Chapter Three
Shattered
Jonathan sat on his bunk and unwrapped the elastic bandage around his foot. Of all the ways he could have gotten injured in a war zone, how stupid was it to sprain his damn ankle hopping out of a Humvee? The guys in his unit teased him for being SLL…sick, lame and lazy. They didn’t mean anything by it, but it still bugged him. If anyone got wounded on patrol while he was stuck on base, he’d never forgive himself.
He hobbled to the showers, hung his dogtags and towel on a hook then stepped under the steaming stream of water. A leisurely shower was a rare treat, but Jonathan couldn’t enjoy it. Not with his team out on patrol, sweltering in the heat, choking on the sunbaked dust that permeated everything and crusted their sweaty bodies like a second skin.
He squeegeed the water off his arms and chest with his hands then reached behind him for his towel. It wasn’t there.
A sharp snap, followed by a stinging pain on the side of his hip, startled him. Jonathan whirled around, putting too much weight on his injured ankle. Damn, that hurt. He glanced at the soldier’s sleeve, checking his rank, before deciding to cuss the guy out. But when he lifted his gaze to the soldier’s face, his mouth fell open.
Franklin grinned and handed Jonathan the towel. “Get dressed. I’ve got a job for you.”
Franklin was the LDS chaplain’s assistant so he travelled all over Afghanistan; but this was only the second time he’d visited Jonathan’s base.
“Frankie! What are you doing here?” Jonathan wrapped the towel around his waist then bear-hugged his twin.
“We’re heading over to Bagram to give a couple of the guys a priesthood blessing. We could use an extra gun on the drive. Wanna go?”
“Hell, yeah.”
Franklin grinned and punched Jonathan’s shoulder. “Do us both a favor and watch your language in front of the chaplain.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Hell’s not even a real swear word.”
The chaplain fell asleep in the back before they’d even made it off base, giving Jonathan and Franklin a chance to talk. He stayed asleep even when the pot-hole riddled, bone jarring, teeth rattling excuse for a road turned into little more than a goat path. It was a challenge even for the rugged Humvee. It’d be a miracle if the decrepit van in front of them made it up the next hill.
The hair on the back of Jonathan’s neck stood on end. He was probably just being paranoid, but the road was going to get a lot narrower in less than a half mile; perfect for an ambush. “Hey Frankie, can you get around this guy? I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Franklin didn’t argue. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t even arch an eyebrow. He just rolled down his window and leaned his head outside, edging closer to the sheer cliff on the side of the mountain.
River
Thunder’s sides heaved. He blew foam with every breath, but River was desperate. She couldn’t slow down to spare the horse. Hannah had been in hard labor for over twenty-four hours. Two midwives, working together failed to turn the baby. Reuben’s sister, Shula was a doctor. She couldn’t use any outsider medicine, but maybe her advanced medical skills could save Hannah.
River turned Thunder over to the stable boy and ran towards Sanctuary Mountain’s hidden entrance.
“Halt.” The guard’s voice was stern but not harsh. “State your business.”
“River, daughter of Asher and Issachar’s daughter, requests an audience with Shula, daughter of Zebulon and Israel’s daughter.” River’s heart pounded. The last time she’d been inside Sanctuary Mountain, Mother had been falsely accused, tried and executed.
The guard glanced at her face then threw his shoulders back as he tilted his head to the left and dipped his chin. “You may enter.”
These Sanctuary Mountain types were so impressed with bloodlines it was pathetic. “Can someone please escort me to Shula’s quarters? I don’t know the way.”
“I’ll take her.” A young enforcer stepped out of the shadows and lit a torch.
River’s blood ran cold when she recognized Eli. She couldn’t stand him, but the fact that he never showed his face at the ranch after Reuben told her he’d arranged to have Eli court her was insulting.
Eli turned towards the entrance and pointed at a child in servant’s clothing. “You there, fetch me a ration of jerky and fruit. Bring it to my enclave.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy bowed at the waist then took off at a dead run, his bare feet slapping the smooth rock floor of the tunnel.
Eli jerked his head towards the entrance. “Let’s go.”
River ducked her head, to hide her flaming cheeks. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t pretend to honor me by bowing in my presence or addressing me as ‘sir.’”
“I wasn’t bowing.” River straightened her spine and lifted her gaze to his face. She couldn’t tell by his expression what he was thinking, or if he even recognized her. “How should I address you?”
“My name is Eli. You may address me as such.”
“I know who you are.” River paused, giving Eli a chance to say something…anything…about why he hadn’t begun to court her. The silence between them begged to be broken. “The first time I came inside Sanctuary, it was to witness your merge.”
Eli looked down his nose and scanned River’s body. “You aren’t old enough to have witnessed my merge.”
River didn’t know whether she was more insulted by the way he examined her like a common whore—or that he was so obviously unimpressed by what he saw. But the fact that he didn’t even recognize her was beyond humiliating.
He smirked at her then took off down a side tunnel without another word.
River had to jog to catch up with him.
Eli led her deep inside Sanctuary, past dozens of curtained alcoves before stopping in front of a red velvet curtain. He pushed it aside and motioned for River to enter.
Her eyes widened at the rich opulence inside. But she wouldn’t mate with Eli even if he owned the entire mountain.
“Mother? Uncle Reuben’s…” Eli paused and looked at River. “What are you anyway? Servant?”
“No!”
“Well, you’re too young to be his concubine.”
“I’m plenty old enough! But I’m not a concubine.” River’s cheeks flushed. If Eli knew she belonged to Reuben’s household, he also knew exactly who she was.
Another set of velvet curtains parted on the other side of the room. Shula entered. Her brow wrinkled in concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to speak with you in private.”
“Did Reuben send you?”
It was a crime for surface dwellers to seek medical aid from Sanctuary doctors. But River didn’t know what else to do. “No. I came on my own.”
Shula’s eyes softened. “It’s Hannah, isn’t it?”
River nodded.
“I’ll go.”
Eli's face paled. “You can’t. I’ll have to arrest you!”
“It’s not illegal if I join them first.”
“Join them? You’ll give up everything.”
“You’ve been reassigned to serve under Reuben. You’ll be on the surface all winter. We’ll see much more of each other this way.”
