Pitfall Read Free Page B

cussed stubbornness. Many times I’m amazed there’s anything left of the curious boy who hunted and fished around the towering forests of rural West Virginia.
    Regardless of my injuries my muscle tone remains good, and since I try to get in a run each day, my legs have kept their strength. In spite of the injuries to my spine my six-foot-three frame still stands straight, and my medium length, wavy, dark brown hair only holds a few gray ones. Plus I’ve been favored with straight white teeth, and so far have somehow managed to keep them all.
    Strolling into my bedroom I hung the wet towel on the back of the door and began rooting around in my walk-in closet for something clean; like most men I know, I hate doing laundry. Before pulling on black Levis and short sleeve, navy and gold striped tee shirt, for a moment I regarded the tats on each of my deltoids. They’re still as bright and clean as the day I’d gotten them, more than twelve years ago.
    That was no surprise: the man who’d put them there is an artist. His parlor is located just outside Fort Campbell’s gates, and over the years he’s done similar work for countless other members of the 101st Airborne Rangers, my outfit. Some of the soldiers in my particular group, the 2nd of the 502nd Infantry, HHC Company, had even gone so far as to have our official nickname, “Headhunters,” inscribed on their chests.
    I didn’t really want that, so I just chose our other unit-approved emblems: on my upper right arm I had him put a picture of a nasty-looking, spread-out eagle talon, and below it a gold banner reading “Strike.” On my left shoulder he placed a profile of an eagle’s head with “Airborne” inscribed above it, and “ de oppresso liber ,” our unit’s motto, underneath.
    To free the oppressed.
    Figuring I still had some miles left on the chassis, I headed over to my office.
    Since leaving the service I’d started my own industrial security systems training company, and business has been good, as people steal things and screw one another with disheartening regularity.
    As I came in my phone was ringing. I picked it up. My cable bill was due, and I just can’t get along without the Animal Planet channel. Those chimps slay me. “Good afternoon.”
    “Mr.  Brenner?”
    The deep voice sounded familiar. “Speaking.”
    “Jacob Cahill. I hope you remember me. You coach my son Billy on your football team.”
    “Of course I remember you, Mr. Cahill. How can I help you?”
    “Something’s … happened.” He paused, and I heard him swallow. “To my child.”
    My blood instantly flashed cold. “You mean Billy?”
    “No. Not Billy.” I heard another odd sound over the receiver, like a choke. Or a sob. “Can we meet? Please?”
    “All right,” I told Cahill. “Why don’t you stop by my office?”
    “I will.”
    I gave him the directions, and made the appointment for within the hour. After hanging up I went out to get a sandwich at the little Art Deco diner up the street, figuring to bring my dessert back with me. When I returned I found him already standing in the hall outside my office door, waiting.
    I recalled the man, but we’d never really spoken at length. He was in his early forties, tall, trim, and well dressed, with short salt and pepper hair crowning a narrow face. Gold, wire-frame glasses framed his deep-set brown eyes, eyes holding a faint sheen of desperation.
    I shifted the white Styrofoam box containing a piece of chocolate cream pie to my left hand, offering my right. “Mr. Cahill. Sorry to have kept you.”
    His reply was friendly enough as he stretched out his hand, but the words seemed forced. “No problem.”
    We shook, my grip firm but brief. Fishing out my keys, I opened the heavy wooden door to my stark, gray and white linoleum-floored office. “Come on in.”
    “Thanks.”
    I walked around to the far side of my battered, old walnut desk and indicated the visitor’s chair in front of it with a tick of my head.