BO-42: Sam Granger (15-16)
Chapter 15: Aspen, and Another Assignment
The plane took off and landed on time, and by 5 p.m. I was in my apartment again.
I’d thought about Aspen and that whole situation during the flight, and of course she was right. The whole thing had moved far too quickly. But from the outset we’d had only the two or three days so really it was nobody’s fault. Things always move quickly when you think you’ll never see each other again.
We’d started the whole thing based on our mutual attraction and the presumption that I would fly out on Sunay. That’s why everything moved so fast. And limited time is the nature of the business.
And I’m fine. Huntsville was only a couple of days out of my life, and I’d never felt like I “needed” anybody until Aspen. So only one of two things can happen: One, she’ll decide to give us a shot and I’ll load up what I can and drive down there. Or two, she’ll decide to keep her life as it is and my life will simply go back to the way it’s been for the past 25 years.
So no harm, no foul really.
Naturally I’ll miss her, but still.
*
I did break out my laptop first thing and emailed her. The first sentence was Wanted to let you know I got back okay.
Then a floodgate opened: I thanked her for being who she is and for sharing so much of her world with me. I asked her to please call TJ again and let him know I’d decided to return to Salt Lake for the time being. I told her I wasn’t interested in anyone else and wouldn’t be looking and to please let me know when she knew for sure either way whether she wanted to give us a real try. Then I adjusted the original plan and wrote that if she responded in the affirmative at any time I would drive down instead of flying so I could bring all of my clothing and some other small things and that I could stay somewhere other than her house if she thought that would be better for a while as we slowed things down and dated.
Then I added one final short paragraph:
Aspen, I really do think you and I would work. No ambiguity on my part and I’d love to give us a shot. That won’t change until I know you want it to. So please be sure to let me know by email or phone when you know one way or the other what you want me to do. Either way.
I hesitated, then added two more sentences:
I guess maybe I might be in love with you. Keep smiling.
I signed it Sam and read over it and wished I was better with words and hit Send and closed my stupid laptop and turned on the TV and ended up going to sleep on the couch.
*
The next day I checked my email and she’d responded with
Thanks for letting me know, and I will.
Aspen
She didn’t call, and I checked my email every day for the next two weeks and then every other day or so for a while but I didn’t hear from her again at all before my next assignment came through a little over two months later. To be fair, I didn’t contact her again either. I wanted to, but I’d told her I’d give her space and I didn’t want to screw that up.
I was certain that was the right decision.
Still, from what I’ve heard while eavesdropping on normal people in parks and restaurants and other places, that’s “just the way things go sometimes” and the consensus seems to be that “it’s all right” and also that it has to be all right because “what other choice do you have?”
And that certainly sounded the way I felt. Just a little empty.
Which is also a little weird.
I’d never judged my own life before, comparing it to anyone else’s life, like mine was better or worse. It was and is just what it was and is.
But after eavesdropping on those other people and after what happened in Huntsville and after I sent that stupid long email and read her response I felt a little like maybe I had and have a better life than most of those other people do. At least before Aspen I’d never been faced with that whole “what other choice do I have” thing. And that sucks.
But of course you probably already know that.
*
Like the previous time, my next assignment came in while I was working out. The only real difference is I’d rested the barbell on the stand at the top of the bench and sat up before it went off. But it was still early in the day, which I like because it gives me what feels like an extra day to plan.
I’d picked the hand towel from the hook on the wall next to my bench and wiped both sides of my face when the VaporStream device sounded.
Like the previous time, I stood up, fished it out of my pocket, and pressed the On button:
RTO Quito, Ecuador
Next flight, seat booked
Pack for 4 nights, all arranged
TWP Egregio Moguel
C1 Federico Cantán airport
Follow C1
I frowned. What a strange message. I read over it again to be sure I hadn’t missed anything.
I didn’t have to book a seat on a flight or, apparently, a room in Quito. I only had to catch the next flight out—so I’d need to see when that was—and then remember the target name and the contact name. Weird.
I committed the two names to memory, then pressed Accept and went to my laptop.
*
I hadn’t even opened my laptop for the last week or ten days, so I checked my sparse email account first.
Nothing.
While I was there anyway, I composed an email to Aspen.
Still here. Missing you. Hope you’re figuring things out. Let me know. I’ll be gone for up to a week starting tomorrow or maybe later today. Let you know when I’m back. Love, Sam
Yeah, I know. I hesitated over using that penultimate word but it was true and I’m not a “games” kind of guy. Besides, if things went wrong in Ecuador it might be the last thing I’d ever get to say to her so what did I have to lose? Either way I hoped it would bring a smile to those eyes.
