Hatch looked at the man, and she could see he was digging back into some old memories, uncovering some past he'd probably felt was long buried. And peppered in there was probably a bit of nostalgia as well.
“Tell me more about the path he took," she said.
"Well, he separated from service, and he was picked up by a headhunter, a recruiter of sorts, who was looking for people with specific skill sets, and in particular the ones that we possessed. Your father possessed them in spades and was one of the best operators I've ever worked with. So, he was an easy mark for contractors, or like I said earlier -- mercenaries. He got picked by the Gibson Consortium. Didn't know much about it. And to be honest with you, at that point in my life, I was focused on my own task. It wasn't long before I was overseas at Hereford with the SAS and lost myself to months and months of rigorous training. And when I came back stateside to start sharing what we had learned, I was hoping that I could bring your father back into the Army, but he was gone," he said.
Hatch thought about that for a moment. Nothing he said seemed to be a lie. She was reading everything from the minuscule gestures in his face, to his mannerisms, to his body's posture, to his breathing. She watched the pulse in his neck. The heavy man's carotid artery thumped in the same rhythmic fashion as it had when their conversation began and never changed. Wenk had no tell, no indication that anything he said was a lie. If he was lying, he’d make a hell of a poker player. And so, for now, she believed him.
"So, you came back and that was it? My father was gone -- off to this Gibson Consortium?"
Wenk shrugged. "That was my guess. We really lost touch after that. I hadn't seen or heard from him till about fourteen years later when I saw that news story and saw him saving that family trapped on the mountain. And then when I went to reach out to your father and reconnect, I found out that a week later he'd been shot in a hunting accident."
Hatch sighed quietly. The memory of that day still haunted her. His summation of the tragedy didn’t do it justice.
"Did you know anyone else who joined up with my father at the time? Someone around here, maybe local, something that could point me in the right direction? I have a lead, but it's going to take me far away from here," she said.
Wenk cocked an eyebrow. "How far?" he asked.
"I'd really rather not say. Ernie, I understand, and I trust you. But if what I've learned is true, then anybody who knows what I know really isn’t safe. And so, the less you know, the better you are. And I am going to be heading away from here sooner rather than later. But I felt that if I could touch base with my roots, tap into the community and see if somebody knew something, I would at least have a leg up on my next journey," she said.
Wenk looked around as if maybe there was one last patron tucked away in a corner that she hadn't seen when she entered. But there was nobody. Then he looked back and gave Hatch a steady gaze. "Listen, Rachel, what I'm going to tell you can't come back on me. You understand? I'm sure you're deft at coming up with a cover story.”
“I understand,” she said softly.
“But there is somebody local who may know more, somebody who was part of that group at the same time your father was.” Wenk rubbed his hands together and then wiped the sweat off on his sauce-stained apron.
Hatch's heart skipped a beat. It was the first bit of good news she’d had since linking up with the man in New Mexico. She hoped this new person would give more insight than the name of the corporation and a contact in Africa. If she were lucky, maybe her international travel plans would be cancelled.
The flip side was she had an opportunity to speak with somebody who at one point had been close with her father. Any chance to know him better, even posthumously, was a rare treasure. Maybe the answer was closer than she realized. And she could bring some closure at least in the knowledge of what had happened to him or who had done it, who had pulled the trigger.
Hatch allowed herself a quiet moment to mull over her thoughts, and then spoke. "That would be great. It won't come back on you, I promise. Who is he?" Hatch asked, the words rolling off her tongue in rapid-fire succession.
"He owns Fat Tony's Tattoos," he said with a laugh. "But don't let the name fool you. This guy's anything but fat. I honestly don't know where he came up with it. But since he got out and returned here to Fayetteville, he's been inking people up left and right. There's a good business for tattoo shops if you've got the right shop and a good reputation. And being a former operator, a Vietnam era operator, owning a tattoo shop on the strip leading to the base was a win-win as far as marketing strategy goes. And he's done pretty well for himself. His real name is Anthony, Anthony Amaletto. A little rough around the edges, but if you break down those tough walls, you'll see he's kind of a teddy bear at heart," Wenk said.
"Okay. Fat Tony's Tattoos. Not too far? You said it was close to base?" Hatch asked.
"Yeah. Take you about 10 minutes, if that, from here."
Hatch noticed the tattoo on Wenk’s forearm. It was faded and old. It was a claw with a snake behind it. Hard to tell and make out the shapes. Years of wear and tear on the man's body had taken its toll, aging the tattoo. The ink’s fine lines were now blotchy marks, but she could just make out the general gist of its original design.
"Did Fat Tony do that?" she laughed.
Wenk looked down at his forearm and chuckled softly. "Matter of fact, he did," he said. "This was his first tattoo. Hopefully, he’s improved since those days. I never really took to the needle. I was a one and done kind of guy. We got it for our old unit. We all did it at the same time. Maybe that's where Tony got the bug or at least the beginning thoughts for pursuing it later in life."
Hatch rubbed her scarred arm and thought of the tattoo she had, the deep meaning behind it. It's the way of some tattoos. Most, she figured, held some significance, some internal connection. Whether it was perceived or real, those markings meant something. If nothing else, they served as a historical marker, a piece of time frozen. A memory etched in the flesh.
She looked at the tattoo and thought of her father and tried to remember, looking back those many years, and she couldn't recall if he had something similar. Her mom hadn’t kept many pictures from his days in the Army. None she could recall captured any tattoos. And thinking back to her childhood, none came to mind.
Hatch stood to leave. "I can't thank you enough, Ernie. You've always been kind to me and treated me like a member of the family whenever I came in here. And it means a lot to me. I can't help but wonder where he'd be right now if he hadn't taken the different path," she said.
"If we all knew where the path led us, we'd always make the right choice," he said. "But that's the thing with life. We don't get a preview of what's to come. Well, maybe that's part of the fun of it, not knowing what’s waiting around the next bend in the road."
Not knowing. She didn't know where the next bit of her journey would lead, even less where her life and future would take her. Would it take her back to Hawk’s Landing, to the family she'd left behind? And Savage? Or would this next step lead her on a path that would send her further into the abyss, drifting from the people she cared about, chasing ghosts.