So, Reuben was still trying to force them together.
Eli glared at River.
Her face burned even hotter. Did he blame her for his winter assignment? Did he think she was behind it—that she’d asked Reuben to arrange it? Well, she’d set him straight the first chance she got. Arrogant jackass.
Shula reached for Eli’s face.
He batted her hand away before she touched him. “What about next winter? And the one after that? You can never come home.”
“We’ll all be sealed inside the Mountain once the cleansing starts.”
River didn’t like to think about the Great and Glorious Year of Cleansing; even when she was on the surface. But with the full weight of Sanctuary above her, just the thought of spending a year sealed up insid
e the mountain sucked the air out of her lungs. She hadn’t seen the communal quarters where the surface dwellers would live, but from what she’d heard, it wasn’t going to be anything close to this. It wouldn’t matter how much alpha blood ran through her veins, River would never live in this kind of luxury. Unless she were mated to Eli—not worth it.
Eli glared at River, as if he could read her mind, then grabbed Shula’s shoulders. “I forbid you to join them.”
“I’m sorry.” Shula palmed Eli’s cheek. “Reuben’s my brother.”
He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. His voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t owe him anything.”
“I owe him everything.”
River agreed. Shula had run away when she was seventeen, merged with her spirit guide and mated with an outsider. If she weren’t Zebulon’s daughter, she would have been executed the moment she was captured. Instead, he granted her a stay of execution and ordered she be whipped instead.
Reuben was over a hundred years older than Shula and her only full-blood sibling. Their relationship was more parent-child than brother-sister. Reuben volunteered to stand in as proxy for Shula and took her punishment. It was easy to see from his scars that Shula would not have survived the beating and Eli would have never been born.
“Please, Mother.” Eli blinked, obviously fighting tears. “Don’t do this.”
River dropped her gaze and studied the patterns woven into the carpet beneath her boots. Eli was a grown man and an Enforcer. Why was he acting like a child? River had stood in front of the council three days after Mother’s execution while they decided her fate. She hadn’t shed a single tear. River extended her hand and touched Shula’s elbow. “Please, we need to hurry.”
All citizens of New Eden knew how to ride, but the heirs of Sanctuary didn’t spend hours on horseback the way surface dwellers did. Thunder was the fastest horse in New Eden, but Shula couldn’t keep up. So, River was forced to ride at a much slower pace. All she could do was pray that Hannah and her baby would still be alive when they got there.
Jonathan
Gentle fingers stroked Jonathan’s face. A hot tear fell on his brow as cold lips pressed a kiss to his cheek. A quiet, but persistent, beep, beep, beep was annoying the hell out of him.
“Baby? Can you hear me?”
Mom?
“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”
Jonathan was so tired, so sleepy. His left eye refused to open at all and his right eye only opened enough to reveal a blurry band of light.
“Charles, get in here! He’s awake.”
Where am I? As his vision cleared, Jonathan recognized the clear plastic bag hanging from a steel pole above him as an IV. Everything hurt—even his hair. He tried to draw a deep breath, but gasped when pain shot across his ribs. His left hand was on fire. It throbbed in time with that infernal beeping.
Jonathan turned his head and raised his left arm. It was bandaged from pit to wrist. And ended six inches before it should have.
Mom kissed his forehead. “You’re okay baby. Please calm down. You’re in the ICU at Landstuhl Hospital. You’re safe now.”
Safe? Jonathan groaned as another wave of pain shot up his arm and across his ribs. What happened? The last thing he remembered, he was riding shotgun with Franklin and the chaplain to Bagram.
“Calm down, Frankie. It’s okay.”
Frankie? Is he here, too? It was hard to think, hard to put the words together coherently, but he had to know. His mouth refused to cooperate. Was his jaw wired shut? “Is…is he?”
“I’m so sorry, baby.” Mom’s hands on his cheeks were cool, but the tear that dripped off the tip of her nose onto his forehead was hot. “Jonathan’s missing.”
The room spun. She thinks I’m Franklin. I must be messed up pretty bad if Mom can’t tell the difference.
“Not Franklin…Jonathan.” His garbled speech was impossible to decipher.
“It’s okay, Frankie. The army’s doing everything in their power to find him.”
“No…”
Mom smoothed her hand over Jonathan’s forehead—as if she could still brush away the curls the army shaved off months ago. “The last time anyone saw your brother, he was on base, recovering from a sprained ankle. He probably snuck off and went looking for trouble. He left his dog tags hanging in the shower.”
Jonathan pantomimed writing in the air.
Mom handed him a pen and held a notebook steady for him so he could write.
I’m not Franklin.
Mom stumbled away from him and crashed into a stainless steel cart.
A man in green scrubs darted across the room and caught her before she hit the floor.
Someone yelled, “Get her out of here!”
The man dragged Mom out of the room but her sobs continued to echo down the hall even after the door swung shut. “Where’s Franklin? Where’s my baby?”
A doctor snagged a wheeled stool with his foot and pulled it next to Jonathan’s bed.
Jonathan’s hand shook as he wrote: My brother, PFC Franklin McKnight and Chaplain Stewart were in the Humvee with me. Are they okay?
The doctor placed a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder as he leaned in to read the note. “I’m sorry, son. There were no other survivors.”
The words ‘no other survivors’ ricocheted against the corners of Jonathan’s skull. His sides heaved, but he couldn’t catch his breath. He squeezed the pen so tightly his fingers ached as he wrote: PFC Franklin McKnight. MIA?
The doc shook his head. “There were three men evacuated from the site of the attack. You, the chaplain and an unidentified soldier. During triage, we found Franklin McKnight’s dog tags in your pocket. A medic must have found them near you and assumed they were yours. We’re working on identifying the unknown soldier, but considering the evidence, I’m afraid it’s not going to be good news.”
This was a mistake. It had to be. Franklin couldn’t be dead.
The doctor squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder and stood up. “I’m giving you something for the pain. It’ll make you drowsy.” Jonathan watched as the doc injected something into his IV line. The drug worked fast, but not fast enough. He closed his eyes and willed his mind to surrender. The last thing he heard was, “It seems we have a case of mistaken identity.”
