Veil

by George C. Chesbro

  "Veil, I understand your confusion," Sharon replied uncertainly. "I'm confused myself. I wish I had answers for you, but I don't. Jonathan can sometimes be . . . peculiar. He can do things for peculiar reasons. Still, nothing must happen to him. He's very special, and you don't know what it costs him to stay here."

  "Meaning?"

  Sharon shook her head. "Nothing," she said in a voice just above a whisper. "He's just a very special person."

  "By 'here' you mean staying alive?"

  "Veil, I really don't wish to discuss Jonathan in this way. It's too personal. You're the one who should talk to Jonathan if you want certain information."

  "Oh, I will. Does anyone else do this kind of research?"

  "Not really." Sharon was still gazing into the shadows, but her tone had lightened, as if she were happy to be leaving the subject of Jonathan Pilgrim. "Actually, I should say nobody that we know of. There have been a number of books written on the subject, but they're all in a popular or religious vein. I don't think anyone else is trying to do serious research on the subject."

  Veil studied Sharon's profile for a few moments and decided that there was nothing more to be gained by pressing the woman for information. It was Jonathan Pilgrim he would have to confront for the answers he wanted, not Sharon Solow. "I'm very attracted to you," he said at last.

  Sharon looked at him, smiled. "Talk about changing gears! How very direct of you, Mr. Kendry!"

  "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

  "You didn't embarrass me; but you also don't know the first thing about me, aside from what I do—and thanatologists don't normally attract too many suitors."

  "Tell me the first thing about you."

  "Ah, but I'm of the opinion that anyone who thinks she can tell you the first thing about herself is a fool."

  "Well said."

  "Do you know the first thing about you?" "No. Not the first."

  "Strange," Sharon said after studying Veil for some time. "I think you'd be much more likely to know that first thing about yourself than I would about myself."

  "Self-deprecation doesn't become you."

  "I'm not being self-deprecating, Veil, just truthful. How about settling for some bits of information that are in the personal top ten?"

  "Excellent."

  "I'm thirty-five years old and I weigh one hundred and eleven pounds—on a good day. Men tend to find me attractive."

  "Indeed!" Veil responded with a laugh.

  "I've never been in love—and I assume I would know if I had. I'd like to have children; I know that my time for doing that safely is running out, but I've simply never met a man with whom I wanted to have children. Oh, I've had affairs, but none of them have ever worked out. My work is very important to me, and it's hard for many men to accept that. One reason why Jonathan and I get along so well together is that we're truly friends, with nothing beyond that to complicate matters. He understands the importance of my work, and he has no sexual interest in me."

  "Because he's in love with Death?"

  "Veil, I never should have said that to you."

  "All right. It won't be repeated."

  "I think you're a very dangerous man."

  "Not to you."

  Sharon smiled wryly. "No? There are different kinds of danger. I'm not sure I want to feel the things I could feel for you. From what I've observed in other people, those feelings can hurt a great deal."

  Veil reached across the table and rested his hands on the table, palms up. After a second's hesitation, Sharon put her hands in his. "Many years ago a fat fortune-teller warned me that I would die at a time in my life when I was happy. At the time he said it, I really didn't pay any attention; I didn't even understand what he meant, although I thought I did then. Only recently, within the past few years, have I come to understand that, in my entire life, I've never been at peace or happy. Excited, yes; exhilarated, yes. But not those other things. Now I'd like to know what it feels like to be at peace and happy. I believe you're the person who can show me."

  "Wow," Sharon said, smiling and raising her eyebrows. "If that's a line, it's a terrific one."

  Veil laughed. "No line."

  "I take it you don't believe in fat fortune-tellers."

  "Oh, I believe in this one. He's very good. Also, he has a way of making his own predictions come true. But then, nobody lives forever. In fact, there's no guarantee that either of us will be alive five minutes from now, much less tomorrow or next week."

  "True. Perhaps that's the real reason why I'm here."

  "A number of things have happened to me since I came here."

