The Lines Between Us

by Amy Lynn Green

  “You’re also the last one we have.” Her arms, held out as if to ward off my idea, went slack, and I pushed ahead. “Jimmy’s clearly not going to listen to me—he tried to shoot me the last time I tried. His sister is exhausted and feverish, and you know Leland has even less of a chance of getting through to him.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “I . . . I can’t.”

  Come on. Where was the Dorie who joined the army, who barged her way into our camp with nothing but a hunch and some moxie?

  This Dorie was rumpled, scared, and . . . real.

  She has fears too. No matter how confident she looked, there were evidently times when Dorie Armitage, private eye, was at a complete and total loss.

  “If you can’t, it’s going to be awfully hard to get all five of us away from here safely.” When she didn’t move, I added, “Leland seems like a good man.”

  She glanced over at him, and I wondered how much he could hear of our conversation. “He is. So is Jimmy, deep down.”

  “Then you’ve got to do all you can to make peace between them. You know what the Scriptures say, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers—’”

  “—for they’re hated by everyone but God. That’s what it should say, you know.” I wasn’t sure if her scowl was directed at me or the situation in general.

  “Dorie . . .”

  She sighed. “I know, I know. I don’t have a choice.”

  “I was going to say, I believe you can do it.”

  Her skepticism was easy to read, and could I blame her? Even when we were on the same side, we’d acted like mortal enemies. “Really?”

  I nodded. “What this situation needs is someone who’s determined and full of life.”

  And I could see her stand straighter. “It does, doesn’t it?” She turned and stared down at Jimmy, and for a moment I was afraid she was going to try kicking him awake—never a good start.

  But instead, she looked back at me and smiled. Not the high-watt manipulative smile or even the carefree, charming smile. This one was slight, tired . . . and genuine. “Thanks, Gordon.”

  I leaned back against the pillow, the throbbing in my leg a little more distant. Maybe, despite what I’d told Jimmy, Dorie and I ended up as friends after all.

  CHAPTER 40

  Dorie Armitage

  January 27, 1945

  Fortunately for me, a legion of past lookouts seemed to have agreed with my priorities: coffee, first and always.

  The aluminum percolator might have been antique, but at least it hadn’t been sacrificed to a scrap drive. By the time it filled the tower with a soft bubbling and the rich scent of roasted coffee, Jimmy was awake and desperate enough for a mug to fall prey to my claim that I wanted him to come examine the telephone wire with me. “Just in case it’s something easy to fix,” I said, searching my memory for an appropriate electrical term to drop and finding none. I widened my eyes instead. “Please?”

  “All right,” he muttered, draining the mug, “but it’s not going to help.”

  Leland stood as we approached the door, opened his mouth to say something—probably, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”—before I silenced him with a shake of my head.

  No. It wasn’t a good idea. But Gordon was right. I had to try.

  Out on the platform, the view was even more breathtaking, the rosy glow of the sunrise reflecting off forests and mountains covered in white like sifted sugar.

  The fresh air seemed to jostle Jimmy awake a bit, or maybe it was the coffee. Either way, he pointed to a thick wire running from the tower to the ground. “That absorbs lightning. Up here, all exposed, the tower’s a magnet for it. And it’d sure be embarrassing if a fire lookout burnt down.”

  We picked our way around the platform, shuffling snow out of the way in our wake, until we could see the pole on the south side of the lookout, where the wire sagged loosely instead of its usual clothesline-taut.

  “There you go,” Jimmy grumbled. “Looks like wind and ice took it down. Nothing we can do about that, other than call an electrician once we get back to the ranger station.”

  He frowned at the last part, and I followed the path his mind must be traveling. Back to the ranger station. Back to his father. Back to whatever consequences would be waiting for him.

  “We should go back in.”

  He tried to pass by me, but I caught his arm. “We need to talk, Jimmy.”

  “So, this was a trap.” He scowled at me. “If you’re mad at me because of Gordon, he shot at me first. My gun went off when he tackled me, that’s all. Might’ve even been him who pulled the trigger.”

