Cattle Valley 26 - Shadow Soldier (7 page)

With the bodies of his fallen comrades grotesquely seated in front of him, Aaron struggled to keep pressure on the young boy’s shoulder wound. He closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the cruel jeers hurled his way from the men he’d considered friends. Whoever said the dead couldn’t speak had never spent two full days watching them slowly decompose while having guns trained on them by their murderers.

“Look at what you’ve done to us. Is the boy worth it?” Private First Class Miller asked, half his face missing.
“No!” Aaron screamed. One of his captors grabbed him, and Aaron did his best to fight the man off with one hand while the other continued to try and save the boy’s life.
“Aaron!”
Aaron heard Deacon’s voice and tried to warn him. “Get out, they’ll kill you!”
“Aaron, it’s okay, it’s just a dream.”
Aaron gasped and opened his eyes. He continued to struggle against Deacon’s hold for several seconds before realising he was at home in his bed. Pulling his arm out of Deacon’s grip, he wiped the sweat and tears from his face. “I need something to drink,” he said, throwing back the covers.
“I’ll get it,” Deacon offered.
“No!” he barked. He slid off the mattress and stood. “Sorry,” he mumbled, leaving the room. Naked, Aaron opened the refrigerator and withdrew a bottle of apple juice. He opened the top and drank the sweet beverage while standing with the door open, letting the refrigerator air cool his overheated body.
The dream wasn’t new, just a variation of the same nightmare he had every time he fell asleep. Aaron finished the juice and closed the fridge, setting the bottle on the counter. The overwhelming desire to document the nightmare prompted him towards the small kitchen table. Pulling a blank sheet of paper out of the binder, he stared at the crayon wheel. As he stared at the hues of red, Aaron tried to remember the drying blood on the side of Miller’s face. He withdrew two crayons—mahogany and jazzberry jam.
The thud of Deacon’s rubber-tipped cane against the laminate floor caught Aaron’s attention. “You can go on back to bed. It’ll take me a while before I’m ready to sleep again.”
Deacon pulled out a chair and sat next to Aaron. He sat quietly for about ten minutes while Aaron put his dream on paper. “Tell me about it.”
Aaron glanced at Deacon before going back to his drawing. “You told me you already knew what happened.”
“I know what the report says, but the official version doesn’t mean anything to me. I want you to trust me enough to talk to me.”
Although Aaron had confessed certain things to his superiors, and then again to Dr Pritchard, he’d never told the complete and humiliating truth about what had happened that day. “You won’t look at me the same.”
Deacon pried the crayon out of Aaron’s hand and set it on the table before cradling Aaron’s much smaller hand in both of his. “If it helps, I’ll tell you the truth about the things I’ve done.”
“Why would you do that?” Deacon was a decorated Marine. Aaron doubted anything Deacon had done in the line-of-duty could be considered cowardice.
“Because I think you need to understand that not everyone comes away from war a hero, and that there’s absolutely no shame in being afraid.”
“I can’t imagine you ever being afraid.”
Deacon smiled. “Then you’d be wrong.” He took a deep breath, clearly building up to tell his story. “I grew up hunting with my dad. A rifle in my hands was as comfortable as breathing, so I figured I’d be the perfect Marine. Unfortunately, hunting and shooting at targets on a firing range doesn’t in any way prepare you for the real thing. I found that out the hard way, and it nearly destroyed me the first few times I was faced with a situation that went against my natural instincts to run.”
Deacon drew Aaron’s hand up and kissed it. “What I’m trying to say is firing a gun at another human being doesn’t come naturally, not to anyone who’s sane anyway.”
“But you did it,” Aaron said.
“According to the report I read, you, and the soldiers you were with, were ambushed while trying to help an injured civilian. Even though the others died, you were held for three days before being rescued. How can you find shame in that?”
Aaron curled his hand into a fist. “Because they didn’t want to go inside the building when the mother of the boy came running out to ask for our help. I begged them, finally telling them I’d go in without them if I needed to.” He stared at the partial drawing. “PFC Miller was the first to step forward, agreeing to go in with me. Corporal Valentine said he’d keep watch outside and urged the others to follow us in.”
