The Veteran

I pulled into a convenience store, one of the QuickBuy chain stores, to grab a pack of smokes and a drink for the ride home from work. I turned off the car and looked around, checking my surroundings, a habit I couldn't drop. Something was wrong and I couldn't put my finger on it. It's the feeling in your gut that says something is out of whack, like an itch you can't scratch.

I hadn't had this feeling for a long time.

As I entered the convenience store, the itch intensified. Something was definitely wrong. My hand slid to my Beretta 92SB 9mm pistol concealed in my waistband holster, and I glanced around the store. I looked at the clerk and then to the patrons and recognized the fear in their eyes. From most people's perspective, things would have appeared ordinary, but I wasn't most people. The ability to spot trouble was ingrained from my experiences in the military.

The clerk behind the counter was nervous, not her usual self. She didn't smile or say hi and kept glancing toward the back room. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled, and the goosebumps ran down my spine.

I mouthed, "Trouble?"

She nodded her head and looked toward the back room.

"Gun?"

She nodded her head again, and my whole demeanor changed.

I was no longer John Hunter, civilian.

My mind slipped back to that dark place where it hadn't been in a long time. I held up my fingers questioning the clerk, first one, then two, and she confirmed two people in the back room with guns. This was my store, she was my clerk, and now something was very wrong. This situation was toying with my way of life and the peace I felt. It all came back to me; the training, the drills, the clearing of rooms hundreds of times, and then the calm washed over me. The calm few had experienced.

I held up my hand for her to stay, turned toward the back room, and drew my Beretta.

As soon as my weapon left the holster, two men came bounding from the back room, one with a shotgun and one with an AR.

Well, good job Sherlock, you forgot about the cameras.

I didn't think, didn't need to. My instincts took over. I fired three rounds in rapid succession at each man, using the Mozambique technique, practiced thousands of times. I put two rounds to the chest and one to the head before they raised their weapons. I forgot how civilians react to gunfire, blood, and death; panic, screaming, and crying ensued. I was still holding my weapon pointed at the now dead bodies on the floor, unmoving. I turned my head and yelled at the top of my lungs, "Shut up." The clerk remained, staring at the carnage, unable to move.

"Call 911. Everyone out." I corralled everyone, except the clerk, toward the door and out of the store.

I looked around. What the hell had I done? I was in a fog; my mind awash with the violence I delivered. Thoughts threatened to overload my brain as they flooded in. What was I going to do? Would I go to jail?

Think, John, Think!

My thoughts went to Mary, my wife. How the hell was I going to explain this to her? What would she think of me? What about the boys?

Damn it! The cops will be here soon. What am I going to say to them?

I ushered the clerk outside and surveyed the scene around me. I could do nothing more except wait for the police. I placed my Beretta back in my holster and followed her. Nobody needed to see the carnage I left. I sat against the door, with my head between my knees, trying to comprehend what happened. People kept trying to ask me questions, wanted to thank me for saving them, but I couldn't focus. It didn't take long for the police to arrive and they approached with their guns drawn. I put my hands on my head, and the clerk approached the officers and told them what I did.

What ensued was a shit storm. At first, the officers treated me like a criminal, as I expected. It was their job, but it still sucked. They confiscated my weapon, put me in cuffs, did the standard ID check, and verified my concealed carry permit. Then came the questions. The closed-circuit video and the eyewitnesses confirmed what I told them. My uncle, a former sheriff, once told me paperwork for the dead was less than for the wounded, but they weren't happy with how I handled it. I wasn't a typical civilian with a handgun. My actions were too precise, and the video didn't lie. After they realized I wasn't the bad guy, they treated me better, but losing my weapon made me less than happy. I was told it would be returned after I spoke with the district attorney.

Appearing on someone's radar was what I didn't want. I tried to live a quiet, boring life, and with this, everything changed. I wasn't anonymous anymore.

The media. Holy shit balls, Batman! Those people were relentless, I tried to give them as few details as possible, but the police didn't help when they released my name. I thought they needed my permission. On top of everything else, the store owner and their corporate people wanted to talk to me. They were worried about their store and corporate image, for which I cared less. Everyone, including me, was alive, except the bad guys. It was the only thing that mattered.

The media outlets were like vultures, pulling and picking for any scrap of information. I didn't cooperate and told them I was a concerned citizen and no comment, but they had my name. More information than I would've given them.

On a typical day, I arrived at the house between 1800 and 1830. With the time approaching 2100, I was three hours late. I hoped Mary wasn't upset, and this would blow over, but deep down, I knew better. My phone rang. It was her. I stepped away to take the call.

"Why am I seeing you on the news? What happened? Are you ok?" I sensed the panic in her voice.

Well, I guess the cat was out of the bag. I remained calm and tried to explain what happened.

"Yes, I'm ok, but I had a little problem on the way home."

