The Lockbox That Never Was

The border conflict had been raging for two years. My husband, Colonel Dominic, had been missing in action for three months. Then, without any warning, he walked right through our front door.

The moment I saw him, shock and overwhelming joy flooded my chest. I rushed into the kitchen to bring out a steaming bowl of his absolute favorite homemade beef stew.

He sat at the dining table in complete silence for a long time. Suddenly, he looked up and spoke.

"Candy, I need you to go out to the old oak tree and dig up that metal lockbox. I need what is inside."

My hand froze in midair. The spoon I was holding nearly clattered to the floor.

There was no lockbox. Dominic and I had completely fabricated that story years ago just to coax our five year old son into going to sleep. It never existed.

I stared dead into the eyes of the man sitting across from me.

It was a flawless replica. The deep set eyes, the sharp bridge of the nose, even the faint shrapnel scar grazing his left cheek. Everything was perfectly identical.

"What metal box?" I forced my racing heart to slow down, squeezing out a natural looking smile.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. His eyes were perfectly calm, even tinged with a familiar warmth.

"Did you forget? When Sam was five and throwing those night tantrums. We buried it under the tree together to calm him down."

Cold sweat instantly drenched the back of my shirt.

Seven years ago, Dominic had just been promoted to major. Sam was going through a phase where he would cry all night. Dominic spun a tall tale, telling the boy that a magical metal box was buried beneath the old oak tree in our yard, guarding a very important secret. He said if Sam was a good boy and went to sleep, the box would magically produce endless candies.

Sam bought it and went right to bed. The next morning, we took out some sweets we had hidden in the cupboards and claimed the box had conjured them as a reward.

But we never actually buried anything.

Besides Dominic and me, absolutely no one knew about this. Even Sam had long forgotten the childish fantasy. There was never a third person in on the secret.

Who in the hell was this man wearing my husband's face?

"Right, look at my terrible memory." I lowered my head, taking a bite of food to hide the absolute ice forming in my eyes. "It is pitch black out there. I will go dig it up for you first thing in the morning."

"Let us do it tonight." His voice dropped half an octave.

"You are in that much of a rush?" I asked.

"The military needs it immediately." He locked eyes with me, his gaze dark and bottomless. "It concerns highly classified frontline intelligence. We cannot afford to wait a single minute."

I met his stare, my palms slick with sweat. "Alright. Finish your food and I will grab the shovel."

He nodded in satisfaction and picked up his bowl to finish the stew.

I stood up and walked toward the back room. The second I turned my back to him, my expression hardened into stone.

If this man was not Dominic, then where was my real husband?

Three months ago, the Defense Department sent an officer to my door. They told me Dominic went missing during a classified black ops reconnaissance mission. No body was ever recovered.

I had washed my face with tears every single day since, truly believing he was gone forever.

And now, a counterfeit was sitting at my dining table wearing his skin, demanding a fabricated metal box containing "classified intelligence."

There was only one logical conclusion.

Dominic had been captured.

He had endured horrific torture. Enemy operatives had broken him down, demanding the location of vital military secrets. He must have held out as long as he could before feeding them this exact lie about the old oak tree, sending them directly into a trap.

I just did not know if he was still breathing.

The thought of the agony he must have suffered made my chest ache violently. I took a deep breath, stepping into the back room and forcing myself to remain collected.

"The water is hot. Do you want to wash your face first?" I called out, feigning casual domesticity.

"Sure." He stood up and walked over to the washbasin.

I handed him a towel. He took it and instinctively pinched the back of his own neck to stretch his muscles.

My pupils constricted.

Even the way his ring finger slightly curled outward when he rubbed his neck was an exact, chilling replica of my husband's habit.

He shrugged off his worn military jacket, revealing the thin white undershirt beneath. Through the sheer fabric, I could clearly see the nasty, coin sized exit wound scar on his left shoulder. I could even see the jagged red burn mark on his ribs, right where Dominic had spilled boiling water years ago.

The disguise was terrifyingly flawless.

If he had not mentioned that imaginary lockbox, I never would have suspected a thing. How much time, money, and surgical precision had the enemy poured into crafting this perfect clone? They were truly desperate for whatever intelligence Dominic was guarding.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" He finished drying his face and turned to me with a half smile.

"Just looking at how much weight you lost." I let my eyes redden. My voice choked up naturally, the tears coming on command.

