Chapter 23

18:05 Thursday, September 5^th, 1991

235 Montgomery St, Suite 239

San Francisco, CA 94104

"Good night, Gunny."

The Gunny looked up, to see Becky leaning in the doorway. "What time is it?"

She tsked at him. "Don't you have a wife at home, waiting for you? It's after six. I have to go pick up Danny from Band and make dinner for the kids."

The Gunny smiled, an image of Lenore popping unbidden into his mind's eye. "No, no wife, but a serious girlfriend."

Becky leaned back out the door and made a show of looking both ways, then leaned back in, conspiratorially. "Some of the girls here will be disappointed to hear that."

The Gunny felt his eyebrow rise of its own accord. "I'll have to have Lenore stop by and pick me up for lunch."

"Don't stay too late, and get the lights when you leave, okay?" The Gunny was surprised to hear the concern in her voice, and his expression must have betrayed it. "You're a bit different from the usual executive type, Gunny. Less demanding, much more solid, I'd say. People notice that."

Snorting, the Gunny waved, and his assistant left the office. Frowning at the haphazard reports and tracking of the various initiatives and programs the corporate office was undertaking, the Gunny had over the course of the week worked through the many status reports, slowly becoming convinced the managers were playing a defensive game; while everything was late and over budget, there was little accountability to justify why the many reports seemed to concentrate on simple metrics and avoid underlying cause and remedial action.

After thinking about it long and hard, the Gunny sent a note to the director of Human Resources asking for a meeting with her, one in which she was prepared to go over the annual review for each corporate manager with more than five employees, as well as the salary histories and a report on who had left the corporate offices in the last five years.

The Gunny made a second list of the managers who had produced at least six month's worth of weak reports that lacked remedial action. The Gunny planned on making comfortable perches a little less so – if this had been a Marine Corps operation lives would have been on the line, and the dereliction of duty reflected in the weak reports offended him. Besides, this is a hospital corporation, and ultimately, lives are on the line.

18:35 Thursday, September 5^th, 1991

101 Keating St

Sierra Vista, AZ 85635

"Why Randy, so nice to see you. It was nice of you to come home during the supper hour."

First Sergeant Davis didn't respond, figuring, correctly, that her heart wasn't really in it. If she'd really wanted to fight, she'd have let him have it between the eyes as he walked through the door. With a silent sigh he wondered how much longer it was going to be until she stopped torturing him personally, and started using a lawyer.

Tonight was different, though, he sensed. She sat down at the table with him, a pair of beers in her hand. "Remember when you came home and it was all we could do to eat before we screwed?" Her tone was wistful.

"It doesn't have to end this way," he said. "I could take some leave ... we're empty-nesters now. The kids'll be fine in college."

She frowned at him. "Would you change jobs? Retire from the fucking Army? Support me in what I want to do?"

He sighed, out loud this time. "We've been over this before."

"Yes. I want to work on my passion now. The kids are in college, finally. Let it be my turn."

"I don't know what the fuck else I can do, damn it!" The heat in his voice frightened her, he knew, and the temptation was there, seductive, urging him to give in and start a shouting match. Gritting his teeth, and drawing a breath, he forced himself to let the anger out.

She watched him, calmly. "You're getting better at that. When you were younger, you'd have let it win."

He nodded, dully. "When I was younger," he said evenly, "we had make-up sex." He saw the hurt in her eyes: She can still hurt me, and I guess I can still hurt her. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

Sex was painful for her now, some female condition had made the act extremely uncomfortable for her, like pressing on a deep bruise with a hammer handle, she'd told him. Very infrequently since she'd seen the doctor, she'd done something about it for him, stroking him or taking him in her mouth, but these times had been few and far between, and the last had been more than a year ago.

Randall Davis cursed under his breath, when he wanted to scream to the heavens about injustice, instead.

"We can move to the East Coast," she pleaded, "back to Connecticut, or Massachusetts. You can get all kinds of jobs. I want my chance, too..." She trailed off. They had been over this ground, and she knew it too.

"We can separate. You stay here, I guess, and I'll make my career in New England." This was new, and Davis was confused for a moment. And then understanding came.

"You'd keep my name for what? Tax purposes?" He was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and he regretted it instantly, watched in horror as the train wreck began to unfold before his eyes.

"No, I wouldn't need to do that. I suppose I wouldn't need to keep your name."