Rosalind Noonan - One September Morning

KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

Iraq, 2006

T he king is dead.

Americans will no longer turn on their televisions to watch him run the ball through a pack of hulking football players, breaking free to lope into the end zone. Viewers of the nightly news will not see him in a combat helmet and desert khakis, flashing a smile and telling a reporter about a community program he facilitated to get school supplies for Iraqi children.

He wont come bounding into the barracks to roust the guys for a race or to hand out the candy or nuts or clean cotton sheets he just received in a package from home.

No more soldiers gathering to bask in the presence of the king.

No more jokes from the big guy.

No more photographers aiming their cameras to capture the king in a battle stance, the almighty warrior.

The king is dead, slain with this weapon cradled in the hand of the man who knows him so well. Chee-ee-oom! He pumped the hero full of lead. That was all it took to bring the big man down.

Now the sweet, biting scent of oil stings his sinuses as the new king rams the cleaning rod down the barrel of his M-16, removing all traces of the crime.

Not that it matters, as no one has a clue that he fired off the rounds that spawned a flurry of gunfire in the dark Fallujah warehouse.

Nobody realizes he deliberately aimed and killed Army Specialist John Stanton, big-ass football player, All-American hotshot with a charmed life and a trophy wife.

Nobody knows that a new king will soon take Stantons place.

He checks the spring, and then lubes itlightly. Oil it up too heavily and youre in troubleone of the tips hes learned and heeded in military training. He learned from the best of them. His old man used to tell him, you never break the law unless you can get away with it. Well, hes getting away with it now, and it feels damned good. He felt a surge of adrenaline when the bullets exploded from his rifle, a swell of satisfaction as the impact pushed the body back in the darkness. The first shot was nice and clean upper arm, in through the armored vest. Thank God for the NOD, the night operation device that illuminated hot spots, making it easy for him to find to his target.

Just like a freakin Xbox game.

And the sheer beauty, the perfection of the killing, is that no one will ever suspect him. Why would they? People thought they were friends, buds. No one could see the hatred he felt for John. The great John Stanton, football hero, patriot, and philosopher. Such a load of crap. John with his megabucks job, celebrity profile, beautiful wife. John with the picture-perfect family, the old man retired army, Mom a freakin saint, a brother who was his best friend, and a kid sister who idolized him. When you have it all, people adore you and want to give you more. But why should John have all those things when he has zippo?

Yeah, yeah, life is unfair. But nobody says you cant make a few changes to even the score.

He fits the two parts of the rifle back together and replaces a pin. Johns death is just the first step in restitution. With the king out of the way, he can move in and scoop up some of the goods left behind. What guy wouldnt want a piece of that wifea place in the perfect family? And who knows, if he can get close enough he might have a shot at some monetary gain, too.

Rest in peace, Johnny boy.

And dont worry about the good life you left behind . He smiles as he removes the soiled patch from the end of his cleaning rod. Im ready and willing to jump in your boots.

Fort Lewis,
Washington Abby

I ts wrong to wish your life away.

Abby Fitzgerald knows that. Still, resting one hip against the porch rail thats been painted over so many times its taken on a new, snakelike shape of its own, she wishes away a beautiful September morning. The green stretch of lawn, the yellow and orange mums bursting like a dozen suns in the community flower bed, the expanse of cerulean sky and Mount Rainier huddled on the horizon like a gentle giantlet them be gone.

Vanished.

Abby would trade them all for the grim, gray rain of December, the month her husband returns from Iraq. Gripping her hot teacup with both hands, she closes her eyes and wills away the day, the monthsSeptember, October, November, December.

Which does not work. When she opens her eyes, September reigns, dammit.

A few feet away, birds swoop onto feeders John tacked in place. Chickadees and house finches quickly snatch up black sunflower seeds, then bounce down to the bushes. At the saucer dangling from the porch overhang, the buzz of a hummingbird is slightly alarming, and Abby catches sight of the tiny bird just long enough to see the patches of iridescent violet on its head. Busy creatures. So damned chipper. She should follow their examplewake up and get to work. She needs a clear head to pull her notes together for tonights presentation.

But the dream absorbs her.

Last night, John seemed so real that it felt more like a visitationa spark of contact with the warmth of his bodythan a dream. Her mind replays the sequence, the sensation of John moving beside her, twisting the sheets away from her the way he always does, then flopping onto his side with a relieved sigh. Abby was so caught up in the ebb and flow of her own rhythmic breath beneath the quilt that it required great effort to open her eyes through the mask of sleep. But she did. She turned to him and observed him settling in beside her, his head a halo of dark hair, his broad back a wall of comfort for her as his solid body sank into the mattress.

The citrus scent of his aftershave clung to the bedding, and she heard him, too. Heard him calling her name, his voice a tidal wave washing through their small bedroom, breaking through her consciousness, then crashing into the street outside to resound over the neighborhood, the military base, the wide patches of green lawn and suburban sprawl that stretch north to Seattle and east to Mount Rainier.

Abby, he called, the tenor of his voice both heartbroken and exalted, and so heavy it rumbled the bed, shook the room, causing their wedding photo and the tiny porcelain bowls on the dresser to shimmy and clink. Abby recalls bracing herself for the earthquake, having experienced them a few times since moving to the Pacific Northwest. But it was only the ripple of her husbands voice stirring the air.