Mac, p.8
MAC, page 8
Epilogue
Sixteen years later…
A lot had happened back home, while I’d been in the air force. I didn’t go home to visit much. After Bobby and Maggie were married, and Maggie had completed nursing school, I’d paid for them to visit me in places they would never have gone to on vacation. Since I wasn’t married and didn’t have children, I had nothing better to spend my money on than enjoying time with my sister and Bobby.
In the summer of 1999, when I was stationed at Moody Air Force Base in Georgia, they visited for two weeks. And in the summer of 2001, when I was at Mildenhall in the United Kingdom, they stayed for a whole month.
Their traveling days ended, though, when Lindy, their first daughter, was born in 2002. Bella, their second daughter, arrived in 2004.
Mom never visited me, I only saw her on the few occasions I did go home. I made sure to call her every Saturday morning though and on holidays. Maggie and I also talked every week. She kept me informed about what Mom and Dad were doing and life in Brookfield.
Friday, June 30, 2006, will be forever burned in my memory. I’d been in the air force sixteen years and was on a temporary duty assignment for a few weeks, helping out with Pararescue Recovery Specialist Training at Kirtland Air Force Base, in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
This training was one of the last legs in the pipeline for the airmen hoping to become pararescuemen. Those who graduated would be issued the coveted maroon beret. Those who washed out were reassigned.
Pararescue wannabes took turns sliding down ropes from helicopters to pick up the guys playing the part of injured soldiers and then hustle them back to the helicopters waiting on the ground.
It was close to three o’clock in the afternoon when a fast-moving, base jeep, followed by a dust trail rolled our direction. The sergeant behind the wheel brought the jeep to a bucking stop. He’d popped the clutch and slammed the brakes at the last second before he jumped from the driver’s seat.
I knew it had to be something important to interrupt pararescue training. However, the jeep driver’s arrival meant nothing to me, so I turned my attention back to the wannabes.
Out the corner of my eye, I saw the sergeant lean in toward the commander, to be heard over the deafening whomp, whomp, whomp, from the Pave Hawk helicopters overhead.
Looking up, I watched airmen slide down practicing their fast-rope to the drop zone.
Suddenly, the Commander’s firm hand was on my shoulder, and I turned to see a grim look on his face. He cupped his mouth and leaned into my ear. There was an emergency phone call from home—it was my sister, Maggie.
He pointed to the jeep where the sergeant waited.
The sergeant and I rode to the office in silence. I hope nothing has happened to Bobby. He’d been in charge of the county jail for a few years, so he wasn’t on patrol. My mind raced through the possibilities. Maybe Dad had had a heart attack, or Mom was diagnosed with cancer? Maybe Maggie was diagnosed with cancer.
When we arrived at the office, there was a skeleton crew, three airmen doing various jobs. The sergeant went one way, and I went to the Commander’s office for privacy.
It confused me why Maggie had called on the landline. Then again, she may have called my cell phone; I hadn’t taken it with me to the training.
Sure enough, when I pushed the blinking button on the phone, Maggie was on the other end. For a moment and before I said anything, I listened. She sobbed, and my gut immediately wrenched into a knot. This is bad.
Maggie tried to tell me our father, had done something terrible. She couldn’t say what. I waited.
It had been sixteen years since I’d left Brookfield. Sixteen years had only widened the distance between Dad and me. I tried to imagine what he could have done to upset Maggie, to the point where she couldn’t speak. Maggie was a rock. An emergency room nurse, she saw horrific injuries and kept it together.
Dad was still an alcoholic. To my knowledge, he’d never even tried to kick the demon in the bottle. I wasn’t aware of him trying to hurt Mom since the time, all those years ago, when Mrs. Dearny had called 911 and Bobby’s dad responded.
As a kid growing up, I saw Dad as a jerk, who was drunk a lot. It frustrated me, Mom enabled him, for the most part. She always told Maggie and me he had a stressful job until he was fired and then she said he was stressed because he didn’t have a job.
