Twilight

by Brendan DuBois

  The correspondent said, “What have you found so far, in this part of the country?”

  Jean-Paul shrugged. “The aftermath of a systematic slaughter by one armed group of Americans against their unarmed neighbors, that’s what. People seized, murdered, their bodies hidden, because of who they are, because of where they had fled from. That’s what we have found. Just like other UN investigation teams, I am sure.”

  “But no hard evidence of Site A.”

  “Not yet,” Jean-Paul said.

  “Mister Cloutier, could it be that you haven’t found Site A because the UN doesn’t want you to?”

  “Excuse me?” Jean-Paul asked, his voice rising. “What do you mean by that?”

  John pressed on. “There have been rumors that some members of UNFORUS, either through bribery or intimidation, aren’t doing quite as thorough a job as they could. That turncoats within your own organization have sabotaged the investigations. Have you heard any of these rumors?”

  It looked like Jean-Paul was struggling to control his temper. “No.”

  “Do you have any comment on these rumors?”

  “No.”

  “Anything else you would like to add?”

  “One more thing—if you promise that it will air on your network.”

  Now it was time for John to shrug. “I can’t promise that, but I’ll see what we can do.”

  “Fine,” Jean-Paul said. “Then this is my last comment. We are here in this country to see that justice is done. That is all. We are not on any witch hunt, nor are we on any mission to undercut the legitimately elected governments of the USA and its individual member states. In fact, the President of the United States has not opposed our entry here, and in his position as Commander in Chief has ordered the U.S. armed forces’ cooperation with the UN teams in those states affected.”

  John added, “But you know, of course, that the President is in seclusion, at his rest area. Camp David. He’s not said a word in public for several weeks.”

  Jean-Paul said, “I have nothing to say about the President of this country. All I can say is that we have a mandate from the UN Security Council to perform this work, and no matter the obstacles we will continue to comfort the injured, to aid the homeless, and to seek justice against those who committed these crimes. That is all.”

  “Great,” John said, pulling the microphone away. “Mick? Alice?”

  They both chimed in. “Fine, just fine.”

  Mick lowered the camera and I saw Jean-Paul relax a bit. John said to Mick, “Little while, maybe we can do a stand-up for today. Find some burned-out school or farmhouse.”

  “Well, we’ve sure got our share of those to pick,” Mick said. He looked up at the low-hanging clouds. “Wish the weather would improve, though.”

  I said, “Us, too.”

  Alice spoke up. “Excuse me, do you mind if we follow you for a bit? We seem to have gotten misdirected, and we’re not quite sure where we are.”

  John interrupted. “We certainly would know our location if only you two would listen to me, if we’d taken that turn back at the crossroads.”

  Alice looked slightly embarrassed, as though she didn’t like the rest of us seeing what she probably had to put up with, day after day. “In any event, we’d like to spend some time with you, if it’s all right. Whatever the case may be, we do appear to be, um …”

  “Lost?” Karen asked.

  Mick agreed. “More lost than a joey on a bender.”

  Karen laughed. “Then good luck to you, ’cause we’re lost as well, and we can’t seem to find our way back.”

  WELL , JEAN-PAUL SEEMED to bristle at that remark, and he said, “Come along, we have good maps. The challenge is to find equally good roads to go along with them.”

  So we went back up to our little campsite where Mick produced a thin cigar, which he lit up. Karen wrinkled her nose and walked away. Mick looked at me for an explanation and I said, “From southern California. You know how it is. Wants a no-smoking area for everywhere, from restaurants to hilltops.”

  “Considering what’s been burning out here, I’m surprised she’d even care,” he said. “You been doing this long?”

  “No, not at all,” I said. “Less than a month. Does it show?”

  Mick laughed, took a deep drag on his cigar. “Oh, yeah, it does. You look tired, a bit dirty, but you’ve still got that innocent eagerness you get on a puppy’s face. You know? Young and smooth and full of energy. No worry lines. No thousand-yard stares. Like you haven’t been out in the bush that long. No offense.”

