The Fall by R. J. Pineiro Page B

thirty-two-foot Boston Whaler with a pair of outboards, their weekend getaway with a long enough range to get down to Miami or even the Bahamas for scuba diving.
    â€œThat one,” Jack said, stretching an index finger toward a white house with blue trim and a detached two-car garage to their right, about halfway down the block. Relief swept through him as he added, “Home sweet home.”
    â€œIt’s been a pleasure,” Palmer said, stretching an open hand.
    For the second time that evening, Jack shook the trucker’s hand before reaching in between his legs for his backpack.
    â€œReally appreciate what you did, Lou,” he said, opening the door.
    â€œI hope you find what you’re looking for, Jack,” Palmer replied, producing a business card and handing it over.
    LOUIS PALMER
    INDEPENDENT TRUCK DRIVER
    â€œIf you need anything, don’t hesitate,” he added. “I spend my life traveling between Miami and Orlando, so I’m always in the area. Good guys need to stick together. Especially in uncertain times like these.”
    Jack narrowed his gaze at this very odd man before pocketing the card, thanking him again, and closing the door.
    He waited for Palmer to turn the Peterbilt around and drive off before facing his home, which looked eerily just like the place he had left last night, when Pete interrupted his dinner with—
    Get on with it, Jack.
    Taking a deep breath, ignoring the increased pounding of his heart against his chest, Jack took a step toward the house. The lights were off, which was no surprise given that it was close to one in the morning. He stared at the garage, which he hoped had their five-year-old Honda and two Triumphs.
    Walking up the driveway and onto the small front porch, Jack looked toward the line of bushes hugging the front of the house, spotting the one dead shrub that Angie had been on his case to replace for weeks now.
    Jack rang the doorbell, his heartbeat now hammering his temples.
    Steady, Jack.
    A light went on in the bedroom, then another light in the living room, before the foyer light came on and a half-asleep but edgy female voice shouted, “There had better be blood or broken bones to ring my bell at this fucking hour!”
    Jack grinned. “Hey, it’s me. Open up.”
    He heard the door unlock as she said, “Pete? What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”
    He frowned.
    Pete?
    Jack was about to reply when the door swung open.
    Right there, in front of him, stood Angela. Only her hair was no longer short and dark but long and blond, and she now had a little chocolate freckle just above the right corner of her lips. On top of that, Angela wasn’t wearing one of her oversized MIT T-shirts as her nightgown but a long pair of silk pajamas.
    Sleep rapidly vanished from her hazel eyes as they grew wide, staring at him as if he had three heads. Her lips parted but nothing came out as she pointed a trembling index finger at him.
    Before fainting right into his arms.

 
    4
    CONSPIRACY
    The world is in a constant conspiracy against the brave. It’s the age-old struggle: the roar of the crowd on the one side, and the voice of your conscience on the other.
    â€”General Douglas MacArthur
    Dawn in southern Florida.
    The warehouse’s window panes trembled to the roar of another F-16 on final approach to Homestead Air Reserve Base, home to the 482nd Fighter Wing, reminding Angela of years gone by. There was a time when she had been scared of the rattling glass under the corrugated tin roof of Mickey Valle’s Paradise Motorcycle Shop as Air Force jets from another era took off and landed at this base, once America’s first line of defense during those dreaded days in October 1962. Back then the world had been on the brink of war after discovering that the Soviet Union was installing medium-range nuclear missiles in Cuba, just ninety miles away, giving it an unprecedented offensive capability in the