More Deaths Than One

by Pat Bertram

  “You never came home for a visit?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Albion consulted the form Bob had filled out in the admitting room, punched up something on the computer screen, and glanced at it.

  He rose to his feet. “Let’s take a look at you.”

  He listened to Bob’s heart, then gestured toward the scars crisscrossing his chest. “The mine?”

  “A hunting accident when I was young.”

  The doctor finished his cursory examination and returned to the computer. After a moment, he looked from the screen to Bob’s feet.

  “This is strange. It says here you lost your left foot and now use a prosthesis. I couldn’t have missed that, could I?”

  “No,” Bob said absently, his mind on the other Robert Stark who limped when he got tired. Could Kerry’s preposterous notion about alternate universes be correct? Could the explosion have created a diver-gence, causing him to travel two different but simul-taneous paths of probability? The thought made his headache flare.

  Dr. Albion turned back to the computer. “There’s no mention here of a head trauma, or of the cicatrices on your chest.” Heaving a sigh, he pushed away from the computer and leaned back. “These records have your name, serial number, and social security number on them, but apparently they’re mixed with someone else’s. Unfortunately, that does happen. We’ll be doing tests—blood, urine, and so on—and the results should be here in a week, but you never know. As usual, we’re short-staffed and overworked. Hopefully, your medical record situation will be straightened out by then.” His expression clearly said he doubted it.

  “I can prescribe a moderate painkiller for your headaches, but I need to find out more about your head trauma before I decide on a course of treatment. Meantime, you might want to check in with some of the Vietnam vet support groups in the area.” He reached into a drawer, pulled out a list, and handed it to Bob. “It’s entirely possible your symptoms are due to something called Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. You’ve heard of that?”

  “Yes,” Bob said. “But it’s been sixteen years since I got out of the army. Why would I get it now?”

  “I’m thinking it could have something to do with your belated return home, combined with culture shock, possibly complicated by the high altitude.”

  Scanning the list, Bob noticed he had a choice of groups on any given day. He felt too tired to go to one tonight, but perhaps tomorrow evening he might drop in on the group that met in the basement of a church not far from the boardinghouse.

  ***

  Bob stood in the open doorway, surprised to see so few men in the group: not quite a dozen. They all seemed to be in their late thirties to early forties, and most of them looked prosperous.

  “My wife’s an archeologist,” a large man with a thin mustache said. “She’s never forgiven me for blowing up the Mi Son tower.”

  A man with deep crinkles around his eyes spoke in what sounded like an Australian accent. “Didn’t you explain to her that the NVA used it as an arms dump and a radio tower?”

  “Of course I did, many times, but she refuses to see reason. She says that except for some minor damage at Angkor in Cambodia, no other archeological monument ever sustained war damage. She thinks blowing up the tower was the worst atrocity of Vietnam.”

  “Doesn’t even rank in the top ten,” exclaimed a dark-skinned man who looked like an athlete past his prime. “The massacre at Hue was by far the . . .”

  Bob turned to leave. The painkillers didn’t seem to be working, and it felt as if a ball bearing caromed around in his head. Before he could escape, a pleasant-faced man with thinning auburn hair approached him. Like Bob, he wore chinos and a white shirt.

  He smiled at Bob as if they were old friends, and extended a hand. His grasp felt firm but without challenge.

  “I’m Scott Mulligan.”

  Bob hesitated. When he realized Scott had not mistaken him for someone else, but simply acted open and friendly, he introduced himself.

  “Nice to meet you,” Scott said, sounding as if he meant it. “This group can seem a bit intimidating at first. Over the years it’s evolved into something of a little boys club for history buffs.” He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “What do you say, Bob? Since you’re already here, why don’t you come in for a few minutes? Have a cup of coffee. It’s good coffee. I promise. I made it myself.”

  Bob let himself be drawn forward. To his relief, Scott did not make an issue of his presence, but poured him a thick white mug of coffee and ushered him to a chair slightly behind the haphazardly formed circle.

