Shifter – Chapter 1 | Departure
PLEASE NOTE: I'm publishing chapters 1-3 of my novel Shifter to crowdsource funding for the full novel. If you're interested in supporting my efforts, the link is at the end.
I tie my hair behind my head to get it out of the way. Patrick is sitting at the table, playing a video game, the console's speaker emitting garbled explosions, hits, and grunts occasionally. His hair is greasy; he still hasn't showered and his cereal is soggy, long-since abandoned in lieu of the game.
“Pat, buddy, remember the school bus is here in forty-five minutes. You gonna be ready?”
Without skipping a beat in his gaming, Patrick says, “Yeah.”
Inwardly, I sigh, and ask, “You have all your things packed for a couple days at the Nelsons?”
“Yeah.”
“Toothbrush? Toothpaste? School books?”
“Yeah, mom. I got it.”
Still not fully satisfied, I let out an audible sigh this time, then open a jar of mayo to spread on the sandwich. I've made the mistake before of forgetting mayonnaise, prompting Patrick to dispose of his entire lunch and spend the rest of the school day hungry.
If only you were here to remind me.
It's been difficult since you've been gone. There are many times I collapse in the bed at night and cry silently, burying my face in the pillow, both to silence the sobs so Patrick doesn't hear, and so that I can imagine the pillow is actually you're chest. Because if it was you, if it was really your chest, I can simply bury my face in your shirt, smell your comforting body and feel your steady heart beat while you stroke my hair, then gently lift my chin as you bring your finger to my cheek to dry my tears.
But you're not here. I am. And Patrick is. Together we're facing the world on our own.
I finish adding the condiments to the sandwich, put both halves together, and slip it into the plastic bag.
Just then the doorbell rings. I place the sandwich into Patrick's lunch sack and walk toward the front door. As expected, I open the door to the Nelsons—Robert and Jamie, along with their two kids, Chris and Kayla. Robert and Jamie stand on the stoop, arms around each other. No sooner do I fully open the door before Chris and Kayla rush into the living room, calling for Patrick, who promptly responds in a mumbled monotone that he's in the kitchen.
“Morning, Rebecca, how's it going?” Robert asks, his arm around Jamie's waist.
“Hey, come on in,” I say warmly, stepping aside. “I'm just finishing up a few things before we head out.”
“Need any help?”
“No, I think I got it,” I say. “Thanks, though.”
“How long will you be gone again?”
I talk as I walk back toward the kitchen to finish Patrick's lunch. “Five days. But we'll be in Beijing only three of them.”
“Can you say why?”
“Not really.”
The unofficial policy is to not say anything. In reality, the media has been dropping hints that President Hoffman is close to a trade deal with China. Robert and Jamie already know I work for the Secret Service, so they can probably put the pieces together, but I like to be discrete to limit my liability should something go wrong.
So, like in all the other instances, Robert is perfectly fine staunching his curiosity.
We enter the kitchen. I find Chis and Kayla already at the table, perched in chairs in a way that only teenagers could invent, simply for the opportunity to catch a glimpse of Patrick's gaming fingers in action.
Jamie spots Patrick and squeezes in between her two kids, placing a hand on Patrick's shoulder. “Hey, Patrick, how's it going?”
“Good,” Patrick said.
“Ready to spend a week with us?”
“Yeah.”
I throw some chips and apple slices in Patrick's lunch as I call out to him. “You still have that biology project; don't forget.”
“Animal diagram due on Friday the 1st for Ms. Marsh's class. History paper due on the 3rd for Mr. Jackson's class.” He rattles off a few more dates of homework, quizzes, and tests.
Half-amused and half-irritated, I sigh, and lean in, mentioning to Robert in a low voice, “He's had this notion lately that if he just memorizes the dates his teacher will give him full credit.”
But the kid has great hearing. “No I don't,” Patrick says.
I call to Patrick, “Just remember to finish it before it's due.”
“Trust me, Mom.”
I then focus on my own preparations for the day: checking email for any updates, prepping my gun, ensuring my radio has enough battery, grabbing my travel toiletries, extra clothes, and a copy of Return of the King I promise myself I'll finish reading on the flight... I'm not worried about food on this trip: thankfully, every single meal would be accounted for, and if I ever get the munchies in Beijing I can use the government issued credit card to find some fine Chinese cuisine.