When Jonathan woke, Dad was standing at the foot of his bed, talking to an army colonel. Their voices were urgent but too quiet to understand. Dad’s face was chalky grey. The creases around his eyes and mouth were deeper than Jonathan remembered. He looked ten years older.
The air conditioner kicked on, fluttering the curtains over the window.
The colonel shook Dad’s hand then turned and walked out the door. It swung shut with a soft creak.
“Dad…” It came out as a groan, but it got Dad’s attention. He bolted around the side of the bed and grabbed the rails so tightly his knuckles turned white. He took three ragged breaths then jerked the bedrail down and buried his face in the blankets above Jonathan’s right hip.
Jonathan had never seen Dad cry before; not even at grandfather McKnight’s funeral. He’d always assumed it was because he was so strong and brave. Maybe he’d just been too numb to cry…like Jonathan. He should be bawling like a baby…no other survivors…but his eyes were as dry as the Registan Desert.
Jonathan waited for Dad to regain his composure, then reached for the pen and pad of paper on the bed tray and wrote: It should have been me.
Dad spoke with quiet intensity. “No. It should not have been you. It shouldn’t have been either of you!”
If he hadn’t told Frankie to pass that van, they wouldn’t have hit the IED. Jonathan scrawled: It was my fault.
Dad took the pen and pad away from Jonathan and set them at the foot of the bed. “My heart broke when I realized I would never see our sweet, shy Frankie again…”
Jonathan tried to turn away.
Dad gripped the sides of his head with both hands and forced him to look at him. “But
you can’t imagine the joy I felt when I learned I hadn’t lost you. I just can’t hold on to it. I’m devastated by Franklin’s death. But please, Jonathan, please believe me, when I say that I’m so very happy that you are alive.”
River
Shula performed a minor miracle and safely delivered Hannah’s baby, but everyone’s joy was short lived. The child had come too early. She was weak and sickly and required constant vigilance to be sure she remembered to breathe. Shula stayed at the ranch to help care for the baby and Hannah. River had to share her room with Shula but it wasn’t as bad as she thought it’d be. Shula stayed up with the baby at night and slept during the day. River hardly ever saw the healer, which was just fine with her. The woman was downright scary.
River had just crawled into bed when the sound of urgent whispers caught her ear. “Please, Reuben, I have to try. You heard what Shula said. If we don’t get antibiotics for the baby she’ll die.”
“You know the law. We can’t use outsider medicine.”
“But you’re an Enforcer. You could—”
“I could what? Risk everything for a child that probably won’t survive her first year? What about our sons? Do you think you can raise them without me? Or do you plan to take a new mate after my execution?”
River covered her mouth with both hands.
Hannah’s voice quivered. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing while our daughter struggles to survive.”
“Shula’s brewing another herbal remedy. Maybe this one will work better.”
“She’s dying, Reuben.”
River had heard stories of how outsider’s medicine could cure even the most dire illnesses, but their dependency on medical science had weakened the entire human race. The heirs of Sanctuary used outsider medicine, but only in life or death situations. Surface dwellers had to rely on the herbs nature provided and their own immune systems. Natural selection was a harsh, but necessary, doctrine.
Reuben’s voice held so much pain it made River’s heart ache. “Once you’ve recovered from the delivery. We can try again. We’ll keep trying until you get another daughter.”
“Each time I miscarry, it takes another piece of my soul.”
“Then we’ll adopt another child.”
“You know how rare shifter children are. The council won’t let us have another one. We were lucky to get Paul. And I can’t bear the thought of raising a human child only to watch it grow old and die. Come with us, Reuben. Let’s take our children and make a new life in the outside world.”
“I am not a traitor!”
River hugged her knees against her chest, but it was Hannah’s request, more than Reuben’s booming voice that terrified her. The council would be so enraged, they’d punish anyone that had any ties to Reuben—relatives, friends, servants and unwanted mates, like River.
Reuben lowered his voice. “The odds for all of us making it out of here alive are a hundred to one. And even if we did; how would we survive? It’s been eighty years since you’ve lived in the outside world. You have no idea how much it’s changed.”
“But you’re an enforcer. You’ve been trained to blend in.”
“Blending in will not put a roof over our heads or food in our bellies.” Reuben sighed so loudly, River heard it through the wall separating his and Hannah’s room from hers.
“I gave up my birthright, my home and my father’s protection when I claimed you as my alpha mate. I gave up half my lifespan to extend yours.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I will if you betray me.”
“Ask Shula to put us under quarantine until I return. No one has to know that I sought outside help for our daughter.”
“We vowed to uphold the law of the surface dwellers when they took us in. We swore a solemn oath to abide by all their precepts, doctrines and covenants. I am not an oath breaker. We don’t have the right to pollute the gene pool with inferior children.”
Something hit the wall and shattered. River couldn’t take it anymore. She’d never heard Reuben and Hannah argue, much less fight. She crawled out her bedroom window and sought refuge in Sugar’s stall.
River had no idea how long she’d been asleep when she woke up to the sound of snorting horses, whispers of “shush-shush” and the mewling cry of an infant. She peeked under the stall’s door in time to see Hannah lead her mare outside, her baby bound to her back with a rebozo.
River couldn’t believe her eyes. Hannah was disobeying Reuben, and committing treason. And for what? It was obvious that her baby was deathly ill. She wouldn’t survive the night.
River hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth as precious minutes ticked away. Shula would know what to do. She’d left New Eden once, before River was born.
A shadow passed back and forth behind the curtains in River’s room. Shula was pacing the floor, obviously waiting for River’s return. She stopped pacing and opened the window. “Brush the straw out of your hair and go to bed.”
“But Hannah—”
“Is doing the only thing she can.” Shula helped pull River inside.
“Does Reuben know she’s running away?”
“Hannah did not run away.” Shula pinched River’s chin and forced her to meet her gaze. “Understand?”
River nodded. Hannah was Reuben’s mate. He was responsible for her crimes. If anyone found out she’d deserted New Eden, Reuben would be executed.
“What about Sanctuary witnesses?” Every death had to be certified by a member of the high-council before the body was cremated.