"What do you mean by a little problem? They said you killed two men during an attempted robbery at a convenience store." There was the tension in her voice, trembling as she struggled to speak. She was more than a little upset. Telling her about some of my past combat experiences was different from 'Hey Honey, I shot and killed two bad guys at the local convenience store. Can I pick up anything for you on the way home?' I had always been honest with her, and that would not stop now.

"Yes, it was me. I stopped the robbers. They were armed, Mary. They would have killed everyone, including me if I didn't stop them,

My words didn't go over well, and she was having a hard time digesting what I told her. I was digging myself into a hole from which I couldn't dig myself out.

"I'm glad you're ok, John. We'll see you when you get home."

I sensed the coldness, the timbre of her voice indicating she was troubled by what I did, the tone belaying a distance I felt only a few times before during heated arguments. It was a hard pill to swallow for someone not exposed to the military, to find your spouse killed another human being. Maybe it was how nonchalant I was about it or perhaps it was that I made it seem like a reasonable act. I couldn't blame her for her reaction, regardless of how she was handling it. Most normal people would've reacted the same way. There was nothing I could say to change anything, and this situation wasn't resolved. Although I hoped it wouldn't worsen, my gut was telling me otherwise.

The three QuickBuy corporate reps, all dressed in suits, arrived on site within a few minutes of the police, which I thought odd, and pulled me aside, saving me the barrage of questions from the media. It was a little strange that such high-level execs would be at a local store. They offered me a reward, which I refused at first, but they were insistent. I thought about our financial situation and having debt like everyone else. With much reluctance, I accepted their offer, to be delivered to my house in the morning. I gave them my address. It might make Mary happy, but no amount of money could wash the blood off my hands.

I concluded our conversation and seizing an opportunity, I slipped away amidst the confusion. I took a circuitous route home, in case some nutcase reporters tried to follow me. I didn't make it far before my phone started blowing up. The calls and texts from coworkers, friends, family, flooded in and then came the call from my boss. I decided to take it.

"Hey, John."

"Hey, Jim. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I was watching the news, and I saw what happened. Are you doing ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I have a lot going on in my head, and I'm trying to make it through this."

"I understand. I'm here if you need anything. I'm sure it was difficult being in that situation, but I think what you did, saving those people's lives, is a good thing."

The last thing I needed was him trying to commiserate with me, someone who couldn't understand my situation. Jim was a decent boss, but like many bosses from my past, his loyalty was to himself and the company, with little loyalty shown to his employees. He was digging for something. I didn't consider us friends, having no common interests other than work and the occasional round of golf or drinks after work with everyone. Lacking any military experience, he always tried to play buddy-buddy with me in the office. His behavior was never  genuine to me, but I played along for the sake of office politics.

"Thanks. I appreciate your concern. I'm dealing with a lot, and I'm going to need a couple of days," I was getting annoyed.

"Take whatever time you need. I'll make sure you're covered at the office."

"Thanks. I appreciate it. If there's nothing else, I'm driving and need to focus."

"No, that's all, John. We’ll see you in a few days. Stop by my office when you come back."

"Will do. Have a good night."

I was glad that call was over.

The situation didn't bother me like it would bother most people, but it troubled me more profoundly. To me, the act itself wasn't any different from going to the range and pumping a couple hundred rounds into the paper, an attitude society frowns upon. It was the mental and emotional fallout I would now have to deal with, and no one could help me with that. I wondered if my job was now in jeopardy.

After I was sure I hadn't been followed, I pulled over to the side of the road in my neighborhood, not far from my house, and parked. The weight of fifteen years of mental suppression faded away, the floodgates of my memories opened, forcing me back to the place visited in my nightmares. My hands shook, and I tried to steady them by gripping the steering wheel harder. I had worked so hard to keep those thoughts buried in that little box for so long, but Pandora had other ideas. The lid flew open with a vengeance and forced me to relive the memories of brothers lost and bad guys killed. The faces, the ones felled by my hand, the blood and carnage I had left in my wake, forever etched my soul with the memories of the horrors of war. I cried, unable to dam the thoughts that flooded my mind.

Well, fuck me.

P.T.S.D. never goes away. Sometimes it lays dormant, and at other times it is right in your face. I spent three years in therapy to get my head straight, and today wiped all my hard work away.

After some intense sobbing, I tried to compose myself and wiped my face with some old baby wipes I found in the car. How fitting to have such a reminder of my family, but it snapped me back to reality, where I took on the façade of the guy I worked so hard to build, the father and husband they expected. I put the car in drive and headed down the street to my house, to my wife and kids, where I feared another storm was brewing.

After I arrived home, I sat in the driveway for a bit, not knowing what to expect. In typical fashion, my wife, some twenty-five years my junior, matching me in height at six feet, with her long blonde hair tied in a neat braid to keep it out of the way, and my boys, Matthew, nine, and Jacob, seven, both spitting images of their mother, came out of the door to greet me, but this time was different. Something had changed.

