Chapter 16
James reeled backwards, almost falling over the still gasping body of the fallen American colonel, the knife falling from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Reaching out desperately, he managed to steady himself by grabbing the metal rod in the closet. Everything seemed to tilt slightly as he stared at the vaguely familiar face of the woman before him.
“Mom?” he whispered, suddenly feeling incredibly small. His eyes burned with unshed tears as he struggled with a barrage of unexpected emotions. It was impossible. The woman standing there, shaking, couldn’t possibly be his mother. His mother was dead...
“Oh, James,” she murmured, one hand extending tentatively. Tears trickled down her face as she stared at him. Then her eyes flicked to the body lying on the floor. “Oh, James, what have you done?”
“You’re... you died...” he mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief.
“James,” his mother whispered, moving forward to crouch down beside Palliser. “James, why?”
Sudden fury crashed over him, and he had to force himself not to lash out at her as she crouched beside the dying colonel. “Why?” he hissed, his eyes narrowing. “You have the gall to ask me why?”
She glanced up at the venom in his voice. “James...” she began, reaching one hand toward him, but he lurched away as though she were a snake.
“Don’t!” he snarled. “Don’t you fucking dare. All this time...”
“Your father...” she began, but he shook his head in denial.
“Shut up!” he roared.
“James,” she persisted, rising from the now still body of the colonel with one final, sorrowful glance at the man she had spent so many years with. “Why would you do this? What have you become?”
“What have I become?” he laughed mirthlessly, a vicious sneer on his face. “Oh, that’s rich. I killed him because he’s a fucking murderer, Mom. A fucking, cold-blooded monster.”
“And what does that make you, James?” she asked, softly.
James stared at her, his gaze venomous. “Oh, I have no illusions,” he murmured at last. “I’m a monster. I’ve always been a monster.” His expression grew cold. “But at least I don’t murder innocent women.” Very quietly he picked up the knife lying at his feet and calmly placed it back in the sheath at his belt.
Turning, he moved towards the door.
“James, wait!” Lisa pleaded, taking a hesitant step towards him.
James paused at the door. Not glancing back, he whispered, “You died a long time ago. Stay dead.”
“They’ll hunt you down,” she warned him.
“The only way they’ll know who killed him is if you tell them,” he replied, coldly. “Go ahead. Turn me in. I don’t care. He just destroyed everything I still gave a damn about, anyway.”
“James, don’t leave like this!” his mother protested with a soft sob.
“Why not?” he demanded tonelessly. “You did.”
Silence followed him as he walked down the narrow hallway.
The rain had started again, he noticed as he stepped out of the house. Closing his eyes, he tilted his face up, letting the water flow across his cheeks. Standing there, he imagined the water washing away the last of his ties to this life. There was a good chance that his mother would choose to turn him in. She had abandoned him once. If she did turn him in, it was likely that the Americans would track him down and kill him. In the chaos of the withdrawal, no one would even notice. Moreover, no one would even care.
He shook the water from his eyes and stepped into the darkness of the night, walking down the quiet residential streets. Far off he could still hear the shouts of celebration as people continued to rejoice at the news of the American withdrawal, but here the streets were dark and silent. He staggered slightly as the events of the day crashed down upon him.
His thoughts turned to Brigitte. Her rejection, her fury, was completely understandable to him. He blamed himself for Alyse’s death, too. As much as he wanted to believe that Brigitte would ultimately get over the anger and the blame, he knew that whatever they had begun to build in the last few days was lost to them forever.
So much had happened in such a short time, he mused. His world, everything he had known, had been shattered in a single night. Nothing remained. Considering the sudden emptiness in his soul, the bleakness of what he perceived the future to hold didn’t seem so bad.
He didn’t know how long he wandered the streets aimlessly, but the rain had stopped by the time he finally seemed to become aware of the world around him. The streets had grown completely silent, and he struggled for a moment to figure out where he was.
A six-foot high, white brick wall ran along the side of the roadway. A fading plaque was suspended on the bullet-pocked stones: Currie Barracks. The old military base, he realized. He ran a hand along the plaque. He wondered how long it had been since it had been an active base. He leaned against the wall, a distant look in his eyes. A weird sense of juxtaposition washed over him, as though he was looking at the wall from a different place and time.
Something clicked in his mind. The world was changing. With the withdrawal of the Americans, there would be a power vacancy, a need for some kind of new military force. European countries had, for centuries, required mandatory enlistment in the military. That enabled virtually every man and woman in those countries to bear arms in defence of their country, in the case of extreme need.
He closed his eyes for a moment. If he made the right comments to the right people, the desire for a universal militia might gain momentum. People would be afraid of being left defenceless after the withdrawal; they would want the security of having a hand in their own defence.
Pushing himself away from the wall, he straightened up and cracked his neck. A small smile flickered across his lips. He found it ironic that the very American idea of a right to bear arms might just be the solution to the problems James perceived approaching. He knew that American sympathizers would be granted positions of power. They would embrace the idea of a local, armed militia as an extremely American ideal.
