“Bubba shrimp. Shit.” He moves his chin from side to side very slowly. “Your ass is locked up anyway, D. You can’t be serious.”
“Listen, Rankin—”
He sees something he doesn’t like in my expression. Somehow he always knows which direction my thoughts are moving before I do.
“Oh, no,” he says, before I can spit out the rest, “I know where you’re going with this, and—”
“No, wait, hear me out.”
“You are joking.” He looks at me and tries to decide. The shit of it is, I’m not too sure myself. “I really hope you’re joking.”
“I can’t let that kid die.” About this, I’m absolutely sure.
“I believe you said that the last time. I believed you last time and now I really, truly, believe you. See, the problem is that my ass is on the line here too.”
“The last time we didn’t know about fifty million dollars sitting under a truck tire in the desert.”
“No, more like thirty-three and a half million. Split between three different spots.”
“Damn, you do have good ears.”
“I can’t do it, D. Something bad’s going to happen. I can feel it.”
“Yeah, well, something awful’s going to happen if I don’t. A dead kid.”
“Oh, man, D. There ain’t no fucking kid and you know it. You tried to show me, remember? All I saw was some joke teeth.” Rankin turns his hand into chattering joke teeth, tapping the heel of his palm with his fingers. His pink-nubbed pinkie wiggles like a little tongue.
“Rankin, please, I’m begging you.” I get down on my knees and clasp my hands together.
“I ain’t listening to any more of this bullshit.”
“Come on, Rankin, come on.”
Rankin shuts the door. I can’t say that I blame him. I shouldn’t. But damn if I don’t.
89
I don’t sleep.
90
A door slams. Someone shouts. But at first when I hear Rankin’s voice, I think he’s talking to me through the Judas hole. Then I hear the second voice. It’s high-pitched and breathless.
“I have to, Rankin. It’s important.” Lopez is back.
“You already seen him, man. Once is enough. They find you down here, they’re going to throw both our asses in these cells. You already wound his chain up. Leave him be.” His voice moves closer, as though he’s physically blocking the door to my cell.
What comes next is confusing. Another voice yells from the far end of the hallway. The echoes make it impossible to understand the words or recognize the voice. Lopez and Rankin shout back at the same time. There’s a brief silence. And then a rifle locks.
“I don’t have it,” Lopez shouts. “I gave it to him last night. It’s too late.”
“Put that thing away, sir,” Rankin says, his voice tight and tense. “There ain’t no call for that.”
I press myself against the door and listen. I hold my breath.
The first gunshot is so loud, the door rattles in its frame. My ears ring. Two three-burst shots follow that are even louder. Boots pound the floor. Another shout. Another gunshot. A cry of pain. Just outside the door, Lopez mutters. His voice is very low and guttural, and he speaks so quickly that the words run together.
“Rankin!” I shout. “What the hell is going on?”
Footsteps move away and return. The door opens. Outside, the hallway is completely black. I step back and instinctively look for cover. There’s nothing. The light from my cell cuts away a slice of the darkness. Just enough to make out a figure.
“Rankin?” I say, clenching my fists.
The figure makes a choking sound and steps forward. It’s Lopez. There is a bright red mark on his chin the size and shape of a strawberry. His good eye is wide and its iris is rimmed with white. He glances quickly over his shoulder, then steps closer. The spot on his chin is a perfect bloody thumbprint.
“What—” I start to ask even before I know the question.
“He shot him.” Lopez grinds his teeth and makes a strange, high-pitched humming sound.
“The lieutenant? Rankin? What are you talking about?”
“The captain.”
“But I don’t—”
“The captain killed him.” He speaks faster now. His words tumble over each other. My ears still buzz and it’s hard to understand him. “I came back to tell you I would do it. I would take the stuff to Inmar. I didn’t know he was following me. I swear it. I didn’t know. Rankin didn’t want to let me in, and then the captain came and—”
“Rankin is dead?” One part of me stays and asks Lopez this question, and another floats up and watches from the ceiling of the cell. My hands go numb and my right leg starts to shake and spasm. I try and hold it still with my useless hands. It is right then that I stop believing in the world, the same way I stopped believing in God when I was seven. The morning after my parents’ funeral when I woke up in my grandpa’s house. Bright white light and the rumble of his voice: “You’ll be staying with me now, Toby.”
