The Red Gloves Collection (45 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
he call Carol was dreading came Monday morning.

From the moment she’d heard that Mike was a prisoner of war, she’d been sick to her stomach. She was well aware of the treatment prisoners received in Iraq. Some were tortured and kept in cages, others were beaten and placed in pitch-dark solitary confinement. But ultimately, most of them were killed.

Hannah, meanwhile, walked around the house talking about prayer and belief and miracles, wearing a pair of red gloves the chauffeur had given her.

Carol had nothing against faith. If her daughter wanted to believe in something, fine. But believing in a miracle for her father couldn’t possibly be wise. Not when he might already be dead.

Now, Hannah was at school when the phone rang. The knot in Carol’s gut tightened as she took the call. “Hello?”

“Ms. Roberts?” It was Colonel Whalin’s voice.

“Yes.” Her heart rate doubled. “Do you have information about Hannah’s father?”

The man was silent, and in that silence Carol knew. She knew that whatever news the commander was about to deliver would be bad—devastating, even. He cleared his voice. “We received an envelope from the insurgents.”

Envelopes were never a good thing. Carol closed her eyes and waited.

“Inside were Mike’s dog tags, the patches from his uniform—his name and rank—and a photo of a corpse.” His voice was heavy. “I’m sorry, Ms. Roberts, as far as we can tell, the photo is of Hannah’s father.”

The bottom of Carol’s heart fell away and she felt herself floating.
What will I tell Hannah?
How would her daughter ever forgive her for waiting so long to tell her about her dad? She pinched the bridge of her nose and forced herself to concentrate. “Are there identifying features, something that makes you sure it’s him?”

“The body’s dressed in a flight suit—one that appears to belong to Mike Meade.”

Carol opened her eyes and stared out at the winter clouds. For a moment she saw him standing there, drenched in California sunshine, the surfboard beneath his arm.
“Come on, Carol, race you to the water!”
Her eyes stung. He was so strong, so vibrant and alive. She never should’ve kept Hannah from him, and now it was too late. She gave a shake of her head, searching for something to say. “Colonel Whalin … ” How could he be gone? She massaged her throat. “What about the rescue?”

“It’ll happen any day. From what we can tell nine men went down in the chopper and eight survived the crash, including Mike.” He exhaled, his voice weary. “As many as seven of them may still be alive, trapped inside the insurgents’ compound.”

“Very well.” She straightened herself, willing air to fill her lungs despite the panic suffocating her. “Please contact us afterward. Just in case.”

“Yes.” He paused, but in that pause there wasn’t even a glimmer of hope. “Just in case.”

H
annah flew through the door just after three, the red gloves on her hands.

“Mother… ” She was about to ask whether the colonel had called or not when she saw her mother’s face. All her life, when she pictured her mother, Hannah had seen a dark-haired woman, beautiful and neatly put together. The image Carol Roberts gave to the world was not one that allowed shows of emotion or anything short of perfection.

That’s how Hannah knew something was wrong.

As she rounded the corner into the living room, her mother was sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her. When she heard Hannah, she turned. Her face was streaked with mascara, her eyes swollen from crying. Her hair was flat and tucked behind her ears, as though she’d never even attempted to curl it.

“Mom?” Hannah stopped a few feet from her. She crossed her arms, cupping her elbows with her gloved hands. “What’s wrong?”

“Hannah … ” Her mother stood and shook her head. “I’m so sorry.” Her eyes fell to the floor. “I should have told you about him sooner.”

The thoughts in Hannah’s head swirled and skipped around, and she struggled to make sense of her mother’s statement. “Did… ” She couldn’t finish, couldn’t bring herself to ask it. But she had no choice, because she had to know. Moving slow, carefully, she sat on the sofa arm, her eyes never left her mother’s face. “Did the colonel call?”

Her mother lifted her head, her expression frozen, mouth drawn. “Yes.” Her voice was so quiet, Hannah could hardly understand her. “They think your father’s dead.”

“No.” Hannah shook her head, refusing to allow the words entrance to her mind. “No, Mother, he’s a prisoner. He’s not dead.”