I got out of the car and knelt like I always did, waiting for them to run to me, but they hesitated and glanced at their mother, who gave them the cue to come to me. I saw the fear in their actions and on their faces. My stomach tightened into knots, and my tears welled. I held my arms out to them, beckoning for them to come to me. The reluctance in their steps proved almost too much for me to bear, and as I pulled them close, I felt the stiffness in their bodies, belaying a distance like they were accepting a hug from a stranger. I held them for what felt like an eternity.

"I love you guys so much. "

"Aw, Dad. Yeah, we love you too," Matthew said, ducking my hand as I went to ruffle his hair.

I glanced up at Mary, the tears now streaming down my face, and I could see the look in her eyes. She was trying to keep her composure, but she too was afraid of me, and although she loved me, I couldn't imagine how hard it was to overcome the fear of knowing who and what I was.

"Boys, it's past your bedtime," she announced, "give Daddy a kiss and hug and run along to your room."

"Mom, it's not that late," Matthew said.

"Matthew, do what your mother said. It's way past your bedtime, and you need your sleep. School tomorrow. Jacob that means you too."

"Yes sir," was their reply.

They hugged and kissed me on the cheek and did the same for Mary. I waited until the boys were in the house and walked up to her and took her hands in mine, pulled her to me, and wrapped my arms around her. Her arms reached around me, the embrace tighter than usual. She was shaking.

"I'm glad you're home, and that you're ok. I want you to know I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too, and I'm sorry about this, Mary. I didn't mean for this to happen."

She was silent, and then she pulled away. Her tears were visible, caused by the fear of possibly losing me and what I was, the proof of my sins now evident for her to see.

We walked into the house and through the front hall lined with the boys' school pictures. I worked hard to provide her, and the boys with a comfortable lifestyle, buying a home like the one she grew up in; two stories with all the bells and whistles, and I felt it all going down the drain. It was in an upscale neighborhood, complete with fenced yard, a large garage for me, and plenty of extra space for her to decorate as she wanted.

It was a steal, and with a small investment, we were able to fix it up and make a beautiful home, complete with bedrooms for each of the boys, although they still shared a room, a large master suite for ourselves, and extra bedrooms for guests, with plenty of living space for our enjoyment. Now the house, even as big as it was, felt cramped.

When we got to the living room, she sat down and closed her eyes for a second before she started to talk. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, having never seen this type of reaction from her in the past.

"John, I need you to sit down and let me talk. Please don't interrupt me or else I might not be able to say this," the trepidation was evident in her voice, the brief pauses, the careful selection of words.

I sat without speaking, not knowing what to expect from her impending words.

"I'm confused with what I'm feeling," she said, her eyes watering."

"Mary," I tried to speak, but she raised her hand.

"Let me finish. I'm glad you're ok. I don't know what I would do if something ever happened to you, but now, I'm afraid of you" she said, taking a deep breath and exhaling, her shoulders slumping, "Please don't take that as meaning I don't love you. I really do, but I've never dealt with this stuff before. I wasn't around when you were in the military, so when this happened, all kinds of thoughts went through my head, most of them not helpful."

I waited.

"I'm frustrated, angry, and frightened. I just can't wrap my head around this, and or how to explain it to the boys, but worst of all, I realized I don't know a lot of things about you, and it really bothers me."

Tension, like a dark, ominous fog, filled the room. I didn't want to say the wrong thing. Any words would sound like an unjustifiable reason for what I did. On any given day, words rarely escaped me, but I was at a loss. The thought of losing Mary and the boys over this was sending my stress level, already high from the day's events, even higher and I couldn't risk making yet another mistake.

Her pause continued, and I spoke, "I understand. It's my fault for not letting you in. I didn't want you to know what kind of person I was back then. It's not something I'm proud of, and it's the guilt I must live with every day. I should have told you, and I apologize. I was afraid you would look at me differently. The same way you're looking at me now."

"Maybe you're right. Who knows? You need to understand something. I'm almost half your age, and I've never been exposed to anything like this." Her upbringing was tame compared to the most boring times in my life. "What happened today was more than I could have ever prepared myself for, even if you told me. You killed two people today. This is the reality I'm dealing with, and it goes against everything I've ever believed in."

I couldn't say I understood. I didn't. We came from two different walks of life and two different generations. Mine, filled with violence and war, hers with peace and tranquility. We couldn't have been on further ends of the spectrum in our upbringing and life experiences, and that gap was a difficult one to bridge with the day's events.

I stared at her, unable to formulate a response to the truth she spoke.

"Are you going to say anything?"

"You're right. Everything you said is 100 percent correct. All I can say is I'm sorry for putting you in this position. I'm sorry for putting our family in this position. I wish I could take it all back, but I can't, and now I wish I knew what's going to happen next."

