Traces

by Paul Jr. Logan

  I looked at that man, and I was starting to feel like I understand him. When you build a family empire, you have to carefully guard every tower of your castle. But he entrusted one of them to his brother and he almost surrendered to the enemy. Good or bad, murderer or not, Rowan is part of the Vaughn empire, and he must be saved at all costs.

  I leaned back in my chair and contemplated the amount of the prepay.

  2

  Sergeant Cooper looked up to the sun. The red-hot yolk was slowly frying in the deep blue egg of the sky.

  - The men are ready, Captain, he said. We can move out.

  The man turned around, and his eyes gleamed in a laughing light.

  - Well done, Sergeant, he said, and Cooper didn't know if the praise was sincere or sarcastic.

  - You and Sullivan go on ahead. And remember their village is at the northwest of us... We all want to be back home for Christmas, don't we, Sergeant?

  - Yes, sir.

  The captain smiled again. His name was Kieran Bradford, and Cooper didn't like him.

  When he had been called to headquarters two days ago and was told to select some reliable men for an important assignment, the sergeant knew that it would be his last. He was weeks away from leaving the army, same time he was the best, and the colonel knew it.

  That's why Cooper was surprised when he was told it wouldn't be him leading the group.

  He had never heard of Captain Kieran Bradford. And he still hadn't formed a definite opinion of his commanding officer. Life in Harlem had taught the sergeant that there are people you like, and there are people you can't tolerate around for long, there are the people you can trust and people you can't trust.

  Perhaps Cooper liked the captain after all, but he didn't felt that he could trust him.

  Prowell and Pueblo grabbed the handrail. It was their turn to carry the damn crate. The sergeant nodded to Sullivan, and they began to move forward.

  I wondered if the captain knew what they were carrying. He probably did. But it's hard to tell. When you're walking through a damp rainforest, the enemy may be looking at you with narrow eyes from under any bush, at times like that you want to have a simple, trustworthy guy by your side who's got your back, who will die for you and for whom you will die easily and without a second thought, just because he fights beside you. Someone like Sullivan. But the captain is different. Sergeant Cooper couldn't explain to himself what it was about Kieran Bradford that kept him from trusting. He was an excellent commander. In four days they had passed through three

  villages, and never faced the enemy. There was a great part of luck but luck is like a bullet that has to be skillfully inserted into the barrel and sent into the target. Captain Bradford was doing a fine job of it.

  And yet Sergeant Cooper didn't trust him.

  I wonder what Sullivan thinks about that. Sullivan's a good guy, and always had a way with people. He was the first to figure out what was on the mind of that small-town whore they went to take a break from the wet woods. But, of course it’s not worth bringing it up now.

  What's in that box, anyway?

  Cooper saw them first, though he did not realize it. He realized it only when the gun shuddered in his hand, sending a bullet into the body of the narrow-eyed man.

  There weren't many of them-apparently they were just scouting the area. Either they had wandered very far from their village, or something had had changed since the scouts had been here.

  Sullivan laid down beside them, his hands clutching his assault rifle as well.

  Two rounds drummed down the barrel above Cooper's ear. The sergeant recognized the sharp pounding voice of the Soviet model, and that familiar sound somehow made him feel safer. Two men were shooting.

  Sullivan rolled out from behind the tree, pulling the trigger. From the bushes across the street he heard a muffled scream. The wind gently swayed the long carved leaves - the sound is carried to the ocean, that's good.

  Had they stumbled upon the Yankees by accident, or was it an ambush?

  Cooper leaned slightly to the right, the barrel of his rifle sticking out from behind the sticky tree. The helmet of the soldier facing him had several branches attached. Cooper fired, the soldier disappeared from sight.

  The sergeant retreated behind the trunk again and listened. A heavy silence covered the forest. He just stood there for a few seconds, then went forward.

  There was another tree growing opposite. Almost as thick as the one behind which Cooper was standing. And there was a man behind it, too.