  Hands wrapped around the mug, soaking in the warmth, Bob shot covert glances at the group. Combat veterans like these had begun making pilgrimages to Thailand where many had gone for R&R. Although strangers, the veterans always seemed to recognize one another, as if their sojourn in country had left a readily identifiable brand on each of their foreheads. They drank together and often discussed experiences they had never been able to talk about before.

  Bob had mostly avoided those discussions. Despite his injury, he had not seen combat. He had been stationed in relatively safe Saigon until he received orders to accompany a convoy of supply trucks headed for Qui Nhon. En route, his truck hit a mine.

  Listening to the discussion lapping against him, Bob felt a sudden twinge of unbelonging. Only Scott’s encouraging smile kept him in his seat.

  A high voice rose even higher in anger. “My kid came home from school the other day and told me we lost the war in Vietnam because the American military did not know jungle warfare.”

  “Horseshit,” the archeologist’s husband said. “We didn’t lose. We left. And it wasn’t a war. We were supposed to be there, a presence, until the people who make those kinds of decisions got what they wanted. Like in Korea.”

  The man with the high voice made balloons of his cheeks, then blew out the air. “I tried telling that to my kid, but he wouldn’t believe me. I hate to think what other crap they’re teaching him.”

  Bob set his still full cup of coffee on the chair and left the building. He stood in the shadow of the old stone church, breathing deeply. The cooling air had an earthy smell, like mushrooms.

  Scott joined him. “Are you all right? You look green around the gills.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Scott gave him a dubious glance, then gestured toward the door they’d exited. “I guess you didn’t expect that. If you want, I can put you in touch with other groups that are more into healing than history, ones that will actually let you air your problems.”

  Bob watched a single brown leaf falling from a nearby oak tree. “I’m not much of a joiner.”

  “Well, if you ever need anyone to talk to, I’d be willing to listen. I’m in the phone book, or you can check here at the church.”

  “Are you a minister?”

  Scott laughed. “No. I help when I can—mow the grass, supervise various activities, whatever needs doing. I believe belonging to a church extends beyond Sunday attendance.” He peered at Bob. “You don’t look very good. Maybe you should come back inside.”

  Bob felt himself warming to this genial man, but he didn’t want to hear any more talk of the war. As he tried to pluck polite words of refusal out of his aching head, he heard the sound of voices coming nearer and the clump of many pairs of shoes.

  “The meeting must be ending early,” Scott said. “My family will be pleased. They’re waiting for me. This is Monopoly night. What about you? Do you have family?”

  Bob shook his head. He hadn’t considered Jackson family for a long time now, and he doubted the other Robert Stark qualified.

  “Friends?” Scott queried.

  “Not here in Denver.”

  “Are you new to the area?”

  “Yes and no.” To his surprise, Bob found himself explaining he’d grown up in Denver, but had spent the past eighteen years in Southeast Asia.

  “Welcome home, Bob,” Scott said with a smile. “Tell you what. Why do
n’t you come to my house for dinner tomorrow evening. Say, six o’clock? You’ll like my family. They’re nice people.”

  Bob shifted his weight to one foot, preparing to leave. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “No imposition. We’d love to have you. My wife enjoys fussing over company. Besides, you’d be doing me a favor. My children have never met anyone who’s lived in Thailand. It would be good to broaden their horizons.”

  Bob finally agreed. Tucking Scott’s address into his pocket, he headed for the car he had purchased earlier that day, and drove to the Golden Pagoda for dinner.

  ***

  Bob dreamed he wandered in the jungle. A numb, helpless feeling permeated his body as he pushed against foliage too dense to allow passage. He could feel menace all around him, but it was nebulous, without form or reason. He let out a wordless cry. No one heard.

  When he awoke, his heart pounded, his lungs heaved, his head throbbed. He stared wildly about him.

