Redemption U. and other Short Stories Page 5

David Pierce was a hero. He had saved his mother from a burglar, or worse, a pervert who had broken in to molest her.

  All thoughts of his father were forgotten now, with his new-found fame.

  Kathy Pierce, after recovering from her harrowing experience, gave silent thanks to the police and the reporters who had covered the incident, for their cooperation in shielding her son by not revealing the facts of Finlay Pierce II’s HOMECOMING.

  The End

  MURDEROUS FOG

  Chapter One

  When he woke that morning the sky was clear. Then the wind shifted, and the fog came rolling in, blanketing the tiny island of Magdar. At sunrise there was an orange tint to the east, across the Strait of Juan De Fuca, hovering over the Cascade range. Later, as the earth grudgingly gave some of its stored heat to the surrounding air, a few small, white, billowy puffs became evident above the island. When the fog advanced from the northwest over the cool water, it engulfed everything within its path, and intruded onto the adjacent land. Later it would lift and dissipate, only to return either later that evening or in the morning when the wind calmed. It was nearly a daily ritual in the late Spring.

  Magdar Island is a government owned, military occupied piece of land about a mile offshore from Point Venture, a town of about twenty-five thousand, not far down the Strait from the Pacific Ocean. One can see from a high spot on the mainland, across the island to the much larger Vancouver Island, eighteen miles away. That is, when the fog is not present.

  The current that courses through the band of water separating the town from the island has been compared to that off San Francisco by Alcatraz. Only the strongest swimmer would dare brave that one mile.

  Transportation to and from Magdar is accomplished either by boat or airplane. The Navy uses a launch to ferry its people both ways, and they constructed piers at both ends of the journey to accomplish it. The aircraft runway that runs parallel to the Strait does not accommodate the bigger airliners, only the smaller Navy planes. The island is only a mile across in any direction.

  When Joe Buono awoke that morning he knew that the coming day would be very different than those that had come before. And he was ready. Unlike most days when he had just drifted along and took what may, he had planned this next twenty-four hours down to the smallest detail.

  Joe was one of just a few who had swum the channel. That fact would become significant in what he had planned. A few months earlier, on a bet, he dove from the City pier into the chilly January water. He did wear a wet suit, and he accomplished the feat in less than an hour. The small beach on the east side of the island was empty when he collapsed near the water’s edge. He didn’t collect on the bet, however. Unfortunately, the sailor who had made the challenge didn’t observe the swim, and wouldn’t accept Joe’s word for it. Joe took payment by beating the hell out of the guy. Later the fact that no one knew he had done the feat would enter into his planning for his special day.

  Unlike other military posts or installations, the Island was not secure. There were no fences, and no guard post. The swirling waters around the sandy shore were deterrent enough. It was felt that the Naval Air Facility would not be high on the target list of terrorists. Indeed it wouldn’t occupy a place on the list at all. There were no secrets to be divulged, no loot to be taken. Were an enemy force to invade, the media would most likely laugh, rather than be alarmed, and the intruder’s intelligence would surely have been questioned.

  With that said, there was a small security squad of marines attached to the base. They were there more as police, to observe the workforce, which not only consisted of sailors, but also civilian contractors, mostly carpenters. If a rule was broken, or someone speeded in their vehicle, the guards might arrest them, and slap their hand. If a thief were caught siphoning aircraft fuel, he or she would immediately be placed in cuffs, and escorted to the local hoosegow in the town of Point Venture.

  Gunnery Sergeant Lawrence ‘Larry’ Murphy was in charge of the marine squad, which consisted of only five other noncoms. Duty for marines on the island was considered to be primo, or highly desired. The only problem was, a qualification for duty there was that one had to have served a tour in either Afghanistan or Iraq. If there was any downside at all, it was the weather, which could be brutal in the winter months.

