The Guardian's Wildchild Read Free Page B

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    August 7, 2040
    Samaru Waterhouse held his young wife’s hand and wondered if she was aware that he was terminating her life. Brain dead, she’d never wake to speak the name of the man who had struck her down with his vehicle at a crosswalk, then dragged her body for nearly a block. With the flick of a switch the hissing of the machine stopped. The rise and fall of Joy’s chest stopped. For a long, breathless, eternal moment, time stopped. He watched intently for any sign of a struggle from Joy — any movement at all. There was none. He realized he’d forgotten to say goodbye to the woman who was the wind in his sails while she still could have heard him.
    “Joy!”
    Throughout the sterile intensive care unit, down the shadowed hallway, and out beyond the windows to the empty night sky they heard him cry out. Someone dropped a tray; then a quiet fell upon the entire ward. For a moment it was all a part of his exploding, inconsolable grief.
    Waterhouse couldn’t bear to look upon his wife’s lifeless face. He turned away and stiffened his posture in a hopeless effort to dam the flood of tears. He stumbled to the waiting room and let his grief flow. It took nearly an hour before he was composed enough to make his way out of the ward. He glanced around, watching medical staff continued their routine, ambling down the hallways, chatting with visitors, moving equipment from one room to another. He heard the sounds of a couple sharing a laugh, saw them touching. A janitor removed some trash and carried on without lifting his head to make eye contact with Sam, as though he wasn’t there.
    Life continued on. It did a dance around him but didn’t invite him to enter its rhythm or pleasure. As grief took root, his connection with his higher wisdom began to detach itself. In place of his Japanese mother’s Buddhist mantras, his military training set up a protective barrier and the door to his heart slammed shut.
    His military code of conduct provided a measure of comfort. It gave him motivation to sustain his control. He had Joy’s murderer to capture, two sons to protect, schedules to keep, and, above all, the decorum of a high-ranking naval officer to maintain.
    Waterhouse needed answers. The day after Joy’s death, he went to the naval base administration office. The staff fell silent when he arrived at the admiral’s reception floor. Entering Captain Butchart’s office, he approached the officer, who was seated at his desk.
    “Lieutenant Commander Waterhouse reporting, sir.”
    Captain Frank Butchart, Chief of Internal Affairs and Security, glanced up and began to rise from his chair.
    “At ease, Lieutenant Commander. Did you say Waterhouse?”
    Waterhouse relaxed slightly. He’d never met Captain Butchart before but had heard about him, enough to know they had little in common.
    “Yes, sir. You probably knew my wife, Joy. I’ve come to pick up her personal items.”
    Butchart continued to simply gaze at him as if transfixed by some new thought. He nodded. “My condolences, Lieutenant Commander,” he said with the appropriate amount of sincerity and began to walk away. “I’m due for a meeting with the admiral. See Celine with your request.”
    Waterhouse followed him. “Sir, Detective Flanders from the police station believes Joy was deliberately struck down, perhaps by someone from this base.”
    “Yes, I’ve heard that’s his theory.” The muscles in Butchart’s jaw flexed. “Quite impertinent to question me.” Again, Butchart believed the discussion was over and turned away.
    Waterhouse was becoming annoyed with the captain’s obvious arrogance. “Sir, if I can assist you in this investigation … ”
    “Not necessary, Commander. I’ve reviewed your wife’s personnel file and other related files. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. No indication that anyone was threatening her life.”
    Waterhouse used his six-foot body to hinder the captain’s turn into another hallway. It was an