swiss fucking cheese.”
Pratt let out a long sigh. “Come back tomorrow evening. I’ll have it here for you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Fisher said adamantly.
I had no idea what a hundred and fifty pounds of gold was worth, but I knew it wouldn’t be cheap. My eyes shot to Pratt, wondering what his next excuse was going to be.
“I don’t have it here,” he said. “I’ll need to--”
“You’ve got it here,” Fisher said. “You wouldn’t trust leaving it anywhere else.”
Pratt wrung his hands together and then met Fisher’s hardened gaze. “Give me fifteen or twenty minutes. Five bars weigh about a hundred and forty pounds. I’ll have them out here in a minute.”
“Make it six,” Fisher said. “You’ve already fucked me once, I’m not letting you do it again.”
“Fine. Six.” Pratt shot Fisher a glare. “I’ll never see you again, and you won’t report it?”
“You have my word.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Fisher coughed a laugh. “You’re not going anywhere without me. Lead the way, I’ll follow you.”
They disappeared down the hallway, and to a room at the other end of the house. In five minutes, Fisher returned with a military-style camouflaged backpack over his shoulders.
He motioned toward the door. “After you.”
The entire meeting didn’t take ten minutes. I was excited, scared, and relieved that Fisher had somehow managed to figure out a way to come to a cluster-fuck of justice. With my heart in my throat, I walked toward the front door, thinking all the while that something was going to happen to us, but nothing did.
Without another word out of Pratt, we walked away. When we got to the motorcycle, Fisher lowered the backpack from his shoulder. After glancing over each shoulder, he removed three of the bars and placed them in one saddle bag. Then he stuffed the backpack and the other three bars on the opposite side.
“Need to have the weight even. An extra hundred and fifty pounds is a lot on this bike.”
“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.
“Sell it.”
“How much is it worth? Can I ask that?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Roughly three million.”
I choked, and then swallowed hard. “Dollars?”
“Yep.”
“US dollars? American money? Like, actual dollars? Three million?” I whispered.
“That is correct.”
“Holy crap. What are you going to do with it?”
He stretched his leg over the gas tank, lowered himself into the seat, and then jostled the motorcycle back and forth, as if checking its weight. “Get on with my life.”
I sat on the seat behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “Where are you wanting to live?”
“Along the coast. Somewhere close to here, I’m sure. I need to be where the weather will let me ride all year round. All I need to do is find some men to ride with.”
“Should be easy in this part of the country,” I said. “The weather is beautiful.”
He started the bike, and then revved the engine. “Hold on. It’ll probably be a squirrelly ride with all this weight.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the beach”.
“With all this gold?”
“I promised you the beach,” he said. “And I’m a man of my word.”
With three million dollars’ worth of gold in tow, we headed for the beach. Because Fisher Knox said we would.
Yeah. He was an anomaly.
That much I was sure of.