by J. Thorn
"Hi," Pete said, and stopped in his tracks.
The old man stepped out, continued to stare, but nodded. "Evening."
"My name's Pete Lowell."
The man said nothing.
Pete continued. "I'm lookin' for Claire Lambert."
A look of distaste passed over the man's face, but he shut the door behind him and walked slowly toward Pete. "The Lamberts? What do you want with them?"
"I'm a friend."
"That's what everyone says who wants to bother them."
"I don't want to bother 'em, honest. I'm a friend of Claire's. I'm from Alabama. From Elkwood, where the bad stuff happened to her. I brought her to the hospital, helped her get home."
The breeze swept around the old man as he stopped close to Pete and appraised him. He smelled to Pete like pipe smoke and sardines. "You did, huh?"
Pete nodded. "She told me come see her. So I'm here, but I don't know which house is hers."
The old man nodded thoughtfully, and nibbled on his lower lip as if weighing the wisdom of telling the boy anything. Then he released a breath that somehow diminished his size, and nodded pointedly to his right. "Missed it by about two houses. That's it over there. The white one with the SUV parked out front."
Pete felt relief flood his senses. He had begun to fear he would never find Claire's house, and had no intention of knocking on every door in the neighborhood until he did. Sooner or later it would make someone even more suspicious than the old man appeared to be, and they might call the police on him.
"Thank you," Pete said, and smiled. "I've come a long way to see her."
"You're welcome," the man said, and turned to go back inside. Then he stopped, and looked over his shoulder. "But if you're who you say you are you know that they've been through Hell. No telling if you'll be welcome or not. Could be they won't appreciate the reminder." He raised his eyebrows. "Something worth thinking about is all."
Pete watched the old man disappear inside his house. He didn't need to consider what the old man had said. He had thought about it a hundred times over the past few weeks, and had come to the same conclusion. Claire might not want to see him at all. She might greet his presence on her doorstep with hostility. But it was a chance he would have to take, because he had promised he would come see her, and in all his life, he had never reneged on a promise. He wasn't about to start now.
He headed to the truck, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine, noticing as he did so the curtain move in the picture window of the old man's house.
*
Kara straightened her blouse, checked her makeup in the hallway mirror and grabbed her keys from the kitchen table, where Claire was sitting eating messy spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream and staring at her.
"Can I trust you not to go running off playing Rambo with that maniac Finch while I'm gone?"
"Nope," Claire said and grinned, her teeth brown. "But you needn't worry. I'm sure he didn't hang around waiting for you to fuck up his plans. In fact, knowing him, he's already down there now, causing all kinds of trouble."
"Don't use that language with me, Claire. Please." There was little vehemence in her tone. She was tired, and though she loved her sister, playing the role of nurturing guardian had proved exhausting and required from her levels of patience she hadn't known she possessed. Ever since they had come home from the hospital and their mother had retreated into herself rather than face the task of caring for a damaged daughter, Kara had been forced to step up to the plate. She was tired, cranky, and today was her first day back to work. She had too much to worry about. Any more and her head was likely to explode from the stress of it all. She knew leaving Claire alone was not the wisest idea, and that it would not be at all surprising if she stole the SUV and headed off after Finch. But she didn't think that would happen. The idea had excited her sister for a time, for one dangerous moment when the opportunity had been handed to her to see Finch's warped sense of justice play out firsthand. But that moment had passed. Claire was right. Finch would already be gone, and God help him. But her sister was here, and Kara had come to realize that she could not stand watch over her forever, nor was it fair to impose such restrictions. A little leeway might mend the broken bridge of trust between them. Maybe sometime soon, counseling would expedite that process.
One thing at a time, she told herself.
The time she had taken off to care for Claire had ended an hour ago. Her boss at the manufacturing company she handled the accounting for would not be thrilled at her tardiness. Of course, he wouldn't say anything, given the circumstances, but Kara herself loathed being late for anything.
