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  Copyright © 2018 Peter Parkin

  Website: www.peterparkin.com

  All Rights Reserved

  Edited by Laurie Carter

  Publisher Sands Press

  Author Agent: Sparks Literary Consultants

  Publisher’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales, are intended only to provide as a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and are not to be construed as real.

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  1

  She gazed up at him with those big brown eyes that he loved so much. The eyes asked a question—a simple one that didn’t need words. Sandy responded by carefully breaking off one more piece of pepperoni pizza, cradling it in his hand and passing it over to his six-year-old daughter.

  Whitney was her name, and despite her young age, she adored the music of her deceased namesake, Whitney Houston. Of course, if her parents hadn’t also been avid fans she’d have had no idea who the singer was.

  Her mother reached over with a napkin and wiped the tomato sauce from her chin as the child eagerly shoved the latest slice of pizza into her mouth.

  “Maybe she’s had enough?”

  Sandy laughed and shook his head. “Does it look like she’s had enough? Those little teeth are chomping away as if this was her last meal on earth.”

  Sarah cocked her head and displayed her most serious motherly expression. “We don’t want her to be sick. You know how nervous her stomach is.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but this is Memorial Day, hon. A day for all of America to gorge itself.”

  Ten-year-old Liam piped up, not one to miss an opportunity. “Mom’s right, Dad. She’s going to throw up.”

  Sandy made a face at his son. “Listen to you, all of a sudden worried about your sister. Could this have anything to do with the fact that you’ve finished all of your own pizza?”

  Liam smirked in his charming, shy way. “Well, maybe a teeny bit…”

  “I thought so. Okay, Whitney, can Liam have a slice of your pizza?”

  Her mouth full, a fresh smear of tomato sauce dripping down her chin, the little girl nodded eagerly.

  Liam’s hand flew across the table and snatched a slice before she had a change of heart.

  Sandy and Sarah laughed together, as their happy kids ate to their hearts’ content.

  Sarah reached over and squeezed Sandy’s hand. “I love this time of year, don’t you? The end of May, spring in full bloom, everyone in a good mood.”

  “Yeah, it’s gotta be my favorite time, too. We long for summer, but then it just gets so darn hot that we long for winter again. Spring is just perfect—wish it could be spring all year long.”

  Sarah glanced over at a juggler who had set up camp not far from their table. Whitney suddenly shrieked and pointed at a clown who was dancing comically on the other side of the street—to the tune of a guitarist who was happily performing in the hope that someone might throw a quarter or two into his open guitar case.

  Yes, this was Memorial Day, always celebrated on the last Monday of May.

  And this was Boston, one of the most beautiful cities in the entire United States.

  Sandford Beech and his little family were enjoying the buzz of the holiday weekend at Quincy Market. It is a massive food and entertainment complex, closed off to vehicle traffic. It consists of four historic buildings, which contain over 100 shops, stalls, and pushcarts right on Boston’s famous Freedom Trail. Famous for—well—only one of the most famous events in American history. The Boston Tea Party began on this very site. The rebellion of 1773 that became the iconic symbol of the American Revolution.

  Ironic that the severing of British rule was festered by the destruction of—tea.

  Quincy Market is right across from Government Center and is world-renowned as one of the best food markets on the planet. It is an old brick marketplace, beautifully restored, and the massive indoor and outdoor site has served as a meeting place for merchants and shoppers for almost four centuries.

  Despite how busy it was, particularly on a holiday weekend like this, Sandy found it relaxing. It was a happy place for families and singles alike, a gathering of Americans celebrating one of the greatest cities on earth.

  A chance to get out of the house and soak up some atmosphere—and there was plenty of that—especially on Memorial Day weekend when the market transformed itself into the Street Performers Festival. At least 200 acts roamed up and down the market all weekend, which was great entertainment for the kids.

  Visitors could choose to eat inside in the massive food court, or, if the weather was nice, outside at the dozens of tables equipped with umbrellas. That was where the Beeches were today—outside, with a front row view of all the action.

  Caught up in daydreaming, Sandy gazed off in the direction of another iconic event—which was less than a mile from where they were sitting. The finish line for the Boston Marathon. He pondered how the words “finish line” had more than just symbolic meaning for the three who were killed and the almost 300 who were injured back on April 15, 2013.

  The Boston Marathon terrorist bombings.

  He shook his head, trying to clear away the memories of that day. He hadn’t been there, but had seen the images on the news. Had seen the explosions, heard the screams, and watched the body parts flying outwards in every direction. He normally wasn’t one to cry, but he had that day. It was horrific enough to watch a terrorist attack live just like on 9/11, but to see one happen in his own city was more than he was able to bear.