Lopez nods.
I have to hold it together. I have to hold it together.
“Are you sure, Lopez? Are you sure?”
He glances over his shoulder into the dark hallway and then back again at me, clicking his rifle’s safety on and off, on and off.
“Where’s the captain?”
“I don’t know. He just—” He makes an odd little gesture with his hands, as though trying to form a shadow puppet. “—ran away. I think I hit him once. At least once. Maybe twice. Then the light went out. I heard him running.” He points to the ceiling. “Up.”
“All right, all right.” I take a deep breath and let it out. “We got to go. You and me. We’ll both go to Inmar.”
“But what about. . . .” He grimaces.
“None of that matters any more. If we stay here, we’re both dead.”
Lopez looks down at his rifle. “I shot an officer. I, I. . . .” His voice wanders off and his eyes lose focus. He goes blank.
I snap my fingers. “Lopez, Lopez, stick with me here. We don’t have time for this kind of shit now. Pack it away. Think about it later. Come on.”
“Uh.” This is all he can get out.
I grab Lopez by the sleeve and pull him into the hall. He follows without resisting. Before I take three steps, I stumble into something. I kneel, my leg pressing against Rankin’s side. Immediately, blood soaks through my pants. I feel for his neck. He’s still warm, but his heart has stopped. Even if it weren’t dark, I wouldn’t be able to see. My eyes burn and blear. A tear drips off my chin. Fucking Rankin. I’m sorry I got you into this shit. You must be so pissed off at me right now. Rankin.
“How will we get away?” Lopez asks. His voice sounds tiny in the darkness, but it brings me back to the here-and-now. “The keys for the Humvees are locked away, and—”
“Are they still firing mortars?” I stand and thumb away the moisture from my eyes. “Are we still fighting?”
“No,” Lopez says, “it all stopped a couple of hours ago. I left my post at the sentry gate to come here.”
“Who else was there with you?” I’m thinking as fast as I can.
“I replaced Howley. It’s just that other new guy, uh, what’s his name? McCrae, I think.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Come on.”
“But what about—”
“Trust me,” I say.
I feel around in the darkness for Rankin’s rifle. It’s wet and tacky. Lopez and I bump heads as I stand. Purple stars whiz through darkness. I grab his sleeve and pull him behind me down the hall. On the second step of the stairway, I slip on something wet, and I fall. It smells like rusty nails. Lopez stops. He won’t move even when I yank on his shirt.
“Trust me,” I say again. “There’s no other way.”
Lopez doesn’t answer, but he moves when I pull.
91
I hand Lopez the keys. He looks at them as though he’s never seen such things before. I guide his h
and to the ignition and turn. The truck grumbles to life on the first try. It’s the one Ahmed and I take on shit-burning runs. The bed in back is full of charred oil barrels. Lopez hasn’t spoken a word since I pulled him up the stairs. It took us forty-five minutes to find our way out. Every time we turned a corner, I expected the captain to appear with a rifle in his hands. We saw no one until the motor pool. Just before we got the bay door open, Salis came jogging by, dragging a large plastic tub. I ducked into the building. Salis shouted something I couldn’t make out, but he didn’t see me. “Ammo,” Lopez said in response to whatever it was he asked.
And that is it until we reach the gate and the newbie named McCrae stops us. I’m hunched down on the floorboard sandbags, trying to make myself disappear. All I can see is the top of his helmet.
“Why’d you take off on me like that?” he asks Lopez. His voice rises into a whine. “I’ve been hearing gunfire all over the place since you left. Where are you going? It’s not even light out yet.”