  Rayong carefully put the machine gun into his left hand and checked to see if the clip entered. This was the last one. How did the American dogs get here? What did they need? Near

  Phaan Village there is nothing to interest them. Unless they decided to slaughter civilians again by sending a punitive detachment to their rear. There could not be very many Americans. Rayong should reach the unit and inform the lieutenant. But first he must kill the two men hiding behind the tree of spring butterflies.

  Cooper slowly counted down the seconds. There were fifteen more to go, and they could try.

  Sullivan got up and took a few steps.

  It was too early.

  A line rattled through the leaves, and Sullivan fell. Cooper looked at the spot where he had just stood, but the tall plants hid his body.

  It hit the American, and he didn't get up. Either he was dead or badly wounded. To shot again? Rayong had a clear view of the big, chubby body of the American, crushed by the new shoots. He only had one clip left. And behind the tree is the second one.

  Cooper froze. He wanted to approach Sullivan to see if he was alive. But the sergeant had long ago weaned himself from such impulses. Now there were two of them - he and the narrow-eyed man.

  The American must leave alive to tell about what happened and call for reinforcements. And then everyone would be dead.

  But in order to leave, the narrow-eyed must turn his back to Cooper. Even if he goes backwards, Cooper will hear him. And the sergeant began to listen.

  A damp silence enveloped him, his finger resting calmly on the trigger hook. He waited.

  Rayong hesitated. Surely it was only scouts. When the main unit approaches, he will no longer be able to leave and warn his own.

  And then the Americans will enter the village and kill everyone. Like they did it in Chayo, Phongali and Chauto.

  He must warn the lieutenant to send a detachment to the village. And let the American dog shoot Rayong in the back.

  The sergeant waited. He could afford to wait, but the narrow-eyed could not.

  Therefore, he moved first. Cooper moved to the right and fired a burst through the bushes. There was the sound of a falling body.

  Cooper went back for the barrel and changed the clip. He waited again.

  If the narrow-eyed is still alive, then he will try to convince Cooper of the opposite. He will lie down until the sergeant approaches him. And then the narrow-eyed will kill him.

  If he will manage.

  That meant there was no point in waiting any longer.

  Cooper cautiously squatted down, then quickly rolled over to a nearby tree.

  The narrow-eyed man was now at his side.

  Rayong was lying on his side, a branch with broad leaves, and the sunlight played rainbows in the dewdrops.

  He was not seriously wounded. He would be able to make it to the troop. But the American must think he is dead. And then Rayong would kill him.

  Damn those leaves. Cooper fired a round at the spot where the narrow-eyed man should have been lying and jumped. Life is a balance on which are the chances of opponents. At the moment of the jump, the advantage was with the Asian lying in the thicket. But only in that moment. It was all about the landing.

  A shadow covered the blue sky, obscuring the sun. The American was right above above him. Rayong raised his hand in the air with his automatic weapon, and pulled the trigger.

  The narrow-eyed man failed. Cooper sprang softly with both feet on
the damp grass and congratulated himself on not slipping. In the next instant his right foot soared through the air, aiming for the dark barrel of a machine gun.

  The man would no longer have time to aim.

  A sharp pain pierced Rayong's hand, and the weapon fell softly out and disappeared into the leafage. The guy's black face, wet with sweat, hovered over him. It was now or never. Rayong's left arm straightened and a knife whistled briefly through the air.

  Cooper groaned and stepped back. His right shoulder was numb after the violent thrust, and

  he didn't even know if he was still gripping the handle of his assault rifle. The narrow-eyed man

  sprung up, and in his right hand was the knife.

  The sergeant took a step back, trying to fumble for his gun, and slipped.

  The American was lying in front of him, his right shoulder drenched in blood.

  Rayong allowed himself to lose a few seconds, checking to see if the knife was held firmly in his fingers, numb from the blow of the American's boot. Then he jumped.