  He felt a tiny hand shaking his forearm. “Daddy, look at that plane up there,” said Whitney, pointing. “It’s pulling a sign along with it. What does the sign say?”

  Sandy looked up. “It says, ‘Happy Memorial Day.’ Isn’t that nice?”

  “Yes, it is. But, doesn’t that sign slow the plane down?”

  “No, honey. Here’s how it works,” he said, launching into an abbreviated explanation of propulsion and lift while he sipped from his bowl of famous Massachusetts clam “chowda.”

  Whitney smiled and nodded. “I understand, Daddy. You’re so smart.”

  He ruffled her blonde hair. “No, not really. I’m just a lot older than you, that’s all.”

  She shook her head defiantly. “You’re the smartest person I know!”

  Liam decided to do some of his own sucking up. “She’s right, Dad, you are.”

  Sarah rubbed his shoulder. “Isn’t that sweet
. You do miss it, don’t you? I can tell.”

  “Miss what?”

  “Teaching.”

  Sandy smiled. “Maybe a little bit. But, I’m challenged by what I’m doing now.”

  “You were a professor at MIT, for God’s sake! You loved it, I know you did.”

  “Yeah, but it was time to move on.”

  Sandy didn’t tell her that he’d had no choice in the matter—he’d never told her that. And, she didn’t even know what he really did at his current place of employment.

  He stared at the funny clown. Just…stared.

  And remembered.

  Remembered back to his West Point days—when he’d been selected specifically for a future assignment along with many other talented young men. The United States Military Academy, otherwise known as West Point because of its specific location in New York State, was as prestigious as a school could get.

  It was tough to get into, and shortly after he’d enrolled, Sandy had found out he was considered “special.” He was transferred into a secret division along with several other gifted students. They were told their futures were being determined for them right then and there—and that they would enjoy incredible training other students in West Point would not receive.

  But, for Sandy, it hadn’t lasted. Something had happened.

  He’d been blown out of the unit and transferred back to the regular student population, where he studied for four years to obtain his undergraduate degree in physics and nuclear engineering. At the same time he’d learned the mandatory advanced military techniques that all West Point graduates had to learn. He’d become a soldier, but no one ever intended for him to actually perform as a soldier.

  Even though they’d blown him out of the special unit, they weren’t finished with him. They made it easy for him—financially, and mentally.

  When he left West Point as one of their privileged graduates, his brain was a finely-tuned machine. And his body was a lethal weapon—one of the benefits of attending the finest military academy on the planet.

  After West Point Sandy attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, otherwise known as MIT. He obtained his PhD in experimental nuclear and particle physics and not long after that he became a full professor, teaching nuclear secrets to a bunch of snot-nosed twenty-somethings. Kids who fantasized about being involved in the next Manhattan Project.

  Where had the years gone? How had he allowed himself to get caught up in this stuff?

  MIT was founded in 1861 in direct response to the industrialization of the United States. Since then it had produced eighty-five Nobel laureates, forty-five Rhodes scholars, and thirty-four astronauts. It specialized in anything technical, anything with a technological or physics bent to it.

  MIT’s first foray into military research began in World War II and surged after the conflict was over. It was up to its neck in nuclear weapons, microwave radar, ballistic missile guidance systems, and high-altitude photography. It was one of the key players in the old Apollo space program, and now it was an innovator in drone technology.

  In the 1960s, concerns were being raised about MIT becoming more of a military defence—and offense—school than anything else. War research was feared to be dominating its reason for existence. In response, the school set up a separate operation in 1969, called the MIT Lincoln Laboratory. All of the classified military research was spun off into this new operation.

  This move accomplished two things: firstly, it satisfied all the crybabies that MIT would once again be “pure;” and, secondly, it allowed the U.S. Department of Defense access to the nation’s best and brightest nuclear scientists and physicists in a facility disguised as a branch of MIT, when in reality, it was just another branch of the Pentagon.

  Five years ago, Sandy had been told he had no choice but to give up his teaching job and move his ass over to the Lincoln Laboratory. As a consolation, they‘d given him the honorary title of professor emeritus with MIT, which allowed him to still teach once in a while and get invited to all faculty meetings and summer picnics.

  In other words, it was all bullshit.

  His main job was with the Lincoln Lab, and he couldn’t discuss the stuff he was involved in with anyone, not even his wife. At the time, Sandy had considered it a demotion, but it was actually a massive promotion with a salary higher than he could ever have dreamed.