I consider whether or not to listen to the recording before I go—your recording. The last one I have of you. It's the only evidence the FBI was willing to give me. I've memorized it by this point: I can recite it by heart, even going so far as to memorize the exact timestamps where I hear other voices that aren't you. These I've latched onto. I've even hired the services of an audio forensic analyst, but he wasn't able to ID any of the voices.
Your recording is on its own MP3 player in a locked drawer. I take it out and play the recording one last time. If it's to cement the recording, or just hear your voice one more time I'm not sure. In any case, once the recording ends, I place the MP3 player back in the locking drawer, gather my bags, and put them in a staging area in the living room.
I then check on Patrick in his bedroom. To my dismay, his bag is half-packed, and he's staring out the window. However, my motherly instinct tells me something's wrong, so instead of scolding him I opt to check in on him.
“Patrick, looks like something's bothering you. Want to talk about it?”
At first I don't know if he'll answer. He looks down and starts playing with his bed sheets. When he gets especially quiet like this I know he feels ashamed. I sit next to him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Whatever's on your mind, Patrick, you can tell me. I won't judge.”
He's silent for a few more beats, then blurts out, “I don't want you to go!”
Patrick's said this to me before, on several trips, but this time he sounds more adamant.
“I don't know if you'll come back. And we already lost Dad. What if I lose you, too?”
I purse my lips and look away. I want to say, “You'll never lose me, Patrick! I'll always be here for you!” But I also know that's a promise I can't keep. So, I take a deep breath and reassure him. “I know you're worried. It's understandable given the circumstances. But remember—the Secret Service has layers of security surrounding my team. I'll be with the most guarded group in the United States government. I'll be on the most secure plane in the world. And in China, I'll have the protection of, not one, but two heavily-militarized nations.” I pause. “I understand your fear, Patrick. It's okay to be afraid. But please understand that a lot will need to go wrong for anything to happen to me.”
Patrick nods, but his body language suggests he's still not entirely convinced. I try to reassure him further. “I miss Dad, too. I miss the way he would always race you to the car, or how he would always put on a one-man Rudolph play for us at Christmas,” I can't help but chuckle. “But do you ever feel him with you? His presence? His love?”
Patrick nods, and I can tell he's starting to understand. “That's me, too, Patrick. No matter where I am, no matter what happens to me. I'll be—” I place my hand on his heart, “—here. You can tell me anything. I won't hear it—physically at least, but I'll understand, I'll listen. And I'll be with you—no matter what you're going through.”
“But you won't be here.”
“Patrick, I love you. I will always be with you. Being apart can't stop that. And...” I pause, then say it. “...me dying can't stop it, either.”
Just when I'm afraid that this is coming across as a cheesy pep talk from a Disney movie, Patrick's body relaxes. He takes a deep breath and nods. I then glance back at his bag. “I'd love to stay more, but get packing. We have to leave soon.”
Patrick nods, and gets up to continue packing.
I then usher everyone out, keeping an eye on Patrick, Chris, and Kayla as they join the other kids at the bus stop, all the while hurriedly dumping last-minute details toward Robert and Jamie's direction. “Remember, Patrick's bedtime is 8. He'll often say he's trying to find in Katie is on MySpace, but he's a monster the next morning if he gets to bed past around 8:30.”
They reassure me again and again they got it.
So, in order to not arrive late, I rush to Dulles and check in through security. Captain Tanner greets me with a salute, and I mirror a salute back. “Good morning, Mz. Carter.” He's standing awkwardly, and seems unsure about how to say something.
I'm feeling uneasy but greet him back. “Good morning, Captain.”
Captain Tanner spills the beans. “We're about an hour from departure, but Director Acker wants to speak with you first.”
“Can't it wait?”
“He was adamant he speaks with you before we leave.”
I frown, racking my brain for what it could be. “Why?”
Captain Tanner shrugs. “Not sure, but he's waiting in conference room 104 in the airport.” He nodded toward the terminal.
I purse my lips and nod. “Alright, thank you, Captain.”
“He says it shouldn't take long. Don't worry: we wont' leave without you, Mz. Carter.”
I salute, turn on my heel, and take the long walk into the airport, soon locating conference room 104. I enter and shut away the sounds of the airport.
