Killing the Past

By Janice Ryan Hall

After 23 years, Maggie O'Brien discovers her fiance wasn't killed in Vietnam when he resurfaces in her life. He's not who she thought he was; people with a connection to him begin dying. Maggie’s unsure whether he’s the killer—or will be the next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 10, 2006
• ISBN: 9781483534213

Book preview

Hall

CHAPTER 1—1992, NOT THE BEGINNING

Beginnings are always a problem. Maggie knew this wasn’t the beginning, but it felt like the right place to start. This Memorial Day weekend gave her a chance to explore parts of D.C. she’d been meaning to check out since she got to town six months ago. The timing seemed right, too—after staring across the sea of bone-white grave markers accenting the greenness at Arlington National Cemetery.

And finally getting up the courage to find Mike’s name on The Wall, even though there was no grave marker for him at Arlington. She checked the directory to locate his name. She’d thought about bringing some souvenir of their time together, but couldn’t bring herself to part with anything of his. Maggie bent over the section of wall to scan the names. As she brushed her fingers over his etched name, she felt the pain return. This made it seem so final.

Two little girls raced by, giggling and screaming at each other. Maggie stared at them, wondering what hers and Mike’s kids would have looked like. What sounded like ten zillion motorcycles zooming at her like angry bees tore into her reverie. Get a grip, woman, she muttered to herself. No use in dwelling in the past. It was gone. Forever. What mattered was here and now, and don’t you dare forget it.

Maggie watched the motorcyclists. Pretty impressive sight. Some of them were breaking formation to come over to The Wall. One guy dismounted his bike somewhat stiff leggedly and limped over to where Maggie stood. ‘Scuse me, he said.

Sure. Maggie scooted to the right. She glanced over as he squatted down, pulled out a piece of paper, put it over Mike’s name and started tracing it. Now she looked at him more closely. Ray? Is it really you?

He squinted up at her. Maggie?

She nodded. He straightened up and grabbed her in a bear hug. Let me look at you, gal, he said, pushing her away.

As she looked him over, Maggie remembered the youthful Ray—tall, thin as the clarinet he played, brimming with unrealized sexual energy, hair almost a burr. She reached back across the years and thanked the younger Maggie for not seducing him, although she’d been tempted before Mike came along.

She tried to reconcile that image with the present Ray—more like a tuba now, but not quite fat. Okay, still brimming with sexual energy. Crows feet around the eyes. Graying moustache and full beard. Blondish-gray hair pulled back into a pony tail that peeked out from a red bandanna. Good grief! It was as if they’d changed places over the years: He became the hippie; she morphed into the straight arrow!

Maggie stared up at him. Whatever in the world are you doing here, Ray, and where have you been for the last 20 some-odd years?

He, too, reached back across the years and saw Maggie as she was in college: bright, intense. Short for her age, they used to joke. He’d always wanted to ask her out, but was a little intimidated by her energy and zeal, which flashed from her green eyes. She’d worn her auburn hair long and straight back then. She wasn’t really pretty, sort of ordinary. Except when she smiled, which was rarely; protesting was serious business.

Rolling Thunder, he jerked his thumb back at the motorcycle mob scene. Come every year since it started. A Memorial Day thing for us bikers to remember vets, POWs, and MIAs. To answer the other half of your question, went to Vietnam, got headspace and timing problems, married, divorced, the usual drug and alkie problems. He glanced at her. You?

After Mike died, finished school, taught three years, then bummed around for a couple more. You’ll never believe what I did next. She paused and grinned. Joined the Army!

You’re shitting me! You! Biggest hippie on campus? Weren’t you always organizing demonstrations?

Yep. And writing for the underground paper. Doing all that antiwar shit. She paused, then turned serious. I guess a part of me was trying to get closer to Mike.

So what are you doing here, now? Ray swept an arm around the area. You go to Desert Storm last year?

Maggie shook her head. That’s the funny part. I really liked the Army; so I stayed in. Working at the Pentagon. Personnel. And, no, not to the Gulf.

Ray stared at Maggie. Life sure don’t turn out like we thought it would at 20, does it? He shook his head. Who’d a-thunk it?

So how long you here? We’ve got a ton of catching up to do.

Well, I was planning to go back in a couple of days, but I don’t really have anything to go back to, if you know what I mean.

Maggie smiled ruefully. ‘Fraid I do. Used to be girls joined the convent to get away from ‘the world.’ Now I guess it’s the Army.

Ray jerked a thumb at his bike. Need a lift somewhere? I’ve gotta go. Promised the guys I’d buy the first round tonight.