"I can't answer that question. I'm tired and need to go to bed. The boys have school tomorrow."

She was afraid of me. The knowledge hit me hard. We had never spoken in detail about my time in the military, and although though she was aware that I had killed, doing my duty to God and country. What I did today was different. I shot those two men without hesitation. If I hadn't, people might be dead, including myself. I had killed again, and nothing could change that fact. Having it thrown in her face made it real. Her husband was a killer. I was a killer.

That night was rough. Our bedroom was our sanctuary where we shared our most intimate thoughts. I remembered the weekend when she insisted we paint the whole room light blue 'like a spa' she said, insisting if our room were calm, we would sleep better. However, she was pregnant at the time, so I was the one who did all the painting. To see her face light up with that smile was worth it. We didn't talk much after we crawled into bed. We pulled her grandmother's quilt up around us, which was rare for us. An uneasy silence hung over the room.

She fell asleep, wrapped in my arms, her crying inaudible. I don't think she realized I could tell, her shoulders shaking enough for me to know she was having a hard time holding it together.

Sleep didn't come well for me, but I drifted off sometime in the early morning, a brief reprieve, forced awake by nightmares well before the sun rose. It was the faces that always got me, and I added two more to the list. I slipped from the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, groggy from lack of sleep, and tried not to wake her. I felt her roll over, and she placed her hand on my lower back, something she always did. I reached my hand back and enveloped her hand in mine, holding it, not looking, not saying a word. Another one of our rituals.

The years weren't kind to my body. At fifty-five, I was still doing quite well and kept in shape, but mornings always sucked. I stood and did the usual morning routine, the joints cracking and muscles relaxing as I stretched, giving me some relief. I looked at my phone and unplugged it from the charger, having turned it off a few short hours ago. I didn't want to turn it on, but it was necessary. The phone was my lifeline to family and friends but also a bane for everything else. It didn't take long before the text messages and voicemails came flooding in. How some people got my number, was beyond me. There were twenty plus voicemails and over fifty text messages most from unknown people. Everyone wanted to talk to me, but I didn't have words for any of them. I would deal with them later, but first, time to hit the head, then caffeine, and my morning smoke; the three things that made me human in the morning.

As I left the bathroom, I saw that she was awake. She stared at me as I got dressed.

"How are you feeling, John?"

How am I feeling?

I couldn't tell her the truth. She wouldn't understand. The fact was, what I did didn't trouble me. I believed it was the right thing to do. She was the one person in my life that came close to understanding me, and now I might pay the price for my convictions.

"I'm doing ok, but I'm worried about you and the boys. And what about us?"

She was on the precipice of a life-altering decision.

We left the bedroom, and I checked on the boys. Both were still sleeping, and she and I needed coffee before we could have any type of rational conversation. In the kitchen, surrounded by memories of cooking and laughing together, I turned on the coffee maker the boys got me for Christmas. After a few cups and a few cigarettes on the patio for myself, I was ready to face what was to come. I sat down at the scarred Formica table we always meant to replace. She sat across from me, looking tired in a worn-out grey sleep shirt with her hair in a braid, and wearing a sadness and confusion I had never seen on her face before.

"You know that I love you, right?"

"Of course, and I love you too!" was my reply.

The tears began to well in her eyes, and she spoke, "I'm not sure how I'm going to deal with this. I need some time and space to figure this one out."

"What do you mean figure it out?"

"I'm trying to remain calm here. The fact is," and she paused, finding it difficult to utter the words, "You murdered two people in cold blood yesterday."

I winced when I realized how she perceived it. She was never exposed to any type of violence growing up; her parents acting as societal shields, homeschooling her and her sister, protecting them from the outside world. She was raised in a strict Christian environment until she went to college, and then, they kept close tabs on her to ensure she didn't rebel.

"I didn't have any choice, Mary. I had to stop them. People are alive because of what I did. It was self-defense."

"Did you have to shoot them? Why didn't you go outside and call 911? You could've walked away, and none of this would've happened."

She wasn't in the store and couldn't wrap her head around what happened. She'd never had to make a critical decision where someone else's life was dependent on her choices. She couldn't fathom the responsibility it entailed. She didn't understand, and I was getting frustrated.

"Yes, I did, and no, I couldn't walk away, Mary! Those assholes would've killed everyone in the store!"

"You don't know that, and you never will because you shot them."

"That's where you're wrong. I know their kind, and they would. I've been in this situation too many times before. Remember, I did this for a living. They were bad people, and I couldn't take that risk. They came out with guns, and I wasn't going to take any chances. It was either them or me. Would you rather it was me?" I stammered.

"Of course not, but you don't understand what I'm saying."