The director sits in one of the conference chairs at the far end of the table, closest to the window. He sits with his legs crossed, gingerly moving his fingers over his lips in contemplation as he looks out over the airport. On the table sits a briefcase and a manila folder. I don't know if he hears me walk in, so I'm about to cough politely when he abruptly says, “Sit down, Rebecca,” cutting through the sterile conference room silence.
I walk toward the front of the table and sit down across from him and address him. “Director.”
He turns his chair to face me. His rubbery face morphs into a smile; forced, but still genuine. “Mz. Carter, how are you feeling?”
“I'm ready, sir. I realize President Hoffman and the Cabinet has been planning this trip for months.” I cringe, knowing that, while honest, I gave a canned answer; Director Acker is a straight man, though, and expects straight answers.
But instead of calling me out, he lets the answer hang. He often does this. At sixty he knows how to hide his thoughts, letting people in his presence give away secrets with little more than the twitch of an eyebrow. Early in my career it had terrified me, but as I've worked with him more I've adapted a thick skin. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say I admire his cunning nature. I soon outgrew my nervousness around him—at least, until now.
His next question is unexpected, but caries the weight of intention. “How is Patrick doing?”
I cough to clear the nervous lump in my throat. “He's—he's managing as well as a special needs child can after losing his father.”
Again, silence.
Finally the Director lets out a deep sigh and opens the manila folder. Inside is a ream-sheet printout. He turns it around for me to see. “What do you see here?”
SAM CARTER
SAMUEL CARTER
CARTER
CARTER 2002
2002 DC WHITE VAN
2002 DC VAN
There are at least a hundred entries like this. I swallow, then say, “They look like database searches.”
The director nods. “Under your account.”
I can't play stupid anymore, I realize. The Director leans back, places his hands behind his head, and speaks before I lose my dignity. “Rebecca, the FBI closed this case last year.”
“Yes, Director, I know. With all due respect, that's why I performed the search myself.”
His face softens and he reveals a bit of his humanity behind his hardened facade. “Rebecca, I know it must be frustrating. To have your husband disappear like that, and leave no trace.”
“They didn't do enough, Director.”
“I know, Rebecca. I wish they could do more.”
“Director, if I may ask, why did you bring this to my attention now? Couldn't it wait until I get back?”
He's silent again, staring at me. Then, he says, “You searched for these last week.”
“I did.”
“And this is the third time you've done it this year.”
I nod. “Yes.”
I don't mean to get caught, of course. Despite not being officially designated as the investigation leader, I seized control of the case, determined to uncover the truth behind your disappearance. I figured, I was in a security and investigation position in the government; I had the authority to lead the investigation, didn't I (as it turned out, I didn't; not even the President did)?
And when this half-Hawaiian hot-shot started pestering the FBI, it was soon beginning to annoy them. First the FBI kept rebuffing me, telling me they were handling it; then they occasionally mentioned a lead or two they'd gotten simply so I'd stop annoying them; finally no more leads came in.
Even when the case cooled to a halt I didn't give up. At the same time Director Acker was beginning to grow impatient with my extracurricular obsession. After all, my task was to protect the President, not aide the FBI in missing person investigations; and I was spending more unpaid time away from my assigned role. I was finally given an ultimatum: drop pursuing the investigation or be fired from my paid job at the Secret Service. The choice was clear: give up on finding you, or give up my sole means of supporting me and my son.
I knew what you'd tell me to do. You'd tell me to forget about you and move on with my life, maybe even consider getting married again. But, Sam, my dear, until I see your corpse with my very eyes that's not going to happen. So instead of getting fired or giving up, I opted for the gray area: I would focus primarily on on my role to protect the President, and continue my search for you—discretely.
Unfortunately, I wasn't discrete enough.
“This is a major trip for the President,” Director Acker says. “An economic treaty with China that many of our foreign enemies are not thrilled about.”
“I know, Director.”
“It's imperative that my Uniformed Division is clear-headed this week.”
“I understand, Director.”
His face says, Given recent events, I doubt it, But my face is saying, I will not back down Director Acker. Finally, he sighs. “Is your head in the game?”
I set my jaw, stare hard into his eyes, and say, unblinking. “Absolutely, Director. I am willing to defend the President at all costs. Sir.”
I swear he can see my heart beating beneath my suit. But he frowns and nods thoughtfully. Abruptly, he stands and collects the papers. I stand with him. He smiles professionally, and extends his hand, “Then it's a pleasure to have you on board, Mz. Carter. Have a safe flight.”
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