“I couldn’t find anywhere he did, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I came back too soon. Please, take some time and review all—”
“No. I don’t need to do that. I looked at most of them…” she trailed off, looking away. After an awkward moment, she looked back up at Riley when she didn’t say anything. “What?”
“You tell me.”
“What do you want me to say, that he didn’t miss a payment? Okay, he didn’t.”
“I just want you to say what you see, Amanda. What are the facts before you? Not filtered through anyone’s eyes but only yours. If we were in court right now, and you were on the witness stand, I would approach you and say, ‘Isn’t it true, Miss Amanda Garrett, that your father never missed a child support payment?’” Riley deepened her voice and strode across the room with theatrical practice, waving her arms as she did so.
Amanda smiled, weakly wiped at her face, and said, “Funny.”
“Judge, may I treat the young lady as a hostile witness?” Riley turned toward the window wall, as if there was a judge there.
“Okay. Okay. He didn’t miss a child support payment.”
Riley walked over to her desk, leaned forward with her hands on the matting, stared directly at a Peggy Hopper painting, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Colonel Zachary Garrett never missed a child support payment.” Turning toward Amanda, she said, “Witness, you are excused until tomorrow.”
With a long slender arm, full of bracelets, she pointed at the door. “Go see that hunk boyfriend of yours.”
Amanda wrinkled her forehead, stood, and walked out of the door. “Whatever.”
Riley watched her depart, waited a few minutes, and then sat at her desk. She opened her desk drawer and held the framed photo in her hands for what seemed an eternity. Tears were streaming down her face as she placed the photo back on her desk where it had been for two years.
Why, damnit? Why? Then, a moment later, after a few more tears, she shook her head. I can’t do this by myself.
Riley punched her intercom box and told her assistant to go home. She pulled a bottle of red wine from the cabinet opposite the window wall, poured a glass, and took a long sip.
She cried and drank. Her thoughts swung from one end of the spectrum to the other. She was flattered and privileged that she could honor Zachary’s death by helping his daughter. On the other hand, was it an unfair burden to place on her?
No, it was a privilege, she concluded. It was what he’d wanted, and she would give him that. There were so many other things she had wanted to give him.
She poured the last of the wine. Standing, she picked up her glass and walked to the window. You get one shot at true love, she thought to herself. One shot.
She recalled the day Zachary was leaving for Afghanistan. She was crying, holding him tight. She had driven him from his house in Sanford to Fort Bragg. He was dressed in his Army combat uniform with a Special Forces patch on his shoulder. They were parked outside of the headquarters.
He pulled her to him, kissed her on the lips and then the forehead.
“I’ll miss you,” she said, crying into his uniform, “again. Last time was hard, but this time, Zach. I don’t know; just be careful.”
“One last time, baby. I’ve got to go do this. Then I’ll come down to Charlotte, we’ll get married.”
“I want that for us, Zach. I want to meet Amanda. And I want to give her a brother or sister, you know.”
“We’ll do that, Riley. That’s what I want.”
“You be careful.”
Zach pulled away, grabbed his rucksack, and kissed her one more time. He got out of the car, walked around to the driver’s side and leaned into the window to kiss her face, wet with tears. He smiled at her with his crooked grin as he pulled away.
“Don’t worry, babe, I’m good to go.”
CHAPTER 13
Colonel Zachary Garrett opened his eyes. He had been dreaming about Amanda. She was five years old and wearing red shorts and a green T-shirt with a single flower in the center.
“Daddy’s got to go to work, baby girl.”
The young Amanda grabbed her daddy’s watch and said, “Five minutes.” She held up her small hand, spreading her fingers, and then she leaned into her father, hugging him. “You’re not going anywhere for five minutes.”
“Daddy’s not going anywhere, ever, baby girl.”
The pain surged through his body as if carried by an electrical current. He was wounded, but not in a debilitating way, he prayed. Amanda’s face hovered in front of him for an instant, smiling, loving, and pure. What hurt more, his wounds or the memories?
To the best of his knowledge he had been held in this stone cave prison for at least three days. He remembered the helicopter taking off without him and the blinding whirl of snow all around. Had he been able to leave behind the weapon? Had they found it? Perhaps he would never find out. Then two men were upon him so quickly that he was unable to maneuver against them. He knew he had been shot twice as he was carrying Jergens to the helicopter. Then the explosion, and all hell broke loose. Two men, screaming Arabic at him, one holding a knife to his throat. He’d resisted, but one of the men had apparently butt-stroked him on the head, knocking him unconscious.
He heard unintelligible voices beyond the pile of rocks that blocked his egress. On three sides of his confines was solid rock, a cave. Stacked to his front were large boulders that allowed him only small slivers of light. Occasionally he would see a dark shadow pass across the tiny gaps between the rocks. Twice, he had been given food. The first time, a pair of hands had removed a flat rectangular rock about the size of a laptop and slid a tray of rice and cold lamb onto the ledge. The second time, he had been given an American combat ration, Meal Ready to Eat, or MRE.
Zach calculated that the preponderance of Arabic and lack of Pashto or Dari languages indicated he was being held by Al Qaeda. There were other groups operating in the area, such as the Taliban, but Al Qaeda was imported, and they spoke Arabic.
If it was Al Qaeda, then they had been right about their target. They had been onto bin Laden.
The rocks began shifting in front of him. One by one, two pairs of hands removed smaller rocks, followed by larger ones. Soon there was a hole large enough for him to crawl through. The bore of an AK-47 assault rifle poked through, then shook twice away from him. It was, he figured, the international symbol for “get over here, asshole.”
He looked down at himself. His uniform was shredded, his feet bare. He had no weapon. They had even found the knife he kept strapped to his ankle. They had cut his pant leg, and someone had performed minor surgery on him. The bullet wounds were covered with dirty gauze.
Again, the weapon shook in front of him, followed by a voice ordering him forward. “Come. Come.”
For a moment, he thought of grabbing the muzzle of the AK-47 and snatching it from his captor’s hands. Surely though, there were others behind this one. He wouldn’t stand a chance backed into the corner of this cave.
“Boots,” Zach called out. “I need my boots.”
A deafening blast exploded in his makeshift cell. The muzzle emitted flame, and the bullet struck the wall.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” He looked through the hole and saw more than five men dressed in traditional tribal garb. The flowing white robes, sheepskin vests, and brown wool Pakols, or black turbans, all reinforced his conviction that his captors were Al Qaeda.