After the Rain

by Chuck Logan

  Ace nodded. “Pinto Joe. Got burned up in the Alberta oil fields. Well got away on him. Caught fire.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Don’t know for sure. He don’t say. Turtle Mountain, I guess.” Ace said. His hand floated up and touched her lightly on the cheekbone, under her eye. “You got to work on your eyes, Nina. When something catches your attention it’s like shark fins turning on a dime in there.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Means, you want to know about Joe, you better go ask Joe.” He walked past her, toward the Tahoe.

  Driving again. Back to town. Mile by mile, she felt the tension building. She almost had to laugh at the extra freight the female soldier was obligated to carry. If captured, she could expect to be raped. And, like they drummed into you, her whole body was a weapon—to include, apparently, what nature put between her legs. If war was an extension of diplomacy by other means, was sex, too, an extension of war?

  She did laugh.

  “What?” Ace asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. She had been through Airborne and Ranger school. She had been to Escape and Evasion. She had shot pistol on the Marksmanship Unit. Eleven years ago she gunned down two Iraqi Republican Guards close enough to see their eyes react to her bullets. That was hot-blooded killing. Now she was looking straight at cold-blooded sex in the line of duty.

  She made practical calculations. Six days since her period. Probably should insist on a condom. Get some health history. And get a hold of yourself. Stop acting like a piece of driftwood coming in with the tide.

  Do your job, goddammit. Afterwards he might open up and talk. That was the idea, wasn’t it?

  They spoke hardly at all on the drive back to the Missile Park. Some of it had to do with a shift in the air; here and there patches of sun collapsed the cloud chapel, dappling the fields with light.

  He parked in back of the bar, got out, and opened the back door. She followed him inside, through the storeroom into the main bar. The lights were out. Gordy was nowhere in sight.

  Ace walked to the bar, sat on a stool, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. She sat on the stool next to him.

  “So what are you going to do?” he said staring straight ahead, talking to her reflection.

  “What do you think I should do?” she said to his reflection. She thought about how mirrors work. They throw back reversed images, right? Like little lies.

  “Okay, then.” He heaved off the stool, walked to the stairway, and went up to the apartment.

  Nina stood up, squared her shoulders, and climbed the darkened stairs.

  He was waiting in the small living room. There was a bottle of Seagrams on the kitchen table. He got two glasses from the draining board and poured two short drinks. He handed her a glass. She sipped the whiskey then set it on the desk. He tossed down his drink, put the glass back on the counter.

  Then he stood, hands at his sides. Not gloating or even expecting much. More like, just very much present, as if he knew the few things he was good at. He was a player who knew how to make a play. He knew how to touch a woman.

  And as if borne by a swell, she drifted up to him. He put his arms around her and kissed her. She let herself go, melting into him.

  Ace was obviously a good time. But, holding him, she could feel the hollowness. Could almost smell the doubt filter through the whiskey on his breath, taste it pump in and out of his lungs. She knew that a strong enough wind would blow him and his party-time erection away.

  But she managed a reasonably wanton kiss, part nostalgia for things missed, part exploration, but with not too much tongue. Just enough to jolt his circuits. Then she drew back and looked at him. “So what is it you think you know?”

  His blue eyes were half wary, half joking. But honest. “The only thing I know for sure is when some other man’s wife wants something she ain’t getting at home.”

  “Like now?”

  “We’ll see.” His practiced hand moved up her butt and followed the seam of the zipper at the back of the flimsy, outrageously expensive dress Janey had picked out for her. Like a bead of cool mercury, the zipper ran down her back. Then Ace stepped back to watch.

  Nina kicked off the sandals. Then she wiggled her shoulders in an instinctual move. As the cotton slipped over her shoulders and down her arms, she watched his melancholy eyes as they studied the ripple of light and shadow play down the front of her body. Not desire so much as curiosity. And this sense of waiting for something.

