by Orca Various
“A team photo from twenty-five years ago to mark the anniversary of her nephew’s state basketball championship,” Roy said. “And a closeup photo of her nephew in a basketball uniform holding the trophy. Number twenty-five. This is a big deal why?”
He passed the iPad to Ali, who looked closely at the photo and said, “The team is called the Lindsay Thurber Bulldogs. Doesn’t say what state.” A slight smile crossed Ali’s face. “Aaah, interesting. Lee, see if you can spot what my dad missed.”
She passed the iPad back across to Lee, who said in a grumpy voice, “Roy, I need your reading glasses.”
Roy sighed and handed them to Lee. Lee removed his own glasses, switched to Roy’s and examined the photo.
“This kid, James McAuley,” Lee said. “He doesn’t look like his last name.”
“I saw that,” Roy said, “but this whole racism thing has me gun-shy.”
“Kid looks Asian, doesn’t he?” Webb said. “Like one of his parents was Asian and the other one wasn’t. Want to guess if the mother or the father was Asian?”
Lee said, “Maybe her nephew James McAuley is the son of her brother Jesse Lockewood and McAuley’s mother was once a gangster girl from Saigon? Yeah, I could see that happening. But why such a big deal that the account had to be erased once Matt Lockewood knew you’d seen it?”
“Do the math,” Webb answered. “That photo is from a recent post. Twenty-five years ago, a kid old enough to play high-school basketball would have been born a few years after the Vietnam War.”
“After?” Roy said. “But that would mean if Jesse Lockewood was the father…”
“…then Jesse Lockewood did not die in Vietnam,” Ali said.
“Or,” Lee said, “as a widow, she remarried here in the United States. Technically, Natasha Bartlett could still call the kid a nephew.”
“Yes,” Webb said, “but if that’s all it is, why delete the Facebook account after Matt Lockewood found out we knew about it? If the kid is the son of someone else, there’s nothing to hide. So what I’m thinking is that if we find James McAuley’s father, we find Jesse Lockewood. And he can give us the answers we need.”
“Seems like a long shot,” Lee said.
Webb glanced at the information on his phone. “Lindsay Thurber is a high school in New Orleans. Same place that a professor Eric McAuley lives.”
Webb read more. “I don’t specifically know how Adam’s friend found Eric McAuley—something about cracking a firewall and getting a phone bill and social security number. A social security number that belongs to a kid who died at age eight. Then there is eleven years of no activity, and suddenly activity again. Driver’s license. School degrees. Credit cards. The kind of stuff you can find out with a credit check.”
“Huh,” Ali said reflectively. “You do a city- or state-wide search of records, find a kid born around the same time as you, who was registered as dead, then take his social security number and use that to build a new identity. If the dead kid is from out of state—”
“Utah,” Webb said.
“Hardly any chance you’ll be discovered using that social security number somewhere else,” Ali finished.
Lee nodded. “New Orleans.” He nodded again. “I think I have a way to get us there.”
TWENTY
It was four thirty in the morning. Originally, Webb and Lee had planned to head north to DC to talk to the woman in Veterans Affairs, hoping she might give them a lead on the Bogeyman. Phoning her was unthinkable; a phone call would almost certainly alert the Bogeyman they were on the way.
Now they’d changed their plans and were headed to a small airport north of Charleston; Roy and Ali would meet them in DC later that night, if all went well. The detour was taking them up Highway 17 to 701, through marshlands that smelled of seawater. Toward Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
Lee was driving. It seemed like theirs was the only car on the road. In fact, it was the only car on the road: there were semitrucks but no cars.
The black Camaro, on the black pavement in the black of night beneath a clouded sky, felt like a mini spaceship whooshing on a charted course. Webb knew that spaceships didn’t make any sound in outer space, because space was a vacuum, but he liked the analogy anyway. Strapped into the body-fitted leather front seat, hands on the wheel, the headlights of the semis like approaching comets…Webb was looking forward to his shift of driving, and he was going to miss the Camaro when all of this was over, however it ended.
Webb was wearing the Winnipeg Blue Bombers shirt again. When he’d left Nashville—just two days earlier but hundreds and hundreds of miles ago—he’d packed only one extra shirt, the Calgary Stampeders T-shirt. So in his hotel room after dinner the night before, he’d washed both in the sink and dried them with the hair dryer, knowing the alarm was set for so early, the shirts wouldn’t dry just hanging on the shower rod with the underwear and socks he’d also washed.
“How come you haven’t asked me a single question about what it was like to fight in Vietnam?” Lee said to Webb. “Most people do.”
Webb didn’t reply soon enough, because Lee’s voice continued to come out of the darkness, the dashboard lights dimmed to almost nothing. “Or how come you haven’t asked what happened in ’Nam when Roy saved my life, or later when I did the same for him?”