"I have to go," she said, exasperated and stuffed her wallet into her purse. "How do I look?"
"Flustered," Claire said, without looking at her.
"I'll be home at nine." She leaned over so her face was almost level with her sister's. "Please be here. Mom needs you."
"Mom needs to lay off the Vicodin."
Kara sighed and headed for the door. Hand on the doorknob, she turned and looked back into the kitchen. Claire was licking the spoon.
"A friend of mine from the police will be cruising by every now and then. Just to keep an eye on things."
Claire lowered the spoon. She had a goatee of chocolate, which she fingered as she watched her sister open the door. Kara could tell that whatever she was going to say was not going to be pleasant, so she decided not to wait to hear it. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
*
The woman who stepped from the house was not Claire, but her sudden appearance had shaken him, and almost propelled him back to the truck. But he told himself to be calm, despite the feeling that the blood in his veins had been replaced with water, his bones turned to jelly. It had been a long hard road to get here, but he was here, and if he ran, he knew he'd regret it for the rest of his days.
The woman stepped off the porch and stopped abruptly as she saw him. Pete clutched his hands to keep them from shaking. The woman was pretty, but severe-looking, as if she spent so much of her time frowning that the lines had permanently etched themselves onto her face. She wore that frown now as she looked him up and down. Her expression was not that much different from her elderly neighbor's. It was as if the houses had been invaded not so long ago, leaving the residents with a fear of strangers.
"Who are you?" she asked, one hand straying to her purse.
"Pete Lowell," he said quickly, in case it was a gun she was reaching for.
"What can I do for you Pete Lowell?" She did not sound welcoming. Rather, her tone made him feel as if he had a limited amount of words with which to explain his reason for being here before something bad happened.
"I...I came to see Claire."
"I'm afraid that's impossible."
"Oh," he said, crestfallen.
"She's not seeing anyone. We recently had an incident that has left her—"
Pete nodded. "I know. I were there."
The cautious look on the woman's face deepened to outright suspicion, perhaps even fear, and from her purse, she produced a slim black cylinder with a red trigger.
"You were there?"
"Yes Ma'am. I drove her away from Elkwood. Took her to the hospital."
He thought she might have relaxed a little at that, but couldn't be sure. His mind raced, caught between advising him to flee while he still could and standing his ground until he made the woman understand.
"You're Pete," the woman said, her tone unchanged.
"Yes Ma'am."
"She mentioned you. Quite a bit."
That pleased Pete immensely, and it must have shown on his face, because this time the woman did relax, her shoulders dropping a little, the frown a little less severe. She did not, however, put the small cylinder back into her purse. Instead she lightly thumbed the trigger while she stared at him.
"I don't think it's a good idea for you to see her," she said. "But you should know she's grateful to you. We all are. You're a hero, Pete.
If not for you..." She trailed off and shook her head. "Maybe in a few months we can arrange a visit, but now...now's not a great time. I'm sure you understand."
He nodded, but he didn't understand. Didn't want to understand. He was so close. Claire might be just beyond that door, maybe even listening to the woman telling him he couldn't see her. Maybe any minute now she would come running out to greet him and everything would be okay. "I'm sorry," he told the woman. "But I've come a real long way today. Had to get here on my own, but that's all right. I just want to see Claire, just for a little bit. I don't even have to come in. Even if she just comes to the window. That'd be fine too. But I'd like to see her, see how she's doin', maybe talk to her for a little bit. If it helps any, I know she don't like to sing." He smiled at the memory of Claire's words. "I don't neither."
Finally, the woman dropped the black cylinder back into her purse, slung it over her shoulder and walked to meet him. She returned his smile, but it didn't reach her eyes, and Pete felt his hope drop another notch.
"Pete..." the woman said. "You're a sweet boy, but you being here now, today, it isn't the best idea. Claire's trying to forget what happened to her down there. I'm sure you can appreciate that. But even though you're a hero and you saved her, you're still part of that memory." She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. "Seeing you might hurt rather than heal her. It might bring back everything she's trying so hard to forget."