After Grandpa died and Mom inherited a large sum of money, there were no more financial stress excuses. It was simple, he was an unhappy person. Rather than dig his heels in, to change his life, he self-medicated with booze.
As the minutes ticked by, my mind raced. I considered what Dad might have done to have gotten Maggie so upset. Had he hurt Mom? Did he drive drunk, and kill someone? I have never wavered from my belief Dad poisoned Grandpa. If Maggie tells me he’s done something to Mom, I am going to go home and… I forced myself to change my thoughts. Thinking Dad had hurt Mom wasn’t something I was going to consider.
The air force teaches you how to turn off your emotions. Decisions must be made with a clear, level head. If you allow yourself to become emotional, it could be the difference between life and death.
I heard busy office sounds on the other side of the Commander’s door. My auditory sense was on heightened alert listening to my sister’s painful tears. Mom must be sick, real sick.
Sixteen years in the air force played out on flash cards in my mind. When I did go home for a visit, I always stayed with Maggie and Bobby. There was no way I could have ever stayed under the same roof as Dad. He and I only saw each other when we’d all get together for dinner at Maggie’s, or at a restaurant.
In sixteen years, I could count on one hand, how many times I’d seen Dad. He’d never changed; always surly and bitter.
The only women I’d heard cry with the intensity Maggie had, during that phone conversation, were the wives and mothers of soldiers killed in action. My gut told me, what Maggie was building the strength to say was worse than terrible.
After several more minutes, Maggie finally gained enough composure to attempt to speak, “Dad—,” she sniffled, “He—.” She sniffled again, “It’s horrible, Cole… hang on.” She set the phone down and then blew her nose several times. I heard her ask Bobby to bring her more tissues.
“Okay,” Maggie said with a nasal voice.
“Maggie, get a grip. What is it? What’s happened?” I asked, with a calm, quiet voice.
“Dad… Dad… errr… a… Mom… Mom…” She blew her nose again and cried for another full minute. The words were stuck in her throat.
“Maggie,” I used the softest, but most authoritative voice I could muster, “What happened?”
“Dad… Dad… Dad killed her,” She gasped for air. I could hear she was hyperventilating. My ears began to ring. It felt like someone had punched me in the gut. There was no air in my lungs, and I couldn’t breathe.
Maggie cried, while I struggled to grasp what she’d said. The sound she made on her end was like no sound I’d ever heard before or since. My sister’s anguish came out in a quiet, animal-like sound.
“Where’s Dad now?” I managed to ask.
“He… he…” Maggie gulped air. “He… he… he shot her.”
“Maggie. Where’s Dad?” I asked again, almost in a whisper.
“He… he…” She stopped and blew her nose again.
My patience was wearing thin. I needed Maggie to pull it together and tell me what had happened.
Keep your emotions in check soldier.
Maggie cried, “He’s… he’s… he’s dead too.”
“Maggie, I’ll be home as fast as I can. I’ll help you figure everything out,” I said.
She sobbed.
“Maggie, did you hear me?”
“Yes. Thank you, Cole.”
Maggie was still crying when we disconnected.
With one phone call, the bad memories with Dad, yelling at Mom or pushing her and screaming profanities in her face, flooded back into my thoughts.
After Grandpa had died, I’d fled and joined the air force. I couldn’t stay in Brookfield. It’s true, I did join on a dare I’d lost with Jason on our high school graduation night, but to be honest, I’d already decided I wanted to make Grandpa proud and enlist.
The sergeant took me to Billeting, where I’d been staying. Billeting is basically a base hotel.
I quickly gathered my gear and was on the first flight back to Sacramento.
Bobby picked me up at the airport and filled me in, on the details, during the drive to Brookfield.
My abusive, alcoholic father drove Mom to church for a meeting Friday morning. Some of the church ladies were organizing a rummage sale. Later, as he always did, he returned to pick her up.
