No Simple Highway

PROLOGUE I am not who I appear to be. There are only a handful of people in the world that know this to be true, and that number now includes you. Why should you care, you might ask, and I would reply that the answer for now is that this story is as much about you as it s about me. When one looks directly at me, my eyes appear friendly, warm, and brown. Should sunlight suddenly illuminate my irises, though, an olive green depth is revealed. Only the faintest hint of light brown would remain, ringing the pupil. It is as if muddy water had instantaneously cleared, except that in my case the sediment settles at the center, mysteriously layered on the edge of darkness. If you met me at the medical center or the community clinic you would be struck by my professional appearance, conveyed by rimless glasses, French blue, button-down shirt, paisley tie, Harris Tweed herringbone patterned jacket, and gabardine pants. The shoes might throw you. They look well made and comfortable, but you would actually have to see the treads on the undersides of the soles to know that the shoes were made for running. If the opportunity presented itself to observe me through a one-way mirror as I worked with psychiatric patients, you would feel the compassion and understanding with which I held their space. You would have no inkling that two years before, on special leave from my psychiatric duties at an Air Force base in Florida, I was running for my life through the jungles of Vietnam. Nor would you know that I had killed three men in order to survive. You wouldn't imagine that at night I still occasionally sit bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, screaming as an emerald pit viper slithers across my chest and out of my nightmare. I'm quite athletic and have excelled in team sports, but I've always preferred individual endeavors. I run, I backpack and rock climb, and I've mastered a diverse array of martial arts. The main disciplines that I practice are Tai Chi, Aikido, Kendo, and Bagua Zhang, and they are the result of a most unusual and rigorous training that I received during childhood and adolescence. The teaching was as mystical and meditative as it was methodical and for that I am grateful. As part of my personal practice I work out for at least an hour every day. So I'm not sure why I look shorter and weaker than I really am. Maybe it's because I slouch a bit at the shoulders or that I try to get down to eye level with people when I talk with them; possibly it's the salt and pepper patina that glosses my jet black hair; perhaps it's the deceptive clothes, they hide the physical facts. When I look at myself in the mirror, I see rippling muscles on sinewy limbs, rock hard abdominals, and no observable body fat on a one hundred seventy five pound six feet tall frame. Clothes can make the man, they can also cloak the truth. Women tell me that I am attractive. I guess it's the piercing eyes, the slightly wild long hair and moustache, the high cheekbones, and the full lips that give a sensual and yet determined set to my mouth.I claim no credit for these features, though, for I am just the beneficiary of ancestral genetic gifts. Oh, there is one more facet of my experience that you should know about before our journey together begins: I am a trained assassin! VISITOR OF MY DREAMS Tranquility turns into chaos and I find myself running again, this time at age thirty-one, through a mosquito-infested jungle in South Vietnam. There are 8 to 10 Viet Cong, I can't tell exactly how many, hunting me down, intent on killing me. I am the prey, the odds are against me, and the fear of the hunted is palpable in my chest. I press on through a kaleidoscope of lush green vegetation, clinging vines, and rare orchids.I long to stop and touch their beauty, but time has now become more precious than beauty. A sinking feeling pervades my belly as I realize that even the densest greenery won't protect me from a step-by-step search. I'm running blindly, I can't see a way out; I don't want to die, and I hate the fear that seems to be all I've got to propel me forward.The voice of my teacher forcefully taps me in the middle of my forehead, awakening me from the miasma of anxiety. "Focus, Aden! Courage is the antidote for fear. Sense your courage; sense into the red of the heart center." I reconnect with the red and leap forward into the unknown. I hear my pursuers coming closer as I desperately struggle down into a shallow, fern covered ravine. The voice of my teacher comes to me again, arising this time from the ground. "Water is your friend, remember this always when you have to escape." I hear no flowing water, but as I scan the trench-like undulation in the jungle floor I notice wet, muddy ground at the far end of the gully. I hurry toward it and my hopes soar as I see that the ooze is actually seepage from a small swamp. Black water and pond scum never looked so good. There are hundreds of reeds growing in the shallow water, and I hurriedly cut one below the water level so as not to expose the severed end. MELISSA She put her index finger over my lips in a "Shhh, be quiet" gesture, gently pulled me against her body, and gave me a long, deep kiss that melted away some of the tension. "No apologies," she said directly, "I asked you over." She closed the door behind us and locked it. . . . This time our lovemaking was slow and soulful. We looked into each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Our hearts were fused, our body boundaries disappeared, we were floating on a sea of love. Again, it was such a relief to give up all control and be swept away by mutual passion. As my body began its ancient unstoppable rhythm, I was overcome by emotion and the deeper connection with love, and I began to cry and cry and cry. Some of those tears had been held in for decades.