I cut her off, "No, you don't understand. You've never been in a situation like that. You've never had someone point a gun at you, and you've never been shot at or shot. I have been, on all accounts, and I used my best judgment. I had to do something or people, including myself, might be dead," I said, raising my voice.

"Holy hell, John. Listen to yourself. You sound like a knight in shining armor or something. You killed those two guys without even thinking about it. You didn't, but you chose to. Knowing that scares the shit out of me. Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted? Knowing you can do that without thinking terrifies me. I don't know who you are anymore."

"What kind of shit is that Mary?" my frustration built, "I did what I thought was right. I had to protect those people."

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to call bullshit. You didn't owe them anything. It's almost like you wanted to save the day and be the big hero."

"Are you hearing what you're saying? I can't believe you. I am no hero. I didn't want any of this," I said, motioning toward us. "What'd you expect me to do? Walk away like a coward and let those people die? I did what I had to do. I did what I was trained to do," I started raising my voice.

She raised her voice to match my tone.

"Well, you didn't think about how it would affect us. The boys saw what you did on the TV. What kind of lesson does it teach them? Tell me, Mr. Hero? 'Sure boys, it's ok to kill someone.' You only thought of yourself and your ego. I can't do this. I can't be here."

"What do you mean, you can't be here? Where is all this hostility coming from?"

"I can't deal with this shit. Knowing what you did. I can't."

I had caused this conversation to escalate. I had talked when I should have listened.

She was right, but I couldn't let her walk away like this. "Listen, I think we need to calm down and think about this," I was trying to defuse the situation, "We're getting a little too worked up here, and we need to stick together on this. I need you here with me."

"You're right. We are, but you're not listening. You haven't listened to a damn word I've said. It's all about you again. What about the boys and me? What am I supposed to think, knowing my husband is a killer? What am I supposed to tell the boys when they ask me why you did it? I need some time to figure this out, and I can't do it while having these arguments with you. I can't be here, John. I don't know what else to do. Why can't you understand?"

"Fine. If that's how you feel, then go. I guess I'll figure this out on my own," I said, holding up my hands.

"That's what I'm talking about. I'm trying to figure this out, and you're not helping. Sounds like you've gotten pretty good at figuring shit out on your own, especially when you don't consider us."

The tears streamed down her face, and she pushed away from the table and walked upstairs.

Anger filled the room, and I had caused it. I wanted to be right and sat, frustrated at myself for causing her to walk away. From the start, we had promised each other that if we had a problem, we would talk through things and find a solution. This time was different. We were talking at each other, and not to each other.

I stepped outside for a smoke, trying to compose myself before the boys came down. I didn't want them to see me angry. I had done enough damage.

I tried to put on a happy face when she and the boys came downstairs. I helped with breakfast, doing the regular morning stuff, but there was a numbness, knowing they might leave. I felt sometime soon, my world would be crashing down around me. My family was why I worked so hard. They were my motivation and kept me grounded. In this home with my wife and children, I found solace. This place was the sanctuary that shielded me from my own insanity and all the craziness in the world. Now it was slipping away. I stepped outside and sat, defeated, smoking cigarette after cigarette, trying to make sense of what had happened with Mary, trying to shake off the dread that threatened to overwhelm me.

I turned on my phone and checked my text messages. They hadn't stopped, and my inbox was full. Many were supportive, many asked how I was doing, and some were curious as to what happened. I responded as best I could without giving out too much detail, but it didn't help. I checked my social media - messages from friends, coworkers, and some from complete strangers, calling me everything from a hero to a murderer. With the persistent questions, I couldn't take it anymore and disabled my accounts.

The voicemails were another story. Newspapers, TV stations, news outlets, even the Associated Press wanted the story. Many were willing to pay for my time, but I didn't need the money. I couldn't deal with it, deleted all the messages, and turned my phone off again. As I was heading back inside, a Cadillac Escalade pulled into my driveway. The driver stepped out and moved to the front of the SUV, standing guard in his dark suit and sunglasses. Out of the back, the same corporate men who had spoken with me the previous night approached the house.

"Mr. Hunter?" the tallest of the three, very pale, a shaved head and dressed in a black pin-striped suit, walked toward me with the demeanor of overdeveloped self-importance. He waved his hand for my attention.

"Yeah, what can I do for you?"

"We're here to talk to you and pay you the reward we promised."

"I don't think there's anything to talk about."

"I'm not sure if you're aware, but a number of our stores were robbed over the past three months."

"Sorry about that, but I have more important issues to deal with."

"What you did last night helped us out. We want you to come to work for us?"

"I have a job, fellas. What I did last night, I did because people were in danger. No offense, but I'm not in the market for a job."

"Well, we know a little about your background."

"What do you mean, you know a little about my background?" I was now concerned that someone was looking into my past.

"We did some checking on you, and you have quite an interesting history, Mr. Hunter."

"Yeah? That was a long time ago."

I didn't like people looking into my past. My pulse rose, and my face flushed with irritation.