Mom was capable of driving herself, but being the control freak he was, Dad insisted on driving her wherever she wanted to go. One might have interpreted his gesture, as sweetness. It wasn’t. He controlled every aspect of her life.
Dad had always kept his loaded Beretta handgun stashed under the driver’s seat of his car. He was paranoid a punk kid would try to carjack him.
When they returned from church, he parked the car in the driveway and shot Mom once, at close range, in her temple.
Like the coward he was after he killed Mom, he shot himself.
Old Mrs. Dearny, the nosy neighbor from across the street, found them. She told the sheriff’s deputy, who responded to the scene, that when she was walking her little dog when she saw their car pull into the driveway. She waved at Mom, who did the same, with a friendly smile on her face.
Thirty minutes later, when Mrs. Dearny made her way back from her walk, she noticed the car’s motor was still running and went to investigate. When she walked closer to the car, she saw the gruesome scene, one she’ll probably never forget. For the second and final time, she called 911 to report trouble at my childhood home.
Maggie, Bobby, and I handled the arrangements, for a double memorial service. Few people attended. Those who did were mostly people from Mom’s church.
Your parents teach you many things, as you grow up, writing an obituary for them or selecting an urn for their ashes, were not on the checklist.
As I sat in the pew at Mom’s church staring at the organ she played every Sunday and listened to the pastor speak highly about her, I regretted not spending more time with her over the years. I felt sadness because she should have left Dad and had the opportunity to live a happier life. Mostly, I wished I could have said “I love you,” just one more time.
Keep your emotions in check soldier.
Thank you for reading Mac: A Prequel Novella!
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Continue reading for a special sneak peek of
Unknown Threat
Book 1 in the School Marshal Series.
Meet Mac MacKenna, ex-air force special operations.
Mac’s retired life is pretty boring after 20 years in the U.S. Air Force, mostly in special operations. He’s intrigued by the police chief’s undercover proposal and accepts the mission. His assignment… root out the criminal activity at the high school before children die.
Soon enough, his former life of loaded weapons and death defying rescues has been replaced by arrogant parents, self-serving politicians, and questionable employees.
Unfortunately for Mac, meddling with the rich can have deadly consequences.
Available at Amazon
Unknown Threat - Chapter 1
The morning began with a hike in Desolation Wilderness. Cole MacKenna, nicknamed Mac, and his dog Roxy, a long-haired black and tan German Shepherd rescue, hiked at 7,000 feet above sea level.
Twin Lakes trail head begins and ends just after the Chappell Crossing Bridge. Mac had enjoyed going to the peaceful and quiet mountaintop escape since he could drive. On this day, a Tuesday, he and Roxy had the trail all to themselves. As a form of therapy, Mac often rose early to hike up the mountain and catch the sunrise. Roxy tagged along sniffing trace scents from everyone and everything that had come before them.
Sometime around noon, they arrived back at Mac’s truck feeling refreshed. For several years the area had experienced severe drought making it possible to hike in April.
Mac gave Roxy some water and let her sniff around while he stripped off his flannel jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat. After ample time to cool down, he hoisted Roxy up onto the backseat, mindful of her breed’s tendency for hip issues. Besides, he was in no hurry. Since his retirement from the U.S. Air Force, he took life one day at a time.
Mac found retirement a bit boring compared to the military. He’d torn down the wall between the kitchen and living room to open up the space and install hardwood floors in an old Victorian house he’d purchased in his hometown of Brookfield, California. Remodeling his home gave him something to do.
As he headed west on the highway, Mac’s cell phone rang. It was his long-time buddy, Jason. They’d both joined the air force while in their senior year of high school. Jason stayed in eight years and then returned home to become a police officer.
Mac pressed the call button on his steering wheel, “Hey, Jason, how’s it going?”
“Can’t complain. Do you have a few minutes to talk?” he asked.
