for Chesapeake blue crab and his preference in sexual positions. Somehow, she had parlayed her professed adoration into a stupid self-help book called How to Date a Real Man.
He still remembered the feeling of lying helpless, propped in his hospital bed, hearing his girlfriend, dewy-eyed with sincerity, describe the intimate details of their life. The sense of betrayal was a dull reverberation that shuddered through him, awakening memories of other occasions, other betrayals.
Why was he surprised? he wondered. This was what people did. They took what they wanted from him and then they left.
After the shooting, even Janet had crawled out of the woodwork and had begun calling herself his mother again. She had wept at his hospital bedside. News photographs showed her, Madonna-like, praying for his recovery.
The irony was, he no longer needed this woman to love him and pray for him. He had needed that when he was a kid in school, desperate for affection and approval. He’d needed that when he was a teenager, crying out for reassurance and control. She hadn’t been there for him then, and when he turned eighteen he had mortgaged his future to get his mother into rehab. Everything he’d saved for college and—yes, he did dream big—medical school, he’d spent on the rehab clinic. The miracle was, his investment paid off. After ninety days at Serenity House in Silver Spring, Maryland, Janet Harris had emerged clean and sober, sincerely grateful to the son who had saved her from the overdose that would have made him an orphan.
She was a changed person. JD had seen that immediately and Janet was the first to admit it. “I need to make a fresh start,” she’d said. “I can’t be around anything—anyone—who was a part of my life when I was an addict.”
It took JD a little time to figure out that she meant him as well as all the dealers and pimps she’d run with while JD was growing up.
Her desertion that summer had been a gift, or so he told himself. Her sobriety had cost him his meager savings, but it had given him insight into what his future held. He was on his own, and that was fine with him.
Then, fame had happened to him, and suddenly Janet was back in his life, the ideal mother of an American hero. She should have known better. She should have understood that the reporters surrounding her were not her friends. They’d turned on her, of course, and the revelations they brought to light turned her back into the person she’d been all through JD’s childhood—an addict. Fortunately for Janet, he now had every resource at his disposal, and just before disappearing, he’d arranged for her to go to the best rehab facility in southern California. He hoped like hell they’d do their job—and that Janet would do hers, and get better. Years of sobriety shattered by a handful of press reports. God, he hated the media.
Growing up, JD always thought he wanted to be a family physician, caring for people from cradle to grave.
But he’d been wrong. His true calling was to be an EMT, like the men and women who had brought his mother back from that final overdose. JD had never learned their names, had never seen them again. And that seemed somehow appropriate. To JD, it was the ideal job—saving people and then setting them free. That was the best of both worlds. As an emergency-aid worker, he could savor the rush of satisfaction of keeping them from dying, yet he wouldn’t have to think about where they’d be the next day or the next month or even the next decade. An EMT spent an average of 13.5 minutes in the life of a victim, and in that blink of time, he made all the difference.
Works for me, JD had said to the army recruiter. After his mother had cleaned herself up, cleaned out the rest of JD’s savings and then ditched him for a better life in California, he’d enlisted in the U.S. Army. They promised him a great job, a steady income, a life of travel and adventure and money for his education.
Sometimes JD wished he had read the fine print better. Still, he’d gone through the toughest training the army offered and, after eighteen months of unbelievable hell, he was certified as a Special Forces Medic, the most qualified and elite trauma specialist in the military.
In Port Angeles, far from the rest of the world, he turned down First Street and found a parking spot. He went to the marine-supply store for a long list of supplies—tar and seam filler, varnish, epoxy, marine plywood, fiberglass glue. When Sam had offered the lakeside cabin for the summer, he had urged JD to use the cosine wherry, a wooden rowboat hand built by his late father. He’d gone on and on about the hours he and his dad had spent in the boat when Sam was a boy. He probably pictured it as something perfect from his boyhood. Well, it wasn’t perfect. Not even close. JD had found the boathouse draped in spiderwebs, the boat stored hull up and half-rotted. Some sort of rodent—maybe chipmunks or raccoons—had made a nest under it. Though he didn’t know the first thing about boat-building, JD had immediately decided to make the boat his project. He would restore the wherry so that when Sam brought his family to the lake at summer’s end, the boat would be ready for him.
After loading the supplies into the truck, he decided to check his post office box. Sam was diligent about forwarding his mail from D.C. Sam had carte blanche to open and throw away anything that looked weird, which was pretty much all of his mail these days. People came out of the woodwork to send him everything from invitations to prayer chains to unsolicited marriage proposals. He was flooded with photographs of women and the occasional man wanting to meet him, the images sometimes pathetic, sometimes lewd, sometimes downright scary. Early on during the ordeal, he had made a serious error in judgment, signing an agreement with Maurice Williams, LLD. The media agent had promised to represent and protect JD’s interests, to guide him through the quagmire of public life. Instead, he kept trying to persuade JD to agree to be a consultant for a feature film about his life and what had come to be called “the incident.” According to Sam, Williams was beside himself over JD’s absence. He’d even threatened to bring suit, which Sam and JD thought was hilarious.
As he walked along the tired-looking main street of Port Angeles, he contemplated crossing the road to avoid venturing too close to the Armed Forces recruiting office. He resisted the urge. Penny and Sam said he needed to have confidence that he wouldn’t be recognized. Still, it was weird and surreal to see his face plastered on brochures and recruiting posters. Without his permission—because the army didn’t need it—he had become one of this year’s model soldiers. In the shopfront window was a placard three feet high with his service portrait and the caption Real Heroes for the Real World.
Yeah, that was JD, all right. He was so real there was an unauthorized movie coming out about him, so real he kept getting offers to endorse a line of camping gear or sunglasses, even prophylactics. According to the unauthorized biography that had appeared just weeks after the attack, he was “America’s most appealing brand of hero—one who was ‘just doing his job.’ “
Tina had cooperated with the publisher of the instant book. So had Janet. Jessica Lynch had gotten a Pulitzer Prize–winning coauthor, but not JD. His biographer was Ned Flagg, a failed journalist with a flair for invention and a fast Internet connection. The book was heavily promoted and just sensational enough to rocket briefly onto the bestseller list.
Feeling almost defiant, JD paused in front of the recruiting office. Through the open door he could see a round-cheeked boy talking to an earnest recruiter who was no doubt promising him the same action and adventure JD had been promised years ago.
He moved directly in front of the recruiting poster, studying it while the plate-glass window reflected his true image back at him.
The strange thing was, he hadn’t really gone to elaborate measures with some complicated disguise. Coached by Sam and Penny, JD had grown out his hair and was as surprised as the Schroeders when it came in a glossy dark blond. He’d worn it in a military-style buzz cut for so long he’d lost track of the color. He had shaved off his mustache, traded his contact lenses for an ancient
