Jameson (In the Company of Snipers #22) - Irish Winters Page 0,14

with Mel, those couple days it took Abigail to die, that stupid nine-year-old had actually believed he’d be going home to live with his dad. That they’d, somehow, become a real father and son team. A family. That Mel would finally care.

Not so. Mel was there when Abigail died, but he wasn’t at the cemetery when Alex and his grandparents went back to Norfolk to lay her to rest. From that moment on, Alex hadn’t wasted a minute thinking about his old man. He’d learned the hardest way possible. Mel had nothing to offer anyone. Not a goddamned thing.

Standing at Abigail’s grave that blustery winter day had left one of those sucking black holes in that foolish nine-year-old boy’s heart. That was the day Alex turned to Gramps for the comfort and fatherly support he’d never gotten from Mel. Was also the day Patrick Bradley Stewart finally had a son he could count on. Alex and Gramps were inseparable from that day forward.

His paternal grandfather was former Navy, like Mel, but he was one of those injured survivors from the WWII battle at Iwo Jima in the Pacific. Unlike Mel, Gramps was the real deal. He might’ve been a drunk when he’d come home after the war, but he’d never laid a hand on Gram, Abigail, or Alex. Never called them names, never said a mean word to anyone. Never embarrassed or humiliated his grandson like Mel had so often done. Hard-working and truly one of the best from the greatest generation, Gramps was the man who’d taught Alex to play baseball, the slickest way to skin beaver without damaging the pelts, and how to be silent when tracking elusive white-tailed deer. Gramps also taught Alex how to stand up to bullies and how to bank coal stoves in winter. He taught his grandson to be a man, and Alex adored Gramps still today.

Yes, he’d definitely liked the bottle. He was an Irishman and the Irish loved their whisky. But when he drank, he was a cheerful drunk, who’d boisterously declared he’d just needed a nip now and again to chase what he’d called ‘the ghosts’ away. That was Alex’s first experience with post-traumatic stress, aka shell shock, battle fatigue, and soldier’s heart. All those worthless euphemisms that didn’t do squat to help a guy.

But his mom…? Abigail would forever be the ache in his heart that wouldn’t go away.

She’d lived a sad, miserable life of neglect and abuse, broken dreams and lost chances. Yet she’d sat with every light on in their shabby house on Iowa Street, Norfolk, Virginia, waiting for Mel to come home when he’d promised. She’d kept his suppers warm, even bought a bottle of wine now and then to celebrate his shore leave.

But the ass usually never showed. If he did, it was always too little and too late. He’d stumble in after midnight, and he’d stink of cigarette smoke, hard liquor, and another woman’s perfume. He’d been loud-mouthed and mean, quick to slap Abigail, just as quick to call her a liar if she challenged him. By then, he would’ve squandered the rent and grocery money away, and he’d be too tired to do anything around the house but empty that bottle of wine and pass out. And Alex had wished he’d never come home.

To help his mom, he’d gotten a paper route when he’d turned seven. Gramps told him someone had to be the man of the family. So Alex stepped up, never thought twice, and never looked back.

Gramps might’ve had bad dreams, but his only child was a living nightmare. Which was why Alex knew Mel was pulling a con now. He just didn’t know what the old bastard was really after. But he meant to find out. Being the ass he was, Alex watched his useless excuse for a father cross the street and disappear into the parking lot.

Yet his gut was telling him he’d missed something. Telling Kelsey what he’d just done would be difficult enough, but why’d he feel as if he hadn’t seen the last of Mel? Because historically, that was how the old bastard worked. He said one thing, then did another. He got your hopes up, then jerked the rug out from under you. Mel was the culmination of more unrealized expectations and childish heartbreaks than Alex could count.

Retrieving his cell from his rear pocket, he watched the parking lot, as he thumbed the senior agent he’d left with Kelsey. He had three: Mark Houston, Harley