"It is rough out there on the frontlines." He walked toward me, reaching out to pull me into a hug.

I subtly took a half step backward. "We should really wait until tomorrow to dig that up."

His outstretched arms froze midair.

"Candy. You are not listening to me." He stared me down, his voice completely void of warmth.

I forced myself to hold his gaze. I pulled a heavy black metal flashlight from my pocket and flicked the switch. Nothing happened.

"The flashlight is busted. Bulb must have burned out." I shook the heavy metal casing, keeping my voice perfectly even. "It is too dark out by the oak tree. I will not be able to see a thing."

He took a step closer, crowding my space. "Do we not have a kerosene lantern?"

"Wind is too strong tonight. It will not stay lit." I stared right back into his suffocating glare. "Why are you acting so frantic? The thing is buried in our own backyard. It is not going to grow legs and run away."

"Fine." He suddenly smiled, though the warmth never reached his eyes. "We will dig it up in the daylight."

I let out a breath I had been holding, but the cold sweat had already glued my shirt to my spine.

I needed to find a way out of this house to alert the authorities. But nearly every able bodied man in the county was deployed. The only two armed reserve deputies stationed in our rural town had been sent to the city to escort supply trucks. They were not scheduled to return until the day after tomorrow.

What the hell was I supposed to do against a highly trained enemy operative?

My biggest fear was that he would lose his patience in the middle of the night and simply slit my throat. I was not afraid to die. But our twelve year old son, Sam, was coming home from boarding school tomorrow afternoon. I had to protect my boy.

"What are you thinking about? You are spacing out." He suddenly spoke, shattering my train of thought.

"Nothing at all." I turned around to clear the dishes.

"Where is Sam?" He sat heavily on the wooden dining chair, asking the question far too casually.

My heart skipped a beat.

"He is at his boarding school. He comes home tomorrow afternoon." I tried my hardest to keep my voice flat and unremarkable.

"Perfect." He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the wooden table. "We can dig up the box tomorrow morning and have a proper family reunion."

A violent shudder ripped through me.

I realized right then that if I failed to produce that box tomorrow, I was not the only one who was going to die. Sam would be murdered right alongside me.

After washing up, he sprawled out arrogantly on the bed in the guest room. He patted the mattress next to him.

"Come to bed." He looked at me with a predatory smirk.

I tightened my grip on the sewing scissors hidden up my sleeve.

"It is my time of the month. I am a mess, and I do not want to ruin the sheets." I kept my tone icy. "Plus, your shoulder is injured. I toss and turn in my sleep. I do not want to hurt you."

He narrowed his eyes, openly analyzing me.

"Candy. It feels like you are avoiding me."

I squeezed the cold steel hidden in my sleeve until my knuckles ached, but managed to force a bitter, miserable smile onto my face.

"Avoiding you?" I grabbed a blanket and pulled it over my lap. "You vanish for two years without a single letter. I have been raising our son alone, living like a widow, dealing with all the vicious gossip in this town. And now you just waltz back in. You do not ask how we survived, you do not care about the hell I have been through. All you care about is some stupid metal box!"

A tear dropped perfectly onto the back of my hand.

He blinked, taken aback. A fraction of the suspicion bled out of his eyes.

"I was just anxious, that is all." His voice softened into a practiced apology. "Get some sleep. We will take care of it first thing in the morning."

I kept my eyes open until the sun came up.

The sky was just beginning to turn grey. The rooster in the neighbor's yard had just started to crow.

He abruptly rolled out of bed, his eyes sharp as daggers. "Sun is up. Let us go get the shovel."

My palms were drenched. I frantically racked my brain for another excuse to stall him.

Loud, aggressive pounding suddenly rattled our front door.

"Candy! Is it true? Did Dominic really make it back alive?"

It was the booming voice of Mrs. Higgins from next door.

A massive wave of relief crashed over me. I practically ran to the front door and threw it open like it was a life raft.

A massive crowd was gathered outside. Half the town had shown up. A dozen men and women were crowded on my porch, holding fresh eggs, homemade pies, and two massive clay jugs of high proof moonshine.

"Dominic is a goddamn local hero! Thank the Lord he made it back in one piece!"

The crowd surged into the living room, instantly swarming the imposter.