  Joe Buono was a pharmacist’s mate. He was one of two assigned to the island. There was no doctor. If an inhabitant became sick or was injured, they were quickly diagnosed by the sailors who were like nurses, and if deemed necessary, they were sent to the mainland for care. Joe was small for a man, standing only five foot six. He had just barely made the height requirement for enlistment. He could hold his own in a fight, possessing an athlete’s body, and a determination to override his short stature. He had a quick temper that sometimes got him in over his head with his antagonists. He won his share of fights, but nearly always came out the worse for wear.

  Unfortunately Joe and Gunnery Sergeant Murphy had met before. The six foot two, two hundred and forty pound Murphy didn’t like Hospital Corpsmen, which is what Joe Buono was on the battlefield, thinking of them as pansies. They sat back and watched as the heavy fighting was going on, carrying only medicine and bandages, as if that would stop an invading force. Murphy had never been wounded himself. Had he been incapacitated, his opinion might have changed drastically.

  Joe Buono did his job in Afghanistan. He was personally responsible for saving the lives of more than one marine. He wasn’t a coward. He had joined the Navy because he grew up in San Diego, a Navy town. He’d always been fascinated by the sea. If he hadn’t been a sailor, he would have been a Merchant Marine. As a kid he’d nearly lived in the water, learning to body surf when he was eleven. He built a surfboard in wood shop in high school. He had no fear of the water.

  He joined the Navy right out of high school, not even waiting for the summer to be over. He had just turned eighteen, so he didn’t need his parent’s permission. That was just as well, because he wasn’t on the best of terms with them, ever since the accident with the family cat.

  Bubbles was a three year old tabby. The family which consisted of just the mom and dad and Joe, had had him since birth. One day when both his parents were at work, Joe was playing with the cat when it scratched him across his face. Furious, the teenager grabbed the small creature by the fur on the back of its neck, took it out to the swimming pool and threw it in. The thoroughly soaked animal flailed around for a minute, then began slowly moving toward the pool’s edge.

  The family didn’t have much money and had installed a vinyl lining in the hole that Joe and his father had dug. It took them nearly a year, and was backbreaking work.

  Anyway the cat, in trying to climb out of the water, clawed the liner, ripping it in the process. It was at the water line, so naturally some of the liquid seeped behind the lining.

  Joe was livid. He picked up the soaking cat, took it to the kitchen of the modest home, and placed it in the microwave oven. After closing the door, he set the unit to twenty seconds and turned it on. At about eighteen seconds the cat exploded, sending fur, blood, and body parts to all surfaces inside the oven.

  At the popping sound, Joe turned back toward the microwave, reaching up to touch his face where the blood from the cat’s scratch had congealed. He hadn’t really expected the cat to die, or maybe he had. At any rate there was no remorse, just panic lest he be discovered.

  He opened the door of the cat’s demise and began the considerable cleaning job, being careful as to not spill any residue on the kitchen floor. He placed the remnants of his work in a brown paper bag then carried it to their enclosed back yard. He found a shovel in the shed adjacent to the pool and began digging what would become the tabby’s grave. When his parents arrived home before six there was no trace of what they would have considered a crime.

  Joe told his parents days later when it became apparent to his elders the cat would not return, that he had inadvertently left the gate to the back yard open, and Bubbles must have
gotten out that way.

  It seemed to Joe that his parent’s attitude toward him changed after the cat episode. Surely they hadn’t guessed the truth. He thought they were being childish to hold a grudge, just for him leaving the gate ajar. All thought of Bubbles fate was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Lawrence Aloysius Murphy spent his childhood living in a row house on Morgan Street in South Philadelphia, surrounded by second or third generation Irish immigrants, and their offspring. The streets outside his rented family home were his playground.

  Larry was a big kid from the start. He weighed nine pounds at birth, which came via a hole in his mother’s stomach. Ceasarian birth was reasonably uncommon in nineteen eighty, at least in the poorer sections of large cities.

  Larry’s dad, the original Aloysius, was a city policeman. It was a family tradition started when his father joined the force almost right off the boat.

