The Last Operation (The Remnants of War Series, Book 1)

by Patrick Astre

  Deeno had cried each night, so heavily that his tear ducts hurt. At twelve his reading and writing skills were about that of a six year old and would never progress much beyond that level. All known tests and IQ monitoring systems would show him as handicapped, and in a sense it was true. But tests and systems do not always show everything. Deeno understood death instinctively the way he knew the animal world, deep within his heart and guts, in ways that never could be described. The loss of his Grammy hung about his life with unbearable sorrow. At night, silent tears rolled in a river down his cheeks. In the day, in the presence of all these strangers, Deeno's mind went elsewhere, to a place where the animals danced, where his beloved Grammy smiled radiantly and spirits of kindness whispered in his head.

  Chapter 29

  Late afternoon sunbeams shone in Loretta's face when she brought Deeno to his new world in Everglades City. The boy's eyes took in the small frame house at the edge of a sloping canal. The front of the house was overgrown with weeds, barely outlining a single path led to the door. What passed for the front yard was littered with papers, empty cans, bottles and old car parts. A twelve year old Ford with jacked up rear wheels sat in the driveway, the rear bumpers crowded with rebel flags and obscene stickers. A pickup truck missing fenders, engine and wheels sat on rusted jacks in front of the Ford.

  Deeno saw all that but it meant nothing to him. He was fascinated by the surrounding wilderness, he'd never seen anything like it. A dim part of his mind seemed to accept that somehow, the wild land had called to him in his dreams. In the whispering night he had sensed its presence, its continuous call, over and over.

  Deeno had come home to a place he'd never been to before.

  When she walked in the house Loretta knew she had to be careful. Most of a six -pack was scattered in the dusty kitchen, the crushed cans displayed the distorted red head of a caricature dog that was the logo of Duke's favorite beer.

  This was the time she had to walk gingerly—sober she could handle Duke. Very drunk, he was manageable as his eyelids drooped over alcoholic stupor. It was the in-between times, the five or six beer times, when the mean spirit would emerge, a lifetime of perceived slights, and he would slam her without warning. If she was lucky and sharp, she could see it coming or he would hit her open handed, occasionally he would blacken her eye or knock a tooth loose. She'd learned to live with it.

  Duke stepped into the kitchen. Deeno had never seen a man that big. Six foot five, arms like telephone poles poking out from a ratty, stained sleeveless tee shirt stretched over a growing beer belly. Duke wiped his mouth, belched and looked steadily at Deeno before turning to his wife.

  "What the hell is this Loretta? You didn't say the kid was fucked up. He's a retard."

  "Duke, shush," she whispered, stepping in front of her husband. "Remember the trust fund."

  "Oh yeah, shit yeah," said Duke. The concept of having money was somewhat alien to Duke since he rarely worked. But he did understand the idea of a new pick up truck and maybe a fishing boat.

  In the days that followed, Deeno took to the wilderness of the Everglades like a healthy worm in rich loam. He roamed the forested spaces between the few houses on the dirt road that lined the canal where they lived. Each day brought a new discovery. The boy followed the red-shouldered hawks, cruising the low cypress and the marshlands, the webbed-handed otters with their slick oily furs, the opossums, the rats and the rabbits and the occasional tuft-eared wildcats with their tall hind legs all became the objects of his fascinations, his life and his eventual destiny.

  It was just a few days later that Deeno met his neighbor.

  The man's name was Donald Murtagh and everyone called him Ol'Donny. He'd lived in the Everglades his entire life except for a three year stint in the army where he saw combat in Korea. After Frozen-Chosin, where he'd seen men die of the brutal cold during the hellish battle for the Chosin Reservoir, he'd vowed never again to go anyplace where the temperature dipped so low that water would freeze. Ol'Donny firmly believed the only place you ever needed temperatures like that, was in your refrigerator.

  Ol'Donny had married Clara Bongard when he returned from Korea. They had two sons. The first one died in a car wreck in Ocala when he was seventeen, the second was killed in that blasted Vietnam place. His wife had died before Ol'Donny turned seventy-two. She had never been the same since the boys died. Sometimes he felt that she hung on that long just because of him. Ol'Donny felt the weight of his years and his solitude like a mantle of cement around his shoulders. The memories of his dead family haunted him in the sighing of every breeze that passed through the surrounding wilderness.