No, that’s okay. You free Tuesday night? Maggie tried to sound casual.

Sure. Any ol’ time. He took out a pen and notebook and started to write something, but caught himself. I’m at the Sheraton by Fort Myer, but I forget the phone number. Want to meet somewhere?

"We’ll do no such thing, Ray Healey. I’ve graduated from rice and chili in the popcorn popper. You’re coming to dinner at my place."

He laughed, then shuddered. God, I’d forgotten how awful it was to be a starving student! I still can’t bear to eat chili. And rice gives me Delayed Vietnam Syndrome!

She grabbed his notebook and pen. Nice pen. Here’s where I live and my phone number. You know Alexandria?

Nope. But just give me some general landmarks, and I’ll find my way.

Landmark is the key.

He looked at her, puzzled.

What I mean, she said, is that Landmark is a shopping center. She quickly jotted down directions. Capice?

Yes, ma’am! I assume you are an officer since you always were so bossy! Oh, no! he exclaimed in mock horror.

Now what?

Well, hell, you could’ve been my C.O. if I’d stayed in!

She punched his arm. Six o’clock, Ray, and not a minute later or I’ll kick your ass from here to Baltimore.

Ooooh, promises! I love a forceful broad! He gave a mock two-fingered salute and limped back to his bike. Just before he got on, he waved her over.

Never had any kids. This baby’s my pride and joy.

Maggie reached out tentatively to touch it.

Ray laughed. Go ahead. She won’t bite.

"Well, I don’t really know anything about motorcycles, but it’s—she’s—beautiful. Don’t think I’ve ever seen one in camouflage before."

Had her custom built and specially painted. Hard to get lost in a crowd. He laughed again, a deep rumble from his chest. Guess I’d better hit the road before the guys come looking for me.

Ray was thoughtful as he drove away. Meeting Maggie like this could really screw things up, if he weren’t careful. But he had a mission to perform; one final favor for an old friend, and then the debt would be repaid. He shouldn’t have told Maggie he was staying at the Sheraton. But then again, she probably wouldn’t try to call him.

He thought back again to college—and Maggie. A whole bunch of them hung out together. Never any danger she’d take him seriously, anyway.

Then Mike transferred from Southwest Texas and eased into the group. While Ray was quiet, Mike had a presence about him, charisma politicians called it. They were about the same height and size, but Mike had coal black hair and hazel eyes. Once he got to S.F.A., he never seemed to notice anyone but Maggie. Or so she’d thought; Ray never told her anything different. It probably wouldn’t have mattered.

Right away, Ray noticed a difference in Maggie. He’d always thought it was corny to hear about someone blooming—as if people were flowers. But later, he’d admitted to himself that’s what happened. Suddenly, her 200-kilowatt smile lit up the entire nighttime sky. He kicked himself at the time that he hadn’t made her smile like that.

Meeting her now, he wondered if she’d ever married. She hadn’t mentioned it. He shook his head and grinned to himself. She sure hadn’t gotten any taller. Instead of the long, reddish brown hair he remembered, she had it in whatever that style was the skater wore. Streaked with a little gray, it looked good on Maggie. Aside from her smile, her dancing green eyes were still the most dynamite thing about her. He wondered briefly if she were gay or whether she dated. That convent remark puzzled him. But then again, he’d always been lousy at figuring out women.

As Ray got to his friend’s apartment, he drove the bike into the garage. Waiting for the elevator, he pulled out his notebook to write himself a reminder. He reached for his pen. It wasn’t there. He patted all his pockets and searched the floor, in case he’d knocked it out reaching for the notebook. Nope. Nowhere to be found. He’d either lost it along the way or Maggie had accidentally kept it. He’d ask her when he saw her. He didn’t have any time to waste now or he’d be late for the meeting. And his friend, old times’ sake aside, did not like to be kept waiting. He rang the doorbell.

# # # #

Maggie hadn’t had to park too far away from The Wall. She grabbed her keys and threw her big, clunky purse in the seat. As she eased from the curb, a car zoomed around the corner. She stomped the brakes, and her purse skidded off the seat and went flying to the floor. Just great, she muttered to herself, cramming her billfold into her purse and checking to see if anything else had flown out. She shook her head and muttered again, zipping her purse this time before she tossed it on the seat.

