was right for this country. That’s all you have to know. You’re a perfect candidate, and you’re throwing it all away.”
“ I’m going to law school. Columbia deferred me for only one year, and I’m taking them up on their acceptance. I start in two weeks.” Archer hesitated. “I’m . . . sorry, Peter. I hate being a disappointment to you.”
“ You’ll never be as happy as you would be working here. You know it and I know it,” Bennett said.
“ Getting your ego stroked and making good money isn’t the same as being happy.”
“ That‘s not what this is about, Archer. You think about this. And when you’re ready, you call me. Joke or not, you are special to me. You are my favorite intern. There will always be a place for you here. You will be our finest shooter. I feel it.”
“ Good-bye, Peter.”
Archer left Peter Bennett’s office without looking back.
* * *
Straight through law school, Archer received contacts regularly, urging her to reconsider. Some were subtle, some not so subtle. There were phone calls from Peter Bennett, casually asking how she was doing, and letters from a trainer in Syracuse, suggesting she visit them sometime. On the one year anniversary of leaving the program, she received flowers with a note saying only, “Miss you. —the Syracuse crowd.” Adam asked who the Syracuse crowd was.
“ Oh, a bunch of kids in Washington who went to Syracuse. I told you about them, remember?”
“ Oh, right,” he said, absently.
Once she had Annie, the calls and letters slowed to just a card on her birthday. The year of Annie’s death, Peter’s card just said, “Still waiting for you. Peter.”
Each time she opened one, Archer felt apprehensive. She would let it sit for a day or two, then sigh, slip her finger under the edge of the flap, and slide the card out to read the annual sentiment. What she disliked most was that she opened the cards at all and didn’t just throw them away. She liked hearing from Peter.
In truth, she had felt challenged by the work. She had enjoyed the camaraderie with the guys. She had liked being needed. What she didn’t like was death and almost death, and anxiety and fear. El Salvador had been one of those near-death experiences, she recalled with a shudder. At the time, U.S. support was on the fence, and either side, the muchachos or the military forces, would have killed Archer and her five colleagues if they’d been discovered crouching in a jungled ravine outside a small town.
Her six-man unit survived only because they had pushed out of the mountains forty, maybe fifty minutes before the military moved back in to kill anyone they missed the first time around. A helicopter picked them up with no time to spare.
Archer had been scared, no question about it. She would have killed if necessary—no question about that, either. She had felt hyperalert, quick, ready, but also dead-bang scared. And then in one of the villages, when she saw her first dead body up close, she’d felt sick and weak. It was a woman of about sixty, skirt hiked above her hips, legs splayed, shot mid abdomen, blood staining her thin cotton floral blouse. She still wore a little hat, just a slip of white lace bobby-pinned to her graying curls.
The hat got to her. Poor soul, Archer groaned silently, poor soul. She’d never get home again. Someone would wait and wait, then go looking, then find her, then scream, then dissolve. Archer couldn’t stop thinking about it. This was someone’s mother, or grandmother, or maybe sister, with her legs splayed in public. She would have been humiliated if she knew. Archer bent down and pushed the woman’s hair from her eyes, secured the bobby pins to the hat, and closed her eyelids. Then she pulled the skirt down over her knees, gently folded her legs together, and tucked them under her. At least when killing, you weren’t the victim. That was something.
“ Let’s go, Arch,” called Dobbs, grabbing her arm and pulling her up.
“ I’m going to law school. Columbia deferred me for only one year, and I’m taking them up on their acceptance. I start in two weeks.” Archer hesitated. “I’m . . . sorry, Peter. I hate being a disappointment to you.”
“ You’ll never be as happy as you would be working here. You know it and I know it,” Bennett said.
“ Getting your ego stroked and making good money isn’t the same as being happy.”
“ That‘s not what this is about, Archer. You think about this. And when you’re ready, you call me. Joke or not, you are special to me. You are my favorite intern. There will always be a place for you here. You will be our finest shooter. I feel it.”
“ Good-bye, Peter.”
Archer left Peter Bennett’s office without looking back.
* * *
Straight through law school, Archer received contacts regularly, urging her to reconsider. Some were subtle, some not so subtle. There were phone calls from Peter Bennett, casually asking how she was doing, and letters from a trainer in Syracuse, suggesting she visit them sometime. On the one year anniversary of leaving the program, she received flowers with a note saying only, “Miss you. —the Syracuse crowd.” Adam asked who the Syracuse crowd was.
“ Oh, a bunch of kids in Washington who went to Syracuse. I told you about them, remember?”
“ Oh, right,” he said, absently.
Once she had Annie, the calls and letters slowed to just a card on her birthday. The year of Annie’s death, Peter’s card just said, “Still waiting for you. Peter.”
Each time she opened one, Archer felt apprehensive. She would let it sit for a day or two, then sigh, slip her finger under the edge of the flap, and slide the card out to read the annual sentiment. What she disliked most was that she opened the cards at all and didn’t just throw them away. She liked hearing from Peter.
In truth, she had felt challenged by the work. She had enjoyed the camaraderie with the guys. She had liked being needed. What she didn’t like was death and almost death, and anxiety and fear. El Salvador had been one of those near-death experiences, she recalled with a shudder. At the time, U.S. support was on the fence, and either side, the muchachos or the military forces, would have killed Archer and her five colleagues if they’d been discovered crouching in a jungled ravine outside a small town.
Her six-man unit survived only because they had pushed out of the mountains forty, maybe fifty minutes before the military moved back in to kill anyone they missed the first time around. A helicopter picked them up with no time to spare.
Archer had been scared, no question about it. She would have killed if necessary—no question about that, either. She had felt hyperalert, quick, ready, but also dead-bang scared. And then in one of the villages, when she saw her first dead body up close, she’d felt sick and weak. It was a woman of about sixty, skirt hiked above her hips, legs splayed, shot mid abdomen, blood staining her thin cotton floral blouse. She still wore a little hat, just a slip of white lace bobby-pinned to her graying curls.
The hat got to her. Poor soul, Archer groaned silently, poor soul. She’d never get home again. Someone would wait and wait, then go looking, then find her, then scream, then dissolve. Archer couldn’t stop thinking about it. This was someone’s mother, or grandmother, or maybe sister, with her legs splayed in public. She would have been humiliated if she knew. Archer bent down and pushed the woman’s hair from her eyes, secured the bobby pins to the hat, and closed her eyelids. Then she pulled the skirt down over her knees, gently folded her legs together, and tucked them under her. At least when killing, you weren’t the victim. That was something.
“ Let’s go, Arch,” called Dobbs, grabbing her arm and pulling her up.
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