"We understand, Mr. Hunter, however, we want to offer you a unique opportunity to help us. How would you say? To improve our security image, and don't worry, the reward is yours, regardless of your answer, but the salary we'd offer is lucrative. It would be worth your while."

"Listen, guys. I don't do that anymore. I'm sure there are a lot of people way more qualified than me. I appreciate the offer and the reward, but I don't have time to deal with this now."

He held out his hand and handed me a check and a business card, "This is a token of our thanks. We hope you will consider our offer. If you change your mind, give us a call."

Ten years ago, I might've considered it, but with everything going on with my family, I wouldn't be used as a marketing poster child. What worried me was they weren't pushy, as most corporate types were.

They shook my hand, said their goodbyes, and got into their vehicle. As the car pulled away, Mary walked out the door.

"Who was that?"

I pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it and inhaled, forcing the exhale in a slow, measured manner, "They were the corporate guys from QuickBuy. Wanted to offer me a job to help their image or some shit. I told them no. They gave me this," and I handed her the check and put the business card in my pocket.

Surprised, her mouth hung open as she looked at the check. "John, did you see this?"

"Nope, don't care. Didn't do it for the reward, and I don't like blood money."

"This is a check for $50,000", as she turned, shoving it in my face.

Fifty grand? Is that what two lives are worth these days?

Wanting to avoid further confrontations after the argument, I conceded, "It should help us with our bills. I should deposit it. I'll run to the bank now and handle it," and took it from her hands. I retrieved the car keys and headed to the bank. I had stirred up enough trouble in the last twenty-four hours and figured if I wasn't around, we couldn't argue. I was angry with myself for creating this mess, and at her for not understanding. Not reasonable on my part. She had done nothing but be an unwilling participant in the events.

The check was from the same bank where we banked.

I turned on my phone. The calls and text messages became incessant, and I ignored them or sent them straight to voicemail. I texted Mary and told her I was turning my phone off. If this continued, I would need to change my number. I never wanted this kind of attention for something like this. In typical fashion, she told me to be safe. I didn't miss that she failed to say she loved me.

I should've gone through the drive-thru, but with a check that big, going inside made more sense. That was a mistake. As soon as I walked in, the branch manager, who gave me a cursory wave during my previous visits, got up and approached me.

"Mr. Hunter, I heard about what happened, and I wanted to say thank you. You did a brave thing."

Glancing at his name tag, I said, "Thanks Bill, I appreciate it. I didn't do anything anyone else wouldn't do."

Ten years ago, most people wouldn't have any idea what I did, but with the internet, and all the news stations looking for the next big story, my face was plastered all over the local news.

"I'll go ahead and handle your transaction. What are you looking to do today?"

"I need to deposit this check," handing it to him.

He took the check and my license, and we walked to his desk. After a few keystrokes, he announced the check had no hold, and it would show up in my account right away.

"That's a little odd. Don't checks like this normally have a five-day hold?"

"You're correct, but this is a certified check, so no hold."

He handed me the receipt which showed we now had $50,102.37, extended his hand to shake mine, "You're good to go now. Thanks for stopping in, and again thanks for what you did," he said, as I shook his hand and stepped away.

Most of the other employees didn't pay attention to me, except for one, who walked up to me as I was leaving.

"How can you sleep at night knowing you killed two people?"

I didn't respond. This wasn't the first time I had heard that in my life.

The branch manager intervened and stepped between us, sending her back to work.

"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Hunter. It won't happen again," he said apologetically.

I held up my hands, signaling I was letting it go, "It's ok," I assured him, and headed for the exit.

I sat in the car and turned on my phone to check for any messages from Mary. Anytime I was out, I'd ask her if she needed anything and this time her response was nothing. That was odd. From when I turned off the phone until this moment, I had received ten voicemails. Exasperated, I decided to bite the bullet and listen to the new voicemails. Most were news outlets wanting interviews, which I deleted, but one stood out. The district attorney wanted me to come in and give a statement, after which the police would return my weapon. Interrogation would better describe our interaction.

I called Mary and told her I had to head downtown to talk to the DA and would be home after I finished. I made my way downtown, taking the loop around to avoid the morning rush hour traffic, which was starting to wind down. Every city was the same; tons of traffic, too many pedestrians, and never enough places to park. I found a parking spot in the pay garage next to the courthouse. It cost twenty bucks, which I doubted I would be reimbursed. The walk to the courthouse was a mess. The courthouse people; lawyers, judges, and all the support people, not including law enforcement, along with everyone that had an appointment, were trying to make their way in. I don't like crowds. With all the new security precautions, it took forever to get through the security line. Like most old courthouses, it was well-maintained and ornate, large pillars supporting the floors, the center of the room open, providing a view of the dome some fifteen stories above. The architecture reflected a pristine design, jurisprudential regency at its finest. Even as open as it was, I felt claustrophobic surrounded by so many people, too many people. With my picture all over the local news, a few people in line asked me if I was that guy, and I ignored them, avoiding the attempts at conversation. My identity didn't escape the security officers who eyed me with suspicion. After I passed through the gate, I made my way to the fifth floor, and as soon as I walked into the DA's office, they recognized me and whisked me away to a back room. Ten minutes later, in walks the district attorney herself.

