2 - Ashes To Ashes
A week after discovering his wife's dead body on their bedroom floor, Thompson still felt no need to move. He wanted to stay still in one place and just remain there until forces of nature overpowered him. He stared back at himself in the giant mirror before him as he inserted his cufflinks. He was in one of his black suits, getting ready for his wife's funeral. It still felt surreal, like it was not happening in real time.
Like someone was going to pinch him anytime soon and he was going to wake up to realize it was all a dream.
He put on his second cufflink and stared at himself in the mirror once again. Clarity hasn't settled and he wasn't sure it would anytime soon.
A buzz in his pocket interrupted his spiraling moment of melancholy. He reached for his phone and pulled it out. It was a call from Dennis.
“What?” He said, ignoring all the searing urge to scream into the speakers.
“Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt.” Dennis's voice, coated by the static on the other end of the line, responded. “I just wanted to remind you of qqqthe meeting with the NSA. He's been pretty insistent in the past few days.”
Thompson rubbed his palm across his forehead, wondering if the level of anger he was about to display was worth it or not.
“Dennis.” He called, his voice gentle at first. “I am literally about to bury my wife. My daughter is nowhere to be found, and you think this is the perfect time to call me—”
“Oh, I am sorry sir, I didn't know—”
“Interrupt me once again and you're fired.” Thompson said, feeling his voice rise ever so slowly.”
Silence.
“Now listen to me and listen well. I am grieving. You get that right? My wife's dead and my daughter is missing. Do you think I'm in any state to receive a freaking meeting?”
Silence again. He must have scared the poor man into utter quietness.
“If the NSA calls again, tell him to go screw himself.”
Another wave of silence crosses the line between him and his assistant and this time, it caused him to grow slightly impatient.
“Do you understand?” He called.
“Yes sir.” Dennis’s voice was quick and sharp.
“Good.” Thompson called and slung his phone back into his pocket. He's been back home for almost a week and yet everything at all felt unrecognizable.
Before he left for war, there were only a few decorations on the walls. Now that he was back, he'd noticed that several renovations had been made. His wife had really poured a lot of money in the place. He hadn't exactly been active enough to leave the house and check the backyard but he knew Alex took care of it like her very own child as well. She had always been the kind to always want a garden.
“I want something for the bees as well. Maybe flowers planted closely together.”
“For our health. I would have to decline that.”
“Oh, come on. Think of what it's going to look like when we have bees in our backyard.”
“It is literally all I'm thinking of right now. The safety hazards.”
“We'll be ready for that. We're always ready for anything, Tom.”
His mind wouldn't let him rest with snippets of heartfelt conversations he'd had with his wife. He kept replaying the tiny moments he'd had with her since they got married in his head over and over.
Taking one last look at himself in the mirror, even though it was literally of no use, he made his way out of his room and down the stairs. Time was flying by so fast that he couldn't try to focus on the boring aspects. One minute, he was heading to his car, reaching into his pocket for the key and the next, he was smack dab in the middle of a sizeable crowd.
Some members of the crowd were family members of Alex’s—those he recognized and those he'd never seen before in his life. Right beside him, standing upright was his friend, Jerome Hicks, a detective of one of the divisions of the city's police department.
“How much do you want to bet some of these people only came to see if there's something to be inherited?” Jerome said, whispering directly into Thompson's ear.
Thompson said nothing. He didn't want to. Jerome seemed to notice his friend's hysteria almost immediately and he knew it wasn't only about his dead wife.
“We're going to find her, Tom. We're going to find Ashley and make whoever took her pay for it.”
It was taking all of Thompson's will to not spiral into utter madness right in front of the crowd behind him, even though they were all slowly beginning to disperse. In only a few minutes, Alex’s grave would be fully covered and the headstone would be placed.
His wife would be gone. Forever.
There and then, in that moment, the situation dawned on him.
His wife was gone. His daughter was missing. He should be the most miserable man on earth. Suddenly feeling the air thin out around him like it used to when he was in the battlefield, he made his way to his car, scrambling in his pockets for his car keys, ignoring the loud calls of Jerome behind him. He made his way into his car and started to aimlessly drive around. Soon, he found a bar, sketchy enough to immerse himself into. He walked in, almost immediately, sank into one of the stools directly before the bartender.
“Vodka. Rocks.” He called. “And keep 'em coming.”
He needed to stop feeling like this. He needed to feel something else. Something other than pure grief and distraught.
Three shots in and he still couldn't get rid of the grief he felt. He was losing hope and would probably need something even stronger than alcohol.
That's when he heard it. The voice.
“General.” The man called behind him. The man he would recognize no matter how hard he tried not to.
Trying desperately to muster the biggest smile he could fathom, he turned and looked straight at the National Security Adviser, a bald man almost a few inches shorter than him.
“Sir, what are you—”
“We're in a bar. I think you can just call me Jacob for the meantime.”
“Sir, this isn't the right time—”
Jacob pulled a stool and sank into it beside Thompson. “Look, I know what you've been going through these last few days and I'm deeply sorry, but you have to know I wouldn't be trying to get a hold of you if it wasn't important.”
Thompson frowned. What could possibly be more important than letting him mourn his wife?
Like Jacob read his thoughts, he signaled for the bartender and asked for a drink.
“It's a terror threat, General.”
Thompson frowned even harder. “What?”
“One that could wipe the entire nation—possibly the entire continent off the planet if we don't do something about it, quick.” Jacob resumed, as if dropping a hammer onto an anvil.