  He was fishing for his dinner in the plastic Coleman canoe he'd bought two years earlier, when he first saw the boy. Deeno stood on the bank of the canal, in the choked jungle between his house and Duke's. Ol'Donny held his breath as the canoe drifted slowly toward the boy on the bank of the canal and brought him a unique sight he'd never believed possible.

  The boy stood on an oak log protruding from the water. His hand was out and holding some greenery. A brown deer nibbled delicately at the boy's hand, the ears rotating every which way as it looked out for predators. Ol'Donny didn't think such a thing could happen with the wild deers, until now. It's like one of them paintings from that Norman Rockefeller guy, or whatever that painter's name was, he thought.

  It wasn't long before the boy started coming around to Ol'Donny's house. He enjoyed the boy's company and the simple, innocent conversations they shared. Deeno's visits soon became the highlight of the old man's day.

  Ol'Donny felt guilty about asking Deeno those prying questions. The boy always answered easily, without guile, best as he knew. While he may have felt a twinge of guilt in prying, above all he was concerned. He worried for Deeno, living in that house with Loretta and Duke. He knew Duke too well.

  Yes, Ol'Donny knew Duke very well. He knew the man was mean, not just mean, but kick-you-in-the-balls mean and nasty as a pissed off Tasmanian devil. Duke was the town bully and local bad character. His size alone tended to keep people at bay. He lived on occasional odd jobs, his wife's haphazard part time work, handouts and assorted petty larcenies.

  But Deeno was content. His days were wonder-filled voyages navigating the great land-sea that is the Everglades while neither Loretta or Duke paid much attention to him. This was fine with Deeno as he was content with the outdoors and his new friend Ol'Donny Murtagh.

  Ol'Donny looked like a cross between a trapper, a wiry old cowboy and a hermit. His leathery face, dried, creased and brown from all those years in the South Florida sunshine, seemed to split when the easy smile reached his features. He wore sloppy bush hats and ragged, but always clean, loose cotton jeans with whatever promotional tee shirt had been given away. But everyone knows that in the backcountry of the great swamp, still waters really do run deep. Ol'Donny Murtagh held a degree in engineering from the University of Miami, class of forty-four.

  About the same time that Deeno landed with Duke and Loretta, and became fast friends with Ol'Donny, Richard Daniels was also looking for Donald Murtagh. It was late in the year that he'd returned from the operation in Mexico, and he had that new, fast seaplane. He had also received a great deal of cash for that covert operation, and developed contacts for some lucrative new operations: smuggling refugees into South Florida. He needed a base of operations and he needed help in building it. He found Ol'Donny Murtagh who proposed an ingenious solution. The problem was aerial views, Daniels needed a remote place to land his seaplane where the landscape could be altered and concealed.

  Ol'Donny Murtagh would build three barges. Light and flat bottomed, the barges would contain framed camouflage nets designed to hold native vegetation and overflowing plants. From the air the barges would look like natural islands, the kind that abound in the Everglades by the thousands. Once constructed, the barges would be towed to a desolate, uncharted rectangular lagoon West of Lostman's Cay.

  The barges would intersect and occupy the la
goon, changing it from a long watery expanse, suitable for landing a seaplane, to a group of unconnected small ponds. By a system of remote controlled generators, underwater tracks and hydraulic pulleys, the barges would swing aside, creating a long expanse of clear water.

  A hidden runway on the water—after Daniels' plane had landed, the barges would swing back into position covering any potential landing sites. Daniels thought it was genius-perfect.

  He hired Ol'Donny to plan and supervise the building and towing of the barges. It would be done surreptitiously, miles from the normal channels and estuaries. Daniels found a tall Indian with the unlikely name of Spirit Wolf to provide the men for the required manual labors. Strong, quiet men of varied Indian ancestries, Daniels paid them in cash with Spirit Wolf acting as foreman.