She hummed to herself as she pushed her cart around the corner Giant, looking for supper possibilities for Tuesday night. She hadn’t felt this good in ages. She loved to entertain—and certainly had more opportunities here than anywhere she’d lived. Old friends, new friends, half-forgotten acquaintances, everyone with any remote military connection seemed to pass through the D.C. area. She didn’t always cook. Sometimes they caught Thai or Indian or some other wonderful ethnic dining experience. Nowhere else even came close to the ways to fill a belly as this place.

Should she cook ethnic? She’d forgotten to ask Ray what he liked. And a 20-year-old’s tastes (not to mention digestive tract) aren’t the same as a 40-something’s. She was torn between her desire to pull out all the stops and sincere concern that she not unintentionally kill him. Ah, maybe the chicken crêpes with asparagus and almonds in a white cream sauce from her old Farm Journal bread book.

She paused, wondering if he’d turned vegetarian, after overdosing on chili and rice. Nah, couldn’t be; she’d never seen a plump vegetarian. To be on the safe side, she’d throw veggies in the rest of the meal. Perhaps a spinach and mandarin orange salad with raspberry vinaigrette. No rice, natch. Fresh, hot rolls. Maybe lightly sautéed mixed veggies.

Now for dessert. Something sorta light, in case he wasn’t a sweets eater. Strawberries, pineapple, and cantaloupe dipped in chocolate fondue? Yep, that should do it.

She was still humming to herself as she parked in front of her townhouse and grabbed her bag of goodies. As she unlocked the door, she heard the phone ringing and raced to pick it up before it went into the recording. As she barreled in, dropping bags, purse and other extranea, she heard a phone conversation in progress.

Damn! Too late! Then she realized it was just Snooky, her African Grey parrot. The phone kept ringing as she grabbed for it.

Hold on a sec, I’m here, I’m on, she said, her tinny voice annoying in her ear, We’re unable to take your call…

Hello? Maggie? You really there? a tentative voice asked.

Yo, Barbara. Finally got that damn thing turned off. What can I do you for?

You seem unconscionably cheerful. I was wondering why you hadn’t called back.

Just got in. Let me turn this puppy back on to check messages.

A long pause. There were two messages. The first one was Barbara, inviting Maggie to dinner Tuesday night and apologizing for the short notice. Barbara had someone for Maggie to meet.

"Gee, I’m so sorry you and Sam won’t be able to play matchmaker, but I ran into an old college friend and have plans."

God, Maggie, can’t you be more original than that. I’m surprised about this college friend of yours. Why aren’t you going to visit her in the hospital, to be even more clichéed?

"For your info, Babs, she’s a he."

Aha. So we can expect a full report soon?

Not on your life, Maggie laughed. The relationship was strictly plutonic.

Don’t you mean PLUH-tonic?

No, it’s like he was on Pluto, and I was on some other planet.

Well, just keep him off Uranus!

Barbara, I’m shocked and appalled!

Yeah, right. And I’m Pope Barbara, the Virgin. See you around.

# # # #

That’s odd, Barbara said to her husband as she hung up.

What? Who were you talking to? Sam pulled his nose out of a book. Barbara noted it was something military. Of course.

Maggie. She sounded—I don’t know—eager or anticipatory or something.

"Anticipatory? What the hell’ve you been watching?"

Well, she’s never really seemed interested in men. Never tried to put the make on you, even when she was working for you, did she? Barbara nudged him playfully.

No, but I guess this blows your theory—pardon the pun—that she’s gay and just waiting to come out of the closet.

Well, I’m not that close to her. I just thought maybe you’d’ve sensed something, despite your usual male obtuseness.

"Nope. And guilty as charged. You’re the one who’s supposed to have all this feminine intuition bullshit. What’s your take?"

I don’t know. Barbara scratched her right palm with her left hand. But something’s up.

# # # #

When Maggie hung up, she thought about how much she enjoyed being around Sam and Barbara. Except when they tried to fix her up. In their mid-50s, they were complete opposites. Sam was short and compact, like a fireplug, barely taller than Maggie. His regulation military haircut showed a hint of salt-and-pepper. He was usually quiet, except when he had something to say.

Barbara exuded the tall, confident sleekness of a model. She reminded Maggie of an afghan hound, with pedigree. She never had a blond hair out of place, and Maggie couldn’t recall ever seeing her without full makeup, even when she’d obviously just gotten up. Her breezy friendliness fit right in with her job as a Realtor. She could talk to anyone, any time. It was clear she’d been an asset to Sam’s career.

