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  Hours later, when he returned to the motel, it was with more respect and condolences from his policia escorts. His willingness to talk with them in excellent Spanish, and without a lawyer probably convinced them he was who he said he was. They were convinced and told him so, he was a lucky man to have escaped the fate of his family. It was his first taste of survivor guilt, and the taste was so bitter he threw up again. Lucky? His entire world, except for Jessie, was gone. How could anyone think of that as luck?

  Gone were his devoted and hard-working parents. His father, a high-school history teacher, had passed down to him his first love, history. Living as they did within an hour of the country’s largest city, New York, weekend trips to the finest museums were commonplace. His mother, an ICU nurse, worked the graveyard shift so she could be there for the kids, to give them breakfast before school and greet them and help with homework when they got home. In the hours between, she slept.

  Gone were his brother, the kid who followed him everywhere, and his baby sister, whom he’d protected as a big brother should. His last moments with her were seared on his brain and in his heart. She’d been in pain, and he couldn’t help. He’d have given his own life to have them all back, and there were days when he considered joining them.

  His mother’s and sister’s bodies were eventually released to him, after weeks of waiting. After he’d sent Jessie home and appealed to the US Embassy in Madrid to help him cut through the red tape of sending their bodies home, he’d finally bowed to expediency and allowed their cremation. But his father’s and brother’s remains were never identified.

  4

  Sandy Hook, Newtown, CT February 14, 2005

  “I KNOW, IT will cost me. It’s your job to keep it as low as possible,” Rex said to the agent first thing Monday morning. “Yeah, rent back is fine.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” his agent replied.

  She’d been a peach, he thought. He wasn’t the easiest of clients, and more than once she’d had to reschedule a showing because he was in no condition to make the house ready for it. She’d managed to sell it anyway, and for a tidy profit. Sandy Hook was one of the fastest-appreciating areas of the city. One edge bordered the Housatonic River, with its historic and scenic byways, and the region fully enclosed the Upper Paugussett State Forest, where the Dalton family had taken full advantage of camping, hiking, and biking opportunities.

  The tragedy that would take place seven years later and rock the nation with the deaths of twenty-seven people, mostly six- and seven-year-olds, was unimaginable in the placid, slow-paced, smallish suburb of Davenport, Connecticut.

  Rex ended the call to his agent and mentally prepared himself for the next one. It was Valentine’s Day, and he hadn’t spoken to Jessie since he’d thrown her out of the house two days before. She would expect an apology and a date. He’d give her both, if she would accept the former. The outcome of the date wouldn’t be that of a typical Valentine’s Day, but it couldn’t be helped.

  He had a deadline.

  “Jess, it’s me,” he said unnecessarily. Her phone would have told her who it was. He was fortunate she answered, he reckoned. “I owe you an apology.”

  “Yes, you do,” she answered in an aloof tone.

  “I’m sorry. I truly am. And I haven’t had a drink since then.”

  “Good to know, but hardly impressive. It’s only been two days,” she said.

  She wasn’t going to make it easy.

  “Will you forgive me?” he asked.

  “Already have. You know I can’t stay mad at you. But you need to get help, Rex.”

  “I know. I plan to. Can I take you to dinner tonight?” he asked, adding, “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

  “I know what day it is, Rex. I’ll go to dinner with you on one condition. No booze.”

  “Done,” he said. He’d already decided to quit drinking. He wouldn’t have the opportunity anyway, soon. Might as well get on and stay on the wagon. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

  “Seven it is. Sober.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He decided to save the rest of his news for tonight. After he’d thrown her out the last time, it probably wasn’t a good idea to spring helping him with an estate sale on her as well.

  By seven-fifteen, they were ensconced at a secluded table in the nicest restaurant he could get a late reservation for. It seemed the entire town was going out for dinner. He should have made the Valentine’s Day reservation at least two weeks ago. But this restaurant was nice enough to impress Jessie. Hers was a working-class family, like his.

  Rex had known Jessie since middle school, though they’d only dated since his senior year of college. The community, with a population of fewer than twenty thousand when his parents had married, was tight-knit and had only one middle and one high-school. The latter boasted an extensive language department, though, and it was there that Rex had discovered a unique talent – the ability to pick up languages quickly and the rare ability to then speak them without a discernable accent.

  Even now, Newtown wasn’t a large town, though a stranger wouldn’t have been able to tell. Centered among larger cities and still within the New York metropolitan area, the well-populated region had half a dozen or more neighbors whose borders melded with Newtown’s. Like most of his friends and those of his siblings, Jessie’s family had held to time-honored middle-class values like a strong work ethic and pride in their homes. In Newtown, no one expected a handout.

  Jessie and Rex fit each other like the proverbial gloves, and he hated what he was about to do to her. But his life had changed forever on that March morning in 2004, and the darkness within him was no good for her. He still had enough decency in him and respect for her to acknowledge that he owed it to her and the memory of his love for her to set her free. The timing sucked, though.