Lopez’s face looks pale green in the light from the dash. He hasn’t turned on the truck’s headlights. For a few seconds, the only sound I hear is the uneven chug of the diesel engine. He must be choking up, losing his shit. I’m not sure how to get him going again. If we don’t move now, then—
Without turning his head, Lopez says, “Mind your own fucking business. I’m under orders.”
“Sorry,” the new guy sputters, “sorry, I just—”
Lopez jams the truck into gear, and we lurch ahead into purple-streaked morning.
92
Lopez parks the truck behind a boulder on the far side of the factory. The sun nudges itself up to the edge of the horizon. The world is purple. I check the magazine on Rankin’s rifle and sling it over my shoulder.
“You can’t go in there,” Lopez sputters. “What if it blows?”
“At this point. . . .” I shrug. “Just keep the engine running. If someone comes, gun it. Take off without me.”
He shakes his head. “I thought all that stuff about the kid in the factory was nonsense. I was sure you’d just made it up. Not as an excuse to meet insurgents, now I know that was wrong, but for something. Goofing off. I don’t know.”
“The kid’s really there. Or at least he was there.”
“Are you sure about this? There wasn’t anyone in the factory a few days ago.”
“What?” I say, squeezing the stock of the rifle until the joint on my thumb cracks. “What do you mean, a few days ago?”
“The lieutenant and me and Sergeant Oliphant came down here with a squad to check it out after your first hearing. We put up a perimeter and they went inside. Believe me, I would have known if they found someone.”
“Did you go inside?”
“No.” When he opens his mouth to speak, it smells as though there’s a small dead animal inside. The skin beneath his good eye is dark and wrinkled, his cheeks caked with grime.
Somewhere from the north comes the distinct thudding sound of a Kiowa helicopter. At first, I can’t see anything, and then, drifting up from the base, I spot its running lights, weaving slightly as it rises into the air.
“Oh, shit,” I say. My voice cracks. “The captain’s helicopter. Did you see it when we left?”
“It must have come when we were lost under the fort. I didn’t think we were down there that long, but—”
“We’ve got to move. If he gets to Inmar before you, then you’re—”
“There’s no way I can beat a helicopter in this piece of junk.”
“You’re right.” I think for a moment. “You’ll have to go north. There’s a huge base where the highway meets the river. FOB Wounded Knee.”
Lopez nods reluctantly.
“He can’t call every base around here. There’s too many places you could go. When you don’t show up in Inmar after five hours, that’s when he’ll start looking. By then you’ll be fine. There’s no way he’ll be able to fuck with you after you give them this stuff. And then a few of these assholes will be the ones doing the explaining.”
Lopez winces, and for a moment I wonder if he’s ill. His good eye looks bleary and wet.
“What about you?” His throat sounds damaged, raw.
“What about me? Keep the truck running for five minutes and then go if I don’t come out. And in the meantime, you better move this truck in case—”
“—you get your stupid butt blown off.” He grimaces. The cab of the truck feels very hot and only now do I notice the dirty sweet smell of liquid shit. It’s going to get a lot worse when the sun comes up, I think. Lopez will have something nice to remember me by.
As I open the door, an assault pack starts to slip out and I catch it before it falls. I must have left this after one of the shit-burning runs. Inside are a half-full canteen and two red flares. Whenever a soldier leaves the wire, they’re required to bring at least two flares in case of emergency. It can’t hurt, I think, and swing it onto my back.
“Remember,” I tell him, “hold back a few of the better prints just in case.”
He gives me a sad, imploring smile. “Come on, Durrant, don’t do this. I need your help. Besides, it’s not worth it. This folder is more important than—”
But I don’t hear the rest, because I’m already out and running toward the factory.
93
I hide behind the far wall until I get my bearings. Even at this hour, the desert is warming up fast. Sweat drips down my rib cage. I move from bush to bush and rock to rock. As the sun breaks free from the horizon, it burns the sky. First purple, then red, then pink. The massive desert vista takes on the color of chewed-up bubblegum. The desert itself seems an odd color as well. The world becomes visible in small increments. And then I suddenly see what’s caused this. All across the plains, small green sprouts are breaking through the muddy sand. It looks like a field of Georgia clover in April. The desert has sprung to life.