  Whether or not that was technically true, it wasn’t the whole story, and we both knew it.

  “I did what I had to do.” He squared his shoulders, but I could hear the desperation under it. “You said that’s how it’s got to be when you know you’re doing the right thing.”

  I took a deep breath. “I was wrong.”

  He looked shocked. “What?”

  “Don’t make me say it again.” Humble pie, it turns out, is made out of unripe blackberries and arsenic, and this was my first slice, as far as I could remember. “It doesn’t work, Jimmy. I’ve tried it here and most of my life, so I should know.”

  I thought of every lie I’d told and every person who had trusted me. All of Gordon’s lectures about honesty. Thomas and Charlie and the other COs finding out they’d been interviewing with Jack’s sister all along. Leland’s disappointment when he’d heard what I’d done. What my mother would say when she found out I’d deceived her.

  “You think your good intentions will be enough to even out the harm you’ve done to get there. But they aren’t.”

  When I got the courage up to look at him, Jimmy was clutching the railing like he was afraid that, otherwise, he might plummet to the ground. “I was trying to protect him, that’s all. Dad isn’t a traitor.”

  “I know. And we’ll make sure the army knows. Then Lieutenant Leland and his paratroopers will take over the bomb-related fires to keep civilians safe. They’re going to make this right, and—”

  Jimmy’s laughter, broken by a snort, was forced and bitter. “Don’t you get it? Your brother died because the army didn’t tell anyone about the balloon bombs.”

  My brother. Jack. So, however he’d eavesdropped on my conversation with Leland, he’d heard that much.

  “They knew about those bombs—knew all about what they looked like and how dangerous they were—and they kept it a secret. And my brother . . .” He slammed his mouth shut and looked away.

  So. There was something more to this. Something even more personal than the charges against his father.

  Now was the time to press, to ask questions.

  “What happened to your brother, Jimmy?”

  “We don’t know.” He finally looked me straight in the eye, but his gaze was unfocused and dull, somewhere far away. “That’s the worst part of it. They won’t tell us. He was an OSS man.”

  I knew what that particular can of alphabet soup meant. Office of Strategic Services. Their overseas agents were spies, saboteurs, resistance leaders, assassins. “I see.”

  “No, you don’t see. I didn’t want him to go. Didn’t even say good-bye, just locked myself in the room we used to share and turned up The Green Hornet on the radio to full blast. He knocked for a long time.”

  Just like Jack had with me.

  “When I finally opened the door after I heard the truck pull away, I found a box filled with his whole Action Comics collection. And this note.”

  He fumbled inside his coat, unbuttoning his shirt pocket—over his heart—and passed me a fuzzed and faded paper. When I opened it, I read, Hey, Sport. Sorry I had to go, but here are some heroes to keep you company till I’m back. It’s your job to protect the family while I’m gone, all right?

  By the time I got to the signature—Your brother—the lump in my throat nearly choked me.

  “Dad tried to find out what country Willie was operating in. No one
would answer his questions.”

  “I’m sure they’ll tell you all they know after the war.” I hoped that would be true . . . that peace would mean no more secrets.

  “What does it matter? He’s dead.” The way Jimmy leaned over the railing, I was almost afraid he was going to jump, but instead of looking down, he looked up, over the snowy mountains stretching into the distance. “It wasn’t fair. Everything he learned here made them want him.”

  I pictured William as a younger version of his father, with broad shoulders and serious brows, climbing, cutting trails, moving soundlessly through the forest, trying to best Sarah Ruth at marksmanship. And then enlisting and being recruited to an elite division of the army.

  As an OSS man, William wouldn’t have been wearing a US uniform. The codes of war didn’t apply to special operatives. No Red Cross to register him or to intervene on his behalf. No limit to any starvation, deprivation, or torture the Germans could inflict on him. No requirement to send his body home or even bury him.