Looking around, he saw the first hints of dawn gleaming on the eastern horizon. If he lived through the next few days, he decided, he had some work to do to help change the future.
“Mom?” he whispered, suddenly feeling incredibly small. His eyes burned with unshed tears as he struggled with a barrage of unexpected emotions. It was impossible. The woman standing there, shaking, couldn’t possibly be his mother. His mother was dead...
“Oh, James,” she murmured, one hand extending tentatively. Tears trickled down her face as she stared at him. Then her eyes flicked to the body lying on the floor. “Oh, James, what have you done?”
“You’re... you died...” he mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief.
“James,” his mother whispered, moving forward to crouch down beside Palliser. “James, why?”
Sudden fury crashed over him, and he had to force himself not to lash out at her as she crouched beside the dying colonel. “Why?” he hissed, his eyes narrowing. “You have the gall to ask me why?”
She glanced up at the venom in his voice. “James...” she began, reaching one hand toward him, but he lurched away as though she were a snake.
“Don’t!” he snarled. “Don’t you fucking dare. All this time...”
“Your father...” she began, but he shook his head in denial.
“Shut up!” he roared.
“James,” she persisted, rising from the now still body of the colonel with one final, sorrowful glance at the man she had spent so many years with. “Why would you do this? What have you become?”
“What have I become?” he laughed mirthlessly, a vicious sneer on his face. “Oh, that’s rich. I killed him because he’s a fucking murderer, Mom. A fucking, cold-blooded monster.”
“And what does that make you, James?” she asked, softly.
James stared at her, his gaze venomous. “Oh, I have no illusions,” he murmured at last. “I’m a monster. I’ve always been a monster.” His expression grew cold. “But at least I don’t murder innocent women.” Very quietly he picked up the knife lying at his feet and calmly placed it back in the sheath at his belt.
Turning, he moved towards the door.
“James, wait!” Lisa pleaded, taking a hesitant step towards him.
James paused at the door. Not glancing back, he whispered, “You died a long time ago. Stay dead.”
“They’ll hunt you down,” she warned him.
“The only way they’ll know who killed him is if you tell them,” he replied, coldly. “Go ahead. Turn me in. I don’t care. He just destroyed everything I still gave a damn about, anyway.”
“James, don’t leave like this!” his mother protested with a soft sob.
“Why not?” he demanded tonelessly. “You did.”
Silence followed him as he walked down the narrow hallway.
The rain had started again, he noticed as he stepped out of the house. Closing his eyes, he tilted his face up, letting the water flow across his cheeks. Standing there, he imagined the water washing away the last of his ties to this life. There was a good chance that his mother would choose to turn him in. She had abandoned him once. If she did turn him in, it was likely that the Americans would track him down and kill him. In the chaos of the withdrawal, no one would even notice. Moreover, no one would even care.
He shook the water from his eyes and stepped into the darkness of the night, walking down the quiet residential streets. Far off he could still hear the shouts of celebration as people continued to rejoice at the news of the American withdrawal, but here the streets were dark and silent. He staggered slightly as the events of the day crashed down upon him.
His thoughts turned to Brigitte. Her rejection, her fury, was completely understandable to him. He blamed himself for Alyse’s death, too. As much as he wanted to believe that Brigitte would ultimately get over the anger and the blame, he knew that whatever they had begun to build in the last few days was lost to them forever.
So much had happened in such a short time, he mused. His world, everything he had known, had been shattered in a single night. Nothing remained. Considering the sudden emptiness in his soul, the bleakness of what he perceived the future to hold didn’t seem so bad.
He didn’t know how long he wandered the streets aimlessly, but the rain had stopped by the time he finally seemed to become aware of the world around him. The streets had grown completely silent, and he struggled for a moment to figure out where he was.
A six-foot high, white brick wall ran along the side of the roadway. A fading plaque was suspended on the bullet-pocked stones: Currie Barracks. The old military base, he realized. He ran a hand along the plaque. He wondered how long it had been since it had been an active base. He leaned against the wall, a distant look in his eyes. A weird sense of juxtaposition washed over him, as though he was looking at the wall from a different place and time.
Something clicked in his mind. The world was changing. With the withdrawal of the Americans, there would be a power vacancy, a need for some kind of new military force. European countries had, for centuries, required mandatory enlistment in the military. That enabled virtually every man and woman in those countries to bear arms in defence of their country, in the case of extreme need.
He closed his eyes for a moment. If he made the right comments to the right people, the desire for a universal militia might gain momentum. People would be afraid of being left defenceless after the withdrawal; they would want the security of having a hand in their own defence.
Pushing himself away from the wall, he straightened up and cracked his neck. A small smile flickered across his lips. He found it ironic that the very American idea of a right to bear arms might just be the solution to the problems James perceived approaching. He knew that American sympathizers would be granted positions of power. They would embrace the idea of a local, armed militia as an extremely American ideal.
Looking around, he saw the first hints of dawn gleaming on the eastern horizon. If he lived through the next few days, he decided, he had some work to do to help change the future.