His Debt to Her

By Jackson Sullivan

Michael Savage was a Marine. Michael Savage was a casualty of the war in Iraq. He wasn’t the only casualty.

When Julie called imploring him to help her there was no question that he would. The only thing he didn’t know was what form that help would take. All he knew was that he owed her.

What he didn’t realize was that her request would also become his salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WoolysWagon ePublishing
• Release date: Nov 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370777037

Book preview

DEDICATION

For B. R. Butler

A friend of the family as far back as I can remember; for all those bull sessions shared with you and my father; for all those wonderful stories I heard from you.

This is also for all of those lost on the morning of 9/11…you are not forgotten.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I first began writing this story a few days after I won the third of what would be six awards over a three year period. While the award in question was First Prize for a short mystery story, that bit of success inspired me to write a longer mystery story. The results of that effort, though I spent many years rewriting, revising and polishing the manuscript, you now hold in your hands. So thanks are due in part to The Mid-South Writer’s Association of Memphis, TN for getting me and this project kick-started.

Some weeks after I began writing it, a tragedy occurred in my family in the form of a freak car crash on a rain-slicked highway. I didn’t realize it at that time, and strange though the way it turned out, that event would give the story its focal point and the direction it had lacked up until that time. So it is for the most unlikely and unthinkable reason that I acknowledge here the death of my Aunt Brenda. Perhaps something good can now at last come out of something so terrible and pointless that happened so many years ago.

Much love and thanks to my family and friends who, even now, when I’m exhibiting even more of the traits that one would commonly associate with an eccentric writer, still support and encourage me and are always there with a pat on the back when I need it the most. You guys are the best.

Last, but by no means least, another big shout out to Robin at WoolysWagon ePublishing. Again, you saw something in my writing that, even now, I often miss, and it seemed like you couldn’t wait to move with this story. So Cheers to you, my friend!

–Jackson S

Part One: The Balance Due

Chapter 1

I’m in danger, and I know it. I can feel it every time he looks at me. It’s like there’s two sides to him: the one the public sees and the one I see. I believe he’s truly capable of just about anything if he feels threatened, and right now he does. I know it’s an awful thing to as ask…but I need you. I really, really need you. Will you help me?

* * *

For Michael Savage it was never a question of if he would help, only a matter of when he could get there. Left up to him, as soon as he packed a few things, he would have been on the road within the hour. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be.

The unexpected call came early on a Monday morning as he was about to leave for work. He was late for work that morning; the call lasted almost forty-five minutes. It was Thursday before he could get away; he spent practically every minute of the time in between running over every word said to him during the call. Yet it was those last seven sentences that stuck in his mind like a persistent headache. When he finally hit the road before daylight on Thursday, he knew he was heading straight back to the past.

And back to someone he had believed was only a memory…

* * *

It was pouring down rain when he left Amarillo, Texas. From Texas all the way across Oklahoma and into Arkansas near Fort Smith, it rained steadily. Beyond Fort Smith the rain finally began to let up. A light and intermittent drizzle fell as he drove through Little Rock and continued on south. Between there and Pine Bluff, the rain stopped altogether. It was a little before midnight when he spied the glow of the first traffic light on the old Martha Mitchell Expressway, the stretch of US 65 that passes through the heart of Pine Bluff.

The light was red.  When Michael stopped, he breathed a long and weary sigh. His eight-hundred-odd mile drive was almost over.

It was weird, but the further south he had driven, the lower the temperature had dropped. The weather was more like December and January in Arkansas, rather than mid-March. While waiting for the green, he shivered and bumped up the heat in his fully restored black and red Monte Carlo SS. As he silently cursed the cold and nasty weather, he remembered when he had made the forty-odd mile trip from Little Rock to Pine Bluff every weekend. That was every weekend, without fail. A long time ago.

Before he joined the Marines and shipped out for Camp Lejuene, North Carolina. Before his unit deployed to Iraq after 9/11. Once finished with his tour and back home, he had resumed his trips to Pine Bluff, but in time they had stopped altogether. Not long after that he had left the state. He had wandered around the country for a long time, trying to find himself, finally settling in north Texas, where he had been living for the past three years.

The light turned green; he stepped on the gas.

It was at the third light that Michael exited the Expressway and headed north on Blake Street. He remembered a motel that was on Blake near the point where it joined Dollarway Road. He hoped the place was still there; he was tired of driving and had no idea where to even begin looking for another motel. Despite the rain and darkness, he had seen enough to know the city of nearly sixty thousand had changed in his absence. He drove past the old fairgrounds, smiling to himself at the fond memories he had of that place.  Just beyond the fairgrounds he saw a brightly-lighted sign: The Pines Inn.