Focus.
Instead of closing my email I opened a new window and brought up the airport website and keyed in Quito, Ecuador. The next flight would actually leave later tonight at 11:45 p.m. So I’d have to be at the airport at 10 or so.
I got up and went into the bedroom to pack a bag with four days worth of clothing. That was mostly underwear and socks and t-shirts plus one pair of jeans and two sets of camouflaged pants and a pair of sneakers. I’d wear my heavy boots, so that would give me options.
When my bag was packed I went back to the kitchen table to research the target to at least see pictures and maybe learn a little about him.
I noticed my email was open so I switched to that window and there was an email from Aspen.
Miss you too. Working on some issues. I will. Please be safe. Thank you.
Aspen
In a moment of madness I hit Reply and typed
Thank you. Okay to email me more often. Please? Or you can call anytime. Gone tonight at 10. Love, S
Then I hit Send and decided I didn’t want to take my laptop with me to Ecuador because I probably wouldn’t have time to use it there anyway and all I really needed was a little research on Mr. Moguel.
So I opened another window and keyed in Egregio Moguel, Ecuador.
Well over an hour later, I’d seen a lot of Egregio Moguels pop up but none of them felt like someone TJ would target, especially so secretively. And I mean secretively even in the context of a message from him via VaporStream. I wish he’d given me a little more to go on.
Several hours later, I was bone weary from looking at other Egregio Moguels who popped up in other countries near Ecuador.
I closed the lid of the laptop. “Damn it, TJ.”
Then I opened it again and opened the page that holds my email account.
Nothing.
Damn it.
Chapter 16: Aspen, TJ, Quito, and Federico
I got up and went to the freezer, pulled out a frozen pizza, and tore the plastic off it. I got out my round baking sheet, put the pizza on it, slipped it into the toaster over, set the temperature, then pressed start. And as I turned away, the wall phone caught my attention.
Why didn’t I think of that before? Aspen can call TJ for me.
Before I could talk myself out of calling her, I snatched the receiver from the cradle and dialed Aspen’s number.
“Hello?”
Hearing her voice was sheer heaven. “Aspen, it’s me. Please don’t hang up.”
“Sam?” She chuckled. “I’d never hang up on you! I’ve wanted to call you but my therapist says I shouldn’t. You know, while I’m figurin’ things out? But it’s so good to hear your voice! I’ve missed you so much, but— I’m sorry. Why are you callin’? Is everything okay?”
I frowned. Therapist? What therapist would— No. Not now. She sounds excited to hear from me. She said it’s good to hear my voice. Don’t screw it up. Focus.
“I— Well, two things. First, I love you.”
“Sam, I—”
“And second, could you call TJ for me please? Could you ask him to please send more information about what he sent me this morning? Could you do that? It’s really important.”
“Sure, Sam, I can do that. An’ I will.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I hesitated. “I guess I should hang up.”
Quietly, she said, “Are you okay, Sam?”
A little anger flushed through me. “Honestly? No, baby, I’m not okay. Listen, if what happened between us in Huntsville mattered to you—”
“Of course it mattered, Sam! I just—”
“Okay.” I took a breath and put up one hand. “Okay. Then I need you to toss me a bone now and then, okay? To let me know it mattered. To let me know I matter. Okay? So email me? Or if you want to hear my voice, call me? You can call me any time, 24/7. But in case you didn’t see my last email yet, I’m leaving tonight at 10 and I’ll be gone for a while. Okay, look, I also told you I’d give you some space and I guess I’m not doing that so well right now, so I’ve really got to go. Just please call TJ for me, okay?”
“Sam?”
I hung up. What little anger was left drained away. But a therapist? Why?
Then I went into the bedroom to pack, but I remembered I’d already done that.
I looked around for a moment, then went into the ensuite to take a shower.
*
When I’d dried off I got dressed in everything but my heavy boots and padded back to the kitchen table and checked my email. There was a new email from Aspen.
Be safe and please let me know when you’re back. I do miss you. Aspen
Well, at least that was something.
I checked my watch. It was 7:03. I dropped on the couch, put my feet up, and my VaporStream device went off.
Crap. Where’d I leave it?
Oh! She must’ve called TJ for me!
The sound was coming from the bedroom.
I ran in there.
No, the bathroom. It was still in my workout shorts, and I’d dropped them into the dirty clothes hamper.
I reached in, pulled out the shorts, pulled the device out of the pocket, hit the On button, and looked at the screen:
Meet C1, follow C1.
That’s all you need.
“Aw, thanks for nothing, TJ! Crap!”