"Good Morning, Mr. Hunter. I'm Sheila Marks. Thanks for coming in to talk with us on such short notice. We have a few questions concerning last night's incident. Would you be willing to help us out?"

"Don't you need to read me my rights, or something?"

"You're not under arrest. We want some details that other witnesses weren't able to provide."

"Do I need an attorney present?"

"Not unless you want one, but you do have the right to remain silent if you wish, but this isn't an interrogation. We're trying to clear things up. From looking at the video and reading the witness statements, it was clearly a case of self-defense, and what you did was a noble thing, protecting those people. We need to make sure we do our job."

I didn't like being questioned, but if it meant getting this over, I would follow through.

"Ok, I'll answer your questions."

"Thank you, Mr. Hunter. Can you tell me in your own words what happened last night?"

I explained in detail the previous night's event, and the questions followed. We went over question after question, many the same, as though they were looking to trip me up, but it didn't work. I had played this game before, and this was easy compared to the prisoner of war interrogation we had to endure during Jungle Warfare training.

The questioning was typical, like on TV, and they weren't amused when I referenced the good cop, bad cop routine. After two and a half hours they said they were done. She informed me that as it was a case of self-defense, no charges would be filed, but the evidence still had to go before a judge to make it official.

I wasn't thrilled that I would need to make myself available if they had more questions. They always had more questions.

The DA told me one of their officers would return my firearm to me outside the courthouse. I was escorted out of the office by one of the assistants, followed by a courthouse bailiff. He was a nice guy and didn't seem like the desk jockey type. His demeanor and sense of awareness indicated that he had seen some street time. Pulling bailiff duty at a courthouse was a shitty job for a street cop, and you got it if you fucked up or failed to meet physical standards, and he didn't appear out of shape. Not my business to ask.

On the way down the elevator, he looked at me and nodded, "I heard about what you did. Not a lot of people could've handled the situation like you did."

"I happened to be there and did what I had to do'"

"Look, Mr.?" He paused.

"Hunter."

"Look, Mr. Hunter. You might be able to bullshit the DA, but I know a vet, especially someone with combat training when I see them, but hey, that's your business. I'm just glad you were there when it happened. Otherwise, it would've been ugly, from what my buddies told me."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Regardless, thanks for your service, and again, for what you did."

"I appreciate it." I was always uncomfortable when someone thanked me for my service.

After we left the elevator, he escorted me to a room near the exit. He returned my Beretta and magazines, which I holstered and covered with my shirt.

I offered my hand, and he took it, shaking it with a firm grip. "Thanks for the escort. Have a good one." I stepped out of the room into the main corridor.

"No problem. Be careful."

He followed me to the exit, watching as I made my way down the courthouse steps.

As with most courthouses, media outlets are always present, covering various courthouse events. I didn't make it to the parking garage before I was caught off guard and on camera. Someone had recognized me. That was twice in two days I had let my guard down.

The microphone was in my face. "Mr. Hunter? John? Can you tell us about last night? We want your side of the story,"

I brushed past him and stated no comment, walked to my car, and left the garage.

I turned on my phone, texted my wife that I was on my way. More voicemails and texts from people unknown. I deleted them. I stopped by the local chain grocery store, famous for its weird people, and although she didn't need anything, I picked up some of her favorite chocolates, the gold foil wrapped ones with the little nuts in them. She loved those things. Much to my relief, no one recognized or bothered me.

When I arrived at our house, Mary and the boys were standing in the driveway with their suitcases. They were ready to go somewhere without me. At least she had waited until I got home. This was too much, too soon.

The shock must have been evident on my face. As soon as I got out of the car, the tears started flowing down her cheeks.

"What's going on, Mary?"

"The boys and I are going to my parents for a few days. I need a little time and some space,"

I could tell she was trying to hold it together for the boys, who also looked upset at having to leave.

"Anything I can say to get you to change your mind? Do you have to leave?"

"John, no. If I don't do this now,...I'm doing this for us,"

"For us? How is this going to help us?"

"I talked to my parents, and they thought it would be a good idea for the boys and me to come to see them. With all the stuff going on, you're going to be busy with everything, and I need to think about this."

I shook my head. "Now it makes sense. I'm not going to fight with you over this. You've made up your mind, thanks to your parents," I said, getting the verbal dig in.

Holding up her hand, she pointed her index finger at me "This is not their decision. It's mine. They happen to agree with it. Leave them out of it."