  Every day Ol'Donny Murtagh showed up in an airboat, the boy at his side. Daniels' interest in the boy soon transcended ordinary curiosity. There was a spark to Deeno, a relationship with the wilderness and its creatures that the boy seemed to carry about him. Daniels had never seen anything like it before, and like Ol'Donny Daniels was soon charmed by the boy.

  It was late one afternoon when Daniels saw the boy sitting on the edge of the half constructed barge, leaning over, both hands in the water. When Daniels got closer, he saw there were two otters flashing like oily shadows between Deeno's hands. Black and slick, the fast little animals moved almost in a ballet with Deeno as the director.

  Daniels sat next to the boy as the otters disappeared like a flash of dark lightning.

  "Someday you'll have to tell me how you do that," Daniels said.

  "They talk to me uncle Richard," said Deeno. He'd taken to calling Daniels "Uncle Richard."

  Although he would have been at a loss to explain why, Richard Daniels was happy that the boy called him that.

  * * *

  Duke had started wondering where the kid went each morning. I don't really give a shit, he thought, but the little fucker goes somewhere every day and maybe I can get something out of it. After all, I'm in charge. Yeah, he thought, him and his trust fund, I'm in charge.

  When Deeno got up the next morning, the sun had yet to rise. It was dark every morning when he left for Ol'Donny's house, but this time there was something different. Normally Duke slept until eleven. This morning he was up and waiting and snagged Deeno as he left the house.

  "Where you go off to every day, boy? You'd best tell Duke right now."Deeno winced as the boy's arm was engulfed in Duke's hand like a twig in the paw of a large bear. Duke squeezed, the pressure causing waves of pain. Deeno fought to hold back tears, he didn't understand what the big man wanted, but he sensed an aura about Duke, that of the sadistic bully with the easy target.

  To make matters worse, Duke had a hangover. He'd withdrawn three hundred dollars from Deeno's trust fund, given Loretta a hundred for food shopping and kept the rest, treating himself to a bottle of Wild Turkey. Godamn that sour mash was good, he thought. But now his head throbbed and instead of sleeping late he had to get up at the crack of dawn so he could figure out where the kid went. I should whack the kid one, he thought put the fear of God in the little fucking retard.

  And he did.

  Holding the boy with his left hand, he backhanded him a crashing right-handed blow. Deeno's head snapped back and a welt appeared on his face. A drop of blood oozed out where Duke's cheap steel ring had gashed the top of the boy's cheek.

  Chapter 30

  The last thing Ol'Donny expected this early in the morning was Duke standing on his porch. As Ol'Donny stepped outside he heard the boards creak as Duke shifted his two hundred or so pounds. But it was Deeno that riveted his attention. The right side of the boy's cheek was bruised with a four-inch welt at the upper part, topped off with a half-inch gash covered with dried blood.

  "You evil bastard," said Ol'Donny, "what did you do to that boy?"

  "Now that ain't too neighborly o' you Murtagh. Cain't you see he's retarded? Probably fell or something."

  In his days, Ol'Donny Murtagh had been no slouch. There was a time he would have stood up to someone like Duke. He might even have won by sheer ferocity. But the years had slowed him down considerably, and he was well aware of that. Still he tried to push the big man back. Duke held his ground easily. He also held the boy by the arm. Deeno tried to push him away from Ol'Donny, but it was like David against Goliath without the slingshot.

  "Hey knock it off, both of you," said Duke. "Look Murtagh, you been taking this kid somewhere every day, you probably been working him or something. The way I see it, I'm the boy's guardian, legal and all. Now it takes a pile of money to raise a kid and you're working him for free. From now on, you want the kid to go with you its ten bucks a day. Cash. Starting now."

  In some parts of the country ten dollars a day is not a lot of money. In Ol'Donny world it was a king's ransom. It was just a little less than the meager Social Security check he received each month. The Everglades are not exactly a wellspring of financial opportunity and prosperity. The job for Richard Daniels was the first he had in a year. Still his mind raced, he would be able to afford the ten dollars a day as long as the project continued.