“Hannah,” her mother stood and came to her. She looked tired and old and defeated. “His commander received an envelope with his things, his tags and patches, and a—” Her voice caught and she brought her hands to her face.

“What, Mother?” Hannah stood and went to her, taking hold of her wrists and lowering her hands so she could see her mother’s face. But all the while she felt like a robot, as if her heart had been removed from her chest and she was merely operating on instinct. “What else?”

Her mother twisted her face, pain marking every crease and angle. She searched Hannah’s eyes. “There was a photo of a dead man. They think … they think it’s your father.”

Hannah dropped her mother’s hands. Her mouth hung open for a few moments, her mind racing. What had her mother said? They
thought it
was her father, right? Wasn’t that it? They could be wrong, couldn’t they? She swallowed, but her throat was too dry and the words wouldn’t come.

Her knees shook and suddenly she couldn’t stay on her feet another second. She dropped slowly to the ground, and somewhere in the distant places of her brain she heard herself begin to moan. “No … no, he can’t be gone!”

“Hannah … ” Her mother dropped to her knees next to her and put a hand on her back. “I’m so sorry.”

“No!” She only shook her head, and this time the moan became louder, a desperate shout against everything that was happening around her, against the details that hung in the air like daggers over the two of them. She looked up and found her mother’s eyes. “He could be wrong, couldn’t he? The photo might not be my dad, right?”

It was her last hope, the last possibility that maybe—
maybe
—he was still alive, that the information was all some sort of terrible mistake. Her breathing was faster now, and she couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. Her chest heaved and she stared, wide eyed at her mother. “Right, Mom? Tell me I’m right!”

“Hannah … ” Her mother shook her head, but that was all. There were no promises, no possibilities, nothing that would make her think for a moment that her mother held out any hope.

The red gloves felt like they were strangling her. Was this what she got for believing in miracles? A missed opportunity? A loss so great she couldn’t fathom it? A father who never even knew how much she’d missed him? Was this what praying had brought about in her life?

She turned her hands palms up and was starting to tug on the fingers of the left glove when she spotted the word embroidered into the cuff:
Believe.
She stared at it and realized in a rush that already she’d stopped believing. In fact, she’d been about to throw the gloves across the room. Now, though, she froze, her eyes still on the word.

Next to her, her mother was saying something else, something about a rescue for whatever men might still be alive and how Colonel Whalin would call if there was any news, and suddenly Hannah gasped. “What did you say?”

Her mother slid over, closer. “Hannah, don’t get your hopes up. Colonel Whalin saw the picture. It… it looked like your father.”

“But they’re doing a rescue, right?” She was on her feet, unable to contain the feelings welling within her. The gloves were only partway on her hands, and now she pushed her fingers hard back into them. No matter what, now, the gloves would stay. She lowered herself so her eyes were at the same level as her mother’s. “A rescue, Mother, don’t you see. The insurgents could’ve sent a bad picture. We won’t know until they get all of the men out.”

“I don’t think it’s smart to—”

“Please … ” Hannah stood and touched her mother’s shoulder with one red-gloved hand. “Give me this, Mother. I have to believe.”

It was a truth she clung to the remainder of the day and through the night, when images of his capture and mistreatment threatened to suffocate her. Instead she prayed, just the way she’d done in Buddy Bingo’s car.

Believing God could hear her, and that even now her father might still be alive. Believing it as though her next breath depended on it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
he cell where they had him locked was more of a cage, a four-by-four box with metal bars. Twice a day they opened the door, jerked him onto the floor outside the cell, blindfolded him, and took him outside. He could tell because of the wind and sand, and because of the sun that shone through even the thick cloth over his eyes.

It was the middle of the night, and near as Mike could tell, he’d been a prisoner for nearly a week.

The initial blows from his captors had knocked him out, but only for a few minutes. He came to as they were shoving him into the cell, and even then he pretended to be unconscious. Peering through swollen eyes he could see he was alone with his captors, no sign of the Rangers or his gunner. The moment he moved, the insurgents were on him, grabbing him from the cell, placing him in crude handcuffs and chaining him to a table. The questions came like machine-gun fire, in a sort of broken English that was common among the people of Iraq.