  And then she realized she was doing it wrong. The thing she always did wrong with men. There was something they always expected from her at times like this. Something she wouldn’t give them. Since junior high she had been training herself to never show fear. Or anything remotely like it. Broker was the only man she’d ever met who seemed to understand. Barefoot naked or with a fifty-pound ruck on her back and muddy boots, she always looked the same:

  Ready.

  “This isn’t a strip show,” she said defensively as the top of the dress fell past her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her breasts were nothing special—tidy and functional, with a faint webbing of stretch marks.

  She reached down and firmly took hold of the elastic on her panties. With a little shift from foot to foot she peeled them down below her navel.

  Ace said, “There is a scar.”

  “What?”

  He pointed at the faint cesarean incision peeking from the reddish hair just above the rolled waistband of her panties. “I figured you had a C-section. The narrow hips…” Then he said, in a different tone, “Wait.”

  A drop of nervous sweat streaked down the puckered flesh on her belly. A squirm of nerves, gooseflesh.

  “What happened there?” he said.

  He was pointing at the deep-purple dent on her left hip. The entry. His hand moved around her hip, smooth across her ass, and felt the bumpy slick whorl of scar tissue where the Republican Guard’s Kalashnikov round blew a chip of pelvis out through her glutes.

  “That’s a gunshot wound,” he said.

  “I can explain,” she said.

  The self-deprecating joke came stronger into his eyes. He raised a hand to quiet her. “It’s okay. I just had to find out how far you’d go. You would have gone all the way, right?”

  “I don’t get it. What are we talking about? This? I told you, I can…” Indignant, she pointed at the bullet hole.

  Ace shook his head. “I’m sure you can explain it. And the cut ear. And I’d probably believe you. That ain’t it. Every woman I ever been with in my life except working whores and country-club land sharks—they’re always a little bit vulnerable when they takes their clothes off, at least at first. You’re not exactly comfortable, but you’re miles from vulnerable, girl. You ain’t afraid one bit.”

  Nina curled her lip, played it tough, and shot back, “So this is what happens after all the talk? You’re not even gonna fuck me? Just talk some more?” She shifted her stance, not sure what to do with her hands or the rest of her. So she reached for the whiskey on the desk.

  And he said, “You probably don’t drink in your real life, do you?”

  That brought her around sharp. Too fast, Nina, too fast.

  Ace smiled. But his sad smile was gone. This was a cold smile. Cold struggling not to turn into mean. “I wanted to believe we met for a reason. And I guess we did. The reason is you’re working.” Then his expression hardened. “Cover up your ass. And get your things. We’re through here. Take a walk. Back to your husband. If he is your husband.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Dale had a few errands. First, he stopped at the Alco Discount and bought several sets of heavy bungees. Then he bought some blank videotapes. He spent a few minutes looking at the digital gear. He would definitely have to upgrade, but later. He didn’t have time now to install a new TV, DVD player, and figure them all out.

  He drove south, to the ruins of Camp’s Corners and parked in back of the buildings. The old ga
s station had a garage and he pushed open the rear door of the mechanic’s bay and went in. An eighteen-foot 2001 Dodge Roadtrek camper van was parked in the bay. He’d purchased it a month ago in Grafton.

  He walked up to the boxy vehicle and inspected the new paint job. When he bought it, it still had the scorch marks around the windows from the propane fire that had gutted the inside. So he got it cheap. A body shop in Grafton fixed up the outside and finished it off with a new coat of light blue.

  Then he gave it to Eddie Solce, who refurbished the inside and put in a cheap chemical toilet. Dale didn’t need a sink or refrigerator; a cooler with ice would do—he wouldn’t have the vehicle that long. He did have Eddie put new carpet down in the rear compartment, and Dale had set up his old wooden twin bed there.

  Nowhere near as fancy as when it was new. But functional. Just a curtain behind the buckets seats now. And the bed, freestanding next to a makeshift closet with shelves. A TV and videocassette player that would run off the battery. Various other items were strewn around.