  Wide-awake now, he remembered who he was, where he was. He sat up and buried his face in his hands until his heartbeat slowed and his breathing returned to normal.

  He rose from the bed, pulled on his clothes, and slipped out into the predawn world.

  ***

  “Do I know you?”

  Bob glanced at Kerry, wondering what game she played now. “I’m the hot chocolate.”

  Her eyes brightened. “That’s what I thought, but I didn’t know for sure if you were you or your other self.”

  She hurried off in answer to the imperial summons of a business-suited woman with a pinched face, but returned a few minutes later with Bob’s drink.

  Setting the cup in front of him, she asked, “What have I missed?”

  “Nothing. I’ve been busy and haven’t been able to check on the other Robert Stark, and anyway, it’s hard to tail someone if your transportation is buses and cabs. But I bought a car, so we’ll see.”

  “What color?”

  “Originally? Blue. Now it’s so faded it looks gray.”

  Laughter sparked in her eyes. “You bought a junker. Why am I not surprised? What kind?”

  “A 1969 Volkswagen bug. It runs well and cost three hundred dollars.” Since he hadn’t driven for many years, he’d had a hard time finding his rhythm, but he saw no reason to mention that.

  She flicked back her hair. “You’re not big on commitment, are you? You won’t even commit to an apartment or a real car.”

  A ragged old man smelling of whiskey and urine entered the restaurant, sat on a stool, and carefully laid a few coins on the counter. Kerry poured him a cup of coffee, refilled the woman’s cup, then paused by Bob’s table, still clutching the pot.

  “What about you and the cheat?” he asked.

  She smoothed her apron with her free hand. “I have some more thinking to do on that, so for now I’m still peddling porches.”

  He gave her a quizzical glance.

  “Didn’t I tell you? I guess not. He owns a construction company that builds porches and decks. Calls it Pete’s Porches.”

  She left, refilled the cups of the three or four other customers, made a new pot of coffee, then stopped at Bob’s table once more.

  The pressure in his head started to build. He rubbed his throbbing temples with two fingers of each hand.

  “Headache?” she asked sympathetically. “Do you want an aspirin?”

  “No, that’s all right. It comes and goes.”

  She chewed on her lower lip, watching him with narrow-eyed concentration. “A couple of times I’ve seen you leaving the Chinese restaurant across the street. Do you eat over there a lot?”

  “Most days.”

  “Well, no wonder you have a headache. All that MSG.”

  Bob blinked. “I’d forgotten about that. A long time ago, Robert Dunbar told me he loved Chinese food but could never eat it stateside because of all the additives, which gave him a headache. He said that since we made the food at The Lotus Room from scratch, using fresh and natural ingredients, he could indulge himself. I guess I need to cook my own meals. Where can I find Chinatown?”

  She shot him a perplexed look. “You mean like in San Francisco?”

  “I mean here in Denver. Don’t all major cities have a Chinatown?”

  “Not us. The Asians here have been mostly assimilated into the community, but there is a shopping center over on Alameda where you can find all sorts of special Chinese products. Why the insistence on Chinese food?”

  “It’s what I’m used to.”

  She laughed. “Why, are you from China?”

  “Close. Thailand. I’ve been living in Bangkok awhile.”

  She gaped at him, then broke out into a smile, her eyes dancing. “Your shallows seem to be growing ever deeper. What’s it like living in a foreign country? What’s The Lotus Room? Is that where you worked? And who’s Robert Dunbar?”

  Bob deliberated a moment and answered the last question first. “Dunbar is an electronics engineer who works for Data Management Systems, a corporation based here in Colorado. He has the same fake chummy manner as the salesman at Lemons R Us where I bought my car, and he makes much of the fact that we share the same first name.”

  “As if that means anything,” Kerry said. “There must be millions of Bobs in the world. Where did you meet him?”

  “At The Lotus Room shortly after I started working there. He always tried to get me to go golfing with him at Bangphra on the Gulf of Siam. According to him, it has one of the longest, most beautiful, and most challenging golf courses in the world. You’d think he owned stock in the place the way he rhapsodized about it.”