They’d both been married before, no kids. In the 21 years they’d been married, they had three. The oldest was about to be a college senior. The twins were starting their junior year. It was clear Sam and Barbara had found their soul mate. Maggie realized she didn’t know anyone else who had such a happy relationship. She didn’t think she’d ever heard either of them raise their voice to the other. She sighed. After a first marital misstep, happy endings were always so neat.

Maggie played the second message as she scratched Snooky’s head. Ray with something about Tuesday might be a problem. He’d talk to her later. Great. Now here she was stuck with food and just turned down a dinner invitation with Barbara’s endless guy supply. Why did her married friends always assume wed was the natural color? She was fine with her life the way it was, thank you plenty much.

Getting a little too long in the tooth to start trying to mesh someone else’s quirks and foibles with her own. She grinned to herself: Quirks and foibles. Sounded like a law firm. Nothing to do now but try to annoy her stuffy neighbors with reggae music.

Actually, the way the joint was soundproofed, she could probably play a symphony in chainsaw and foghorn without anyone raising a well-manicured hand to stop her. She just liked to pretend sometimes that these intensely workaholic yuppies, many of whom were lawyers or worked on the Hill, had any kind of passion at all, outside their jobs.

They were all nice enough, she conceded. She just didn’t have anything in common with any of them. She yawned; perhaps it was good not to see Ray so soon. It’d give her time to pull out the old yearbooks and do some checking. Her memory seemed patchy in some areas. This way at least she wouldn’t embarrass herself.

The call came around nine. Hi. Look, sorry I couldn’t call back sooner, but I got tied up.

Kinky. How many rounds did you end up buying for those guys?

He paused a beat. Dunno. Lost count. Hey, if the offer’s still on, look’s like I’ll be able to make it. That is, if you haven’t already made other plans, he added, a little too quickly.

Well, I would have if I’d listened to your call before talking to my friend.

Sorry. If you want to back out, that’s okay. We can reschedule.

Oh, no, you don’t. This friend is trying to set me up. Again.

He chuckled. Ouch! Some friend!

No kidding. Escaped by the hair of my chinny chin chin.

He laughed. See you at sixish Tuesday? Gotta run.

Sure. See ya. Bye, Maggie said.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she muttered as she hung up the phone. What a world-class idiot. Why can’t I have a normal conversation with a guy, without sounding like some simpering bimbo from a bad B movie?

There were more pressing things to worry about now. She’d meant to get supper started when she got home, and would have except for the phone interruptions. She checked the freezer to see if she had any frozen crêpes. No such luck. Well, she needed to get that part of the process started tonight. No time tomorrow because she’d planned to spend the day in Annapolis with friends.

When she got home Monday night, she went up to her so-called office, rummaging around still-packed boxes. It was probably fairly hopeless to find the yearbooks now, but she’d at least give it the old college try. The gods were indeed smiling upon her: The fifth box she slit open held the mother lode of yearbooks. Well, at least all of her high school and college stash, along with assorted other papers. She didn’t have time for any of the other stuff now, on to the yearbooks.

She carefully opened her freshman yearbook from Stephen F. Austin. She couldn’t remember whether she and Ray had been in the same grade, and she didn’t want to make any more really goofy comments. She got to the H’s in the freshman section. Haverford. Healy. Higgins. She looked carefully at Healy, but it wasn’t Ray; it also wasn’t Healey with an e. She thought a minute. If he hadn’t bought a yearbook, he would still be in it, just not in the class picture section. She thumbed through the index. Shit. Still no Healey.

She grabbed her sophomore yearbook. This time she went directly to the index. Bingo! There was a Ray Healey listed on several pages, but no class picture. She still couldn’t remember whether they’d been in the same class. Maybe he’d transferred from another school. She thought they’d had some classes together. It really wasn’t important, anyway. The main thing is that she’d be able to remember some of the stuff he’d been interested in, aside from the band.

There were pictures of him in the band, vice-president of the Young Republicans Club (He really had been a straight arrow!), secretary of the Forestry Club, along with various other shots around campus. She picked up her junior yearbook, more of the same. Now she remembered. He was a year behind her.

When she opened her senior yearbook, a photo fell out. Maggie peered at it. She didn’t remember who’d taken the picture, but it must’ve been from homecoming that year. She and Ray were sitting together on the bleachers, among the rest of the gang. His hand rested lightly on her knee. He was looking at her, instead of the camera. It was a sweet, wistful look. Funny, she hadn’t noticed that before.

She remembered that night because she hoped he’d at least reach over and hold her hand. He never did. It wasn’t really a date, but he’d bought her a corsage. She smiled. That was probably in one of the boxes she hadn’t unpacked yet. Her mother had sighed and tsked about her being such a pack rat.