  "Now I think it's my turn to say 'indeed'!" Sharon replied with a thin smile. "I wish I knew what they were."

  "One of the most significant things—to me, at least—is the emotional response I get when I look at you. I used to think that I wasn't afraid of death. Now I'm beginning to understand that the feeling of fear never even entered into it; I never even thought about death. There's a big difference."

  "A serious contemplation of death can change life. That's what near-death studies are all about."

  "I understand—now. I also understand that you can't experience fear without thought, and you can't display courage without fear as a backdrop. Now I'm afraid to die because I have something to lose—a newfound sense of wonder, if you will, at all these new feelings wiggling around inside me. My fat fortune-teller is turning out to be a lot smarter—and crueler—than I once thought, and he's not exactly the kind of man you underestimate. My death isn't the point, although he'll try to see to it that it happens when the time is right. I think what he really wants is for me to discover that I'm a coward as a kind of going-away present."

  Sharon's hands had begun to tremble. "Veil, this 'fat fortune-teller' is a real man, isn't he?"

  "Indeed. Very clever, very nasty. And now I'm the one who's talking too much."

  "Veil, please. I want to know more."

  "I don't think so, Sharon."

  "You know you're not a coward."

  "On the contrary, I know nothing of the kind. Now that I know what it means to be afraid, I have to discover if I truly have courage. I find the prospect intriguing." "Veil—"

  "No more on that, Sharon," Veil said, squeezing her hands gently. "If you'd like, you may consider this an invitation."

  Sharon frowned slightly, squeezed back. "To what?"

  "Perhaps to tango on the edge of time—since time, in one way or another, is beginning to shape up as the thing that links me to all this. I have a valuable adviser, of sorts; it's a dreaming state, which I don't want to get into right now. Lately my adviser has been strongly hinting that what I am, and what I have been in the past, are the keys that could open a number of locks around this place. Now I want to know more about me. My invitation is to dance with me on that edge, to see what we have to say to each other—to feel to each other— about our own humanity. For some reason, questions like that have become very important to me since I arrived here; more important than anything else."

  "I don't know what 'locks' you're talking about," Sharon said softly, "but I do know that the edge of time is death. From the little you've told me, it seems that you're the one who's in danger of being pushed over that edge."

  "Which is why I choose to be so direct."

  "Veil, I don't want your fat fortune-teller's prophecy to come true."

  "I'm sure he'd be highly amused if he could hear this conversation; also, probably pleased as hell with himself."

  "That's what worries me."

  "It shouldn't. It's my worry."

  "This is a little fast for me," Sharon said, gently easing her hands away from Veil's and rising from the table. "Which is not to say that I'm turning down your offer—your invitation. As I mentioned. I've also been feeling under a bit of time pressure lately."

  Veil stood up, smiled. "All right," he said evenly.

  "We'll see what we shall see."

  "Yes."

  "Good night, Veil
."

  "Good night."

  Chapter 12

  ______________________________

  Veil dreams.

  Colonel Bean visits him in the stockade on the twenty-sixth day of his imprisonment in solitary confinement. Bean seems strangely subdued, almost sad, as he eases himself down on a metal stool in a corner of the cell and breathes a small sigh. His uniform has been freshly laundered and smells of starch. Veil, sitting on the edge of his bunk, wonders what it is that seems different about Bean, then realizes that it is the first time he has ever seen the man without tension, anger, or frustration twisting the muscles in his face. The army officer is the first visitor Veil has had since he staggered out of the jungle and turned himself in to the Military Police.

  "You don't look cured to me," Bean says with a slight shake of his head. The expression on his face and his tone of voice are not unkind.

  "Cured of what?"

  "Whatever it was that made you pull that damn fool stunt. Jesus H. Christ, Kendry, do you realize what you could have had if you'd just gone along and done what you were told to do? The war was over for you, and you were coming out of it a hero. You were about to become a media superstar, and that's the kind of attention that makes men rich and powerful. If you'd stayed in the Army, you almost certainly would have made general. If you'd left, you would probably have been elected to office. You'd have been sitting as comfortable as a pig in shit for the rest of your life. You threw it all away."

