Red Dog Saloon (23 page)

“No,
we don’t have anything of that nature anymore,” Agnes replied. “All personal
items were given to her next of kin.”

“Next
of kin?” Sam asked as he recalled reading that her relatives were all deceased.

“Why
yes - her son,” Agnes replied as she picked up the box full of records.

“She
has a son?” Sam asked with his eyes wide. “I didn’t know she had a son.”

“Neither
did we,” Agnes said as she paused. “She didn’t tell anyone, kept it secret like
everything else. Then he came walking in one day, nice-looking young man. He
looked like he’d been in the service, very well-mannered, polite and clean
cut.”

“Did
he see her often?” Sam asked.

“Well,
no,” Agnes responded. “She died the day after he first came in to see her. He
was the one who found her, poor dear. It was horrible, finding his mother like
that. I can only imagine what that did to him, a young impressionable boy.”

“Do
you know his name or where he is?” Sam asked, excited by the prospect of
finally having a suspect.

“Well
he gave us an address but it wasn’t legitimate because everything we’ve sent
there has come back incorrect address,” Agnes noted. "The last time I saw
him was the day his mother was buried."

“What
about a name, do you remember a name?” Sam asked.

“I
can’t really remember,” Agnes admitted. “I see a lot of family in here so
sometimes things slip but maybe Helen will remember. She’s our receptionist
you’ve met. As I recall she was kind of sweet on him when he came in. Like I
said, he was a rather handsome young man.”

Agnes
called the receptionist into her office. The young woman timidly entered.

“Helen,
by any chance do you remember the name of Ms. Porter’s son, the one who came in
right before, well, you know,” Agnes asked.

“Yes
ma’am. Well, I know his first name,” Helen said, looking at the sheriff.

“It’s
Ben. His name is Ben”.

The
war never ended for Ben. It had simply moved closer to home and became more
personal. That was the thing about war. At least over there, most of the time
killing was just business, not personal. It was a job, a condition of his
employment, an oath he took days after graduating high school.

A
bored pizza-faced teen, he was ready to get out from underneath mom’s apron as
soon as he was handed his diploma. Easton was no place to live, to spread one’s
wings. He spent his teenage years imagining the day he would escape the
mind-numbing malaise of his hometown. He knew his destiny was outside the bonds
of Castle County. However, he would learn neither fate nor Castle County would
be quick to let him go. It was as if both required a favor of him before
turning him loose. Actually, it was much more than a favor. Their request was
asking him to go above and beyond.

But
then he was used to going above and beyond during his relatively short time
with the special forces. He had already completed more hazardous missions than
most seasoned veterans do in a career. His superiors recognized his special
skill set during his training. They directed his career into an area better
suited for his abilities. That area was killing. Ben was one of the best. He
was a natural despite his youthful looks which earned the nickname Baby Face Ben
amongst his squad of specially trained professionals. Anyone can pull a
trigger, toss a grenade or push a button on a joystick guiding a drone.
However, only the truly gifted in the killing industry, Ben learned early on,
can take care of business without depending on the normal tools of the trade,
using their hands or whatever is available in arm’s reach. He was trained to
adapt.

That
training was put to the test early in Ben’s career. It was one of those rare
occasions when things crossed from being business to being personal in an
instant.

Ben
had been in-country for only a couple of weeks. The young soldier was assigned
to a special team charged with finding and neutralizing Taliban deep in the
mountains of Afghanistan. That’s when it happened, at a time he least expected.
His first test wasn’t deep in the Afghani frontier or in some remote mountain
pass; it was in the mess hall as he was eating his lasagna. He had just sat
down and began to pump ketchup on his lasagna when the yelling started. The voice
was in a language he didn’t understand but the tone was unmistakable. A moment
later a shot rang out to his right. The head of one of his comrades at arms
seemed to explode. Blood splattered across the table where the soldiers were
dining. It was a rogue Afghani security officer bent on cashing in on his
seventy-two virgins while taking out a few G.I.s along the way.

Ben
instinctively reached for his sidearm which he was supposed to carry at all
times. It wasn’t there. He had disobeyed the order, leaving it in his arms
locker in his rush to enjoy the lasagna. Now, the screaming traitor was taking
aim at other soldiers as they dove for cover. His first victim was slumped dead
across his plate of food. Ben had to adapt and adapt quick.  Taking advantage
of the traitor's hesitation in pulling the trigger again, Ben looked around for
something to arm himself with. Seeing nothing available, he grabbed the butter
knife he was using to cut his lasagna. Ben ran toward the armed man with the
dull knife cocked back ready for battle. The Afghani traitor, who was preparing
to squeeze off another shot, never heard him coming. 

