by Robert Crais
CHAPTER 12
Family Man
His name was Philip James Cole until he was six years old. Then his mother announced, smiling at him as if she were giving him the most wonderful gift in the world, "I'm going to change your name to Elvis. That's a much more special name than Philip and James, don't you think? From now on, you're Elvis." Jimmie Cole, six years old, didn't know if his mother was playing a game. Maybe it was the uncertainty that made him so scared. "I'm Jimmie. " "No, now you're Elvis. Elvis is just the finest name, don't you think, just the finest name in the world? I would've named you Elvis when you were born but I hadn't heard of it yet. Go ahead and say it. Elvis. Elvis. " His mother smiled expectantly. Jimmie shook his head. "I don't like this game." "Say it, Elvis. That's your new name. Isn't it exciting? We'll tell everyone tomorrow." Jimmie started crying. "I'm Jimmie." She smiled at him with all the love in the world, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed his forehead with warm, sweet lips. 136
"No, you're Elvis. I'm going to call you Elvis from now on and so is everyone else."
She had been gone for twelve days. She did that sometimes, just up and left without saying a word because that was the way she was, a free spirit she called it, a crazy head case he had heard his grandfather say. She would vanish and her son would wake to find their apartment or trailer or wherever they were living that moith empty. The boy would find his way to a neighbor where someone would call his grandfather or his mother's older sister and one of them would take him in until she returned. Every time she left he was angry with himself for having driven her away. Every day while she was gone he promised God he would be a better boy if only she'd come back.
"You'll be happy being an Elvis, Elvis, just wait and see."
That night, his grandfather, an older man with pallid skin who smelled like mothballs, waved his newspaper in frustration.
"You can't change the boy's name. He's six years old, for Christ's sake. He has a name."
"Of course I can change his name,'" his mother said brightly. "I'm his mother."
His grandfather stood, then sat agairl in a wide tattered
chair. His grandfather was always angry and impatient. "That's crazy, girl. What's wrolg with you?" His mother pulled and twisted her fingers.
"'There is NOTHING wrong with me! Don't say that! "' His grandfather's hand flapped.
"What kind of mother runs off like you, gone for days without a word? Where do you come up with this crazy stuff like with this name? The boy has a name! You should get a job, for Christ's sake, I'm tired of paying your bills. You should go back to school."
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His mother twisted her fingers so desperately that Jimmie thought she would pull them off. "There is NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING wrong with me! Something's wrong with YOU!" She ran out of the tiny house and Jimmie ran after her, terrified that he would never see her again. Later, at their apartment, she spent the evening working with a small oil paint kit she had bought at the TG&Y, painting a picture of a red bird. Jimmie wanted her to be happy, so he said, "'That's pretty, Mama." "The colors aren't right. I can never make the clors right. Isn't that sad?" Jimmie didn't sleep that night, fearful that she would leave. The next day she acted as if nothing had happened. She brought Jimmie to school, marched him to the head of his first-grade class, and made the announcement. "We want everyone to know that Jimmie has a new name. I want all of you to call him Elvis. Isn't that a really special name? Everyone, I want you to meet Elvis Cole. "" Mrs. Pine, a kindly woman who was Jimmie's teacher, stared at Jimmie's mother with a strange expression. Some of the kids laughed. Carla Weedle, who was stupid, did exactly what she was told. "'Hello, Elvis." All of the kids laughed. Jimmie bit his tongue so he would not cry. His teacher said, "Mrs. Cole, may I speak with you, please?" During lunch that day, a second-grader named Mark Toomis, who had a head shaped like a potato and four older brothers, made fun of him. "'What do you think you are, a rock and roll greaser? I think you're queer." Mark Toomis pushed him down and everyone laughed. Three months earlier, his mother disappeared in the middle of summer. Like every other time she went away, Jimmie woke to find her gone. Like all the other times, she did not leave a note or tell him that she was going; she just went. They were living in a converted garage apartment behind a big house then, but Jimmie was scared to ask the old people who lived in the house if they knew where his mother was; he had heard them yelling at her about the rent. Jimmie waited all day, hoping that his morn hadn't really left, but by dark he ran crying to the house.