  "What do you want, Colonel?"

  "It would have made things one hell of a lot simpler if you'd died in that helicopter crash."

  "Sorry to inconvenience you."

  "You may wish you'd died."

  "I doubt it."

  "What happened up there, Kendry?"

  "Don't you know?"

  "Some of it. I'd like to know the whole story."

  "There isn't much to tell," Veil says with a shrug in his voice. "There was no attack. Cheshire Cat had been aborted."

  "Of course it had been aborted. What did you expect? Madison called it off."

  "Something he'd told me he couldn't do."

  "Neither Madison, ARVN, nor the United States were taking orders from you, Kendry," Bean snaps, anger flaring in his voice. "I've never much cared for Madison, and I sure as hell didn't care for the stunt he pulled with Po, but it was his prerogative to do that. You seemed to be under the impression that you were a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff."

  Veil says nothing.

  "Madison was telling the truth at the time he spoke to you," Bean continues, his anger gone. "He couldn't have aborted Cheshire Cat just because you wanted him to. The operation had to be called off after he told Joint Command that our newly minted war hero was on his way to fight on the side of the enemy against our allies. Who shot you down?"

  "Pathet Lao."

  "From your village?"

  "Sure."

  "You poor son of a bitch."

  "They knew about Cheshire Cat; they probably learned about it five minutes after ARVN cut the orders. There were enough Pathet Lao in and around that village to fill Yankee Stadium. Po and his commandos would have had their asses shot off."

  "That doesn't change the meaning of what you did, Kendry."

  "I wasn't implying that it did. You asked me what happened."

  "You must feel like a real loser."

  "Do I, Colonel?"

  "No," Bean replies after a long pause. He bows his head slightly and clasps his hands together. "I'm regular Army, Kendry. I believe in honest soldiering and honest combat. I don't go for this spy shit, and I don't go for renegades like you. If you hadn't been CIA from your training days, I'd have booted you out of this man's army a long time ago. I believe in soldiers following orders, no matter what. Now, having said that, I also want to say that I can't find the words to describe how much pleasure it gave me to learn that you'd beat the shit out of that fucking pig. I came here to tell you that I admire you for what you did—everything you did. I wouldn't have been man enough, Kendry. This Army colonel salutes you."

  Veil is surprised. He stares at Bean, but the officer continues to gaze at the floor. "Thank you," Veil says simply. "I know how much it must rip your guts to say that."

  "You weren't a good soldier, Kendry. Never. You were always a free-lancer, a renegade, but you were just too damn good at the things you did for us to do anything but use you. Still, soldiers follow orders, and not a single commanding officer you've ever served under ever knew what you were going to do or say from one minute to the next. You were a shit soldier, Kendry, but the finest warrior I've ever known. You were always too much of a free spirit to suit Madison, and he took it personally. He always felt the need to break you. He didn't have to put Po in that village."

  "I know that."

  "He had a pretty goddam good idea of what would happen; he wanted to rub your face in shit."

  "I know that too. I can stand the smell of shit; what I couldn't stand was the fact that Madison was perfectly willing to sacrifice an entire village of brave people just so he could rap my knuckles."

  "Well, you sure as hell rubbed his face in shit. But you're going to pay a hell of a cost."

  "Am I, Colonel?"

  "You haven't received the tab yet, Kendry. You think they're simply going to lock you away for twenty years, or maybe shoot you."

  "Colonel, I haven't given a thought to what's going to be done to me. It isn't important."

  "I believe you, but you'd better listen up, anyway. Madison has convinced everyone that the best thing to do with you is simply to cut you loose."

  Veil feels a tightening in his stomach muscles. "Cut me loose?"