Maggie shook her head and yawned, glancing at her watch. Ten-thirty already. Maybe they could stroll down memory lane together tomorrow. If she didn’t get to sleep soon, she’d be worthless at work. So what else is new, she could hear her boss cracking.

When she got into bed, she discovered she was wide awake. She wondered if it was The Wall, Ray, or the giggling girls from yesterday. She’d never before felt she’d wasted her life. And yet… It was like pressing rewind and play on a VCR; she watched her life zoom back to 1969, flitting through her mind in kaleidoscopic bits and pieces.

####

Ray’d been the one to tell her about Mike. Although they weren’t in the same unit, Ray was some kind of courier and saw Mike often. He’d written the letter, telling her Mike was dead. Maggie still had the letter, tear stains and all. She’d written back, asking if Ray was sure. He said he’d sort of seen the accident. He never went into details, and she’d never asked. It was the year after she graduated. God, she’d never forget that year.

For a while, she’d gone around in a daze. She and Ray’d written back and forth for about a year. He’d even sent a sheer, frilly violet short nightie set. She’d blushed when she opened the package in front of her mother. But she finally stopped writing to him. She couldn’t bear to stay in touch; it was too painful a reminder of losing Mike.

She’d majored in education, so had no problem getting a job at Prescott Elementary when she graduated. But after Mike’s death, everything had seemed so pointless. After the first semester in her third year, she resigned. She didn’t have the energy to complete the year. She listlessly bummed around Europe through the spring. Her parents were supportive, but didn’t know what to do, how to fix their broken daughter.

When she came home, she felt like she wanted to die, too. She lost weight, turned down dates, and became almost a recluse. Her parents told her she needed help, but she refused. She barricaded herself in her room most of the time. Pictures of Mike papered her walls. By chance, a girlfriend talked her into going to Padre Staples Mall one day where a gaggle of recruiters had set up a display. It was 1974; she was commissioned a second lieutenant. When she went off to W.A.C. Officer Basic Training, she felt more alive and closer to Mike than she had since his death.

At 28, she was one of the oldest women in the class, but she didn’t care. She breezed through basic and pursued her Army career with determination. She had focus for the first time in a long time and felt she was honoring Mike’s memory in her own way. She found the courage to pack up Mike’s pictures. Although she got them out from time to time to wonder what might’ve been, they became something private and personal for her. Too many questions when friends saw them.

Her career had taken her across the country and to Germany and Korea. She loved to travel. Wherever she went, guys were always asking her out. She usually declined and was well aware of the whispers that went with the territory: Single female officer, not dating. But she really didn’t have time. Or interest, she told herself. As far as she was concerned, no one could ever take Mike’s place. So why bother with all the absurd dating rituals? She was happy with her life just the way it was.

####

Maggie shook her head and yawned. Maybe a glass of warm milk’d help. She really did need to get some sleep or she wouldn’t be worth shit at work. She trudged downstairs and nuked a glass. She stared into it, as if she were trying to read it like tea leaves. She couldn’t decide how she felt about seeing Ray again after all these years. She’d felt her pulse quicken when she recognized him. Maybe it was time to let Mike go.

CHAPTER 2—SNOOKY AND RAY

The next morning she woke up late and crabby. Crabby because now she’d have to rush to get ready, skip breakfast, and hit the road. Driving around D.C. is an exercise in defensive driving: You start with the assumption that all other drivers are crazy, foreign, or tourists—maybe even a combination of the three. Although drinking and driving is normally frowned upon, in D.C. it should be mandatory. Traveling in twos should also be mandatory: One person drives as the other points out the turn just missed or the last parking space taken.

The Washington Beltway was obviously designed during the height of the Cold War. We misunderstood when the Russians said they would bury us. What they meant was they’d bury us for hours in traffic. By the time it takes read this sentence, thousands of cars will have traveled one seventy-second of an inch.

Look straight ahead: Making eye contact means having to let someone merge from the right or try to cut across four lanes to an exit. In the mornings, these are not Have a Nice Day idiotically grinning yellow smiley faces. What you see are grim, determined jaws, out to kill the modern equivalent of the saber-toothed tiger (or any driver who cuts them off). If a driver appears to be smiling, singing, whistling, or humming, for God’s sake put as much distance as possible between your car and the lunatic’s.

Rush hour in D.C. is not only an oxymoron; it’s grossly understated. It can take an hour or more—under normal conditions—to drive the 25 or so miles from Woodbridge, Virginia, to the Pentagon.