“What you name?”

Mike had set his jaw and spit out the information. He was allowed to tell his name, rank, and serial number. Nothing else.

In a matter of seconds, the questions got harder. “What you mission?”

The air in the room was stifling hot, dank and suffocating. There were no windows, and Mike had the feeling they were underground. He remained silent and looked away from the man who asked the question.

A chorus of angry shouts came at him in Iraqi. The man asking the questions took a step closer, grabbed Mike’s chin, and jerked his face forward again. “You watch me,” he said, his breath hot and stale. “Understand?”

Mike had no choice, not with his hands tied. He glared at his captor, studying him. His hair was longer than the others, and a scar ran across his right cheek.

“I ask again.” His lips curled in a sneer. “What you mission?”

Whatever the consequence, Mike would never answer such a question. He’d given the insurgents all the information they would ever receive from him. He jerked hard enough so his chin broke free from the man’s grip, and he was able to turn his head sharply left once more.

This time the man slapped him, sending his head forward with a jolt. He spit at Mike and when the men be hind him chuckled, he shouted something in Iraqi at them. Then he looked at Mike once more. “I say tell me you mission.”

The session had lasted for what felt like an hour. When they saw they could get no more information from him, the insurgents took turns kicking him. Finally the leader unchained him and pulled him to his feet. “You finished,” he shouted at Mike. Then he yanked off every patch on Mike’s flight suit. He leaned in so his nose was touching Mike’s. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You dead soldier.”

The man’s tone had left no doubt. Mike closed his eyes, but instead of imagining the bullet that would certainly slice through him any moment, he put himself in another place—the place he’d put himself for the past eleven years. On Pismo Beach with Hannah at his side, the smell of salt water filling his senses, the sun hot on his back as they worked on a sandcastle.

He could hear her little-girl laughter, feel her hand on his arm as she clamored for his attention every few minutes.
“Look, Daddy… a new shell!”
or
“See, Daddy … it has a door now!”

But the bullet never came.

Instead, the leader grabbed his arm and shoved him onto the floor. “Crawl, soldier!”

And Mike did. He shuffled forward on his knees and when he was near the cell door, the man kicked him hard enough to send him crashing into the backside of the metal bars. The man locked the door, shouted something Mike didn’t understand, and then the group of them left him alone.

Mike hadn’t taken a full breath until they were gone. He was handcuffed, but he brought his fingers to his face and covered his eyes, unable to believe they’d let him live.

That was six days ago. The men—with different ones acting as the leader—had repeated the questioning every few hours since then, always with death threats. Once they showed him a photo of a headless corpse, and the leader from the first day gave him an evil smile. “That will be you, soldier. Soon.”

Mike still believed it was true, but after surviving the first day, he began to do something he hadn’t done in years. He began to pray. Back at the base, Stoker was praying for him. He had no doubts. He might as well pray for himself. The confinement was tight and cramped and lonely, and if nothing else, praying gave him someone to talk to. He believed in God, believed there was a purpose to life and the people who came and left from it.

At least that’s the way he saw it that first night. But trapped in the cell, his body cramping from the heat and lack of water, certain that death was hours away, talking to God became a life rope, a desperate cry from the depths of darkness. And all because he wanted the one thing he’d wanted since he’d enlisted.

The chance to see Hannah again.

Mike brought his cuffed hands to the cell bars and gripped them. He could hear the scurrying of a mouse— or what he figured were mice, but what might’ve also been cockroaches. The sound had been constant since they locked him up. But now, no matter how hard he tried to peer into the darkness, he couldn’t see a thing. Nothing.

“God… I know You can see me, even here.” He whispered the prayer out loud this time. Hearing his own voice on occasion helped him stay focused. Because even though the situation seemed dismal, he had to believe he was getting out, that his captors would forget him outside one of these times or leave him at the interrogating table unwatched. Something so that he could get away.