The Only Constant Is Change Ch 11

Author's Note:

Sorry for the delay in getting this one out. Life intrudes...but, frankly, it was difficult for me to write. I think you'll see why as you get into it. This episode picks up about 7 years after the events of chapter 10. There is no sex in this chapter. Sorry to disappoint, but I sincerely hope that the story is why you come back to read, not the interludes.

MB

As always, any sexual activity takes place between adults.

*****

Billy Jackson was feeling two things this morning: relief and a hangover. The hangover was likely from the four or five shots of tequila he'd consumed

after

the half-dozen or so beers he'd downed the previous night. He spent more nights than he should, if he was honest, hanging with his buddies at the local watering hole. It was a constant source of friction between him and his wife. Only two years into their marriage and he was already tired of the nagging about the time he spent at the bar. No matter how many times he'd explained that these were the guys he'd grown up with, and he needed the bro time to unwind after a hard day's work, she was still on his case about his drinking.

His relief was from the fact that he was safely at work again, doing what he really enjoyed, and most importantly, out of earshot from his nag of a wife. For the next several hours, he could focus on his work as a diesel mechanic, working on those big rigs that were vital to maintaining the flow of goods around the country. The previous night's activities had been prompted by her phone call just as he left work, nagging him to come home instead of hitting the bar with his buddies. It had been a rough day already, and for most of the afternoon, he'd been looking forward to tossing back a few cold ones to unwind.

Her call was just the thing to trip his trigger and he'd told her off. Then he proceeded to go far beyond his usual quota of beer. Before he knew it, he was well past intoxicated. Much of the rest of the evening was fuzzy, but he kind of remembered hitting on a couple of waitresses, maybe even dancing with a few girls. But, he woke up on his own couch, so he must not have done too much.

*****

Carlos Quinella was still seething from watching his girl, Rosa, dancing with some drunk gringo the night before. She may have had a few too many, and she was always up for a good time, but her actions crossed a line. It was more than just flirting. She might as well have hiked her skirt up and let him have his way with her. They'd basically fucked on the dance floor anyway. The guys in Carlos's crew had

laughed

at him, giving him crap about losing his girl to a white boy.

That pissed him off even more; it was humiliating. But then, when he'd confronted her about it, she'd just slapped him and told him she'd dance with who she wanted, however she wanted. "You don't own me!" she'd screeched. It just egged his buddies into even more and more taunting.

He'd drunk so much after that, he was still only half-sober this morning. The speedball he'd taken this morning had perked him up a bit though, and he was out cruising. Not being the sharpest knife in the drawer, Carlos hadn't picked up on how his addiction to the drug was feeding into the problems in his life. For months now, his use of the cocaine-heroine mixture had eaten away at him, increasing his feelings of paranoia and depression. And those feelings were about to set off a chain of events that would end in tragedy.

Carlos pulled into the truck stop to gas up his ride. He liked to stop here because he could get cheap gas for his car, and cheap gas for himself in the form of these little breakfast burritos that he could get in the diner attached to the station.

Walking back to his car, he was raising his first burrito to his mouth when his gaze fell on the attached truck bay. He froze when he realized that the mechanic working on the truck on the lift was the gringo from the night before. In his condition, white-hot rage descended over him, instantly eradicating any semblance of rational thought. He decided right then that he was going to send a message.

He made his way back to his car and pulled a 9 mm

pistola

out from beneath the seat. As he slowly rolled away from the pumps, he looked into the shop and fired three shots in quick succession before speeding off.

The first shot glanced off the tire that Billy was mounting. The second shot entered his body just under his arm, tearing through his lung before entering his heart. He died within minutes, and his last thoughts were of how he should have spent more time with his nag of a wife. The third shot glanced off the truck's steel brake line before eventually lodging in the back of the truck's cab.

*****

Ken Riley had been finishing up his breakfast while he waited for the new tires to be put on his truck. The time he was spending in the diner was costing him money twice: first for the cost of the tires themselves, and secondly, the lost miles on the road. He was plotting how to recoup some of those lost hours, but the crackdown on service-hour violators had made that much more difficult than it used to be. Fortunately, Ken was an owner-operator and had managed to avoid either in-cab driver cameras or electronic log books. Being manual would come in handy tonight when it got darker and he could stretch the hours while traffic was lighter.