“I’m taking Hannah and the baby to my cabin and placing them in protective quarantine. They won’t die until after Sanctuary Mountain is sealed for the winter so the sworn testimony of two enforcers will suffice.”
“Who?” As Hannah’s mate, Reuben would not qualify.
“Eli and Jesse.”
“Eli?” River did not doubt that Jesse would protect Reuben, but she didn’t trust Eli.
“Eli would never betray me.” Shula rubbed her forehead. “Can we count on you to stand with us? Will you testify that you helped prepare Hannah and her baby’s bodies for the funeral pyre?”
“Of course.” River’s eyes stung. “What about Gabriel and Paul? They’ll be devastated.”
“Death is easier to accept than betrayal.” Shula rubbed her forehead. “But Gabriel knows. Hannah said goodbye to him before she left.”
Eli
“Eli? Are you there?”
Hannah’s urgent whisper drifted between the pine boughs long after Eli had spotted her. He still couldn’t believe Mother had beguiled him into committing treason. She knew his one weakness. She’d promised to speak to Zebulon about freeing Aspen in exchange for Eli’s help getting Hannah and her baby out of New Eden.
Even though Reuben hadn’t been able to secure Aspen’s release yet, he was still trying. He didn’t deserve this betrayal. If he ever learned of Eli’s involvement in helping Hannah escape, he’d kill him.
Black spots floated across Eli’s vision. He might even execute Aspen to punish him. He’d been so blinded by his own desires that he hadn’t considered the consequences of failure.
“Eli?”
“Over here.”
“I can’t thank you enough—”
“Be quiet. I don’t have to tell you what happens if we’re discovered.”
“Of course.”
As an Enforcer, Eli knew the border patrols’ routes and schedules. He had plenty of practice slipping past the guards on his unauthorized trips to Red Cliff. It was too bad that it hadn’t snowed yet. Once the pass closed, the only way in or out of New Eden was through the tunnel. And that was heavily guarded year round. No one could pass without proper authorization.
At least the baby had quit squalling. Maybe it died. Eli cringed at the thought. It would make things simpler, but what sort of monster wished for the death of a child?
The baby whimpered.
“Eli, we need to hurry. Her fever?
??s worse.”
Eli was eager to be done with this ill-advised mission. He was cold and tired. Mother’s cabin didn’t have indoor plumbing, or any other geothermal conveniences. You could fit her entire cabin inside Eli's private steam room but it was warm.
He hoped the alibi Mother had devised to protect him was still passed out in his bed. The servant had been easy to seduce and even easier to intoxicate. Eli had no doubt that she would have lied to protect him, but this way, even if she grew disillusioned, she would still testify on his behalf, never knowing he’d been gone most of the night. He could have asked for a whore and hoped they’d send Aspen, but if he needed an alibi, he needed one that hadn’t already proven she’d sacrifice everything for him.
When they got to the eastern border, Eli heaved a sigh of relief.
“I don’t know how to thank you.” Hannah tried to lean across the space separating their horses to hug him.
Eli dodged her embrace. “Just don’t get caught.”
Hannah nodded then dug her heels into her horse’s side and flew down the mountain.
By the time Eli finally got Old Red rubbed down, returned to the corral and his tack put away, an orange glow outlined the Eastern ridge. He crept back into his room, stripped and crawled into bed.
The servant girl rolled over and shivered. “You’re cold.”
“I had to use the outhouse. It’s freezing outside.”
“Mmmm… Come here. I’ll warm you up.”
Eli snaked his hand around the girl’s waist and tried to pretend she was Aspen. It didn’t work. “I’m tired. Go back to sleep.”
He’d already done what he needed to do before he left. He had no desire to do it again.
Jonathan
“Will you stop hovering like a damn helicopter? I can dress myself.” Jonathan didn’t mean to snap at Mom, but she was driving him crazy. Once she decided to act like a mother again, she went into overdrive. He didn’t need her help pulling his shirt on over his head. He didn’t need her help packing his clothes or zipping his suitcase. And he certainly didn’t need her help carrying it to the car. He held out his right hand and lifted his eyebrows.
Instead of handing it over, she set the suitcase back on the bed.
Jonathan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He held it for four seconds then exhaled as he counted backwards from eight. Using breath control to relieve stress was the one useful thing he’d gotten out of group therapy.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lose my temper. But you can’t keep treating me like an invalid. If I need help, I’ll ask for it.”
He smiled to strengthen his apology then grabbed his suitcase and used its weight to flex his bicep. “I may not be as strong as I was a month ago, but I’m still stronger than you and Dad put together.”
Jonathan stepped forward and reached for the door with his left hand. He realized his mistake as the floor rushed up to meet him. He’d stepped on his untied shoelace and tried to open a door with a hand that no longer existed. He bit his lower lip to keep from screaming when his still healing stump slammed into the floor.
Instead of proving his independence, Jonathan’s little stunt ended up costing him an extra day in the hospital and six new stitches on the side of his head.
When he was released the next day, his doctor ordered him to leave in a wheelchair. He drew the line at wearing the slip-on loafers his mother had bought for him. It had taken him two days to learn to tie his shoes with one hand. He refused to give up that minor victory just because of one accident.
The drive home was weird. After a few attempts at small talk, they all gave up and just let the silence build until Dad pulled into the driveway. “Well, here we are.”
After a quick glance at his feet to double check that his shoelaces were still tied securely, Jonathan opened his door and stepped onto the driveway. The ever-present lump in his throat swelled when his gaze fell on the imprint of two small hands in the concrete. And right below them, the words Jonathan and Franklin July 6, 1993.
One of Jonathan’s earliest memories was the feeling of wet cement squishing between his fingers. Dad had helped him line his hand up next to Franklin’s so they matched. Franklin’s right hand, Jonathan’s left. He’d pointed at the prints when they were done. “Just like you and Frankie. The same; but different.”
Things would never be the same again.
The coat rack in the entryway looked…off. It took Jonathan a second to realize what was wrong. When he did, grief sucked the air out of his lungs. Franklin’s favorite Colorado Rockies baseball cap should have been hanging on the second hook from the top. It wasn’t. An unintentional glance into the formal dining room revealed three placemats on the polished cherry table instead of four.