  “You look like someone who’s been out in the bush for a very long time,” I said.

  Another drag on his cigar as he carried the camera easily enough in one hand. “You got that right, mate. Nearly twenty years humping this camera gear, from one bloody hot spot to the next. Africa, Fiji, South America and now here. All the time recording for posterity the unique ways men have come up with to kill other men, women and children. Car bombs, hanging, knives, rocks and every type of firearm imaginable. That’s the joy of what I do, you know. In the old times the stories of this kind of butchery were told in oral or written tales, passed down from generation to generation. All cleaned up and proper, with heroes and villains. Now here I am, with color film and sound, ready to bring it into your living room while you’re cooking dinner, reading the newspaper or scratching your dog’s arse. Not too many heroes, way too many villains. And you know what I’ve learned?”

  “A lot, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, but here’s the important one,” he said, pointing the stub of his cigar at me for emphasis. “Real living is having enough to eat, a warm and dry place to sleep, and regular bowels. Everything else is extra. They teach you that at UN school?”

  “Didn’t teach us much at UN school,” I said. “Wasn’t much of a school.”

  Now Jean-Paul was in a huddle with Charlie, Peter and the two Australians, John and Alice.

  Mick said, “The hell you say.”

  “The hell I do, I guess,” I said. “The UN expected you to come along with your own set of skills, and so here I am.”

  “What kind of skills? Investigator? Pathologist?”

  “Journalist.”

  This made Mick laugh so hard that I thought cigar smoke was going to come out of his ears. “Go on, you’re pulling my leg. A reporter? Where?”

  “In Toronto. For the Star.”

  “What kind of stories?”

  I wished I could have said politics, or courts, or even the crime beat. But Mick seemed to be a guy who had a sensitive bullshit detector built in.

  “Feature stories,” I said. “Human-interest stuff. What they call soft news.”

  This brought forth another burst of laughter. On this remote hilltop and considering everything I’d seen so far, what I’d just said sounded so ridiculous that I joined in, laughing with him. Mick paused and said, “Then what the hell are you doing out here? Writing cheery stories for the papers back home?”

  “Nope, doing something like you folks are,” I said. “Recording what’s happening for posterity—except this posterity is at The Hague.”

  “Oh, got it now. Documenting war crimes.”

  “Yep.”

  Mick shook his head, just as Jean-Paul and the group broke up. “Tell you what, mate, I could have saved you lots of time. Tape library I got back home shows the same thing. The orphans, the burned homes, the corpses decaying in fields. All you had to do was borrow the tapes and just change the captions. That’s all. Would have saved you lots of time.”

  I started walking away, to where Peter and Miriam were waiting for me, up by one of the Land Cruisers. “Thanks for the offer, but I prefer to see it firsthand.”

  Mick tossed his cigar away. “If I see you in a month, I’ll see if you’ve changed your mind.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In order to make time and get going, we skipped breakfast—except for whatever tea and coffee had al
ready been brewed—and came down the hill, with the Australian television van following us. Once again we were in second place in the procession of vehicles, and Peter said, “Look behind us, why don’t you? That idiot Sanjay’s almost a klick away. Guess he doesn’t want to run up my arse again, huh?”

  I folded my arms, decided not to ask him to turn up the heat. “Who would, Peter?”

  Behind me Miriam didn’t say anything, but she did gently stroke the back of my neck, just a little touch, I guess to let me know that she was there. I remembered that kiss last night, a chaste kiss between a maiden and a smelly knight errant who was terrified and hungry and tired. I turned quickly and gave her a smile, and she said, “I don’t know why but I just feel happier, having that TV crew with us. And Aussies, to boot. They weren’t part of the intervention, they’re not taking part in any peacekeeping. It just seems like they’re a good thing to have with us.”

  Peter said, “What? You think having a van like that is going to prevent some rogue militia unit from lobbing a couple of hand grenades at us?”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “But it might buy us some time.”

  Peter shook his head. “Dreamers. I’m surrounded by bloody dreamers.”