  Ol'Donny cleaned out his little cash box and managed to give Duke fifty dollars—a five-day reprieve.

  * * *

  If Deeno could have understood the concept, he would have realized he was simultaneously in heaven and hell. His days were joyous episodes with Ol'Donny and the men who worked on Daniel's barges. Everyone enjoyed the company of the boy as he fluttered back and forth between the men. They would tell him stories of the Everglades and the Native American tribes that had populated Florida centuries ago.

  Most of all, Deeno loved the stories and legends of the animals. He didn't understand many of the things the men would tell him, but he knew that if he smiled a lot and pretended to understand, they would feel good and that pleased Deeno. But he understood the colorful stories of the transformations and legends of the many animals that populated the great swamp. He loved being on the project, smelling the pitch used to seal the hull of the barges and the way the smoke rose in the clean air. That was Deeno's heaven.

  Hell was something else Hell in one word was Duke. Loretta was practically non-existent for Deeno, she ignored him and let Duke do whatever he wanted. She thought it was better to have Duke smack the boy around a little then have him smack her around. Besides, Duke was easing up on her now that they had some spending cash. The new truck and boat helped keep him in a good mood. Only thing is, thought Loretta, you gotta watch the Wild Turkey with Duke. That's why most nights Deeno was out of the house late, returning after Duke fell asleep.

  Deeno's problem was peeing. His room was nothing more than a large closet with no windows. During the day the temperature hit between ninety and a hundred, cooling off to the low eighties at night. Deeno's furniture was an old surplus army steel cot with a thin dirty mattress. The rest of the furniture was a stool and two crates packed with his clothes and pictures of his Grammy. There were no toys or games or any of the normal things one would have expected a twelve-year old boy to own.

  About half the nights, Duke would spend at Gator's bar, coming in between eleven and midnight. Those were the easy nights. Deeno would eat the warmed up TV dinner that Loretta left out for him. He could go outside and pee or use the bathroom inside before going to sleep. The nights when Duke stayed home were the problems.

  Duke would plop down in the easy chair, the Wild Turkey and shot glass at his side, the television on. He had withdrawn four thousand from Deeno's trust fund and bought a large high definition flat screen TV and satellite dish. Duke got all the channels and surfed until the bourbon closed his eyes.

  The night after he had gotten the fifty dollars from Ol'Donny Murtagh, Duke was dozing off in front of the TV. Deeno watched him, peeking through a crack in the closet door, he had to pee real bad. Holding his legs together, the boy had been watching for Duke's eyes to close so he could sneak into the bathroom. To reach the bath
room, he had to pass in front of Duke. Deeno opened the door slowly so it wouldn't creak, and tip-toed past Duke into the bathroom and sat on the seat so he would make as little noise as possible.

  He didn't make it back.

  Duke had both eyes open, brute red and hazy.

  "C'mere boy," said Duke.

  Deeno approached, his lower lip trembled and his hands shook.

  "Go in the kitchen and get me a beer boy, a nice cold one."

  Deeno went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a moldy piece of cheese on a paper plate, a half empty bottle of Diet Coke, a carton of milk and half a left over Swanson frozen turkey TV dinner.

  No beer. Loretta had forgotten.

  Deeno came back into the living room.

  "Th... th... th..."

  "Speak up boy, Godamn it. Where the hell's my beer?"

  Duke looked at the boy, his shaking hands and the terror filled expression on his face, the welt on his cheek almost purple in the reflected glow of the projection television. But Duke didn't see any of that. All he saw was empty hands.

  No beer.

  "I said where's my beer boy?"

  Deeno didn't answer, he couldn't answer, his mind had no provision for such events.

  Duke came out of his chair with a roar. He swung at the little boy. If he had connected, it was very likely he would have caused serious injury to the child, but Duke's bourbon fog threw off his aim. He recovered and launched a kick as the boy fled to his room. The kick connected on Deeno's hip, sending him crashing head first into the floor lamp.

  Duke slammed the door shut after Deeno.

  "Useless little fucker," he muttered.

  In the musty sour smelling closet, Deeno's tears joined the other stains on the dingy mattress as the area around his left eye turned black and purple.