Those were subtle reminders but there was nothing subtle about the trophy case in the family room. It was completely empty. Jonathan had earned at least half of the missing trophies. Where were they?
Competitive martial arts had been such a big part of Jonathan and Franklin’s lives. Realizing he’d lost that too felt like another death.
Jonathan closed his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning—a hundred feet below the surface and upside down.
He forced his eyes open and found Dad’s worried face inches from his own.
“Are you alright?” Dad’s grip on Jonathan’s shoulders was the only thing keeping him upright.
The room spun, but Jonathan refused to acknowledge his pain. Mom and Dad had suffered enough. They shouldn’t have to deal with his anxiety attacks on top of everything else.
“Do you need help getting upstairs?”
“No, I’m fine.” He tucked his suitcase under his left arm and grabbed the banister with his right hand. The suitcase slipped after just two steps. Jonathan gritted his teeth and pressed harder with his bandaged stump, but it didn’t work. He let go of the banister and grabbed the handle just as the bag slid past his hip.
Dad wrapped his arm around Jonathan’s waist. “I know you can do it yourself. But let me help you, just this once.”
Jonathan nodded. At least he wouldn’t be alone when he walked past Franklin’s room for the first time. Dad let go of Jonathan’s waist at the top of the stairs but kept a comforting hand on his shoulder as they hurried past Franklin’s closed door.
The “KEEP OUT” sign was missing from Jonathan’s door. As was the “McKnight Avenue” street sign he’d stolen on a dare. What the hell?
On their thirteenth birthdays, he and Franklin were each given legal deeds to their bedrooms and locks for their doors. Jonathan’s room had always been his sanctuary.
All the emotions he had fought so hard to control threatened to erupt in one violent explosion when he saw the artfully arranged pillows on his new bedspread.
His voice shook as he spoke through gritted teeth, “What happened to my room? Where are my trophies? And where the hell are my weapons?”
The missing trophies downstairs were bad enough, but the trophies that belonged in Jonathan’s room needed to be in his room. He knew he was being childish, but he couldn’t deal with the violation of the one place he’d hoped to find peace.
Dad set Jonathan’s suitcase down on the freshly shampooed carpet and swore under his breath. Dad never used bad language. “I told her to leave your things alone. I let her do whatever she wanted with Franklin’s stuff. But she was not supposed to set one foot inside your room.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“No, it’s not okay.” Dad ran his hands through his thick salt-and-pepper hair and swore again. “Hopefully she just packed everything up and put it all into storage, but if she threw anything away, she will spend every day on the internet searching E-Bay and Craig’s List until she replaces every single item she removed. I promise you, Jonathan, I’ll make this right.”
“It’s not that important. Sure, it pisses me off, but it’s just stuff. It’s not like…” The rest of that sentence hung in the air like a fo
ul odor…it’s not like someone died.
Jonathan swallowed the lump in his throat but he couldn’t disguise the pinched sound of his voice. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? Who knows why she did it, but if clearing out my stuff helped Mom feel even a little bit better, it’s worth it.”
Dad wrapped his arms around Jonathan, avoiding his stump. “Have I told you just how proud I am of you?”
Jonathan didn’t want to lose it in front of Dad but his control was slipping. “I’m really tired.”
“Do you want me to sleep in here tonight? It’s easy enough to set up the inflatable bed.”
Dad had been with Jonathan in the hospital during his entire stay, only leaving his room when Jonathan had visitors and even then, he only went to the cafeteria or the chapel.
Jonathan was tempted to accept. Franklin’s funeral was the next day. He didn’t know how he was going to get through the night; but he was a soldier, not a baby. “I’m fine. Besides it’s been a long time since you slept with Mom.” Jonathan blushed when he realized the double meaning of his words.
Dad’s chuckle didn’t help. “I know you might want a little privacy yourself, but your mother and I are still worried about you. We bought a nursery monitor—”
“Are you kidding me?” That was too much. “I am not a baby that needs his diaper changed four times a night. I’m sorry Dad, but there is no way I’m going to allow you guys to spy on me like that.”
“It’s more for our peace of mind. We need to know you’re okay. Please, just for a few nights, indulge our paranoia.”
The idea insulted and embarrassed Jonathan, but guilt held him ransom. He couldn’t deny his parents anything that might give them even the slightest degree of comfort. “Fine. But I’m turning it off until I’m ready to fall asleep.”
“Thank you, Jon-Jon.” Dad hugged him again, kissed his forehead and pulled the door shut behind him.
Jonathan turned off the nursery monitor then yanked the plug out of the socket.
A blank spot on the wall drew his attention. The paint was slightly darker, calling attention to the fact that something was missing. A poster-sized photo used to hang there.
Jonathan palmed the wall and pressed his cheek against its cool, lightly textured surface. He closed his eyes and pictured the moment captured by the camera three years ago…
He and Franklin stood center stage at the Disney World Sports Complex, hoisting a huge trophy above their heads. The packed arena, energized and cheering, had thrilled him beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. They had both placed in individual events, but together they won the synchronized forms and weapons class. They’d always performed better as a team than they had as individuals.
Jonathan felt drained and heavy at the same time. He used to be so full of life he couldn’t keep his feet on the ground. How ironic. Now it took all his energy to cross the room and lie down on top of his bed.
He drew his knees to his chest ignoring the pain that shot through his ribs. The tears that leaked out of his tightly shut eyes did nothing to relieve the pain of his combined grief and guilt. They did however, dissolve the last of his self-control and like a cracked dam, Jonathan could no longer withstand the pressure of holding everything inside. He grabbed one of the decorative pillows and buried his face into the soft satin attempting to muffle his primal screams of agony.
It was dark when Jonathan finally pulled the sodden pillow away from his face. He switched on his bedside lamp and pulled a fistful of tissues out of the box to dry his eyes and blow his nose. He was numb and completely drained. Unfortunately, his bladder was not.
He dreaded entering the shared bathroom that joined his room to Franklin’s. Jonathan was almost certain that Franklin’s toothbrush and razor would be gone. Either way, it would hurt. It would be better to remain in the dark.
Jonathan managed to pee without hitting his feet, something he didn’t always accomplish even when he still had two hands and a light.