I jerked open the drawer of my nightstand, dropped the device into it, slammed it, went back into the living room, and dropped onto the couch again.
Fat lot of good that did. How the hell am I even supposed to know what the target looks like?
I watched a couple hours of television without really seeing or hearing any of it, then got up and put on my boots.
I made my flight with time to spare.
It was the first time in my life I felt like nobody cared what I was doing or whether I ever came back.
But that was because two months earlier, again for the first time in my life, I was led to believe someone else did care.
This sucks.
*
I had to make a connection through Dallas, and of course I hadn’t known that in advance because I hadn’t booked the seat myself. So when the pilot announced our final descent into Dallas I was a little annoyed.
Anyway, a guy with a sign that read Granger met me as I left the jet bridge and hand delivered me to my next gate so at least TJ was that much on the job.
*
Not quite seven hours later that plane set down in Quito.
I thought a lot about Aspen during that flight, and I eventually decided when I got back I wasn’t going to email her. I was going to call her. I was going to reward myself for my patience of the past two months by hearing her voice again, imagining those eyes, and giving her what would sound like an ultimatum: She either wanted to give us a fair shot or she didn’t. It wasn’t like I was asking her for a lifetime commitment.
Something in my head argued with me and said giving her an ultimatum wasn’t a good idea. But I argued back. It wasn’t really an ultimatum. If she wanted to give us a shot, that would be wonderful. And if she didn’t, I’d go back to my life the way it was before I met her. One way or another, I needed some relief.
As I lugged my duffel down the stairs in the Quito airport, I spotted another sign with Granger printed on it. Shades of Huntsville, except the person holding it was not an alluring young woman with the most incredible eyes I’ve ever seen. At about 5’9” he was a trim, balding man in the second half of middle age with a jaw that looked as if it was carved out of rock and thick, black plastic birth-control glasses perched on his nose. I had a feeling the grey stubble on his cheeks and chin was permanent. Otherwise he wore black combat boots, green and brown-splotched jungle-camouflage trousers, and a medium-blue polo shirt. Odd looking duck.
He lowered the sign and started across the floor toward the bottom of the stairs, and as I stepped off the bottom he offered his hand. His grip was like a vise. Quietly, he said, “Real-world problem?” His voice was deep and raspy, like he’d choked himself with that grip at least once.
I grinned. “Real-world solution. I thought I was supposed to go first.”
He ignored that. “Federico Cantán. I’ll be your spotter.”
With those specs? They’re what, a quarter-inch thick? But I didn’t say that aloud.
“This way.” He pivoted as only an old military guy could do, and I followed. As he walked, he balled the sign in his fists and dropped it into a trash receptacle near the front door.
Outside, I caught up with him. “So where’re we going?”
“That’s need to know. You’ll be there when it’s time, so you don’t need to know.” He pointed across a wide asphalt driveway. “Over there.”
I followed him across the driveway and through a cast-iron gate that also reminded me of Huntsville and toward a beat-up green-and-black-and-tan camouflage Land Rover.
“Get in. The plan has changed. We’ll go to a room first so you can change.”
The thin passenger door of the Land Rover closed with a distinctive, military, no-frills metallic thud.
He started the truck and whipped it backward out of the space, then worked the gearshift lever, popped the clutch, and showed no signs of slowing as we approached the exit.
Miraculously, the gate attendant raised the bar just before we got there. I don’t think it would have mattered either way to Federico.
*
Maybe fifteen minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of a single-story, seedy-looking motel that put me in mind of the No-Tell motels back in the ‘States.
Federico opened his door, propped the toe of his left boot against it, and lit a cigar. “Room 17. Get in, change for the field, and get out. Bring your bag with you. You’re not staying and we’re not coming back.”
He exhaled the first heavy cloud of smoke from the cigar through his door, and when I opened mine it whipped away in the cross-breeze.
I went in, changed, put the clothes I was wearing back in the bag, zipped it, and beat feet back to the truck. As I opened the door on the truck and started to climb in, Federico pointed through the windshield. “Close the door. You were born in the barn?”
I ran back and closed the door of the motel room, then ran back to the truck and climbed in. He’d moved my bag to the back seat.
He backed out again and the open driver’s side door swung open and popped on the hinges. He worked the gearshift lever, popped the clutch, and let the forward momentum slam his door. Then he cranked the complaining window down with one hand as he took the cigar out of his mouth with the other and steered into traffic with his knees.
I have to say, though, I was never scared. The Land Rover was like an extension of his body, and he flowed through traffic more than drove through it with whatever body part. The man was an artist.
Enjoyed!