  “I could have joined up too, last year when I turned eighteen. But I didn’t. Got an exemption for smokejumping. Maybe I was mad at the army. Or maybe I was just plain scared.”

  “This is your chance, Jimmy,” I said in the silence that followed, trying to think like Gordon, make my voice persuasive. “But you don’t have to be a hero. You just have to be—”

  “‘Defender of law and order, champion of equal rights, valiant, courageous fighter against the forces of hate and prejudice who fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice, and the American way.’” He practically said the whole thing in one breath.

  I cracked a smile. “I wouldn’t go all that far.”

  “That’s Superman’s mission.” Even discussing his favorite hero, his voice was leaden and devoid of spark. “But you’re right. I’m not a hero. I won’t ever be. Not like Willie was. And it’s their fault he’s not here today.”

  Now, that I wasn’t going to let stand. “Lieutenant Leland and the others didn’t kill your brother, Jimmy. Or mine.”

  “Then who did? The Axis powers? The war? God?”

  As the circles got bigger, the hopelessness of it all grew. Willie and Jack had died, and it wasn’t right . . . but there was no one to blame. I’d seen my share of revenge dramas, a favorite Hollywood plotline. But what if the Count of Monte Cristo couldn’t find the villainous trio who put him in prison, or a betrayed Heathcliff had no Edgar or Cathy to torment?

  We were on the Orient Express with no one to stab. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark, but no ghost could tell us how to right it. It was all evil systems and blind forces, espionage and balloon bombs, domino chains of events beyond our control, and we were so very small next to it.

  “Dear God . . . what do we do?”

  Jimmy shifted, and I realized it hadn’t been a thought. He’d spoken out loud, just as uncertain as I was.

  “What do we do now?” he repeated.

  “I don’t know.” Something else I’d never said before, but this admission felt better. Honest. Like parachuting out of a plane into the unknown, praying you’d make it safely to the ground.

  As I drifted in that silence, I found a few more words and spoke them. “But maybe it’s not about making anyone pay. Maybe . . . maybe we have to start by letting go of that.”

  His voice was hoarse. “I can’t. It’s all I’ve got.”

  That, at least, I knew how to answer. “That’s not true. I saw what you’ve got, Jimmy, back on the cliff. You would have died to save Sarah Ruth.”

  “She’s my sister.” As if nothing was more natural in all the world.

  Wouldn’t Jack have said the same thing?

  I swallowed hard, tried to keep my composure. “You’re a good brother, Jimmy.”

  But he was shaking his head so forcefully I was afraid he’d tip off the platform. “No, I wasn’t.”

  You have to tell him.

  I swallowed hard. “You knew that Jack is—was—my brother.”

  Jimmy swiped at his runny nose with his sleeve, giving me that same calculating look Sarah Ruth had. “Yeah.”

  No time to stop now. “I never wrote to him after he left, except sending him angry newspaper clippings to call him a coward. The last thing I said to him was ‘I hope I never see you again.’ And now I won’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but what he meant was “I understand.” He was probably the only one who did, who felt the awful weight of unspoken good-byes and buried regrets.

  I’m still not sure which one of us opened our arms first, but I huddled against his thick corduroy coat, and I wept without trying to hide it. My tears mixed with the windblown snowdrifts, but Jimmy held me tight. Maybe he was crying too.

  When he let go, it felt like someone else had taken up the burden, the guilt from leaving Jack the way I had, and whether it was Jimmy or God or both of them, I couldn’t say. But it felt good.

  Jimmy looked down at the ground, a sheepish kid again. “About Gordon—I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t want . . .”

  “I believe you. And we’ll work it out.” Just like I had in the blizzard, we’d move toward the light, one step at a time. “Right now, we need you, Jimmy. Leland and I don’t know the path. Gordon and Sarah Ruth are hurt. That leaves you. You’ve got to get us down from here safely.”