Aaron cleared his throat, remembering the musty smell of the old building. “The woman led us to a boy of around nine who’d been shot. I rushed over and started to do what I could. I was yelling at the others to find me something clean enough to spread out my supplies on.” He shook his head. “That’s why they weren’t prepared when the men came into the room and immediately started shooting. In a matter of seconds, I watched my friends cut down while doing absolutely nothing to try and save them. Hell, for all I know, the boy was shot on purpose.”
“Probably,” Deacon agreed. “But PFC Miller and the others were doing their job, just like you were doing yours. I’ve known a lot of medics over the years, and I’ve seen miracles performed right in front of my eyes, and never once did I wish those men and women were better soldiers.” Deacon pointed towards the drawing. “Do you honestly believe this is the way Miller would want to be remembered? Because each time you draw these pictures, that’s exactly what you’re doing. If illustrating their lives is the way you keep their memory alive, give them the decency to document their triumphs.”
Aaron wiped away his tears before they could fall. “They talk to me in my dreams.” He picked up the picture and crumpled it in his hands. “I don’t know how to make them shut up.”
Deacon scooted his chair closer to Aaron and wrapped an arm around him. “You shut them up by forgiving yourself for a situation you weren’t prepared to handle.”
“Tell me how to do that?” Aaron begged. “Tell me how to go to sleep at night and not wake up screaming.”
“I wish I could tell you there was a magic potion you could drink and all of this would go away, but it doesn’t work like that. I can tell you how I dealt with the guilt, but everyone’s different.”
“How?” Aaron needed to know even if it didn’t help him.
“I started a list. Well, not really a list, but a series of hash marks. Every time I returned from a mission, I’d get out my journal and record what I’d accomplished, lives lost in one column and lives saved in another. It cut me to the bone each time I had to put a check in the lives lost column, but when I compared it to how many lives I’d directly saved because of that hash mark, I began to see what my purpose was.”
“That system wouldn’t really make me feel better about that day, because although I might’ve saved the boy, I lost four good men in the process,” Aaron reminded Deacon.
“See, that’s the thing, you can’t focus in on one moment. Think of all the people you saved
before
that day, and all who’ve come after. You were pretty fucked up when you were discharged, and you could’ve easily become one of the statistics you read about, but you didn’t let that happen. You took a job that would put you right back into the position of saving lives. If you would’ve pulled your gun that day and tried to help your friends, you’d no doubt be dead. Even if you’d managed to kill one of the insurgents, you wouldn’t have made it out of that building alive. And think of all the people’s lives you’ve saved since then.”
Aaron felt sharp claws dig into his shin. “Ouch!” He reached down and pulled Groucho off his leg. “Bad kitty,” he reprimanded, shaking his finger at the cat. He understood what Deacon was trying to say, but he needed to let it stew for a while longer.
Without a word to Deacon, Aaron stood and carried Groucho into the bathroom where he’d put the makeshift litter box. “Go potty.”
“You’ve never had a cat, have you?” Deacon asked from behind him.
“No, I had a dog for a while before my parents were killed. Why?” Groucho ran between Aaron’s feet and escaped the bathroom.
“Because cats don’t take orders.” Deacon squeezed in beside Aaron and glanced at the cardboard box filled with shredded newspaper. “Looks like he’s gone at some point. He knows where it is when he needs it.” He tugged on Aaron’s hand. “Ready to go back to bed?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready.” Aaron thought of the crumpled drawing. “You sorry you decided to stay the night?”
“Nope.” Deacon led Aaron back to the bedroom. He lifted the blankets and hustled Aaron under them before moving to the opposite side of the bed. “There’s something I’d like you to try. Next time you have a bad dream, instead of focusing on the men who died, try rejoicing in the fact that you’re still alive. I accept blowjobs or handjobs day or night if that helps.”
Aaron chuckled. “I can’t believe you’re going to use the nightmares against me.”
“Not against you, but if you’re going to have them, we might as well put them to good use.” Deacon pulled Aaron against his chest. “Of course that’ll mean sleeping together as often as possible.”
Aaron decided to play along. “Then who should I suck off if I’m at work?”
“Hmmm, the plan still needs tweaking, I guess.”
Aaron brushed Deacon’s sac with his hand before petting the growing length of his cock. “Fucking always makes me sleepy. Maybe if you made sure I was exhausted all the time, I wouldn’t have the energy to dream.”
Deacon’s cock began to harden. “I think I’m up for that.”