That night, his Aunt Lynn, who spent a lot of time on the phone whispering to his grandfather, fed him peach pie, let him watch television, and snuggled him on the couch. She worked at a department store downtown and dated a man named Charles.
His Aunt Lynn said, "'She loves you, Jimmie. She just has her problems."
"'I try to be good."
"You are a good boy, Jimmie! This isn't about you." "Then why does she leave?"
His Aunt Lynn hugged him. Her breasts made him feel safe.
"I don't know. She just does. You know what I think?" "Uh-uh. '"
"'I think she's trying to find your father. Wouldn't that be great, if she found your daddy? ""
Jimmie felt better after that, and even kind of excited. Jimmie had never met his father or even seen a picture of him. No one talked about him, not even his mom, and no one knew his name. Jimmie once asked if his grandfather
knew his dad, but the old man had only stared at him. "Your stupid mother probably doesn't even know. '"
Jimmie's mom stayed gone five days that time, then, like always, returned without explanation.
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Now, all these months later, that evening after her twelve-day absence and the announcement of Jimmie's new name, Jimmie and his morn were eating hamburgers
at the tiny table in their kitchen. He said, "Mommy?" "What is it, Elvis?"
"Why did you change my name?"
"I gave you a special name because you're such a special little boy. I like that name so much I might change my own name, too. Then we would both be Elvis."
Jimmie had spent most of the past twelve days thinking about what his Aunt Lynn told him that summer--that his morn was searching for his daddy when she went away. He wanted it to be true. He wanted her to find him and make him come home so that they could be a family like everyone else. Then she wouldn't go away anymore. He worked up his courage to ask.
"Were you trying to find my daddy? Is that where you went? "
His mother stopped with the hamburger halfway to her mouth. She stared at him for the longest time with a harsh cast to her eye, then put down her hamburger.
"Of course not, Elvis. Why ever would I do something like that?"
"Who's my daddy? ""
She leaned back, her face playful.
"You know I can't tell you that. Your daddy's name is a secret. I can't ever tell anyone your daddy's name and I won't."
"Was his name Elvis?" His mother laughed again. "No, you silly." "Was it Jimmie? "
"No, and it wasn't Philip, either, and if you ask me
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every other name that ever was I'll tell you no, no, no. But I will tell you one special thing." Jimmie grew scared. She had never told him anythirg about his father, and he suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to know. But she was smiling. Kinda. "What?" She slapped the table with both hands, her face as bright as an electric bulb. She leaned close, her face playful and gleaming. "Do you really want to know? " "'Yes!" His mother seemed alive with an energy that she could not contain. Her hands kneaded the edge of the table. "'This is my gift to you. My one special gift, a gift that no one else can give to you, only me." "'Please tell me, Mama. Please." "'I'm the only one who knows. I'm the only one who can give you this special thing, do you understand?" "I understand!" "Will you be good if I tell you? Will you be extra-special good, and keep it a secret just between us.'" I'll be good!" His mother sighed deeply, then touched his face with a love so gentle he would remember
it for years. "'All right, then, I'll tell you, an extra-special secret for an extra-special boy, just between us, forever and always. "" "Between us. Tell me, Mama, please!" "'Your father is a human cannonball. '" Jimmie stared at her. "What's a human cannonball? "' "A man so brave that he fires himself from a cannon just so he can fly through the air. Think about that, Elvis--flying through the air, all by himself up above I4I
everyone else, all those people wishing they could be up there with him, so brave and so free. That's your father, Elvis, and he loves us both very much." Jimmie didn't know what to say. His mother's eyes danced with light as if she had waited her entire life to tell him. "Why does he have to be a secret? Why can't we tell everyone about him ?" Her eyes grew sad, and she touched his face again in the soft and gentle way. "He's our secret because he's so special, Elvis, which is both a blessing and a curse. People want you to be "ordinary. They don't like it when people are different. They don't like it when a man soars over their heads while they stand in the dirt. People hate you when you're special; it reminds them of everything that they aren't, Elvis, so we'll keep him as our little secret to save ourselves that heartache. You just remember that he loves you and that I love you, too. You remember that always, no matter where I go or how long I'm away or how bad times get. Will you remember that? '" "Yes, Mama." "All right, then. Now let's go to bed." Her crying woke him later that night. He crept to her door where he watched his mother thrash beneath her sheets, speaking in voices he did not understand. Elvis Cole said, "'I love you, too, Mama. "" Pour days later she vanished again. His Aunt Lynn brought Elvis to his grandfather, who took the newspaper outside so that he could read in peace. That night, the old man made them potted meat sandwiches with lots of mayonnaise and sweet pickles, and served them on paper towels. The old man had been distant all afternoon, so Elvis was scared to say anything, but he wanted to tell someone about his father so badly that he thought he would choke.