He hurried back to his room, stripped down to his boxers and turned the nursery monitor on. He tried not to glare when he looked into the tiny lens of the video camera. “I’m going to sleep now.”
That was a lie, of course. There was no way Jonathan would be able to sleep. Not even with the help of narcotics. Pain meds dulled the constant ache of his wounds, but did nothing for the gaping hole in the middle of his chest.
Jonathan fingered the crease of his Army blue dress pants, pinching it where it broke over his knee cap. He sat on the front row of the chapel and stared at the flag draped over Franklin’s coffin. All it held was a small urn of ashes, Franklin’s dress blue uniform and his dog tags. Or at least that’s what the funeral director claimed. Who knew what was really in there. It was a closed coffin.
Once the Army figured out that the dog tags someone shoved into Jonathan’s front shirt pocket weren’t his, they were able to identify some of Franklin’s remains with DNA testing. By the time they got it all straightened out, Jonathan was out of the ICU. Dad offered to postpone Franklin’s funeral for a couple more weeks, but Jonathan wanted to get it over with while he still had access to high doses of pain killers.
Bishop Thorne droned on and on about the plan of salvation; as if he were trying to convert everyone instead of directing a funeral. But as soon as he started talking about Franklin, Jonathan wanted him to stop and start preaching again—or just shut the hell up.
“Franklin McKnight’s time on earth was short, but he accomplished so much while he was here.”
“Bullshit.”
A collective gasp, followed by a buzz of indignant murmurs, snapped Jonathan out of his daze.
He hadn’t meant to say that out loud—even if it was true. Franklin had a plan for his life. A plan that did not include getting blown to pieces and scattered all over some insignificant dirt road in the middle of Afghanistan.
Jonathan blinked then laughed. He knew it was inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it.
Strong arms wrapped around Jonathan’s shoulders. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.”
Jonathan jerked away from Dad. His vision tunneled as he crashed through the double doors and took off running. He stumbled and tripped over his own feet as if he were drunk—which he probably was. He’d taken an extra dose of pain meds when the funeral home’s limo pulled into the driveway that morning, but his wrist still throbbed with each beat of his heart.
A car rolled up beside him, matching his pace, but he didn’t recognize it. The window hummed as it rolled down.
Dad put a hand on the passenger seat and leaned towards Jonathan. “Get in the car, son.”
Jonathan slid into the unfamiliar car and pulled the door shut. “Whose car is this?”
“Bishop Thorne’s.” Dad didn’t say another word until he parked at the cemetery. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “You aren’t the only one grieving.”
“I know.”
“I want you to participate in the dove release ceremony.”
Jonathan shook his head. He didn’t want to be there at all. And he sure as hell didn’t want to participate in any bird ceremony. Mom had forbidden the firing of any weapons, so instead of a three volley salute to honor Franklin’s service and sacrifice, he was getting a flock of doves. The stupid birds would probably shit on his casket.
Dad put his arm around Jonathan and led him towards the crowd standing on the hill. People stepped back and made a path that led to Franklin’s open grave. Dad nodded at the bugler. The poignant notes of “Taps” squeezed Jonathan’s chest, but it didn’t thaw the icy numbness surrounding his heart as he watched the honor guard fold the flag from Franklin’s casket.
Tears streamed down Dad’s cheeks as a soldier knelt in front of him and handed him the flag. But Jonathan’s eyes remained dry. The numbness spread to his fingers.
A man in a black suit led Mom and Dad to a large, wicker basket. Music from a portable sound system filled the air as they opene
d the lid and released twenty white doves; one for each year of Franklin’s life. The man reached into a much smaller basket and pulled out a single bird then tried to give it to Jonathan.
“I’ve only got one hand.” Jonathan lifted his bandaged stump.
“It’s okay.” The man handed the dove to Dad then took Jonathan’s right hand and placed it on the dove’s back. It’s feathers felt like silk against his palm.
Mom and Dad kissed the dove’s head, but Jonathan just stared at it. The man recited some poem about the dove symbolizing Franklin’s spirit ascending to Heaven then said, “Let him go.”
Jonathan’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces as he watched the lone bird race towards the circling flock overhead. When Franklin’s bird joined the others, they circled once more then headed west, towards the Sawatch Mountains. Jonathan continued to stare at the distant peaks, long after the birds disappeared.
Something brushed Jonathan’s cheek then fell onto his chest, over his heart. It was a tiny, white feather, as light and delicate as a snowflake. Jonathan plucked it off his uniform, stared at it for a moment, then put it in his pocket.
Later that night, Dad knocked on Jonathan’s door then entered without waiting for an invitation. “Do you still have the feather you put in your pocket?”
Jonathan pressed his lips together and nodded. He hadn’t removed it, and Mom hadn’t taken his uniform to the dry cleaners yet so it should still be there.
“Go get it.” Dad pulled a tiny glass vial full of sand out of his jacket pocket. He uncorked the vial and emptied it into the trashcan next to Jonathan’s desk.
Jonathan handed the feather to Dad. He poked it inside the vial then slid the thin silver chain attached to it over Jonathan’s head. “I hope this reminds you of the peace you felt when we set Franklin’s dove free.”
Jonathan had felt grief, guilt and physical pain when he let go of the bird; but no peace.
Maybe he would someday. Maybe, sometime in the distant future, he would be happy again. That fragile thread of hope was the only thing keeping him alive. That and the thought of what his suicide would do to Mom and Dad—especially Dad. He’d wear the feather around his neck as a reminder of that hope…and that burden.
Jonathan couldn’t move. Each breath launched waves of pain through his chest, but he pushed through it. Small caliber fire spit puffs of dust into his face. He tried to raise his weapon, but someone was holding him down. “Hang on Frankie! I’m coming!”
He got his arms free and landed a right cross to his enemy’s jaw; followed by a left jab. His hand shattered on impact. Bits of bone and flesh flew through the air like broken glass. He screamed and cradled his throbbing wrist against his aching chest.
“Jon-Jon, wake up. You’re okay, it’s just a dream.”
Jonathan’s eyes flew open. Dad was leaning over him, shaking his shoulders, tears streaming down his face.