Same place, different name. Michael stopped in front of the office. He stayed in the car for a minute, pinching the bridge of his nose, his gritty eyes closed. It’s way too late to call. Get some sleep, a decent meal, and tomorrow morning I’ll call her. He opened his eyes and stared grimly into space. And if she’s in trouble like she says, there’ll be absolute hell to pay. I owe Julie that much.

* * *

Michael slept like a dead man, arose early, and lingered in the shower, letting the hot water massage his stiff, knotted muscles. Amid a cloud of steam, he came out of the bathroom, toweling a head of jet-black hair that fell to his broad shoulders. He stood an even six-two, lean and hard in body with a square face and chiseled features. Hesitating in front of the oval mirror on the dresser, his pale blue eyes went to the ugly scar about the size of a dime at the bottom of his breastbone, slightly left of center. On his back was a second scar, slightly larger and right of center.

His face remained set, his expression unreadable, revealing nothing as that day and that precise moment flashed through his mind. It was like a scene from an all too familiar movie. He recalled every detail: the screams and shouts, the smells; the sound of small arms fire; the fear that oozed out of every pore like the sweat that stained his desert camo fatigues.

When he finally shook the memory from his mind, he wasn’t sure at first how much time had passed.  He checked; it had been almost five minutes. That surprised him, and yet it was the flashback itself that surprised him more than anything else. He seldom thought of that day anymore. For a long time he had been able to completely block out the memories that had tormented him to no end when he first came home. It had been a long time since it had all come back to him so vividly.

Get used to it, he thought as he tossed the towel into the bathroom through the open door. You knew it was going to be like this before Amarillo disappeared in your mirrors. Until he left Pine Bluff, every little sight and sound and smell was bound to remind him of something he didn’t want to remember. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, either. Not anything that he could see. Nor was it going to interfere in the least with what he came back to do.

He dressed quickly in jeans, a long-sleeved denim shirt and hiking boots. Then he walked the short distance to the motel’s restaurant. The temperature had dropped during the night. It wasn’t raining, but the sky was heavy and looked like lead and the wind was blowing in short guts that slashed at his face like razors. He hunched deeper into his leather bomber jacket, hands thrust deeply into the pockets, the wind flipping his hair around his face.

While he demolished a hearty breakfast, his thoughts were entirely of Julie. Bits and pieces of what she had said on the phone mingled with ideas and thoughts of what he could do to help her. He lingered over a third cup of black coffee, still mulling things over. At this point, with only what Julie told him to go on, he didn’t think there was a lot he could do. But once he had more of the exact details and saw for himself firsthand the situation she had described, he would think of something. He always thought better on his feet, acting and reacting.

But first things first. He pulled on his jacket, left a five for the waitress who had hovered close to his table all the time he was there, and went to pay for his meal. The first thing to do was call Julie, let her know he was in town. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind the cash register. A little after seven. It would be better to call Julie after nine; he decided to kill two hours by looking over the city he hadn’t seen in years.

Come again, said the woman behind the register as she offered him his change.

Keep it, sweetheart.

* * *

The city had indeed changed; within only a few blocks of the motel, Michael began to see how much. Once vacant and wooded lots were now fast food joints. An area of aging frame homes was now a paved parking lot with a modern steel and glass office complex. There had also been considerable street work and improvements, including a bypass around the west and south sides of the city. Michael got so turned around that he got lost twice. He reminded himself yet again that, perhaps, it was time to think about a GPS for his car; a chore he had been putting off for months.

Yet, despite all the changes, much of the city remained just as he remembered it. Especially those places that he and Julie either used to frequent or that had been significant to them in some way. He made a point to see as many of these places as he could in the time he had. The convenience store where she once worked–now renamed and twice its former size. The old duplex apartment where she lived when he shipped out for boot camp was still there, the renovations to it so extensive that he barely recognized it. Three small children, two girls and a boy, frolicked happily and loudly in the front yard when he drove by it. He passed a restaurant on Twenty-Eight Street, remembering many cozy and quiet moments spent there with Julie.

The only place where he got out of his Monte Carlo was at Regional Park near the Arkansas River, where they used to sit for hours beneath a shady and majestic white oak. Holding hands under that tree they had talked about and made a lot of plans. The giant old tree was still there, though it looked rather bleak and forlorn to Michael in the frosty wind. He ran his hand lightly over