“Sure. Roxy and I just finished hiking up at Wright’s Lake. We’re headed back to town. I’m about to pull into Handley’s to pick up cinnamon rolls for Maggie and the girls. What’d you need?”
Mac’s older sister Maggie and her two daughters lived on the other side of town in the home where she and Mac grew up.
“Did you see any snow up there? Feel free to drop off some cinnamon rolls here at the office; they’re the best.”
“I just might. No snow, not even in the shady spots.”
Mac waited in his lane to turn left into Handley’s parking lot.
“It’s gonna be a bad fire season. Do you have plans to leave the area anytime soon or are you sticking around?” he asked.
“That’s pretty vague. What’s up?” Mac was intrigued.
“I have a job for you if you’re interested. To tell the truth, I need your help.”
“Keep talking,” Mac said as pulled straight into a parking spot near the front door.
“Blackstone Academy has a serious drug problem. In fact, over the weekend, the mayor’s fourteen-year-old son overdosed and almost died. He’s in the hospital recovering. Heroin, we think. Lucky for him, his older brother found him and called 911 shortly after he went unconscious. The police chief and the school board president want someone on the inside to help identify the source of the drugs. Somebody’s getting rich over there and the next time there’s an overdose the kid might not be so lucky.”
Jason paused, took a drink of something.
“I’m not sure how I can help.” Mac watched the lunch crowd pile into the coffee shop.
“They want someone outside of law enforcement so that nobody will tag him or her as an undercover cop. I suggested you. Everyone in town knows you’re ex-Air Force. The Chief thinks you’re the right guy for the assignment.”
“He doesn’t know me. Am I supposed to pretend to be a teacher or something?”
Mac glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Roxy was still asleep.
“He knows of you. Small town chitchat. No, the board wants to hire a school marshal to watch over the students and staff because of the increase in school violence across the nation. The Chief thinks it’s the perfect cover. The superintendent and other school board members won’t be privy to your real purpose. But they’re in agreement it’s time to hire a school marshal.”
“I don’t know shit about kids, or about schools. I don’t see how I could be the right man for the job.”
“Your military experience with air force special ops trumps your lack of experience with kids.”
“Is there some training?”
“As a matter of fact, California recently began a school marshal program like the one Texas has had in place for many years. The Chief thought you could do it over the summer and be ready to roll when school starts.”
“What about training on how to deal with kids? What age kids are we talking about?”
“Kindergarten through twelfth grade. The young ones are on one side of the school and the older students on the other.”
“So, I’d need to deal with all ages is what you’re saying? And what about the parents? I’m not the best people person.” Mac paused. “How long will the job last?”
“You’ll mostly deal with the older students. On occasion, the younger ones. But they aren’t bringing drugs and weapons into schools. At least not yet, anyway. It’s a public school, but some parents act like they own the place, they can be a little territorial at times. Not sure if they’ll like that you’re there or not. I can’t sugarcoat any part of this for you. How long depends on how long it takes you to figure out who’s dealing the drugs.”
Mac fell silent.
“Mac, are you still having nightmares about the sandbox?”
“I know where you’re going with that, Jason. The kids playing near the car when the bomb went off. We wanted to help, but weren’t allowed to.”
“That’s it,” Jason said, “It haunted me for a few years. The time I’ve spent giving back to the community has helped me feel like a better person. I seldom have nightmares anymore. Maybe the school marshal gig will help you push past it. Another thing to consider, Maggie might shift the girls to Blackstone for high school. Better to clean up the drugs before they get there.”
“That’s hitting below the belt.”
“I’m just throwing it out there for you to consider.” Jason continued his pitch, “And, it’s a paid position.”
“You do know I receive a pension from the air force, right?”
“We all know the retirement pay is shitty. You could pay for the remodeling of your house, pay off your truck, and travel when school isn’t in session.”
Mac exhaled loud enough to cause Roxy to open her eyes and glance up to be certain all was well. “I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.”