Like everyone else, he'd hit the deck when the shots rang out. Afterwards, seeing the commotion in the shop, he moved to gawk like any other looky-loo. He had sympathy for the poor mechanic that had lost his life, but he couldn't help staring with dismay when he realized that it was

his

truck that was on the lift, next to the body and with a shiny new bullet hole in the back of the cab. Realizing that his truck was now part of a crime scene, Ken knew that his delay had just gotten a lot longer. He pulled out his phone and called his dispatcher to inform them that he was going to be late collecting his trailer, since he had to wait until the police released his truck.

*****

Squinting through the driving rain, Ava Halperin once again cursed the timing of the storm.

Why couldn't it have waited another 4 hours to hit?

she thought. Driving through the winding, heavily wooded mountain roads in western Maryland was not within her comfort zone on a bright, sunny day; hitting them at 10:30 at night, in a downpour, was making her extremely nervous. According to her phone, there was a motel in the next town, about 5 miles away. She just needed to make it a little further and they'd stop for the night.

Glancing into the supplemental mirror that allowed her to monitor the back seat, she could see that Joshua had finally run out of juice. He'd been in the car for too long today, she knew, and the last hour or so had been marked by his stubborn struggle to remain awake in spite of his fatigue, replete with crocodile tears. Ava made a mental note that 3-year old boys are not well-suited for long car trips. There apparently weren't enough Spongebob videos or cheesy goldfish crackers to make it bearable. Not that his mother could blame him. She wasn't exactly excited about car trips, either.

It had been a last-minute trip, one that Jeremy could not join on short notice. Her oldest brother's wife had delivered the couple's third child, a darling little girl, at a hospital near their home in Columbus, OH. The baby was premature, requiring an extensive stay in NICU. With 7- and 4- year old boys at home already, Ava had volunteered to come and stay for a week to help out so that they could focus on the new baby. Her mother had flown in as well, which was an unexpected but welcome opportunity to reconnect.

To her chagrin, what had seemed like an easy opportunity to see some of the country by driving the almost-7 hours from her home in suburban Washington, D. C., had turned into a nightmare. She'd been late leaving Columbus this morning, a combination of reluctance to leave and a desire to not get too early a start for Joshua. Since then, they'd hit not one, but two construction delays, which had added nearly two hours to the trip already. Then this storm had popped up, further slowing their travel. Knowing that she really needed to get home for work early the day after tomorrow, Ava was loath to stop. However, between the weather and the lateness of the hour, Ava had decided that discretion was the better part of valor and planned to stop at a hotel.

Only two miles away from Ava, Ken Riley was also cursing the rain. The past week had been a disaster for him financially. First, he'd had to purchase new tires. Then, his truck had been in impound for several hours while the crime scene technicians processed it as part of the murder investigation. The delay had cost him a load pickup, so he didn't get paid. His only option was to drive empty to collect a load nearly 100 miles away. He wouldn't get paid for any of

that

fuel, either. To make up for it, he'd been breaking the service-hour rules over the last few days, falsifying his log book to make it appear that he was getting the required rest. He needed to try to fit in an extra run or two if he was going to recoup his losses. The other thing he was doing was running heavy. More freight in less time equaled more money in his pocket. As long as he didn't get stopped at a weigh station, he'd be okay.

The reality was, he was violating just about every rule he'd ever known about safe trucking. If he hadn't been up for almost 36 hours at this point, he might have thought clearly enough to stop, but probably not. He'd been downing No-Dōz, energy drinks, and coffee to stay awake just a little bit longer. He knew that what he was doing was dangerous, but he didn't see any other option. He had bills to pay. And so, he drove on.

At least,

he thought

, there's probably no one else stupid enough to be out on a night like this

.

Unfortunately, he was wrong.