Mom stood in the doorway, backlit by the light in the hall, biting the back of her fist and sobbing silently.
Tremors shook Jonathan’s body. His heart raced. His left arm felt as if he’d plunged it into a vat of molten lava. He’d never get back to sleep.
Dad placed his palms on the crown of Jonathan’s head. “Do you want a priesthood blessing?”
“No.”
Dad gave Jonathan and Franklin blessings before they deployed. He’d promised them both that God would watch over them and protect them if they obeyed His commandments. If some soldier hadn’t requested a priesthood blessing, Franklin and the chaplain wouldn’t have been on the road. They wouldn’t have hit that IED. They wouldn’t have died. Jonathan couldn’t think of anyone less likely to break a commandment than Franklin. A lot of good it did him.
Jonathan didn’t want a blessing. Even if he did, he didn’t deserve one. “I’m fine. Go back to bed.”
He waited until he was sure Mom and Dad were asleep then unplugged the nursery monitor and threw it in the trash.
Jonathan fought his pillow and his sheets for an hour before giving up on sleep. He wandered downstairs and fixed a bowl of Shredded Wheat, but couldn’t eat it. He was empty, not hungry. He’d been avoiding the basement sparring room ever since he’d gotten home. Maybe he’d find a small amount of peace where he and Franklin had spent so many hours together.
He grabbed the door knob, but it refused to turn. That was new. The door had never even had a lock before. It didn’t take long to pick it.
He flipped on the light. There wasn’t enough space left in the sparring room to turn around, much less workout. Franklin’s entire room had been disassembled and moved down there, even his bed. But it wasn’t just Franklin’s stuff. Jonathan spotted the tip of his competition bo staff poking out from behind a pile of boxes. As soon as he felt the familiar grip of his staff warming within his fist, it felt as if a part of his soul had been restored.
It took him most of the night to push everything out of his way. He still didn’t have much room, but it was enough.
Tender ribs, phantom pain, and no left hand slowed him down, but it felt good to move. Jonathan began a modified, slow-motion version of the last synchronized weapons routine he and Franklin had performed together. He had to simplify all the moves and take out all the left handed grips. And it would be months before his body healed enough to attempt any of the gymnastics moves, but most of those didn’t require any hands at all. He wondered if he could still do a standing back layout with a full twist. Only time would tell.
As he gained confidence, Jonathan moved faster. He was about halfway through the routine when he accidentally hit the corner of a box at the top of one of the piles, knocking it down.
Letters, postcards and photographs fluttered to the floor. Jonathan swore at his clumsiness, then leaned his bo staff against the wall and got to work gathering the scattered memories.
A faded photograph caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a photo of himself or Franklin, but he didn’t recognize the beautiful young woman or the dilapidated old cabin in the background. When he looked closer, he realized it was a picture of Dad—but that woman sure as hell wasn’t Mom.
They were both facing the camera when the photo was taken. Dad’s chin rested on the woman’s shoulder. He had his arms wrapped protectively around her body, crossing beneath her breasts. She had one arm raised with her palm pressed against Dad’s cheek. They both looked incredibly content. Jonathan had never seen his father look that happy. In fact, “happy” didn’t begin to describe his expression. Blissful, ecstatic and euphoric weren’t adequate either. Who was this woman?
“Jonathan, what are you doing?” Mom’s voice carried more than a hint of frustration. She was pissed.
“I could ask you the same thing. Why is all my stuff boxed up down here?”
“What happened?” Dad’s voice held only concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” The words were an automatic reflex. He was anything but fine.
Before he knew what she was going to do, Mom snatched the photograph out of Jonathan’s hand.
“What is this?” She gasped when her eyes focused on the picture. “You promised, Charles. You promised to burn everything.”
Dad reached out to take the photograph, but Mom tore it in half.
Dad’s nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed into slits. “Give it to me, Beverly. Now.”
Dad hardly ever called Mom “Beverly” instead of “Bev.” When he did; it meant trouble.
Mom’s hand shook as she handed the torn photo to Dad. She turned and ran up the stairs without a word.
If she hadn’t packed his stuff up, as if he’d died too, Jonathan might have felt sorry for her.
“Dad? Who’s the woman? Was she an old girlfriend or something?”
Dad stared at the photo. “She was my wife.”
Six months later, Jonathan tossed his pack into the back of Dad’s Range Rover then slammed the hatch shut, rattling the glass.
Dad flinched and rubbed the ba
ck of his neck. “I don’t feel good about you taking off all by yourself, especially this late in the season. Why don’t you let me go with you?”
“I need to do this.” Franklin had wanted to go on a summer-long trek through the Sawatch Mountains after graduation with Jonathan. They’d enlisted in the army instead. “For Franklin.”
He needed to do it for Mom and Dad, too. They’d done nothing but fight since the night he’d discovered that old photo of Dad and his first wife. Jonathan wasn’t so egocentric that he believed it was all his fault, but his presence wasn’t helping. Mom rarely even looked at him, and when she did, he could see the pain it caused her. She’d packed a bag last week and left. She said she needed to get away from all the ghosts in the house.
Maybe if he weren’t around to remind her of what she’d lost, Mom would come home and try to work things out with Dad. Jonathan didn’t blame her for not wanting to look at him. He still missed Franklin so much it stole his breath every time he glimpsed his own reflection.
Dad pressed two metal rectangles on a chain into Jonathan’s palm.
He knew without looking, they were Franklin’s dog tags. “I thought these were buried with Franklin.”
“That was your mother’s idea. I took them out of the casket.”
“Why?”
“I thought you might want them.”
Jonathan slipped the dog tags into his pocket. He wasn’t sure how he felt about them. They were the source of the army’s mistaken identity fiasco. It was an honest mistake, but one that caused a lot of additional pain.
“Be careful, son.” Dad wrapped his arms around Jonathan and hugged him to his chest.
Jonathan returned his embrace, then held Dad at arm’s length. “I’ll be back in three weeks.”
“Do you have extra battery packs for your iHand? You don’t want to run out of juice in the wilderness.”
“Got ‘em.”
“What about your phone? How will you charge it?”
Jonathan opened the door and slid behind the wheel. “It’s fully charged. I’ll only turn it on in case of an emergency.”