The
butter knife sunk deep into his eye socket, the dull metal burying itself to
the base of its handle in his skull. His shooting spree was over. The traitor
was dead before he hit the floor.

Ben
stood over the dead officer like an animal over its kill. His brothers-in-arms
looked at the dead gunman with the butter knife protruding from his eye socket
trying to understand what had just happened. It wasn’t a story one could read
in the local paper even though his actions became lore within the battalion. Many
a soldier would tell the tale of Baby Face Ben slaying an armed terrorist with
nothing but a butter knife. It got to a point that many believed the story to
be only legend. However, Ben and those who witnessed his bravery knew it
to be true.

Despite
his unique abilities when it came to killing, Ben was the type of person most
people naturally liked, that is if they weren’t on the other side of the battle
lines. His disposition was one of a mild-mannered young gentleman. He was soft
spoken and always addressed those his senior as "sir" and
"ma’am." It was obvious he was well-raised.

But,
perhaps his best quality was one that people never saw except by the product of
his actions. It was his sense of justice or the old fashioned idea of good
triumphing over evil. It was the whole reason he dreamed of joining the
military even as a child. It wasn’t about the killing, it was about setting
things right. It was about beating the bad guys. The Golden Rule was at his
very core. The philosophy was instilled in him by his mother his whole life.

Now,
as he pulled into the snow-covered driveway just outside Easton, Ben was one
step closer to setting things right. He aimed to ensure good triumphed over
evil. It would all be over, one way or another, in just a few hours.

Ben
looked over his shoulder as he tromped through the snow. He walked with purpose
onto the porch after assuring himself no prying eyes were watching. He wasted
no time knocking on the door.

“Hello,”
the man said as he opened the door, a bit surprised to see his visitor. “What
can I do for you?”

“You
can come with me,” Ben declared.

Without
another word, Ben's fist flashed out like a missile, catching the man in the
midsection. The vicious blow doubled-over the surprised man right into Ben's
knee. The knee-shot caught his chin, knocking him out cold.

Ben
quickly threw the unconscious man back on the floor and closed the door behind
him in case someone passed by. He then pulled out the duct tape he had in his
coat. He bound the man hand and foot with the tape before using a piece to
cover his mouth.

“A
million and one uses,” Ben mumbled to himself as he surveyed his quarry.

Ben
found a bedspread and wrapped the bound man inside it. He didn't want anyone to
see him toting the unconscious man to his car.

Returning
to the door, Ben peered through the window to make sure no one was traveling
down the road. Traffic was sparse given the horrid weather conditions.
Convinced no one was looking, Ben threw the man over his shoulder and carried
him to his car, laying him in the backseat still wrapped in the bedspread. He
then pulled out of the drive less than three minutes after he arrived. His
mission, at least this part, was completed with no complications. As for his
well-wrapped passenger, his inconvenience would only last a few hours.

Ben
navigated the back roads with his mind wandering back to what led him to this
point - the point where he had an unconscious hostage in the back of his car.
It was still surreal to the soldier, how things had turned out. How fate had
brought him back to Castle County.

Just
three months before, Ben was on the other side of the world engaging the enemy
in their own backyard, seeking out “the bad guys” where they hid deep in the
mountains of Afghanistan. However, a call from home put his war abroad on hold,
bringing him back to Castle County. It was his mother. Her condition had
deteriorated.

Just
a week after trekking through Taliban territory, he stood outside his mother’s
hospital room in Easton. He dreaded his present mission more than any mission
he ever undertook during his three years in the service of his country. His
mother’s battle with cancer was coming to an end. She had valiantly fought the
disease for nearly a year. Despite his missions around the globe, Ben made time
to come back and visit with his ailing mother while she underwent treatments.
His last trip home was about four months earlier. 

Along
with being his mother, Elizabeth was also the only immediate family he had left
in the world aside from her ex-husband, Trent. He had left them seeking his
fortune in Hollywood when Ben was just seven. Ben called Elizabeth mother. He
called Trent, well, Trent.