A violent twitch rippled near the corner of his eye. But a second later, he plastered on a flawless, humble smile, shaking hands and greeting the locals. When Mrs. Higgins patted his scarred shoulder and started crying, he comforted her with the exact words my husband would use.

This operative had been trained in psychological manipulation. It was terrifying to watch.

Seeing my opening, I quickly dragged the large wooden table into the center of the room and set out a dozen heavy ceramic mugs.

"Surviving the war calls for a celebration! Nobody is leaving today! We are drinking to Dominic's safe return!"

I cracked the wax seal on the moonshine. The harsh, eye watering smell of cheap, raw alcohol instantly filled the room. It was one hundred and thirty proof homemade liquor. Three glasses of this stuff could knock out a full grown horse.

"Dominic, these good people came all this way to see you. You have to give them a proper toast." I poured a mug to the brim and shoved it right into his chest.

He stared down at the alcohol, a flicker of pure malice flashing in his eyes.

"Candy, I am still recovering from my injuries. Plus... we still have that chore out by the oak tree." He lowered his voice so only I could hear.

I immediately raised my volume. "Oh come on! What chore is more important than drinking with the folks who kept this town running while you were gone? You are going to break their hearts!"

The local men immediately started jeering and cheering.

"Yeah! Come on Dominic, do not act like you are too good for us country folks now!"

"Drink! Drink! Drink!"

Trapped under the eager stares of a dozen locals, he had absolutely no way out. He gritted his teeth, took the heavy mug, and downed it in one long gulp.

The harsh liquor instantly flushed his face with an unnatural, burning red.

Just then, a voice called out from the front yard.

"Mom! I am home!"

My heart stopped beating entirely.

The crowd parted. A twelve year old boy in a faded school uniform stood in the doorway, a heavy canvas backpack slung over his shoulder.

Sam.

It had been two years. Ever since Dominic deployed, we sent Sam to the boarding school in the county capital. The boy had not seen his father in twenty four months.

Sam stared blankly at the man sitting at the table.

The spy froze for a fraction of a second before his training kicked in. His eyes lit up. He threw his arms wide open, his voice thick with fake emotion. "Sam? Look how big you have gotten! Come here and give your old man a hug!"

Sam did not move an inch.

He stared intently at the face that perfectly matched his memories. He furrowed his brows, then shifted his gaze directly to me.

I gripped my apron, looking at the child I carried for nine months with eyes full of absolute, silent pleading.

Maybe it was a mother's intuition connecting with her son.

Sam's furrowed brow suddenly relaxed into a bright grin. He dropped his backpack, marched straight up to the table, and grabbed the second mug of freshly poured moonshine.

"Dad! I missed you every single day you were gone!"

Sam raised the heavy mug with both hands, his voice ringing loud and clear. "You made it back alive today. I am giving you this toast on behalf of Mom! If you do not drink this, you do not love me!"

A flash of extreme, violent irritation crossed the spy's eyes. But he could not blow his cover in front of the whole town. He took the mug with a forced, painful smile.

"Good boy. I will drink to that."

He swallowed it down.

Then came the third mug. Then the fourth. The local men took turns stepping up, and Sam stood right beside him, sweetly calling him 'Dad' while pouring pure poison down his throat.

The operative's eyes finally began to glass over. He stumbled to his feet, trying to shove his way toward the backyard and the old oak tree.

"Candy... the box... go get it..." he slurred, blindly swiping at the air.

"Drink up, Dad! One more for the road!"

Sam grabbed the man by the shoulder, using his leverage to force another half mug of burning liquor straight into his mouth.

The spy coughed violently, staggering backward.

Finally.

He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, his upper body crashing heavily onto the wooden table. He did not move another muscle.

The living room was still loud and chaotic, but to me, the entire world went completely silent.

I stared at his slumped back. I reached out and gave his shoulder a hard shove.

Dead to the world.

The cold sweat on my back had completely dried, leaving me freezing in my own clothes.

Sam walked around the table, stepping close to me and gently tugging on the hem of my shirt.

"Mom," the twelve year old whispered, his eyes suddenly cold and sharp. "Dad swore off alcohol two years ago right before he deployed. The town does not know, but he made a promise to me."

A violent shudder ran through my entire body. I grabbed my son's hand and squeezed it tight. The tears I had been faking earlier were replaced by real, burning emotion.

He was unconscious. It was time for us to strike back.