  Miriam leaned up to him so close that I was horrified she was going to kiss him. But no, she was looking down between the two of us, at a map on the car seat. “Tell me again: where is Jean-Paul leading us?”

  “Well, he’s been leading us around in circles all this time, so I’m hoping his luck will change,” Peter said. “We’re heading to a major north-south highway, just three or four klicks to the east. There’s an on-ramp from this road that enters the highway, and that gives us two options. Either head south, where there’s a major UN resettlement area, or just hang in there, wait for a UN convoy to stroll by, and catch a ride with them.”

  “Nice options,” I said.

  “Nice to have them, for a change,” Peter said.

  Miriam, still leaning in between us, said, “What do you think about that TV crew, what that reporter said?”

  Peter scratched at the side of his face. “You mean that stupid git with the perfect teeth? What about him? Sounded like the usual newsie nonsense.”

  I said, “I think Miriam’s talking about what he said about the UN inspection teams being sabotaged.”

  “You mean, like this one?” Peter asked. “How we’ve gone round in circles, not knowing where we were going, and how we haven’t found a bloody thing? Except for—” He spared me a quick glance. “No offense, except for some dead cows. Sure, maybe we’ve been sabotaged, or maybe we’ve had some bad luck, or bad leadership. Trust me, if there was some serious sabotage going on we wouldn’t be breathing. No, sir, not at all.”

  Peter looked down at the map, looked up again. “Brilliant. Here we go. That access road should be here, right above this rise.”

  I had my hands clasped in my lap and was still enjoying having Miriam between the two of us. It seemed to me—perhaps I was being irrational—that she was leaning in my direction. I looked ahead and saw the road curve up and to the right, and the brake lights of the lead Land Cruiser. In the distance below us, off to the left and right, I could make out a four-lane highway, just like the map had indicated.

  But there was still one problem.

  The overpass, which should have led us to an on-ramp or some other sort of entrance to the highway, was gone.

  Peter swore, and I just kept my hands still.

  THE THREE LAND Cruisers and the Australian television van parked in a row at the crest of the rise. We all got out and stood, in front of the parked vehicles, and I had a sudden vision of some men with guns rising up and cutting us down with one wide sweep of their weapons. It would have been so easy to do, so easy to kill us all in a matter of moments.

  In shocked silence I looked below where we were standing, saw where the overpass had ended up. Right across the highway. It seemed silly, seeing how a large piece of precision engineering consisting of tons of concrete and steel beams and pillars was now lying across the highway. It was too odd, it wasn’t right, and it made one think of looking around to see if a camera crew was on hand, some camera crew from a motion-picture studio, for something so huge and dramatic could only be some sort of special effect. That couldn’t be concrete and steel resting there. It had to be plywood and plaster and plastic.

  I had my hands in my pockets, and said, “Bombing raid.”

  “Excuse me?” Sanjay said.

  “NATO bombing raid, before the cease-fire,” I said. “Smart bombs from three or four thousand meters up—must have dropped this overpass right across the highway. Do it right and you’ve managed to blockade a major resupply route, or a roadway that the militias were using to truck out refugee prisoners to the execution sites.”

  Jean-Paul turned to our silent Marine escort. “Charlie?”

  Charlie didn’t look too pleased but he answered anyway. “Could be. See down there, on the other side, the other ridge? Looks like some of it’s been cleared away. So at least the UN is using part of the highway now.”

  Charlie was right. On the other side of the roadway, piles of crumpled concrete and twisted rebar had been bulldozed away, clearing part of one highway lane. Just our luck, though, that it was on the other side, and not nearby.

  Peter kicked at a chunk of pavement. “Damn NATO was too efficient,” he said. “See how chewed-up the hill is? They must have come in with another load of bombs, taken out the exit ramps to the highway and pounded up the hill. Tornadoes.”

  “What? What do you mean, tornadoes?” Karen demanded. “I thought bombs did this, right?”

  Peter didn’t say anything and I felt sorry for Karen, so I said, “Peter meant a type of aircraft. Tornadoes. And if I’m right, they carry a type of munitions that is used to cut airfields and roads in half. Correct, Peter?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “Who the hell flies Tornadoes?”