When he didn't move, or give her any indication that he saw the logic in her words, she walked toward him, her hand still on his shoulder, and steered him around until he was facing the truck and walking at her behest. "I promise you," she said, "When things improve and she's up to seeing you, we'll arrange something. Can you leave your contact information?"
When he looked blankly at her, she said, "Somewhere we can reach you."
He shook his head. "Ain't nowhere to reach me. They burned down my house, and my second Momma's gone too."
The woman's frown returned, carving a deep groove between her eyes that could hold a dime. "Where do you live then?"
He shrugged. "Don't know yet."
At that moment, the sound of the front door opening made them both turn. Pete felt his heart swell, his throat tightening. For one confusing moment he worried he might wet his pants.
"Claire," the woman said. "Go back inside."
Pete stepped away from the woman. She'd been blocking his view of the door, but now he could see the frail figure who was standing in the doorway. Every fear and hope he'd entertained since that night in Elkwood when he had put her back onto the road from which she'd strayed came together in a vortex that threatened to suck him into itself and grind him up. His trembling intensified. He swallowed. Couldn't move.
"Claire..." the woman began, but slumped and sighed heavily. "Goddamn it, I can't do this now." Then she walked past him, and a moment later, Pete dimly registered the sound of a car's engine as she drove away.
Still he stood rooted to the spot as Claire, barely recognizable with her dark hair and the equally dark eyepatch, stepped out into the light. "Pete?" she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
He nodded, felt a thousand words cram into his throat, strangling him.
Claire's face split into a wide smile. "You came."
The colors of the world seemed brighter in that moment, as if God had, without anyone noticing, touched them up just for this occasion. And still Pete couldn't speak. All he could do was nod dumbly.
A moment later, the need for speech was negated as Claire hurried toward him, her gait strange and uneven. She stopped before him, her smile wavering as she wept.
Pete willed himself to speak.
"I promised," he said, and almost cried out with the fright as she dove into his arms.
-32-
They crossed the line into Radner County at dusk. To Finch it was as if whoever was responsible for the distribution of bucolic beauty had run out of materials to work with and left everything beyond the county line stand as an advertisement for desolation. The road narrowed and quickly disintegrated, pummeled over the years by heavy machinery, logging trucks, perhaps, or semis carrying toxic materials to and from the chemical waste facility that even now appeared as an unsightly block of shadow and a tall thin chimney at the far end of acres of fenced-off land. No one had bothered to repair the road, no more than they had felt compelled to repair the fields the treatment facility had contaminated. The air here seemed denser, the sky a curious shade of purple and red, the horizon tinged with emerald green, as if foretelling of tornadoes. Finch thought such a noxious place appropriate for the quarry they were hunting, a natural miasma to which the corrupt would gravitate.
"You do realize there's every chance McKindrey was bullshittin' us, right?"
Finch nodded. "Of course, but if he was, you can't help but feel respect for a guy who would get his nose smashed and toes shot off and then lie to you."
"Not sure respect is the word I'd use."
"Your friend Niles get back to you?" Finch asked, referring to the communications officer Beau had known in the Gulf and whom they had relied upon to track the signal from Claire's cell phone to Danny's. "Yeah, and that's why I'm not too confident about McKindrey's tip."
"It didn't come from down here?"
"Nope. If we were trying to track the signal in a city, it would have been a hell of a trick to get it, but out in the sticks there aren't as many cell phone users, so fewer towers, which made our boy's job easier. But Niles was able to triangulate the signal to within a ten mile radius, and Elkwood was sitting smack dab in the middle of it."
Finch shrugged. "All that means is Danny's cell phone is still in their house, or somewhere nearby. We didn't exactly turn the place upside down. It doesn't mean the Merrills themselves are still there."
"Hope you're right."