  He decided to leave the news until after their meal and dessert, to let her at least enjoy those. But she knew him well enough to sense something was afoot and forced the issue.

  “What did you mean, the other day, when you said you weren’t going to pack? You said something about selling it all,” she added.

  “Let’s don’t talk about that now,” he tried.

  “Let’s do,” She hissed. “You know I love some of your mother’s things. You didn’t seriously mean you were going to sell everything. Why would you do that? Don’t you want mementos at least?”

  “Jessie, please. Not now.”

  “When, then?” Her jaw was set in that half-annoying, half-endearing way she had of wringing out of him all his secrets.

  Their food arrived at that moment, and they set aside the conversation by tacit agreement until the server had departed. Then she fixed him with an expectant stare, and he had no choice but to answer.

  “No,” he said slowly and distinctly, so he wouldn’t have to repeat it. “I don’t want mementos.”

  She set her fork down and drew a deep breath, as if to marshal her thoughts for a rebuttal.

  “Don’t say it,” he warned.

  “Okay, I won’t argue with you right now. But tomorrow, we’re going to have a serious discussion about grief counseling. You must move on, Rex. This is destroying you. It’s destroying us.”

  “Jessie, I’m serious. We are not discussing this right now.”

  “That’s what I said,” she retorted.

  They managed to get through the main course without the argument escalating, but the tension was palpable. When their server came to ask about dessert, Rex was curt when he declined.

  Jessie had opened the dessert menu, but when she heard Rex say no, she closed it and snapped, “None for me, either.”

  The server beat a hasty retreat, muttering that he’d get their check ready.

  “You could have had dessert,” Rex said, making an effort to be nice about it rather than snarky, though that’s the way it came out.

  “Not in the mood,” she said.

  The check came then, and Rex paid with cash, telling t
he server to keep the change. He stood and slipped on his winter coat, then helped Jessie into hers. They walked to the door without touching or speaking. Outside, he held open the car’s passenger side door for her and walked around the back to get into the driver’s seat.

  “Now,” she said, tight-lipped, “we are going to discuss this. I won’t ask what’s got into you, but the Rex sitting in this car with me is not the man I fell in love with. I want him back.”

  She’d given him the perfect opening. “He’s dead,” he said.

  “Rex, you act as if I don’t grieve your family, too. It’s unfair. I loved them. I think, though you’ve given me no reason to believe it since that day, that I would have been one of them if it hadn’t happened. You are not dead. Your life is not over. Get used to it.”

  “You misunderstand me,” he said. “That Rex is dead. This Rex has a mission, and as soon as I sell everything, and the house is through escrow, I’m going to get going on it.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “I’ve enlisted in the Marines,” he said. There it was, out, he had said it. Not the way he would have preferred to tell her, but she pushed.

  “The Marines,” she repeated, as if she’d never heard the word before. “You enlisted in the Marines, without discussing it with me?”

  His first thought was why would I have discussed it with you? But he had enough concern for her feelings left not to express it. “I did,” he said simply.

  “I’ve waited nearly a year for you to return to your senses, Rex Dalton. Now you’re asking me to wait four more years, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “Six,” he said, sidestepping the important part of her sentence. “I enlisted for six years.”

  For once, she was speechless. After a long sixty seconds of silence, she said, “Take me home, Rex.”

  5

  Seven hours earlier

  AFTER SETTING UP the date with Jessie, Rex had gone to the nearest Marine recruiting office and stated he wanted to enlist. The recruiter, unused to dealing with self-assured recruits who had made a firm decision, started to ask if Rex had any questions.

  Rex cut him off. “No questions, just tell me where I sign to get started?”

  “Well, there’s an intake form, and then there’ll be tests and evaluations. Then you’ll be given a contingent assignment, and assuming we get it right and you make it through basic training, you’re in.”

  “Let’s do it,” Rex said.

  “You mean now? You don’t want to sleep on it?” the recruiter asked. His fellow recruiter kicked him under the desk. “Okay, here, fill out this questionnaire.”

  Rex took the stack of forms and went to the desk where they directed him. Under languages, he wrote “German, Spanish, French, Italian: fluent/native speaker; Mandarin, Standard Arabic: working knowledge.” He added information in other fields, including his BA and MA and major and his martial arts training. When he was done, he handed the recruiter the pages and sat down where he was directed to.

  Staff Sergeant Lee Bailey swiftly scanned the forms, and his eyes stopped at the unusual number of words in the Languages field. He read it twice. Concealing his surprise with a stoic expression he’d perfected in his eight years in the Marines, he perused the rest. At the Education section, he again read twice. Finally, he looked up at Rex.

  “Is this meant to be a joke?”

  “What, sir?”

  “Fluent in four languages apart from English and working knowledge in two more. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “No sir, the part about the languages is not a joke. As for you being an idiot, sir, I’ve just met you. I haven’t known you long enough to make such a judgment, yet. Sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir. I work for a living,” snapped Bailey, an automatic response. This was the cheekiest recruit he had seen in a long time. He kept his rage under control and said, “Son, wait here.”