  Pay was low in the Philadelphia police force, at least for patrolmen. Al, as Larry’s dad was called, hadn’t made sergeant by the time his boy was ten years old, so his mother Halley took a job waitressing that kept her away from home for most of the daylight hours that her husband was walking a beat. That, of course, left Larry to fend for himself after school. It was a prescription for trouble.

  When the kids in the neighborhood weren’t fighting among themselves, they found others to antagonize. Some of them had brothers who had gone the same route, and now belonged to gangs. Larry himself became the youngest gang member at thirteen.

  That was when the other gang members pulled up in front of his house one Saturday in a flat-bed truck. His best friend Jack, who lived just two doors down jumped off the back, and rang the bell. When Larry answered, he saw the truck, with about five young men in the back, and three in the front seat.

  “Hey man, we’re gonna have a rumble in the wop section,” the boy, who was two years older than Larry, and in the ninth grade at the same junior high school, yelled, to be heard over the loud sound of the truck’s motor. Before his friend could answer, Benny, the kid at the door, continued. “You got a chain, or something you can use as a weapon?”

  “Yeah, there’s a chain in the garage. Wait, I’ll get it.” It was a foregone conclusion he would go with them. He didn’t want to, but neither did he want to appear chicken. He didn’t know why they were going, but he would follow along, because he wanted to be one of the boys. At thirteen he had not yet become a leader.

  Luckily for Larry, and probably the others too, they couldn’t find anyone to fight in the Italian neighborhood adjacent to their own. They drove around for maybe fifteen minutes before heading back. They had no guns, and found out later when a boy was shot nearby, that wasn’t the case with the Italians. The victim had been fifteen, and the assailant, who was arrested while trying to flee, was only sixteen.

  Larry remained with the neighborhood gang until he graduated from high school. He smoked some grass, got into a few scrapes, but because he was bigger than most of the other kids in the neighborhood, and also because his dad was on the force, he came out with no felony record. He joined the Marines right out of high school, at his father’s urging. The older man saw the handwriting on the wall, and knew that if his son hung around for the summer, he might not make it through alive. The gangs in the area were becoming more violent, and well armed. It wouldn’t be long before they might outgun the police force.

  The Marine Corps was a breeze after South Philly. Even the rigors of boot camp were easy for Larry Murphy. He did so well, he was sent to gunnery school while so many others were sent right to the fleet. He came out of that a PFC, and was transferred to the Naval base at Jacksonville, Florida.

  He’d never had any trouble finding female companionship. There were always girls hanging around the gang back home, wanting to belong. He could be rough with them, and they seemed to like it-at least he thought they did. If he slapped them around a little, the sex between them was more intense. He never met one girl or woman he had any respect for. Had he had a sister of his own he might have felt differently.

  He took up with a student nurse in Jacksonville. It was like a Mutt and Jeff relationship, except of course it was male and female. She stood barely five feet, with heels.

  They met at the USO in town. He was on his best behavior, and she was lonely. She’d been in school for two months, and hadn’t met a soul, other than her classmates. He was actually on the prowl, and she was the first person of the opposite sex who paid any attention to him. Her name was Debbie, probably after the actress Debbie Reynolds.

  The USO had strict rules against fraternization, and that probably heightened both their interests in each other.

  Debbie was a nice girl, and as such, she wanted to follow the rules of propriety. Larry had no such desire. He wanted to get it on, as rapidly as possible. After a month, with no success on his part, he became angry. It was inevitable he would either have his way with her by invitation, or he would rape her.

  After he hit her in his frustration, she realized there was no future in their relationship, and she stopped seeing him. It was just as well. Either she would have been hurt, literally, or he would have ended up in jail, or both.

  Their time together did nothing to ease Larry’s frustration. It did, however, use up most of the free time he had before graduation, and deployment to the war zone.

