John Rain 08: Graveyard of Memories Read Online Free

called me “son,” I made the mistake of telling him to knock it off. Maybe it was just what he called everyone younger than, say, forty, but I didn’t like it. In response, naturally, he’d made a habit of it. As I had made a habit of suppressing the urge to punch him in the throat in response.
    “Maybe…‘Go fuck yourself, asshole,’” I said quietly, imagining I was saying it to McGraw.
    He laughed again. “You do realize that ‘Go fuck yourself, asshole’ does not constitute de-escalation, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Then why’d you do it?”
    “I wasn’t thinking.”
    “Is it going to happen again?”
    I didn’t like being talked to like I was a stupid child, even if in fact I had behaved like one. But I needed the damn job. And getting irritated at him now, I realized, would be the most elegant demonstration possible that it would happen again, or at least that it was likely. What I needed to demonstrate was the opposite.
    “No,” I said evenly. “It was stupid mistake, I shouldn’t have let it happen, it won’t happen again.”
    He nodded and took a swallow of beer. “Look, I don’t want to make too big a deal of it. It sounds like no harm, no foul. Though we better hope you didn’t kill that one guy, and that there’s not a serious investigation if you did. But I can monitor all that. The more important thing is whether I can trust you. You have a little bit of a reputation, did you know that?”
    I looked at him, tamping down the anger. First, talking to me like an adult chastising a child. And now, bringing up this shit. I reminded myself again that he might have been testing me—trying to get a reaction, or to determine whether I had sufficient self-control to prevent one.
    I sipped my beer, deliberately casual. “I know there are people who might want you to think that, sure.”
    He smiled, seemingly pleased at the response. “Yes, there are. But why?”
    I started to answer, then stopped myself. I didn’t have to answer his questions; he was just making me feel like I had to. Probably deliberately. I had the sudden and uncomfortable sense that as deadly as I had proven myself in combat, in other contexts I was naïve. And part of my naïveté lay in my assumption that the people I was dealing with were no more cunning or sophisticated than I was. A mistake I never would have made in the jungle.
    So instead of answering, I said, “Why don’t you tell me?”
    This time, he didn’t smile. “Don’t be coy with me. Your Agency contact with SOG. William Holtzer. You had a problem with him and you broke his nose. Don’t tell me it didn’t happen—two army officers saw the whole thing and filed a report. And don’t tell me the guy was an asshole and deserved it. I’m sure he was and I’m sure he did. That’s not the point, any more than it was the point with these punks you fucked up, or maybe even killed, earlier today.”
    I’d had enough of his condescension. Who did he think he was talking to? I imagined myself grabbing him by the hair, dragging him out of his chair, putting fear into him and maybe leaving some bruises to make sure the lesson took. But I willed the image away, knowing if I didn’t, it would come to the surface.
    He looked at me. “So what is the point, son? Why are we having this conversation?”
    It’s a test. Don’t let it be personal. Don’t let him push your buttons.
    It wasn’t easy, but I managed. I said, “The point is, I have to use better judgment and better self-control.” I paused and looked at him. “Even when I’m dealing with assholes.”
    He threw back his head and laughed. “Yes. That is the point, exactly.” He extended his glass. Reluctantly, I picked up mine. We toasted and drank.
    He set down his empty glass heavily and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Well, the good news is, from what you’ve told me, it sounds like it was just one of those things. I’ll monitor the police reaction to make sure and let you