  But, despite all of this fascinating and lucrative history, his mind still wandered back to those early days at West Point when he’d been one of the “chosen ones” for a unit that no one ever talked about.

  And, how, so quickly, he became one of “the unchosen.”

  Sandy felt a soft hand running through his light brown hair—actually more blonde, at times, which was the color it had been when he was younger.

  He looked into Sarah’s eyes. “Are you horny?”

  She laughed. “Always! But, no, I was just wondering where your mind was. You were gazing off into the distance like you tend to do sometimes. What were you thinking about, dear one?”

  “Oh, nothing important. Aside from how nice it would be to just curl up in bed with you right about now.”

  “I like the sound of that. Those blue eyes of yours remind me of the ocean. Hey, why don’t we head down to the cabin next weekend—just the two of us? I can get my sister to babysit. What do you think?”

  Sandy squeezed her shoulder. “I’d like nothing better. Let’s do that.”

  “Great!” Sarah squealed. Then she grinned. “And, it’s only fitting that we own a cabin on the beach in Cape Cod—what with your name being Sandy Beech!”

  Sandy winced. “Okay, Sarah Beech, you’ve made that joke far too often. I hate my name, I don’t know what my parents were thinking.”

  “I think they wanted you to remember them in a lasting way—either that, or you were the most miserable baby and they wanted to punish you into eternity.”

  Sandy chuckled. “It’s bad enough to have the name Sandford, but it’s just as bad when I shorten it to Sandy, considering my last name.”

  “I think it’s cute. Makes you unique. And the name Sandford sounds very professorial, which of course is appropriate.”

  Sandy leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Your teasing turns me on. We’re going to have some naughty sex in Cape Cod next weekend.”

  “Promises, promises!”

  He laughed and turned his attention back to the clown, who was jumping up and down and making funny noises. All of the kids loved it.

  Suddenly there was the ding-dong sound of bells. He turned his head and watched as three ice cream wagons came down through the middle of the promenade, pulled by beautiful palominos. Whitney and Liam jumped to their feet.

  Whitney could barely get the words out. “Can we, Dad? Can we?”

  “Of course.” He pulled out his wallet and gave each of the kids a five-dollar bill. “Go treat yourselves.”

  They ran over to the first wagon along with a horde of at least two dozen other children.

  Sarah smiled at him. “What a perfect day, huh?”

  “It sure is.”

  And then it wasn’t.

  The sound of fireworks.

  Thumps of bodies hitting the ground.

  The clown lying on the cement, staring up at the sky with considerably more red goop smeared on his face than he’d had mere seconds before.

  And Sarah’s beautiful face gazing up at the umbrella, a mask of wide-eyed shock as her pink camp chair tilted backwards, an insanely perfect hole in her insanely perfect forehead.

  2

  Two years later...

  It was a hot one, right in the middle of the dog days of summer. Downtown Boston was crowded as usual on a July afternoon.

  But, today was different—people were there who wouldn’t have normally thought to make the car or train trek downtown. This wasn’t a
workday; it was a Sunday—a church day, a picnic day, a cut the lawn day.

  Anything but a downtown Boston day.

  But this Sunday was different. It had been just over two years since the Quincy Market terrorist attack, and the memories were still raw, still seared into the consciousness of a gentle and peaceful city.

  For one man in particular, the memories were especially painful.

  Sandford Beech sat on the dais that had been set up in the middle of the promenade.

  He gazed out at the crowd.

  Several hundred people were sitting on the convention chairs brought in for the affair. And at least a couple hundred more stood at various spots around the mall, waiting for the proceedings to begin. He noticed numerous ladies waving their programs in front of their faces in a desperate attempt to stay cool. Men, on the other hand, just slid the sleeves of their shirts across their faces, leaving telltale signs of sweat on the material.

  Sandy smiled as he watched several kids running around in circles chasing each other.

  Then he wiped a tear from his eye.

  The market looked very much like it had on the day it happened. You would find it hard to believe that such a horrific tragedy had occurred here—the hustle and bustle was just like it used to be; the buildings looked the same, the sidewalk and cobblestone road were no different than they had been back before the blood began to flow.

  The sun was still shining, and the sky was still blue.

  People were still laughing, crying, screaming and yelling. Merchants were still selling hot dogs and hamburgers—and, yes, there was even the pizza cart. The very same cart that Sandy had bought four small pepperoni pizzas from two years ago this past May.

  But, he didn’t notice any horse-drawn ice cream carriages.

  This was the first time Sandy had been back since it happened. Despite living just outside the Boston city core in a suburban center named Lexington, he hadn’t made the trip downtown in more than two years.