  He placed the bungees and the blank tapes on the front seat. Then he opened the briefcase Joe had brought and sorted through the contents. An envelope containing cash. And two Minnesota license plates. He selected the license plates, went out, took a screw driver from a toolbox on a worktable, and removed the blue-and-gold buffalo-motif North Dakota plates. Then he screwed on the pale-white-and-blue Minnesota plates.

  He got back in behind the wheel and started it up. Sounded good. And a full tank of gas. Joe had topped it off from two five-gallon cans now sitting empty in the corner of the shed.

  He turned off the engine and took a tackle box from the floor under the passenger seat. It contained a number of different containers, several were plastic prescription drugs. One was written in German. Others were glass vials with rubber stopper tops for the insertion of a hypodermic needle. They contained a clear liquid. Dale held one of them up to the light coming in through the dirty windows, read the label, and smiled.

  Ketamine.

  Joe had acquired a cache of the stuff. Before Joe, Dale had broken into a veterinarian’s office in Cavalier to get the drug.

  A dozen fat yellow plastic pens were stacked with the pills. Another of Joe’s innovations. They were Epipens, prescription dispensers for epinephrine, first-aid injectors for people susceptible to anaphylactic shock. Joe had some people in Winnipeg remove the original contents and refill them with 100 mg doses of the ketamine.

  Dale hefted one of the pens in his closed hand like a dagger. You just twisted the top. A sturdy needle extended from the bottom and you jammed it in a muscle group. The spring-loaded mechanism in the pen delivered the dose. When used as a general anesthetic during surgery, it was fed directly into a vein through an IV. The intramuscular route was slower and let you feel the effects come on over a period of minutes. Ketamine totally paralyzed people for a short time. And for some people, it simulated the peculiar out-of-body sensation of dying.

  He selected one of the Epipens and slipped it in his chest pocket. Then he looked around one last time, walked out, and closed the door. As he got back in his car, he felt a ray of sunlight poke through the clouds and warm his face.

  It was a good sign. Joe was getting anxious to get on the road, was questioning some of Dale’s ideas. But Dale had zero doubts. It was gonna work out just fine.

  He started up the Grand Prix and drove back to town. When he got into Langdon, he took a fast swing past the high school to get a little edge going. In twenty-four hours he would be on his way to a whole new life.

  Outta here.

  The Shusters had lived in a comfortable four-bedroom prairie rambler on the east end of town. The house sat on three lots, and Dale had always cut the lawn—his dad expected it since Dale had converted the basement into an apartment for himself.

  Dale Shuster. Never been on his own, people said.

  Now, with his folks two weeks gone to Florida, and all the rain, the grass was creeping up the post of the FOR SALE sign in the front yard. Dale had not cut the lawn since his folks left, and now it was so high it flipped over on top like a pompadour.

  He parked in the garage and went inside. The main floor and upstairs were empty, just furniture runners on the floors that the movers had left. The kitchen table remained, and two chairs. The sink was full of dirty dishes.

  His mother had left notes taped to the refrigerator and the cupboards about when to thaw and eat each meal she’d left stacked in plastic containers in the freezer. He opened the fridge, which contained nothing but Coca-Cola, twenty cans of it.

  He snapped the flip top on a can of Coke. Took another along for backup, and went down the stairs into the basement.

  The basement was stripped.

  Dale had not so much packed as given everything away to the Lutheran church his mom had gone to, mostly alone, for the last thirty years. Except for his computer, which he’d smashed into a pulp and dropped in Devil’s Lake. All that remained was a desk, an arm chair, and hassock in front of the TV.

  He still had the VCR set up. It was so old nobody would want one like that anymore. Just leave it when he…

  No. He did not intend to move. He was going to change. Reappear as a totally new person. But first he had to do this favor for Ace. More of a favor than Ace had ever done for him.

  Gordy. Dale smirked. Gordy had mocked and bullied him all his life. Well, Gordy was about to get his heads-up.

  His barren desk set against the wall under an old Star Wars poster. Barren except for his high school yearbook. Dale sat down and flipped the pages to the senior pictures until he came to the picture of a younger, smiling Gordy Riker, looking like a toothy, hairy werewolf zit.