  Rex’s voiceless response was, You’re not my dad, so don’t call me son. He mused about it for a little while, and decided the recruiter was probably only five or so years older, but he probably dealt with kids eighteen or nineteen more often than twenty-four-year-olds.

  After a few minutes, during which the red-faced Bailey held a lively whispered conversation with the second recruiter, the latter approached Rex. “Mr. Dalton, I’m Gunnery Sergeant Greg Hatch. You may call me Gunny. You’ve kind of gobsmacked us here. You’re not our usual recruit. Did you intend to apply for Officer Training School?”

  “No, Gunny,” Rex said, omitting the ‘sir’ at the last second. No one could say he wasn’t a fast learner. “I want to join the infantry.”

  Hatch sat back, his lips parting for only a second before he pressed them together. He regarded Rex with undisguised suspicion. “Son,” he said firmly, “it is not a good idea to come into the recruiting center of the US Marines and attempt to play a joke.”

  Rex sat forward and spoke in measured terms. “First, my father is dead at the hands of terrorists, so please stop calling me son. Second, if the Marines don’t want me, I’ll head over to the Army. I’m fit, well-educated, a patriot, and a willing volunteer. You want me in the Marines or not?”

  Now the sergeant’s jaw did drop. Rex supposed no one had spoken to him in that way since he’d made E-5. But he wasn’t a Marine yet. What was the worst they could do? The Army recruiting station was next door. He’d go through all the services if he had to. His mind was set, he was going to be a soldier with a gun in his hands, and he was going to shoot terrorists. The first military outfit that would give him that opportunity was the one he would join.

  Hatch closed his mouth, which then began to twitch. He broke out into a smile. “All right, then. If that’s the way you want to play it. Don’t expect any favors because of your college degrees and language prowess. You’ll suffer with your buddies, hell for candy and barbed wire for jam on your bread.”

  While Hatch was ranting he had looked away and when his gaze returned to Rex’s, he found a pair of dark eyes looking straight through him. Hatch felt a little shiver run down his spine. Something in those eyes radiated danger.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s good you have a working knowledge of Arabic. I’m going to personally see to it that you get a chance to put it to good use.”

  It was Rex’s turn to smile broadly. “I can’t wait.”

  The rest was simple. Rex made his commitment to serve. Gunnery Sergeant Hatch was glad to wash his hands of the impertinent recruit and left. Bailey was left to explain that the next step was the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) and the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB).

  In the years to come, Rex was going to learn that there was one thing the military loved as much or more than their weapons — their acronyms.

  The ASVAB would largely determine Rex’s assignment. After the aptitude test, he’d have to pass the physical exam and then meet with a counselor and determine a career.

  “I want infantry,” Rex said.

  “Recruit, you belong to the Marines now, and the Marines will decide where to put you, depending on the needs of the Service, job availability and your ASVAB score, as well as physical requirements. What you want comes last.”

  Rex nodded. He’d studied the process, which was readily available online, and he was confident he could wangle his way into the infantry in one way or another. “How soon can I take that test?” he asked.

  “In some kind of a hurry, recruit?”

  “Yes. I close escrow on my house in two weeks. I’d like to report for basic training then,” Rex explained.

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  In a few minutes, he was back. “If you have your own transportation and can get there in two hours, the Brooklyn MEPS can administer the ASVAB this afternoon. You’ll have to go back for the physical, though.”

  “Excellent. What’s the address?” Rex knew he’d have to fly low along congested highways to make it in two hours, and the test itself was
supposed to take three. Then to get home in time to pick up Jessie was another two hours, this time during rush hour. He’d be cutting it close, but he’d try to save time on the test. Maybe he could do it in two.

  AFTER COMPLETING THE ASVAB, Rex assumed he was free to go once he’d made an appointment for the physical. However, when he approached the office where he’d been directed, he got an unpleasant surprise. Before he could leave, someone wanted to talk to him. A Marine psychologist.

  “I have an appointment at seven,” he explained. “And a two-hour drive to get there.”

  “We can’t make an appointment for your physical until you’ve spoken to Col. Nelson.”

  Rex bowed to the inevitable. What he had to tell her tonight would make Jessie break up with him anyway, unless she forced him to make the break. What difference did it make if he was in the doghouse for being late for their date?

  “Very well.”

  Seated in a hard chair in front of a desk in a small office, Rex wondered if the lack of a couch was because it was military. He didn’t ask.

  “Mr. Dalton, you’ve caused quite a stir in the recruitment office today. I’ve been asked to evaluate your mental fitness to be a Marine.”

  For the first time that day, Rex was surprised. What had he done to make them question his sanity?

  “My mental fitness, sir?”

  “It isn’t every day we get a recruit with an advanced degree and fluency in several languages demanding an infantry position. You mentioned your father had died at the hands of terrorists. The combination led one of your recruiters to believe you might be a loose cannon. Are you?”