Page 40 of Point of Contact

He didn’t wait for a reply, and Trevor moved to the window, listening to the garage door rumble twice, the whine of Carl’s engine as he backed down the driveway. “I’m sorry,” he said to the taillights disappearing into the distance, leaving behind a thick cloud of steamy exhaust.

Drained and heartsore, cup of coffee soon in hand, Trevor headed out to the back patio, shivering a little at the sharp chill in the air. He huddled in his favorite outdoor chair, sipping the hot brew and gazing out at the pool, now covered with a thick tarp and battened down for the season.

“Cowabunga, bitch!”

For just a moment the cold, silent backyard was drenched in sunshine again, echoing with the sounds of splashing and merriment. Trevor closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. It had been so much more than a party that night, so much more. He hadn’t known it at the time, but during those few precious hours he’d been given a glimpse—a tantalizing glimpse—of the man his son was on the verge of becoming. A man Trevor would have been proud to know.

He stared down at the envelope on his lap, wondering if Carl was right. Knowing what Riley’s body had gone through in the process of dying didn’t change the fact that he was dead. Whatever pain he’d suffered, it was over. Trevor ran a trembling hand along the envelope, feeling the edges of the papers inside.

Why was he doing this? He’d already said his goodbyes to Riley—over, and over, and over again. He’d stood in a room filled with flowers, separate from where Riley lay in his casket, those mourners choosing to view him able to do so before making their way next door to pay their condolences to Trevor. There’d been dozens and dozens of them—high school friends of Riley’s, people Trevor and Carl knew separately and together. A combat death in a military town brought people out in droves to pay their respects, and it was vastly comforting to see how much Riley was loved.

Then came the interment at Arlington, Trevor sitting in front of a freshly dug grave, listening to horses’ hooves clopping along the paved street as a shiny black caisson bearing Riley’s flag-draped casket drew closer. The uniformed pallbearers slow-marched him to his final resting place, the minister saying the time-honored traditional words. A gun salute, followed by a man kneeling in front of Trevor, proffering him a folded flag “on behalf of a grateful nation.”

Yes, according to ritual, he’d said every goodbye that could be said to the Riley he knew—the helpless infant, the mischievous child, the sullen teenager. Trevor gazed through tear-filled eyes out at the lonely backyard. Those missing nine months, the months Riley was out of touch, out of reach...those months had shaped him into a man Trevor couldn’t possibly say goodbye to. He had no idea how to say goodbye to that man, except by trying to understand the forces that had taken him away—that had ripped him from Trevor’s life, leaving a bloody, gaping hole behind.

Trevor owed it to Riley to try to understand, so with shaking fingers he opened the envelope and read. When he was finished, and the waves of bitterness and grief dragged him back under, it wasn’t even because of the dry, clinical descriptions of the injuries inflicted on and inside Riley’s body...terrible injuries he’d had no hope of surviving. No, it was because of the nicotine stains noted on his right hand, the lung tissue consistent with a pack-a-day smoker. Riley’s great-aunt died after a long, protracted fight with lung cancer, and Riley had grown up despising the habit with every fiber of his being.

Why had he taken it up? What had he gone through that caused him to do something he’d sworn he’d never do?

When Trevor buried his face in his hands and wept, it was because in the end, he hadn’t known his son at all.

* * *

“Ah, Riles. What am I doing?”

Pulling to a stop at the curb in front of the sprawling, elegant house, Jesse sat for a moment gazing up at it. Eighteen months ago he’d driven away from here, angry and confused, knowing he’d made a colossal fool of himself. Never would he have imagined coming back, especially not in circumstances like these.

He glanced at the passenger seat, and the innocuous brown box sitting there. It wasn’t very big, scarcely larger than a shoebox, ragged on the corners with the flaps folded closed. Essentially worthless, yet to the man living in this house, it would be worth its weight in gold. That made facing him again bearable, no matter how much the thought made Jesse’s heart race and his palms sweat.

He took a deep breath and gathered his courage, picking the box up carefully before getting out of the truck and making his way across the driveway to the front door. His finger hovered over the bell for a moment before he decided to knock instead, giving the door three sharp raps.

While he waited Jesse shifted restlessly from foot to foot, the leaden gray skies overhead and smell of snow in the air contributing to his unease. The neighboring house to the left still winked with Christmas lights almost a month after the holiday, a sad sort of festiveness that seemed wildly out of place.

The sound of the dead bolt turning had Jesse snapping almost to attention, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“May I help you?” Trevor Estes’s voice was subdued but not impolite as he gazed at Jesse inquiringly. He was thinner than Jesse remembered, with the same narrow nose and strong jaw that Riley had inherited. Trevor’s eyes were gray, not green, thickly lashed, but currently rimmed with red and shadowed with exhaustion. As they looked each other over, a sense of déjà vu arced between them, and Trevor’s mouth fell open.

“It’s you!” he exclaimed. “Riley’s friend from the party.”

“Yes, sir. Jesse Byrne.”

“Jesse. Of course.” Trevor reached out to shake Jesse’s hand. “Please come in.”

I don’t want to.

“Thank you, sir.”

Jesse took a deep breath and stepped inside, listening to Trevor close the front door behind him with a soft chunk.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Jesse? I was about to make a fresh pot.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

In the kitchen Jesse perched on a barstool at the island, resting the box on his lap. He glanced at the French doors leading to the backyard, then wished he hadn’t. He didn’t want to relive the memories, didn’t want to linger, just wanted to deliver his package and go. Trevor kept looking at him as he worked to brew the coffee, and Jesse could sense his curiosity about why he was there. At last Trevor set a steaming mug in front of him, along with some cream.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome. And, Jesse, please call me Trevor.” For a moment the sound of spoons clinking was loud in the quiet room until Trevor said, “I bet ‘sir-ing’ everyone is a hard Army habit to break.”