  With a deliberateness of ceremony, Dale reached up to his chest pocket, moved the stubby Epipen aside, and grabbed the thick-nib Sharpie. His breathing came more rapidly, and a squeezy bubbly sensation started in his chest as he methodically blacked out Gordy’s eyes with the pen.

  Then he turned forward a few pages and studied Ginny Weller’s picture. Her eyes, too, were blacked out.

  Not so pretty now—huh, bitch?

  Real funny. Ha ha. It was supposed to be a joke. For their senior trip, the whole class went for the weekend to a hotel in Bismarck. To see a play. He should have figured it out. How come the prettiest girl in the class all of a sudden started seeking him out, sitting next to him? Paying him attention.

  It happened the second night, late; Ginny had dared him to go skinny-dipping with her in the hotel pool, which was closed for the night but she knew a way to get in.

  Just the two of them. The naughty taunt in her voice.

  “Come on, you scared? Don’t you want to see me naked?”

  At this point in his life Dale was considered shy; quiet but not that weird. He had a B-plus average. Played linebacker on the football team. Kept his turmoil carefully tucked away inside. Kept a certain distance from people, especially girls. He had this notion that if you kissed a girl—one of those open-mouth, slurpy French kisses—she might be able to see down your throat, right inside, all the way down to all your secrets.

  Everybody left Dale alone because he was Ace’s brother. But halfway through senior year, Ace hit Bobby Pease, over in the bar at Starkweather. Ace spent the next year hoeing beans down in Jamestown.

  So why was Ginny Weller flirting with him? He knew it had to be some kind of a game. Maybe she was trying to make Irv Fuller mad. When her talk didn’t work, she maneuvered him into a corner in the lobby and planted one of those French jobs on him, sticking her tongue between his teeth.

  After that he couldn’t resist. Though he was scared plenty, because the farthest he’d been with a girl was messy hand jobs with dumpy Margie Block up in her dad’s hayloft.

  He had to give it a try.

  They met in the hall, at midnight. She showed him how she’d put tape on the lock to the door in the ladies’ room that led to the pool. Taped it on vertical, up the inside edge of the door, keeping the lock
bolt from engaging.

  They slipped into the darkened bathroom. Ginny told him to go on in and undress. She’d meet him in a second and they’d go skinny-dipping.

  “For starters,” she’d said.

  A chance like this would never come again. So Dale went in, stripped off his clothes, and waited in the darkness. There were little lights along the bottom of the pool that cast wavy shadows on the ceiling. It felt humid and smelled of chlorine. The longer he waited, the more excited he got.

  And when he had become real excited, and no Ginny yet—that’s when the lights exploded on.

  And there was Ginny standing by the door with Irv and Gordy Riker. They pointed their fingers and rocked with laughter.

  “Boy,” Irv sang out, “that’s what I call real hard.”

  “And real small,” Gordy chimed in, moving forward and extending his hand. He wasn’t just pointing. He had a squirt gun and proceeded to squirt Dale in the crotch. Dale covered up and ran to the other side of the pool, to where they kept the towels, but there weren’t any towels.

  To his chagrin, Dale discovered that Gordy’s squirt gun had been filled with cheap perfume. And for the rest of the trip, and all during the bus ride home, people kept saying: “You smell anything? I sure smell something.”

  The nickname “Needle-Dick” became common usage.

  Dale smiled, took the videotape from his desk, and fed it into the VCR. He pushed the play button on the VCR remote. As the screen flickered into focus, he settled down into his chair, raised his hips slightly, and unbuttoned his jeans.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “This is Jane.”

  “Game over. Ace just gave me the boot,” Nina said.

  “Not to worry. You got all your stuff?”

  “Yeah, I’m doing my famous walking-down-the-highway-to-town.”

  “Did you keep your legs crossed?”

  “Turns out he wasn’t that kind of guy.”

  “Nina, they’re all that kind of guy.”