  The hard roots rested against the back of Cooper's head, and the sergeant remembered how

  once upon a time in Harlem, a fellow who was much older had attacked him with a knife. When was that?

  Cooper threw his leg up sharply. The knife smiled at the sergeant, emitting sunbeams in the flight. The narrow-eyed man swayed, but held on.

  The sergeant's left hand closed around the grip of his pistol. He had not yet had time to pull the gun out fully, and his thumb had already clicked, disengaging the safety.

  Cooper fired.

  Ryong's fingers hurt badly. They might have been broken, but that didn't matter. The main thing was to stay on his feet.

  He had almost succeeded when he felt a violent jolt to his chest. Cooper fired again.

  A large beetle with glittering wings slowly crawled down the trunk of a tree of spring butterflies. Ryong took a step back and fell.

  - Good work, Sergeant, Captain Bradford's quiet voice penetrated Cooper's consciousness from somewhere behind. Can you move your arm?

  - Yellow-faced monkey, the sergeant wheezed, rising from the grass.

  - There's nothing wrong with me, captain. I can shoot with my left hand just as well.

  - Yellow-belly monkey? Kieran Bradford's eyes squinted mockingly. Strange to hear you say that, Sergeant.

  He stepped back to Prowell, who was bandaging Sullivan. Cooper stared at the captain, trying to figure out what he meant.

  - There were five of them, Captain, he heard Casper say. All dead.

  - It's time to get out of here, Bradford said sharply. I think we've got a few more hours before they know where to look for us. That should give us enough time to get to shore. Can you walk, Sullivan?

  Cooper took one last look at the narrow-eyed man and limped toward Prowell. The pain in his arm was getting worse, but it would pass. The shore was quite close. Rayong's eyes were fixed on the bright sky, and in there was as much life as there was in the white fluffy clouds. He didn't have time to warn anyone.

  3

  As I drove up to the house where the villainous Craig Ruell stayed, I wondered again and again if I should have gone to him without having gathered some preliminary information. Of course, it would have been much more pleasant if I'd had some good arguments, a credible threat of turning one of the Colombian drug cartels against him. But there wasn't much time before the big day of the stock transfer, and who knew how much time it would take to find a brick to wave in front of Ruell's nose.

  He calculated everything correctly, without giving Rowan Vaughn a chance to think about it. Amber Davis was killed on Saturday night, nine days before the deadline, and the youngest offspring of the great banker needed a couple more days to decide to tell everything to his uncle.

  The last also had a day's discussion with a lawyer, with the result that Tuesday was already approaching noon.

  That left exactly one week to spare Vaughn Jr. from the murder charge and keep the family stock in the family fold.

  As the wheels of my car plunged gently into the pebbles in front of the Craig Ruell's house, I wondered again. Not knowing what or who I would see, I did not consider a plan of action beforehand, but one possibility was direct, brazen intimidation.

  As soon as I saw Ruell's house, I knew it wasn't going to work.

  Sure, it wasn't the posh mansion where most of my clients live in but it was a nice, fine house. The owner was clearly not the kind of man who would give up his share of a major bank

  when faced with an empty threat.

  I called several times and waited, looking at the façade and estimating the value of the house.

  I knew it was him as soon as I saw him. He was the way he was supposed to be, Craig Ruell, in a light, white, short-sleeved shirt, simple pants, with open blue eyes and a slight wrinkle between his eyebrows.

  - Beautiful day, isn't it? he said.

  - Great, I nodded. Rowan Vaughn sends his regards.

  He smiled with the kind of wide grin that's always painted on the faces of positive heroes in comic books.

  - So you're a friend of Rowan's. Very, very glad, come on in. And here I thought I knew all his friends. Can I get you a drink?

  Ruell's house looked just as good on the inside as it did on the outside. The furniture from the living room would have looked good in mine too. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling beautiful enough to make it clear that it’s expensive, but not so much that it seemed lurid.

  - Mineral water, I grinned.