Dad grabbed the door and held it open. “Hang on a sec. I’ll go get my new handheld GPS and one of the satellite phones. Cell coverage will be sketchy—if you can get a signal at all.”
“The whole point of backpacking is to get away from it all. I’m not taking every piece of technology we own.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, son. But…you have limitations now.”
Jonathan gritted his teeth. He didn’t like worrying Dad, but this was a turning point for him. He could either accept his limitations, or prove to everyone, himself included, that he was strong enough to overcome them.
“We all have limitations.” He tapped his temple with the index finger of his prosthetic hand. “But only in our minds.”
Jonathan didn’t see any other backpackers or hikers, so he didn’t need to go far to find the isolation he sought. He had no agenda or daily mileage quotas, so he took his time. On the morning of the third day, he woke up with a restless feeling so he decided to break camp and hike a little deeper into the wilderness. But first, he needed to refill his water supply. It wouldn’t hurt to clean up a bit either. He retrieved his backpack from the fork of the aspen tree where he’d stashed it the night before, pulled out his hydration system, a couple of high-energy power bars and his hygiene kit. He wouldn’t be gone long, so he left everything else, including his prosthesis, inside his tent then backtracked a couple of miles to a stream he’d crossed on the way in. The water was too cold, even for wading, but it felt good to rinse the grime away with a washcloth and shave the stubble off his face.
As he was hiking back to camp, the north wind picked up. The sun crept higher into the eastern sky but held no warmth. The temperature dropped ten degrees. “So much for extended weather forecasts.”
Jonathan picked up the pace and jogged back to camp in case the storm turned out to be more than an afternoon snow flurry. His state-of-the-art camping equipment would keep him alive, even in a blizzard. It just wouldn’t be much fun. He was about a quarter-mile from camp when a tiny white feather landed on his shoulder.
The memory of Franklin’s funeral blasted a hole through Jonathan’s chest. He fingered the thick, gold chain around his neck, but didn’t pull it out. He could still feel the weight of the medallion next to his skin. He was afraid that the glass vial Dad gave him would break so he’d had the feather from Franklin’s funeral encased in resin and mounted on a solid gold disc—the words ‘Brother’s Forever’ inscribed on the back.
Jonathan wasn’t superstitious—or even remotely spiritual—but this wasn’t the right habitat for white doves. It was a pretty strange coincidence. “Is that you, Frankie?”
Another feather drifted into view, then several more. If Franklin wanted to give Jonathan a message, he’d know he’d need to make it obvious. A doubter like Jonathan wasn’t going to believe any supernatural sign unless it hit him over the head. A gust of wind delivered another flurry of feathers, too many to count. They fell along the sides of the path, as if Franklin wanted Jonathan to follow the trail back to his campsite.
He rounded the final bend and froze. Shredded scraps of blue nylon littered the ground. Goose down, not dove feathers, drifted in the wind like falling snow. My sleeping bag?
His tent was also shredded, the poles bent like pretzels. Despair swept over Jonathan. He could handle the destruction of his campsite, but not what it meant. The feathers he’d thought were a sign from Franklin were nothing more than debris.
A twig snapped. Jonathan’s army training kicked in. He ducked behind a boulder, held his breath and listened. Another twig snapped. The noise came from his right. Jonathan peeked out from behind the left side of the boulder and spotted his prosthesis on the ground at ten o’clock, about fifteen feet away. His pulse pounded behind his ears. Whoever did this had better hope his iHand still worked, or there’d be hell to pay.
Jonathan stayed low as he crept forward. He grabbed his prosthesis then ran back to the boulder. He tested it to be sure it still worked. The servos hummed and clicked as he opened and closed the robotic fingers. He climbed on top of the boulder to get a better view and found a black bear, digging through what remained of his other pair of jeans. Jonathan had stashed his food out of the bear’s reach, but he’d forgotten about the bag of trail mix in his pocket.
The bear lifted its muzzle. Sunlight glinted off something hanging from its mouth.
No! Not Franklin’s dog tags! Jonathan pointed at the bear and yelled, “Drop it.”
The bear stood on its hind legs and lifted its nose into the air.
“You do not want to mess with me.”
The bear dropped to all fours then huffed and jerked its head up, lifting its front paws. It grunted then slammed them back to the ground and charged.
Jonathan spread his feet as wide as he could on top of the boulder, raised his arms over his head, puffed out his chest and roared at the bear. His primal scream was still echoing through the valley when the bear skidded to a stop. It huffed once then turned and ran the other way.
Jonathan slid off the boulder and ran after it. He didn’t relish the thought of digging through bear dung, but there was no way he was going to let Franklin’s dog tags disappear in a pile of bear poo.
It didn’t take long for the bear to out run Jonathan and disappear. He searched the ground for tracks, but didn’t find any. He stumbled across a game trail and followed it, even though he had no way of knowing if the bear had used it. All he could do was hope. And keep searching. Or give up and hike back to the car. With no food, no shelter and no way to build a fire, that’s exactly what any sane person would do. Especially since the temperature had dropped another ten degrees.
Franklin wouldn’t want Jonathan to risk his life, searching for his dog tags, especially since the odds of finding them were ridiculously low. He’d have a better chance of winning the lottery. He turned
around and groaned out loud when he saw the dark grey clouds spilling over the northern peaks. He’d been so pissed off at the bear that he hadn’t been paying attention to the weather.
Jonathan had been born and raised in Leadville. He knew what mother nature was capable of. This wasn’t going to be an insignificant early autumn snow shower. A blizzard was coming.
He’d never make it back to his car before it hit and there was nothing left of his campsite. “I am so screwed.”
Jonathan shoved his hand in his hair and turned around as he considered his options. He could build a lean-to out of pine boughs, but he’d still most likely freeze to death. A yellow stain on the side of a mountain caught his eye. Mine tailings. A smile spread across his face.
His great-great-grandfather had survived several winters, living and working inside his primitive mine during the gold rush. Jonathan didn’t like caves or mines, but he didn’t have to go inside very far. Just enough to get out of the wind and the snow. He’d endured worse hardships in Afghanistan, he could handle a little snow. At least no one would be shooting at him.