As much as her parents had been master manipulators with her, anytime I broached the subject of their interference, she took umbrage. She would defend them in one breath while condemning them in the next. It was a lose-lose situation on my part, so I dropped it.

I went silent. My silence told her I wasn't going to say anything else about the subject. Silent treatments were my specialty when I didn't want to argue or if I believed the discussion was over. This irritated her to no end.

"I paid for the flights out of our account, so they can't hold it over my head."

"That's good. When are you planning on coming back?"

"I only booked one-way tickets." She realized what she had done, the guilt evident on her face.

"I see. I guess that answers my question." Her answer had cut me deep, and she reached out her hand to grab me. I stood stiff, my hands in my pockets.

"John, please understand. This isn't permanent. I didn't want to book a return flight, not knowing how long it would be, and then pay the penalties."

"Penalties. It's fine, Mary. I'll take you to the airport."

"I called a car service. They'll be here in about 20 minutes."

"A car service? I can't even take my own family to the airport?"

"I didn't think it would be a good idea. I know this is hard on you. This is hard on everyone."

I looked at the boys, who also had tears in their eyes. Holding their mother's hands, they looked up at me with expressions I had never seen on their faces. It was a mixture of fear and sadness, and it hit me. It was all my fault, and I felt the tears leave my eyes.

"Can't you wait a couple of days?"

"No, I can't. I can't be here."

"So that's it, then? You're going to bail on me?" Tears flowed from my eyes, and the words were hard to say. I clenched my fists, trying to ebb the flow of my angry tears.

Mary turned to the boys, "Boys, go inside. Your father and I need to talk in private for a few minutes."

"But, Mom," they both whined.

"Your mother told you to go inside. Now go inside," I said.

"Yes, Sir." They trudged into the house.

After they were inside, she continued. "Stop being an asshole, John. I'm not bailing on you. I need some time to think, but I can't do it here. Why can't you understand that?"

"I'm trying, but I've had kind of a rough couple of days here too. I didn't wake up yesterday thinking I would have to kill someone."

I was lashing out. I was frustrated with her and angry with myself. She didn't understand my position, and I couldn't understand why she was leaving.

"Oh, so I woke up thinking, 'Oh, my husband is going to kill someone today? We'll be having pork chops and carrots tonight, so I need for you to pick up some milk?' Huh, John?"

I didn't want to argue any more than we had and decided to take the high road.

"Ok, look. I don't want to do this. Not now. Maybe it's best if you and the boys go to your parents for a few days and we'll see how it goes. I don't want us making any rash decisions on anything, and you don't want to either. Is that fair?" Any further escalation would lead to more problems.

She paused, and by the look on her face, she wanted to say something sarcastic. "That's fine. Let's see how it goes."

This felt like a goodbye to me, but I stopped talking, and so did she. Time would tell if we fixed this or not.

We called the boys out and waited for the car. She told me she had paid all our bills for the next month, including paying off our car and had transferred $15,000 to her personal account for her and the boys. I didn't want to argue about money. She had left me with a little over $20,000 in the bank and a big hole in my heart.

The car arrived, and I helped load their luggage. I knelt, and Matthew and Jacob ran to me.

Matthew reached me first, and Jacob followed, and both wrapped their arms around my neck. They were shaking. They were upset by their silent sobs.

"Daddy, I'm sorry we're leaving. I don't want to, but Mommy says it's best. Please don't be mad," Matthew said.

I returned their embrace and whispered, "I'm not mad, boys. This is a rough time for everyone, and I'm going to miss you both very much. You know I love you, right?"

"Yes, Sir," came their reply and both said they loved me too.

"Can't you go with us, Daddy," Jacob asked.

"No, son. I have to stay here and take care of some things but don't worry, we'll be back together soon."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise. It won't take long. Both of you listen to your mother while you're at Grandma and Grandpa's house, ok?"

"Yes, Sir, we will."

"We can talk on the phone after you're there, ok?"

They both smiled a weak smile. I pulled them in close and kissed them on the cheek and embraced them.

"Time to go, boys," Mary said.

Moping, they returned to her side. She got them in the car and then approached me, wrapping her arms around me. She pulled me close and unable to look in my face, she whispered, "John, I'm sorry. Really, I am. I hope we can work through this."

"Me too, Mary. Me too. I love you," I said, pulling her close.

"I love you too, John. I'll call you when we arrive," and she pulled away and got in the car. As they left, I watched the boys, the sadness in their eyes showing as they looked out the back window at me, waiving, the tears flowing down their cheeks. I waved back, hoping it wasn't the last time.

I couldn't believe this was happening. I wanted to think it was for a short time and then she would realize I wasn't the bad guy. I wanted to believe this would all blow over, and we could return to our lives. I wanted to believe it was a dream, but the dream had turned into a nightmare.