  Ruell paused at the counter for a moment, digesting my answer, then he laughed out loud and called the servant. If he knew I meant Warren Vaughn, he wouldn't say anything else.

  - You didn't introduce yourself, he remarked, pointing me toward something in between a sofa and a couch.

  A man dressed as a valet entered the room. After thinking about it for a while, I realized why he was wearing those clothes. Apparently he was a valet.

  - Mineral water for our guest, James, Ruell said. I'll pour myself a whiskey, if you don't mind, Mr...?

  - My name is Michael Hammond, I explained. Warren Vaughn's childhood friend.

  - Then you're not in bad shape, Ruell chuckled. Maybe, you want anything else?

  He played the part of a nice friend without faking it. It looked like in about five minutes he would offer to use the shower and lend me his night slippers. So I decided to proceed cautiously.

  - It's a sad story about that girl, I remarked. And it will be even sadder for those who would try to take advantage of it.

  Believe it or not, he didn't react.

  - Alas, alas, he said sadly. You're right. I've already seen several articles in the papers. A girl has been murdered, and they are making a big deal out of it because the nephew of a big banker is mixed up in it. Journalists' bread grows on blood; don't you think?

  James reappeared in my field of vision, carrying a bottle of mineral water, a glass and some ice.

  - I didn't mean the newspapermen, I said, pouring myself a little. I meant you, Craig. Do you understand me?

  He looked at me and laughed. It was so inappropriate I almost choked on my water.

  - What's the matter? I mumbled. I forgot to take my clown nose off, and you're just noticing now?

  - I'm sorry, Ruell said. For God's sake, I'm sorry, it's just that I just remembered where I heard your name.

  - I hope it wasn't on a list of Hollywood drag queens.

  - Come on. Were you in that oil well business?

  I nodded modestly. The guy certainly knew how to please. It's always nice to feel like a celebrity.

  - And Warren Vaughn hired you?

  I nodded again, took a sip, and leaned back for relevance, with my hand spread out on it.

  - If you remember the oil case, Craig, you must know that I've complied exactly with the wishes of my clients... And now my client is Warren Vaughn. Do you see what I'm gently implying?

  Believe it or not, he laughed again.


  - You do have a good reputation, Mr. Hammond, he said. But if you want to keep it up, you'll have to turn down Warren Vaughn's offer.

  I bulged my eyes. I broke in here, actually rode in on a tank to put this guy up against the wall and scare him off. And now he starts threatening me.

  - Judge for yourself, Ruell waved his hand vaguely in the air. The stock will pass to Rowan next Tuesday. If he doesn't meet the conditions - rightly, very simple and innocuous he'll regret it bitterly. And not in a week or a month from now, but the very next morning. On Wednesday.

  I pulled a nickel out of my pocket, stood up, and put it on the table in front of Ruell. He looked at me in surprise, and I chuckled smugly. Yet I found a way to knock off his arrogance.

  - Fee for consultation regarding days of the week, I explained humbly. Continue.

  Ruell laughed again, took the coin and put it in his pocket.

  - You're a smart man, he said. This was not flattery, but a statement of an obvious fact. Well, what can you do in a week? Hit me in the face?

  - At least now, I broke into a smile.

  - You can try... At the very least, we could get some buddies together and have a collective brawl. But it wouldn't do your client any good. I've been beaten up more than once. When you're in a business like you and me, you get used to it and you stop being afraid. Have you been threatened with a beating often?

  What a nerve. Or did he expect me to invite him over next Christmas?

  - A lot, I nodded. And most of the time they kept their word or rather, tried to.

  He nodded.

  - I bet that didn't stop you... It wouldn't stop me, either.

  - Seven days is a long time, I grinned. The words must have sounded significant, though I can't guarantee it. I've sat with you, talked to you, drank water. You've got the best bloodhounds on the West Coast on your track. I'll have a file on you on my desk by tonight. And if I don't find a place in it that will allow me to smear you with a trowel you can ask me for a butterscotch.