Page 14 of Pieces Into Place

I can’t thank you enough for nurturing that friendship. No matter where his duty called him, Luke always kept telling me stories about getting into some kind of mischief with you – although I never knew the specifics. My old lady’s heart couldn’t take it.

Thank you, Kane, for being an incredible friend to Luke and loving him like your own brother. Right now I don’t know what emotions are swirling through you, but I want you to remember this: do not feel guilty about what happened to Luke. He was living his life as a soldier and fulfilling his purpose; we both knew what kind of dangers came with that job description. I have accepted his death, and will forever honor him in my heart.

Luke thought the world of you and wanted you to be happy.

Are you happy, Kane?

If not, maybe it’s time to ask yourself why and what you can do to get there. Luke would want you to live the kind of life that is meaningful and full of joy. He’d hate to see you any other way.

Please write to me or come to the farm and hug an old lady. I’d love to see you.

I’m proud of you, Kane, and I know that whatever happens, you will live a life that would make Luke proud, but you as well. You’re too special not to live the life you deserve.

Love, Mama Sandy

After reading the letter twice, I slide down the cabinets until my back scrapes against the tiled floor. A sob escapes my lips as I let the paper flutter to the ground next to me. The pain of not only losing my future, but also losing Smitty, is overwhelming. My body trembles with emotion as Annie stays beside me in comfort despite her inability to help.

Feeling Sandy’s words resonate inside me, I find the strength to stand and survey the disarray within my apartment. The room is a mess. Bottles, boxes, and clothes strewn everywhere; even a pair of toenail clippers are resting on the coffee table. Unmade bed sheets drape over an unkempt mattress, and embarrassment seeps into my veins at seeing what an abomination my home has become.

I spend the next two hours organizing, cleaning, and washing; when I eventually reach the bathroom mirror, I wince at its reflection. My normal amber-colored eyes are no longer radiant or lively; instead, they appear dull and bloodshot surrounded by wild dark hair and a thick beard that covers most of my jawline.

I look too tired for a 31-year-old man. I feel like I’ve finally woken from a different kind of coma: a one-man pity party of self-loathing.

I throw the alcohol away next, not that there was a lot in the house at the rate I’ve been drinking it. I force myself to eat a healthy meal for dinner, pushing past the nausea, and then go to bed early.

The next morning Annie is bouncing with excitement as I increase our run to five miles, huffing and struggling with a task that used to be as easy as brushing my teeth. The entire time, I think about my skill set. What can I do that would provide me with a sense of purpose? I have never wanted to be a cop like my father. That is out of the question. But there is always the private sector.

I shuffle past people in the busy street, thoughts of uncertainty whirling through my head. Too many lives had been taken at my hands during my military service, and I yearn for something new, a different path. I still need to use the skills I’d gained, but now to protect innocent people instead of taking them away.

A spark of hope flutters in my chest as an idea comes to me. Maybe working as a private contractor is the answer? I hasten my steps, eager to get home so I can contact an old colleague of my father’s who owns a private security firm. Spotting the business card tucked in the corner of a desk drawer, I snatch it up and dial the number.

My first few assignments have been demoralizing. I’d expected to protect innocent people, not wealthy, entitled pricks who believe they’re better than everyone else. At times, I’ve even wondered why I’m doing this. I’ve been assured this assignment will be different. Our client wants me to guard this asset without her knowledge. I’m eager to meet with my boss and get the details.

Henry and I are in a dimly lit bar, him nursing a beer while I sip black coffee. His eyes scan the room until they lock onto his target: a woman sitting alone near the back of the room with her arms crossed and her gaze set firmly forward. Her brown hair is pulled back tightly into a bun that accentuates her delicate features, and my boss directs my attention to her with a slight nod. “There’s your girl,” he says, sliding me an envelope filled with information about my new client, Ms. Olivia Monroe – a thirty-year-old first-grade teacher from Boston.

Inside the manilla folder, there are two pages of essential background details including her height, weight, hair color (brown), eye color (blue), and occupation.

“Why would a teacher need our services?” I ask Henry, skeptical about this case. “Who could she have possibly pissed off? The PTA President?” I joke as I take out a picture of Olivia Monroe from the dossier.

Henry angles his head toward the envelope, gesturing to look at the file again. “Keep reading.”

And there it is – the daughter of famed mobster Shaemus Kildare. I’ve heard enough of his reputation to know he is one of the most brutal mobsters on the East Coast. He’s the grandson of Irish immigrants, and he’s got a reputation for quarreling with other mobsters and trying to expand his territory.

Olivia had the privileged upbringing of the rich and powerful; her father likely showered her with money and influence while ensuring that she attended only the best schools. I will be right back where I was before, guarding a selfish princess. At least, I’ll be able to do it from afar.

I continue reading and see that she’s been targeted by a rival mob as retribution against her father’s actions. Threats of kidnapping, extortion, and violence were leveled against her in no uncertain terms.

“So, is this all there is?” I ask him, setting the papers down and taking a sip of my lukewarm black coffee.

“You said the less you know, the better.” He smiles smugly. “There is more, but I quote, ‘I only want the minimum amount of knowledge necessary to do my job, Henry.’”

I grunt in acknowledgement as I think over what I’d read so far. “OK. I get the point. This is enough for me to protect this entitled brat from any danger that may come her way.”

He nods approvingly. “I know you can handle it. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

“Why isn’t her old man having her protected?” I asked curiously. “He has the resources to do it himself, if not through one of his own operatives then likely through an outside firm like yours.”

Henry shrugs noncommittally. “Who knows? You’ll just have to do your job and see what happens.”