  "You've got it. The Army and the politicians just want to forget you, and they can't forget you unless everyone forgets you. If you're stashed away in Leavenworth, some damn reporter is going to insist on knowing why. It's a story that can never be told, because this fucking war has already produced enough foolish stories about the United States Armed Forces; it may take decades for the Army to recover from what the politicians and the press have done to us. The solution is that your little session with Madison and your helicopter flight never happened. They're—we're—going to strip you of all your decorations, and your service record will be altered to cover it. You're getting bad paper—in this case a medical discharge as a loony."

  "It sounds like a good plan."

  "Oh, it is. Madison is very logical and very persuasive. He also has his own angle, naturally."

  "Naturally."

  "That fucker and I don't agree on many things, Kendry, but we do tend to agree on matters where you're concerned. Madison wants to destroy you, and he sees this as a way of doing it. He believes that the razor edge in you that makes you such a fine warrior is precisely what will gut you in civilian life. He thinks there's a good chance you'll end up a junkie, an alcoholic, or dead in some alley. I'm afraid he may be right."

  "He told you this?"

  "In so many words, yes. Hell, he wants you to know. He knew I'd tell you this, which is why he's using me as an errand boy to deliver a more official message."

  "Which is?"

  "Keep a low profile, by which I mean bury yourself someplace up to your eyeballs. If any reporters do track you down, refer them to the Pentagon. If you try to stir up old memories, the Army will come down on you. Hard. If they have to, they'll just see to it that you're put away—which was the original plan, anyway, until Madison unrolled his tongue. They'd like you to change your name." "No."

  "Kendry, they won't hassle you if you don't hassle them."

  "Put me away or cut me loose, as you please," Veil replies evenly. "In either case, I'll do as I please. As a matter of fact, I'll keep the family secrets because I have no inclination not to."

  Bean nods slightly, then rises to his feet. "From you, I suppose that has to be considered a major concession." He walks to the door of the cell, signals for the guard, then turns back. "An added word of warning, Kendry—personal, and
definitely unofficial. I don't think it matters to Madison whether you keep your mouth shut or produce your own television program about what happened. You managed to put his ass in a sling along with your own, and he's a mite pissed at you."

  Veil smiles. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

  Bean returns Veil's smile, and for a moment there is a feeling of genuine warmth and friendship between the two men. Then Bean's smile fades. "No matter where you go, and no matter how much time goes by, you watch out for Madison and his men. If you don't end up a junkie, an alcoholic, or dead, Madison could get a little impatient." "Thank you for the warning, sir." Bean salutes. "Good luck to you, warrior." Veil leaps to his feet, braces, and snaps a return salute. "Good luck to you, sir."

  Chapter 13

  ______________________________

  Veil squatted on the lip of a ledge beside a cascading waterfall and used both hands to shield his eyes against the mid-morning sun as he gazed east toward the high, valley-wide wall and barbed-wire barriers that marked the entrance to the Army compound. Flanked by sheer cliffs, the compound appeared impregnable.

  Veil rose, turned to go back up the trail leading to his chalet, and was startled to find Perry Tompkins leaning against a boulder a few yards away, studying him. Veil was even more surprised that the man had been able to come up behind him without his being aware of it. The burly painter with the huge, black, smouldering eyes was dressed in cut-off jeans, a T-shirt, hiking boots, and heavy wool socks. His face, arms, and legs were burned a ruddy cordovan color from the sun.

  "Veil Kendry," Tompkins announced casually, a bemused smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "In a black wig. I thought it was you lurking around here the past couple of days. You don't belong here. What the hell are you up to, pal?"

  He'd always wanted to meet Perry Tompkins, Veil thought wryly, an artist whose appetite for life, artistic technique, and breadth of vision astounded him, along with most of the art-conscious people in the world. However, now—wearing a ridiculous wig and in a place where no guest could know his identity—was not the time. He lowered his head, mumbled something about mistaken identity, then started up the trail. As he came abreast of Tompkins, a huge hand reached out and gripped his shoulder.