As he topped a rise, his headlights picked out the form of a vehicle stopped on the side of the road. There was a steep dropoff on the outside of the curve and the disabled vehicle hadn't been able to completely clear the lane of traffic. Cursing the bad luck, Ken jammed his brakes and swerved around the stall. The combination of the extra weight in his load, the physical strain of the big rig swerving, and the pressure of jamming on the brakes at high speed, combined to burst the brake line weakened by the bullet that had glanced off it on the way into the back of the cab. It had been only holding on by the slightest of margins.

He was on a downhill grade and downshifted to help ease the burden on his brake system. Still the vehicle continued to pick up speed. When Ken tried to apply the brakes, the pedal went all the way to the floor. In his sleep-deprived state, his reflexes were not what they might otherwise have been. His attention was diverted by the warning light on the dash and the lack of brake pressure, and he didn't notice as his truck drifted across the center line.

*****

Sheriff Frank Hamilton watched as one of his deputies finished putting out the flares that would warn approaching vehicles of the devastating wreck he was seeing. The rain was finally driving out the flames that had burned through the cab of the semi, steam rising from the hot metal to give a humid warmth to the otherwise cold and rainy evening. After 42 years patrolling these roads, he could read the scene as if he'd been there to watch it happen. The impact damage to the truck was limited to the driver's side of the front, where the collision with the SUV had crumpled the fender and torn a hole in the fuel tank. The fire had done far more damage to the truck and its cargo than had the collision.

Unfortunately, the SUV had not fared quite so well. It was obvious that the truck had been travelling faster than it should have been, even on the downhill grade. And there was no evidence that the truck had even attempted to brake before demolishing the SUV. Parts of the smaller vehicle littered the highway, marking a trail from the point of impact to where it had been dragged along with the heavier truck to the dropoff on the outside of the curve. The Sheriff's practiced eye saw where the tires of the SUV had dug into the softer dirt at the edge of the road before beginning the final roll under the tractor-trailer that had resulted in the deaths of the female driver and her toddler.

Despite his years of responding to vehicle accidents, Frank had never quite acquired the ability to completely divorce himself from the horrific reality of what had just happened. As he surveyed the wreck, he couldn't help but regret the lives lost here tonight. Glancing up into the rain, it felt as if the sky were joining him in mourning, and he stood there in silent contemplation for several minutes before inhaling deeply and commencing the heart-breaking work of identifying the dead so that he could notify the next-of-kin.

*****

Jeremy was trapped. Hanging upside down, his arms broken and immobile, he couldn't reach the release button for the seat belt. He was coughing as the smoke from the burning gasoline filled the passenger compartment of his SUV, his lungs burning as they rebelled against the noxious fumes. He could just turn his head enough to see his son's broken body dangling from the restraints of his car seat. Aside from the unnatural angle at which his upper body twisted from his lower, he almost appeared to be asleep. The illusion was broken by the thin string of bloody spittle that trailed from his lifeless body.

As the flames crept closer and closer, Jeremy knew he needed to find a way out before he perished alongside his son. But the grief was overwhelming, and Jeremy couldn't find it within himself to fight any more. And so, he watched as the flames grew nearer, an eerie serenity showing upon his face. Detached, he didn't move as the heat increased in intensity, his skin bubbling and charring as it blackened and split. Finally, he couldn't take any more and he screamed himself into the waking world.

Baxter was watching him, the same doleful expression gracing his face as it had every morning for the last 4 years. This morning, it seemed to say, "Another rough night, huh?"

Jeremy reached over and scratched his beagle's head and ears, and said, "Sorry if I kept you awake, Bax. Someday I'll be able to sleep through the night again, but it wasn't last night."

Baxter didn't have anything to say in response.

*****

"You wanted to see me, Cap?"

The aging officer looked up from his paperwork to take in the figure he'd been avoiding speaking with for the better part of a week. He grunted affirmatively and nodded towards the couch in his office before remembering the nature of the discussion. "Please shut the door, son." The tone of his voice caught Jeremy's ear, and he looked at the man he'd come to think of as a second father briefly before quietly closing the door and taking a seat.