  “Did you ever go?”

  “No. I’m not fond of golfing.” Nor of Dunbar, he almost added, but caught himself in time. He’d have to be careful around this young woman; she had a way of disarming him so that he imparted more than he intended.

  “I don’t like golf either. Not enough action. But I don’t think I’d mind it so much if I could play somewhere exotic like Thailand.” She flipped her hair out of her eyes. “I never associated Thailand with golf. I’ve only heard about it in relation to sex and sin.”

  “For the most part, Bangkok is a city of devout Buddhists. Patpong Road, the infamous red light district, is two and a half blocks long, but more than eight hundred ornate wats—temple/monastery com-pounds dedicated to Buddha and the study of his teachings—dominate the city. I used to go running early during the cool time, and sometimes it seemed as if no one but the saffron-robed monks with their shaved heads and bare feet shared the dawn with me.”

  She gazed at him, a rapt expression on her face. “I always wanted to travel. I come from Chalcedony, a small town on the western slope. It’s a decent place, and I had a happy childhood, but I need more than Chalcedony can provide.” She smiled ruefully. “I wanted the world, the whole broad picture, and I got Denver and Pete’s Porches.”

  She fell silent. For a moment she left her face unguarded, and Bob could see how her problems with Pete ate at her. Then the eagerness returned to her eyes.

  “What did you do at The Lotus Room?”

  “I acted as manager, but I never had a title. I did everything from purchasing supplies to waiting tables and tending bar. Sometimes I cooked, if you could call it that. My awkward attempts at stir-frying afforded Wu Shih-kai great amusement.”

  “Was Wu Shih-kai the owner?”

  “Hsiang-li owned the place. Wu Shih-kai was the cook, a wrinkled and withered ancient who appeared frail and unsteady until he went into the kitchen, and then he became a wizard, moving from pot to pot, refining his magic potions.”

  “It sounds like you loved Thailand,” Kerry said wistfully.

  “I did. Beneath the veneer of congested traffic and commerce is a city of great splendor. I felt at peace there.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  Bob pressed his lips together and turned away. After a moment he said, “I lost my work visa.”

  “I’m sorry you had to leave
Thailand, but I’m glad I got to meet you. You’re different.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  She laughed. “You have to admit, not many people have another self running around. I read something yesterday that made me think of you. It’s from a poem by Oscar Wilde. ‘And the wild regrets and the bloody sweats,/ None knew so well as I:/ For he who lives more lives than one/ More deaths than one must die.’”

  Bob felt a shiver creep up his spine, but he tried to keep his tone light. “Dying more than once seems to run in my family.”

  Chapter 4

  Kerry left to seat a party of boisterous drunks. Bob huddled in the booth with the Oscar Wilde poem hanging over him like his own personal storm cloud. When she turned and tossed him a sunny smile, the cloud dissipated, but he regarded her warily. What was she up to now? It seemed as if every time she went off to serve someone else, she got another of her notions.

  Finished waiting on the drunks, she plopped down opposite Bob. “I get off work at eight. Meet me here.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can go check on your other self. On your own, you don’t seem to be able to get anything done. You’re like a compass without a pointer. You lack direction.”

  “And you’re going to be the pointer?”

  She beamed at him. “Exactly.”

  ***

  At eight-thirty, they parked across the street from Robert Stark’s house. Kerry sat behind the wheel of Bob’s ancient VW, though he had no clear idea how that happened.

  “Your talents are certainly being wasted in the diner,” he said. “You should be in a boardroom somewhere keeping the other board members in line.”

  Her eyes lit up but darkened immediately. “We missed him. The station wagon’s not here. Now what?”

  “We wait.”

  “I don’t believe in waiting.”

  He didn’t remind her that she had invited herself, but merely said, “Waiting and patience are a big part of surveillance.”

  “So how long do we have to wait?”