Elvis said, "I asked her about my daddy. "
The old man chewed his sandwich. A dab of white
mayonnaise was glopped on his chin. "He's a human cannonball. "' "Is that what she told you?"
"He gets shot out of a gun so that he can fly through the air. He loves me very much. He loves Mommy, too. He loves us both."
The old man stared at Elvis as he finished eating his sandwich. Elvis thought he looked sad. When the sandwich was gone, the old man balled his paper towel and threw it away.
"She made that up. She's out of her fucking mind. "' The next day, his grandfather called the Child Welfare Division of the Department of Social Services. They came for Elvis that afternoon.
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CHAPTER 13
time missing: 3 5 hours, 22 minutes
I brought the tape home, and played it without stopping to think or feel. The SID would digitize the ape, then push it through a computer in an attempt to determine the caller's location by identifying background sounds. They would map the caller's vocal characteristics for comparison with suspects at a later time. I already knew that I didn't and wouldn't recognize the voice, so I listened to get a sense of the man.
"'They slaughtered twenty-six people, fuckin' innocent people! I'm not sure how it got started--!'"
He had no accent, which meant he probably wasn't from the South or New England. Rodriguez had been from Brownsville, Texas, and Crom Johnson from Alabama; they both had thick accents, so their childhood friends and families probably had accents, too. Roy Abbott had been from upstate New York and Teddy Fields from Michigan. Neither had accents that I could remember, though Abbott spoke with the careful pronunciation of a Yankee farmer and used expressions like "golly."
"They were in the bush, off on their own--"
The man on the tape sounded younger than me; not a kid, but too young to have been in Vietnam. Crom Johnson and Luis Rodriguez both had younger brothers,
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but I had spoken with them when I got back to the world. I didn't believe that they would be involved. Abbott had sisters, and Fields was an only. "'--they swore each other to secrecy, but Cole didn't trust them--" His language was arch and melodramatic, as if he had chosen his words to amp the drama in minimal time. "--Abbott, Rodriguez, the others--he murdered them to get rid of the witnesses! He fired up his own friends!" The events he described had the feel of a straight-to video movie. Forced. "--I was there, lady, I know!" But he wasn't. Only five of us were in the jungle that day, and the other four died. Crom Johnson's body was never recovered, but his head had come apart in my hands. I played it again. "I know what happened and you don't, so LISTEN! "" He sounded angry, but the anger rode the top of his voice. His words should have hummed with rage the way a power line sings from the energy burning through it, but he seemed to be saying the words without truly feeling them. I made a fresh cup of coffee, then listened to the tape again. The false quality in his tone convinced me that he did not know me or the others--he was faking. I had spent all evening unsuccessfully trying to figure out who he was, but maybe the answer was to figure out how he knew what he knew. If he hadn't served with me, then how did he know about Rodriguez and Abbott? How did he know our team number, and that I was the only one who survived? The house creaked like a beast shifting in its sleep. The stairs to my loft grew threatening; the hall to Ben's I45