While they drove, neither of them commented on the thick, ugly atmosphere that surrounded the car. Dark, stagnant pools resisted the caress of current or breeze and lay still beneath skins of yellow foam. They saw few animals other than an occasional coon or possum lying on its side on the road. Vultures circled overhead, seeking carrion a little more tantalizing, a little less rotten. On all sides of the road, stretched countless miles of boggy, swampy land, all of it seeming to emanate from the plant, a large sandy-colored building fronted by a tall white chimney which coughed billowing black clouds into the sky while ugly liquid vomited forth into a putrid lake from culverts at its base. The many windows in the building's face were made of reflective glass, as if the laborers within felt more secure in their deeds if they went unseen. A chain link fence sealed off the perimeter. Behind the closed gate at the entrance stood a booth with the same reflective glass as the building's windows. It was impossible to tell if it was manned.
A place of death, Finch thought, and was struck by the sudden, alarming notion that it might well be the place where he himself would die. It was a notion he resisted with everything in him.
He recalled something Beau had said when it became clear they had left the bustling cities far behind them, the nature-burnt leaves falling away to be replaced by spindly-limbed, skeletal trees, the air darker and less pure: "Know what's funny?" he'd said, out of the blue. "You keep mentionin' 9/11 and the World Trade Center, comparin' this to that. Mostly I haven't agreed with you, thought you were gettin' carried away with yourself, to tell the truth, but you got me thinkin' about it now."
"And?" Finch had asked, wondering if his friend had finally come around to his way of thinking. It didn't take long to realize he hadn't.
"And I think those chickenshits flew planes into those towers and killed themselves because they knew they'd never beat us on our own soil. Like you said, if they'da been on the ground, we'd have messed their shit up. So they stuck to the sky where we couldn't touch them. What they did though was set a trap, make the whole damn country so mad the president wouldn't have no choice but to send our troops over there, into their crib, where the bad guys'd have the
advantage. It was a trap, and we fell for it."
"What's your point?"
"My point is, bro, that you and I are doin' the same goddamn thing. Walkin' into a place we don't know, to fight an enemy we know even less. And the advantage is all theirs."
"It would be," Finch told him. "If they were expecting us, and if we weren't armed."
"You puttin' too much faith in that shit, man. Way too much. Our boys had plenty of guns in 'Nam too, but they didn't know where to point 'em. Didn't know the enemy could burrow like moles and have 'em killed before they could get a shot off. Always gonna be a strike against you if you ain't familiar with where you're fightin'."
As long as he'd known him, Beau had liked to debate about matters of war, and apply his extensive knowledge of it to current events, military-related, or not. His clinically clean apartment was crowded with bookshelves, each one packed full of volumes about various historical conflicts. Ordinarily, listening to Beau ruminate about the Viet Cong, or Napoleon's folly, or Custer's ego, didn't bother him, but it did now, because he had yet to compare their present situation to any battles in which the good guys had emerged victorious.
"This shouldn't be a revelation to you, man," he'd said. "You've been out of your element before. We both have."
He was talking about the Gulf, a subject Finch preferred to avoid as much as possible. Unfortunately, given his love for such topics, Beau had no such reservations, but at least he had the tact not to mention the events at Sadr al-Qanat, events which had left Finch, for the first time in his life, contemplating suicide.
Still, in times of despair, when he kept his eyes shut for too long, he saw the woman in the black abaya—the traditional Islamic cloak—hustling toward him, arms held out, imploring. Her expression was one of pleading, of resignation, and of fear, for around her waist she wore an explosives belt. Finch had called a warning, not because he had seen the belt—which he hadn't, that would come later—but because she wasn't supposed to approach the soldiers. The previous weeks had seen a number of his comrades blown to pieces by seemingly innocuous locals, and they were now on their guard. Frequently he repainted the woman's expression, gave it a devilish aspect, a demonic leer, but in reality there had been no such thing. Only fear, incubating beneath a veil of grim acceptance.