  Gripping the railing, he turned away from the snowy horizon and back to me, and when he set his jaw, he looked every inch the mountain pioneer from days gone by. “All right,” he said, “we’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Gordon Hooper

  January 27, 1945

  “I always imagined,” Dorie said, pausing to huff a bedraggled lump of hair out of her eyes, “that my return after acts of heroism would be more . . . heroic.”

  I tried to smile but winced instead as Lieutenant Leland tripped on a rock, jostling me. I’d refused to look when he’d changed my bandages before we set out, but I knew the wound needed a real doctor—and fast. Which was not how I’d describe our progress down the trail back to the national forest headquarters. What should have taken an hour had already stretched into two.

  Sarah Ruth limped along beside us, using the makeshift crutch the lieutenant had fashioned for her out of a sturdy fallen branch but needing to lean against Jimmy to walk. Her mouth was still plenty free, though, and she made good use of it to tell us what we were doing wrong along the way.

  “Three canteens of water? It’ll weigh us down, and besides, there’s fresh snow if we need more.”

  “We need to remember to tell Dad to keep more blankets stocked in the tower, just in case.”

  “Make sure to keep the stretcher level and watch your feet—we’ll be going downhill.”

  That last one felt important to my well-being since I was the one trussed up in the “stretcher”—a fancy word for the canvas and frame of the cot that we took off its legs.

  It had been a long trek down the mountain, our progress slow, even in the blinding sunlight glinting off the snow. Still, whatever Dorie had said to Jimmy must have worked, because he didn’t make a single complaint, not even when I gave Leland the papers we’d found in Morrissey’s office for safekeeping. Once, when we’d stopped to eat some of the bread from the cupboard—a poor midmorning snack, but welcome all the same—Jimmy had brought me my share. “And,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the others were occupied with the packs, “thanks.”

  I tried to laugh. “For what? Shooting myself in the leg?”

  He didn’t crack a smile at my poor attempt at a joke. “For keeping me from doing something worse.”

  And I wondered if maybe my other Father had helped me find Mother’s better way after all.

  By the time we reached the base of the mountain, where the trees grew thicker and the path became blessedly flat, we made a straggling group indeed. Leland had to stop several times to scoop a handful of snow on his shoulder, streaked purple with bruising, and Dorie strained to keep her side even, her
breathing coming short and labored.

  But the end was in sight. Just another mile through the forest to the camp. “Almost there,” I said, trying to work enthusiasm into my tone.

  “Easy for you to say,” Dorie said, glaring over her shoulder at me. “Once we get back, you’re going on a diet of Jell-O, cottage cheese, and celery, mister.” She and Sarah Ruth burst out laughing at the disgusted face I made in response.

  “I’ll let Mama know about the change in menu.” Sarah Ruth shifted her crutch to pat me condescendingly on the arm.

  I considered delivering a good fake grumble but instead said what I was really thinking. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you laugh.”

  She hesitated, swiveling to look around, and I realized how stunning Oregon in January could be, branches white and bowed, tracks skittered here and there across the path. “Will this be normal again someday, do you think?”

  Helping two injured people down a mountain after a blizzard?

  But of course, that wasn’t what she meant. She was talking about fresh air and sunshine gleaming against the fallen snow, about being able to make jokes and laugh at them without feeling a shadow. About remembering the ones who wouldn’t come home—but loving them enough to keep on living anyway.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think it will. Soon enough, things will start to grow again. And we’ll be there to help them along.”

  The beautiful smile that appeared on Sarah Ruth’s face, slowly at first, like a sunrise, made me hope that some things were already blooming. Maybe even in places where fire had once passed through.

  On the other side of her, Jimmy stopped, hunched over with Sarah Ruth’s arm around his shoulder, his breathing heavy. “Maybe you should all rest here and let me go on ahead. I could—”

  And then, one of the sweetest sounds I’d ever heard: a distant voice calling out, “Hallo! Who’s there?”

  All of us shouted until tree branches crashed aside with calls of “Hey, we’ve found ’em, fellows!”