  Chapter Three

  It was right after Joe Buono’s first reenlistment that he was sent to Magdar Naval Air Facility. He was happy in the service. He’d done his time in the Afghan war, and in his mind, it wasn’t likely he would have to return. He knew he’d have at least two years shore duty before having to serve on a ship, or overseas. That could conceivably stretch out through his whole enlistment. He could decide after that if he again wanted to reenlist.

  Most of the enlisted men he had been around were pretty good guys, and never having had siblings of his own, he finally felt he belonged. The temper that had surfaced that one time had not returned, although there was one man he was just as happy to have left in Afghanistan-Larry Murphy.

  He settled into life in the Pacific Northwest, and was not unhappy. He’d even met a girl.

  Her name was Annabelle Artois. She was only an inch taller than him, (everyone was taller), as long as she didn’t wear heels. She spoke with a British accent which he thought was cute. Whenever he saw her she wore her dark brown hair up in back. She also had brown eyes, which seemed bigger than most. She always wore a dress, and that appealed to him. She worked for a logging firm in the area doing secretarial work.

  They had first met when she and another girlfriend went to the local watering hole, (tavern) that was frequented by loggers and swabbies alike. The men didn’t get along, and police quite often had to break up fights between the two antagonistic groups. Luckily for the tavern owner, whose name was Russ, they always took it outside his establishment. Joe had spent one weekend in the local jail because of his involvement in one of the brawls.

  He offered to buy the two girls drinks, and surprisingly, they accepted.

  Annie was easy to talk to, and Joe was smitten right away. She was so different from the other women he had met, especially in bars and taverns. Most of them had a hard edge to them, where Annabelle Artois seemed like a real lady.

  They never went out on a real date, meeting at the tavern on Friday nights. Sometimes they would walk down the street to a larger place that had a dance floor. They both enjoyed dancing. Joe left the fast stuff alone. He preferred the intimacy of slow dances. Annie seemed to like the same kind of music.

  Joe and Annie became almost inseparable as time went on. He had an old Studebaker that he stored in town, unable to find a way to bridge the water to the base. They didn’t move in together. He always returned to the base by the last launch at eleven p.m. He did, however, pick her up at her apartment when they went out, which was nearly every night.

  It was inevitable that they would become close physically, and it happened at her apartment o
ne night after they had been seeing each other for more than two months. She’d begun thinking there was something wrong with him, but it was just that he didn’t want to ruin their relationship by moving too fast.

  She found out one night when her roommate was staying over with her boyfriend, that all Joe’s parts were in the right place and working perfectly. Their physical closeness did nothing to dull Joe’s feelings for her. In fact, in his mind, he was entertaining thoughts of proposing.

  It was in June, three months almost to the day, when Annie seemed to change. She began cancelling dates with him, using a variety of excuses. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why she had apparently cooled toward him.

  His answer came painfully when he dropped in on her unannounced one Saturday afternoon. She answered the door after the second ring.

  “Joe,” she said, with an uneasy look on her face. “I didn’t expect you today.”

  He couldn’t just walk in, as she was standing in the middle of the doorway. He shifted from one leg to the other, and answered, “I was in the neighborhood and I haven’t seen you in a while, so I thought I’d drop by, to see if you’re all right.” He lied. He was lonely, and wanted to hold her, preferably in bed.

  “Who’s at the door, babe?” a voice yelled from the area of the kitchen of the small apartment.

  Joe knew that voice from somewhere. He was trying to place it, when a shadowy figure emerged from the kitchen. “Hello shrimp,” the voice said, a little contemptuously, “Long time no see.”

  Joe was suddenly back on the battlefield in Helmand Province deep in Afghanistan, when Gunnery Sergeant Larry Murphy had used that term in referring to him. He cringed, much the same as he had done then.

  “W-what are you doing here?” He stammered.

  It was in fact Murphy, who was now striding toward him at Annie’s front door. “I’ve been here for nearly a month now. Didn’t you know? I’m assigned to security at the base.”