  I decided I liked the sour look on Peter’s face. “That’s where the irony comes in. Tornadoes are mostly flown by the British. Am I right, Peter?”

  “Or the Germans,” Miriam said. “I’ve seen them at an air show, outside Rotterdam.”

  “Well,” said the sharp voice of John, the Australian reporter. “This is all bloody well and nice, enjoying the view up here, but what the hell are we going to do about it? Mister Cloutier?”

  Jean-Paul seemed lost in thought, standing there with the folded-over map under his arm. “Yes, what is it?”

  “I said, what in hell are we going to do? Just sit up here?”

  “It’s an idea,” Jean-Paul said.

  “An idea, the man says!” John said, turning to us all, talking in that cultured television voice. “His sole idea is to have us sit on our arses up on this bloody hill all morning!”

  If the comment bothered Jean-Paul he sure didn’t show it. Instead, he said, “Yes, an idea. This is a highway used by UN forces. We stay up here long enough, a convoy or column will show up.”

  “And if the militias see us out here in the open, then we’re all dead, right?”

  Sanjay’s turn. “We could move back down the road, find a wooded area. One or two of us could stay up here and keep watch.”

  Peter had a smile at that suggestion, and I knew what he was thinking: Sanjay wouldn’t mind being up here alone with just Karen to keep him company. But the Australian correspondent wasn’t having any of it.

  “Look, Cloutier,” John said, walking over to him, his correspondent coat flapping around his legs. “You’ve got four-wheel-drive vehicles there, right? Let’s all pile in and go down this hill, and then hook up with the road. OK?”

  Jean-Paul said, “Charlie?”

  But Charlie wasn’t rising to the bait. So I said, “Unexploded munitions.”

  John turned on me. “What did you say, kid?”

  “Unexploded munitions,” I said, seeing how the guy’s face was getting more red. “Look at the access ramp. Look at the hillside
. Has to have been a number of air strikes here. Which always means a number of unexploded munitions. Chances are, we start barreling down that hillside in our vehicles, we’ll set something off.”

  “Hell, that’s a chance I’m willing to take,” John said. Alice came up to him, tugging at his arm, and he brushed her off angrily. Mick was standing there, silent, with his camera at his feet like an obedient dog curled up before its master, and Peter leaned across and said, “Guess nobody else wants to take this chance.”

  John said, “Well, hell, there should be another way of getting onto this highway, and we’re gonna take it. Alice, Mick, let’s saddle up.”

  Mick looked over at me, shaking his head just slightly, and grabbed his camera. Alice, however, grabbed at John again and dragged him away a few feet. From that distance, I could only make out snatches of their conversation, which fast deteriorated into an argument:

  “ … Why can’t we just wait with these folks …”

  “ … You heard what they said, they’re gonna wait all day …”

  “ … Where’s the problem with that, we’ve been lost since we got here …”

  “ … You’ve been lost, Alice, not me. If you let me drive …”

  “ … The rush? We stay here and …”

  “ … Miss a big story. We’re not staying. We’re moving out …”

  “ … Safer here with them, John, and you …”

  “ … That’s it, right. You’re scared. Right? Should have asked Don to come …”

  “ … OK, I’m scared. I want to see my two-year-old again. Is that a crime …”

  “ … Done with this and done with you …”

  John broke free from Alice, nodded in Mick’s direction, and they started walking back to the white van. Alice stood there, clipboard hanging from her hand, looking at them and then looking back at us. Her face was pale and she was trembling, and I did not want to think of what was going through her mind. Should she stay with us or go along with her crew? Possible safety with us and certain career disaster. Or maybe a few uncomfortable moments in the van, and then finding a way onto the highway, and sharing some funny stories with other television crews at the UN refugee camp, less than an hour away. What a choice. Karen whispered something and I thought maybe Alice heard her, and then the van started up, with John driving. He honked the horn and Alice brought a hand up to her face, turned around and walked to the van.