Elizabeth
was the only mother Ben had ever known.

Back
during his last visit to Easton, hopes were high she might beat the disease,
the prognosis for the forty-four year old somewhat promising after months of
chemotherapy. He went back to active duty believing things on the home front
were improving. He couldn’t be more wrong.

Word
came ten days ago that his mother would not be making a recovery. Her condition
was determined to be terminal by her doctors. Hospice had already been called
to make her comfortable in her last days. The cancer had come back with a
vengeance. Its progress was hopelessly aggressive. Ben was granted extended
leave given his status as her only surviving child. He was furloughed from
active duty for one hundred days in order to take care of his mother and set
her affairs in order after her passing. Ben found it would take nowhere near
the hundred days allotted to him. His mother’s condition had deteriorated
beyond his worse imagination when he arrived home.

The
woman he found when he returned to Easton was not the same woman he left just
four months before. Now bed ridden, Elizabeth, who was active and chipper
despite her chemo when he last saw her, now was under a hundred pounds. Her
frailty left her unable to rise from her bed to give her only son a hug. He
barely recognized the woman that it seemed, just yesterday, was teaching him to
ride a bike, pushing him in his swing set and even teaching him how to throw a
baseball. Elizabeth was both his mother and his father when he was growing up.

It
all made him feel so helpless. A feared warrior able to vanquish all enemies,
he was powerless to do anything against the horrible disease that had stricken
his mother. What if he had stayed in Easton instead of joining the service?
Would things have turned out differently? Had he abandoned his mother in her
time of need? Ben tried not to blame himself for selfishly following the beat
of his own drummer. His departure from Easton came with the blessing of
Elizabeth when he enlisted.

“You
have to live your own life, Ben,” she told him when he joined the service. “You
just go make me proud in whatever you do.”

And
Ben had made his mother proud. Elizabeth bragged about her "soldier
boy" to all her friends at city hall where she had worked as the mayor’s
secretary until her health deteriorated to the point where she had to take an
extended leave of absence. She had chosen not to remarry after Trent left.
Instead, she dedicated her time to raising Ben, her job at city hall and her
involvement in volunteer work - the latter of which she always stressed to her
son. The Golden Rule that Elizabeth instilled in Ben as a boy still guided him
as a grown man. It had such an influence that he took it as his first tattoo,
one of many he planned to get, telling his life story in ink.

He
held his mother’s frail hand as he sat at her bedside, the words ‘Unto Others’
emblazoned on his forearm. Sadly, he figured she would never see the tattoo as
her time was near. Ben was sent into her hospital room to say his last. But, in
the scheme of things, she didn’t need to see a tattoo to know her son was
living what she taught him.

However,
her focus on the final day of her life was on a secret she had kept. Sure, she
could have let Ben find out about it in paperwork she left behind detailing
everything but then that would be the coward’s way out. She had taught her son
to never be a coward.

“There’s
something you need to know,” Elizabeth said in a barely audible voice, her
breathing labored as Ben sat at her bedside watching her fight for air to
speak. “It’s about your mother.”

“I
know. You’ve told me,” Ben interjected.

Ben
realized Elizabeth was not his natural mother even though she had raised him
from a baby. She had adopted him as an infant after his mother was killed in an
accident. He was told before he was even a teenager to spare him the shock of
learning he was adopted if he were to find out later in life.

“No,
you don’t understand,” Elizabeth continued. “Your mother … she’s alive.”

“What
do you mean?” Ben stammered. “Alive? How? I mean, why?”

“She
had no choice,” Elizabeth said. “It was something horrible, something she
couldn’t tell. She made me promise not to tell you. She wanted me to raise you
as my own. And I did that, Ben. You’re my son. You’ll always be my little boy,
no matter what.”

“But
why are you telling me now?” Ben asked as he still held to his mother’s hand.

“I
couldn’t leave with this on me,” Elizabeth said opening her eyes, her look
sincere as she glanced down seeing her son’s tattoo for the first time, the
sight bringing a slight smile. “You have a right to know. What you do with it
is up to you.”

“But
why wouldn’t she want me to know she was alive all this time?” Ben pressed.
“What could be that horrible?”

“Some
things are best kept secret,” Elizabeth replied as she squeezed his hand
tighter. “She had her reasons. What they are, well, that will be up to her to
tell you.”