I stop at the factory gate and scope out the area as best as I can. As always, it looks completely deserted. I glance back over my shoulder at the highway and see the shit truck’s dust trail moving north and away. Good luck, Lopez. The base seems tiny from here, a collection of gray blocks, like something a child could knock over with his fist. Usually it’s just a dark smear below the hills, but the air is clear enough today to see for miles. The storm has washed the sky clean. I race around the wall and into the factory grounds. I don’t have much time.
I wait to whistle until I get inside. Something strikes me as odd, the air smells strange, so I wait. On the other side of the factory, people are speaking. I creep across broken glass, crouch below a window. American voices.
“All right, fucko, let’s get her done.”
“I hate that guy, that cable guy. He ain’t funny,” another voice says.
“Shut up.”
“Why you think the El-Tee wanted that kid anyway?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Did you see how fast that little bugger ran?”
“Will you please shut the fuck up, please?”
“I’m just saying. It must of hurt when she kicked you.”
“Shut up.”
Salis and Hazel. So they’re already here. If the lieutenant has these two out looking for Herman, that must mean the captain has spoken with the lieutenant about the money I found here. Probably just before he killed Rankin. It takes everything I have not to pop up and ask Hazel if he’s seen the captain. The Goddamn captain dogs me like a guilty conscience. I wish Lopez had shot him in the heart. We didn’t hear any radio chatter on the way over here, but the radio in the shit truck doesn’t always work right. I pull myself up to the edge of the windowsill. They’re just below. If I’d peeked any sooner they’d have seen me. Salis and Hazel crunch across the factory yard, playing out wire from a big plastic spool as they go. They must have been inside when Lopez and I pulled up or they’d have come out to meet us.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Hazel says, chattering away as happy as can be. He sound
s like a five-year-old on the way to the zoo. “I had to laugh when I see that little kid kick you like that. Tell me now, for real, you ever see a kid run that fast before? The El-Tee’s got every swinging dick doing—”
That means Herman’s still around here somewhere.
“Hazel?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up a sec.” Salis twists Hazel’s earlobe until he yelps. “You’re cluttering up my head. Just wait till we get this done, and then you can babble all you please.”
“Jesus, Sal.” His face falls. “Sorry.”
“You set one under the support in the middle like I told you?”
I can’t hear Hazel’s answer. The two of them climb over the twisted iron gates and leave the yard. An engine turns over. A moment later their Humvee edges past the gate. Hazel sits in back with the door open. He’s got the fuse spool in his lap. It clatters as the wire unrolls. The Humvee crawls over the gravel toward the highway. As soon as I think they’re out of earshot, I start calling for the kid.
“Herman, Herman, you hear me? You’ve got to get out. Now!”
I rush through the factory, yelling and whistling. Presidential heads are scattered all across the factory floor from the office to the main entrance. There are hundreds and hundreds of them. I can imagine the reception this got. What on earth did Herman think he was doing? He’s not in the office. He’s not in the warehouse. I kick through the rolls of rotten fabric. I run through the old sewing rooms. At the back of the last sewing room is a door I haven’t seen before. A heavy metal door painted sky-blue. I shove it open and hurry in without looking, tripping over an injection mold of some sort almost immediately. The floor is sticky and warm. There’s a heavy chemical smell in the air, like burning plastic.
“Herman!”
Goddamn it. I’m going to get my own ass blown up if I don’t find him soon. I make one more circuit of the factory, shouting as loud as I can. It isn’t until I stop to breathe for a moment that I wonder if Hazel and Salis have heard the racket I’m making. Out of habit, I glance down at my watch. It’s sand-scoured and unreadable. I throw it against the wall. There’s nothing I can do. I’ve got to get out.
The Sandbox Page 31