room ended in darkness. The man on the tape had watched me and my house, so he had known when we were home and when we weren't. I went upstairs for the cigar box, and sat with it on the floor. When a soldier mustered out of the Army, he or she was given what was known as a Form 2 4. The 2 4 showed the soldier's dates of service, the units in which he served, his training, and a list of any citations he received; kind of a one-line version of his career. Details were few. But whenever a soldier was awarded a medal or commendation, he or she was also given a copy of orders accompanying the medal, and those orders described why the Army saw tit to make its presentation. Rod, Teddy, and the others had died, and I had been given a five-pointed star with a red, white, and blue ribbon. I had never worn it, but I kept the orders. I reread them. The description of the events that day were slight, and included the name of only one other man involved, Roy Abbott. None of the others were mentioned. The man who took Ben could have gotten some of his information from my house, but not all of it. It was ten minutes after five when I folded the papers and put them aside. Ben had been missing for over thirty six hours. I hadn't slept in almost fifty. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, then put on fresh clothes. At exactly six A.M., I called the Army's Department of Personnel in St. Louis. It was eight A.M. in St. Louis; the Army was open for business. I asked to speak with someone in the records department. An older man picked up the call. "Records. This is Stivic." I identified myself as a veteran, then gave him my date of separation and social security number. I said, "I want to find out if anyone has requested my o file. Would you guys have a record of that?" I46
Where the zx4 was the skeleton of a military record, a soldier's zo file contained the detailed history of his career. Maybe my zo showed the other names. Maybe the man on the tape had been able to get a copy, and that's how he knew about Rodriguez and Johnson. "We'd have a record if it was sent." "How can I find out?" "You'd know. Anyone can get your 214, but your 2o is private. We don't give out the zoI without written permission unless it's by court order." I said, "What if someone pretended to be me?" "You mean, like you could be someone else pretending to be you right now?" "Yeah. Like that." Now Stivic sounded pissed off. "What kind of bullshit is this, a joke?" "My house was robbed. Someone stole my 214, and I think he might've gotten my zo x for nefarious purposes." I probably shouldn't have used "nefarious"; it sounded like bad television. Stivic said, "Okay, look: The zox doesn't work that way. If you wanted a copy of your zox, you'd have to file the request in writing, along with your thumb print. If someone else wanted your zox, say, for a job application or something like that, you'd still have to give your permission. Like I already told you, the only way someone gets that zo without
you knowing about it is by court order. So unless this guy stole your thumb, you don't have to sweat it." "I still want to know if someone requested it, and I don't have eight weeks to wait for the answer." "We have thirty-two people in our department. We ship two thousand pieces of mail every day. You want me to holler if anyone remembers your name?" I47
I said, "Were you a Marine?"
"Master Sergeant, retired. If you want to know who requested what, gimme your fax number and I'll see what I can do. If not, it's been nice talkin' to ya."
I gave him my fax number just to keep him going. "I have one more question, Master Sergeant." "Shoot."
"My oi, can you pull it up there on your computer?"
"Forget it. I'm not telling you anything that's on anyone's 20 i."
"I just want to know if it contains an account of a certain action. I don't want you to give me the information, just whether or not the account contains two names. If it does, I'll request the file, and you can have all the thumb prints you want. If not, then I'm wasting both our time.".
He hesitated.
"Is this a combat action?"
"Yes, sir."
He hesitated again, thinking about it.
"What's that name?"
I heard him punching keys as I told him, then the soft whistle of his breath.
"Are the names Cromwell Johnson and Luis Rodriguez in the report?"
His voice came back hoarse.
"Yes, they are. Ah, you still want to know if anyone requested this file?"
"I do, Master Sergeant."
"Gimme your phone number and I'll walk it through myself. It might take a few days, but I'll do that much for yOU."