Deacon reached for the hose and gave the table skirt a quick shot of compressed air to knock away the woodchips. He’d put off discussing his trip to Washington DC as long as he could, but with his flight less than twenty-four hours away, the time had come.

Although he’d started to tell Aaron on several occasions about his involvement in the agency, he’d never fully explained what his duties were. Deacon waited for Aaron to finish using the air stapler before getting his attention. “That’s looking good.”

Aaron set down the tool and stood back, staring at Groucho’s new jungle gym with a critical eye. “I think it’s lopsided.”
Deacon stood and walked over. It was indeed lopsided but for the first project he’d taken on himself, Deacon thought it looked damn good. He found several dowels in a bin and carried them over. “Maybe you should go ahead and use one of these on each corner instead of the pedestal in the middle. That way if Groucho gets fat, he won’t wind up on his ass one day.”
Aaron took the dowels and held them up. “Yeah, that would work, but what will he use for a scratching post? Should I cover them with carpet, too, or use something else?”
“Well, it’s mahogany, so if it was me, I’d just rub it down good with tung oil. Actually, I’d rub the entire thing down with oil and just attach your carpeting to the flat of the platforms. That way you’ll end up with a gorgeous piece instead of an eye sore.”
“What will he scratch on then?”
“The carpet. All you have to do is rub some catnip into the nap and Groucho’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.” Afraid Aaron would get him off track, Deacon changed the subject. “I have to go to DC for a few days.”
The tape measure Aaron was using slid back into its housing. “For work?”
“Yeah. I got a call earlier. The guy I’ve been waiting to hear from is safe and on his way back to the states with the agent he went to find. I need to go to Washington to see about transferring my job duties to him.”
“Can’t you do that from here?”
“Not really. I have to clear it with someone who prefers to conduct meetings face to face, besides, I owe the man more respect than quitting over the phone.”
Aaron tossed the tape measure onto the cat tower and walked over to Deacon. “You’re quitting? Is it because of me?”
“Partially. I guess I’ve come to realise I’ve given up enough. There’s a younger man out there who can do a better job. He’s worked hard and deserves it. And to be honest, my heart isn’t in the job anymore, hasn’t been since I moved here.”
Aaron hugged Deacon. “So no more mysterious phone calls in the middle of the night?”
“Hopefully not.” Deacon had confidence in Midnight’s abilities or else he wouldn’t vouch for him with the President of the United States.
“You won’t start resenting me for it, will you?”
The decisive factor in giving up the job was Deacon’s need to keep Aaron safe. After losing Bobby, he swore he’d never put another lover in the same position. “Never. I hope to live a long and happy life. If I quit this job, I’ll have a much better chance at it.”
“So it
is
dangerous, I’ve been wondering about that.”
“Not as much anymore. I’ve been on desk duty for years, but I won’t take the chance of someone coming after you just to get at me.” The thought of losing Aaron caused an ache deep in Deacon’s chest. Life had finally become more than a series of empty days filled with wood and someone’s mysterious voice over the phone. He’d spent the last two weeks remembering what it felt like to be human. To dream of the future while someone he cared about lay in his arms sleeping.
“I just don’t want you to put all your eggs in my basket. I still have a lot of crazy going on in my head. What if you get tired of dealing with it?”
Deacon tilted Aaron’s chin up for a short, but intense kiss. “You’re not half as crazy as you think you are. And since we’ve worked out a new way for you to deal with the nightmares, I’ve been getting the best end of the deal.” Aaron claimed to have bad dreams every night, but there had been a few occasions over the last few weeks that Deacon had suspected he’d simply been horny.
“Will you be able to afford this place without your other job? I don’t have much left over at the end of the month, but I’d be more than willing to help out where I can.”
Deacon reared back as if he were offended. “What’re you saying, you don’t think I can make a living on the store?”
Aaron winced. “Sorry, but you don’t seem to get a lot of business through here.”
Deacon gave Aaron another kiss. “I’ll do fine. I’ve managed to save some money over the years.”
“Okay, but the offer’s on the table in case you ever run short.” Aaron’s stomach growled. “I swear I’m hungrier now than when I used to only eat one meal a day. Spending time with you is going to make me fat.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.” Deacon gave Aaron’s ass a playful slap. “Would you go next door with me and have an early dinner?” He was prepared to beg if he needed to. Aaron had made great strides lately, but he still hadn’t gathered the courage to eat at O’Brien’s.
“What’s the special tonight?”
“Pot roast.” Deacon licked his lips. “Better than momma used to make.” He chuckled. “Jay always stops by on the days he’s making it and gives me a heads-up. I haven’t missed a single pot roast dinner except the few times I’ve been out of town since I’ve moved here, so if you don’t go with me, you’ll probably really hurt his feelings.”
“I don’t even know Jay, but the last thing I’d want to do is hurt his feelings.” Aaron stepped back and took off his apron. “Am I presentable enough or should I run home and change?”
Deacon reached out and knocked some of the errant sawdust out of Aaron’s hair. “There, you’re good.” He removed his own apron and hung it on the hook beside the door next to Aaron’s. “Groucho upstairs? I’d hate to shut him in here for the night.”
“Yeah, last time I checked on him he was trying to sneak up on one of your socks.”
Deacon shook his head as he turned off the shop lights and shut the door. “I didn’t realise when Tabby wandered into my life how grateful I should be she’d already passed the kitten stage.”
Aaron followed Deacon through the shop. “Oh, but there’s nothing cuter than watching a kitten explore his surroundings.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Before they could get out the door, a loud crash sounded from upstairs. “What was that you said?”
Aaron bit his lip. “I’ll go up and check on him. You go ahead and get us a table.” “I’ll find something in the back.”
“Thanks.” Aaron gave Deacon a quick kiss before running towards the stairs. “Groucho, what’ve you done now?” he called ahead of him.
Deacon shook his head, wondering if he’d survive Groucho’s adolescence.