Captain Harry Pearson was an unusual man for a senior naval officer. He wasn't especially fascinated with military service, and he tended to speak his mind a little too openly and a little too freely to ever be considered for promotion to the admiral ranks. He knew he'd reached the pinnacle of his career when he'd taken over the Cyber Warfare Development Group. Truthfully, he was tired and feeling every one of his 62 years. What had kept him going, until recently at least, was the energy and professionalism of the men and women who worked for him.

There was a time in the not-too-distant past when the younger man sitting before him now had been a large part of that energy. Jeremy Halperin was a rising star in their community. Just promoted to lieutenant commander at 32, he was well-respected by both his peers and his subordinates. More importantly to someone like Capt. Pearson, he was someone that people wanted to work with and for.

At least he had been, before the accident that had claimed the lives of his wife and son. The distraught young officer had been placed on bereavement leave to tend to the family affairs, of course, but that could only be up to 13 days. Not nearly long enough in Capt. Pearson's estimation. It had been almost a year ago now, and in that time, Harry had watched as the once friendly, outgoing, and engaging young man slowly closed himself off from his colleagues and subordinates alike. It was clear that a part of Jeremy Halperin had died along with his family on that terrible night.

As a commander of men and women, Harry was tasked with directing and overseeing the work that their group was responsible for. As a man, as a human being, he felt far more strongly that he needed to intervene before Jeremy destroyed himself. The signs were already there, the increasing isolation, the short temper, errors caused by inattention that would never have appeared in the time before. He would have been concerned no matter who it was, but Jeremy was a special case. While Harry had had all of his junior officers over to the house since assuming command, it was Jeremy that his wife, Martha, had connected with most. She'd immediately latched onto Jeremy and Ava as if they were the long-lost children she'd been desperately seeking to find. And she'd been more devastated at Ava's passing than anyone outside her actual family had a right to be. She'd loved the Halperins that much.

And so, not that he was arguing, Martha was putting a lot of pressure on Harry to get Jeremy some help before it was too late. She agreed with Harry's assessment that Jeremy was on a long slide into darkness, perhaps even without realizing it himself.

Ignoring the queasy feeling in his gut, Harry walked slowly around his desk to take a seat near the young man who was waiting, if not patiently, at least quietly. The look on Jeremy's face was a mixture of curiosity and worry. It was the sort of face one made when they expected to be called out on the carpet, but had no idea why that would be the case. Reluctance to speak on the captain's part only served to heighten the anxiety of the moment. Harry knew the moment had finally come when he needed to address the elephant in the room. Clearing his voice, he looked at Jeremy and said, "Any idea why you're sitting here, son?"

"The Navy's finally recognized your genius and you'll be joining the Joint Chiefs?" Jeremy joked. His smile didn't reach his eyes, Harry noted. Still, he chuckled along.

"I think we both know that ship sailed long ago," he replied. "All joking aside," he said, the smile leaving his face as he scooted forward in his seat, "do you know why I wanted to speak with you today?"

At first, Jeremy's face clouded over as if preparing to defend himself. After a moment, however, his shoulders slumped in resignation and he silently acknowledged his defeat with a nod.

Harry had given some thought to how he'd broach the subject, but he had a surprise that might bridge the gap. "Did I ever tell you about my friend Richie Hogan?" he asked. When Jeremy shook his head, he continued, "Richie was my best friend growing up. We lived just a few houses away from each other in this little town in the middle of nowhere. Even before we started school, we were already friends, but that continued all the way through our senior year of high school." As he spoke, Harry's eyes grew distant, and his voice a little strained.

"We had plans together, Richie and I. We were going to leave that bump in the road, go off to college and make something of ourselves. It was us against the world you see. But life doesn't always work out the way we want. Right after we graduated high school, we were out camping and hiking like we had done for years. We got caught in a heavy rainstorm. It was intense, but short, and we didn't think much about it. Until Richie slipped on a rock, and with the sloppy ground he lost his footing and started sliding towards a cliff." His eyes filled with tears as he struggled to continue.