“Don’t know you well enough,” Webb finally said. “From what I understand about the war, you guys went through horrible things, things that cut deep and left bad memories. I figure a person needs to earn the right to ask about stuff like that, and I don’t think I’ve earned it.”
After a mile or so of silence, Lee said, “Makes me sad for you, son, that you understand something like that. I’m not asking about you and your stepfather, because I haven’t earned the right. But just tell me this: is he the reason you understand?”
“He’s the reason,” Webb said. Webb liked that the Camaro’s interior was so dark. This way, the conversation was just voices, not voices and faces. Still, Webb didn’t offer any more to Lee than the flat answer he’d just given.
Webb wondered how much he wanted to share. He looked out the side window for a moment, but in his mind he saw his stepfather making him kneel on rice for five minutes, Webb’s knees bare and the hard rice putting pressure points of agony on his knees.
“Your stepfather the reason you have nightmares?” Lee continued. “Yeah, I know it’s a personal question. But every time you fall asleep in the car, you toss and turn and mumble and shout.”
“My stepfather,” Webb answered Lee, “is now out of my life and out of my mother’s life. Nothing to worry about anymore.” Webb almost told Lee about the last time he’d seen his stepfather. In Toronto, Webb had gone to the restaurant where he knew his stepfather had a reservation every day. Webb had knelt so that he was at eye level with his stepfather and had promised him that if he made even the slightest threat to Webb’s mother, Webb would hunt him down. He’d seen just enough of a flicker of fear in his stepfather’s eyes to know that they both knew Webb meant it.
“Maybe,” Lee said softly, “just maybe, he was your tour of duty. Hear me out, okay?”
Webb let his silence speak for a willingness to listen.
“’Nam did that to a lot of us,” Lee said. “Spend a long time under a lot of stress, it will hurt you long after. That’s how it was for me. I was back on American soil, but angry all the time, like I wanted to hit people. I didn’t sleep much. Wasn’t interested in food. Just wanted to sit in a dark room and do nothing. Sound familiar?
“Remember what Derek said about his shrink?” Lee continued. “Today, people want to blame posttraumatic stress disorder for everything. Back then, no one knew what it was. Thing is, go through a tour of duty and it would be crazy to expect a person not to be a little crazy after it’s over. What we found was the worst thing to do was pretend the craziness didn’t exist. Once we understood there was a reason for it, the craziness made sense. To us and to them. It didn’t get rid of the anger and nig
htmares right away, but you could deal with it, like dealing with a broken arm or leg, knowing it would eventually heal and that you weren’t truly crazy and messed up.”
“I’ll be okay,” Webb said.
“I know,” Lee said. “But you’ll be okay a little faster if you at least admit to yourself what’s happening. If I were you, I’d cut the hair. Why remind yourself every time you look in the mirror that you still have to rebel against your stepfather? Don’t allow him that hold on you, especially if he’s up in Canada and you’re down here. Don’t allow him that kind of hold on you even if you live in the same house. Find someone to talk to about what happened. That’s a good way to let some of the stress leak out and disappear.”
As Webb watched the streaking comets from the semitrucks on the opposite side of the highway and thought about Lee’s advice, he was glad that Lee gave him silence for the rest of their drive in the dark.
TWENTY-ONE
From what Webb could see in the dawn’s light, the Conway-Horry County Airport consisted of half a dozen buildings on one side of a single runway, set in a long swath that had been cut into a dense grove of trees.
Twenty or so small airplanes were parked on pavement to the side of the runway. Lee drove up to a low, flat building with wide-open doors. The building was large enough for three small airplanes to be parked inside.
Lee wheeled the Camaro directly into the building and snapped off the ignition.
“Let’s stay put and watch the fun,” Lee said to Webb. “Niner’s got some kind of temper on him.”
“Niner?” Webb said. “Didn’t you say his name was Wayne Mason?”
“Grasshopper,” Lee answered. “Watch, listen and learn.”
Within thirty seconds, a short man in dirty coveralls came out from behind one of the airplanes and marched toward the Camaro. His thinning hair was red, mixed with plenty of gray. He was carrying an aluminum baseball bat.
“Keep in mind,” Lee said, “we have tinted glass. Niner won’t be able to see inside our windows. Grab your phone and get video of this.”
Niner stared at the car for a few seconds, as if he was waiting for someone to get out. Webb began to record with his iPhone.
“Hey,” Niner shouted when he decided that no one was stepping out. “Get that piece of crap out of my hangar before I smash it to pieces.”
He lifted the bat.
“Count his fingers,” Lee said to Webb. “We were in Saigon on leave and he was leaning with his hand on the roof of a taxi. Someone shut the door, and the cab driver took off fast. Nobody except Niner knew that the door had slammed on his pinkie. Tore it right off his hand. Never did find the finger.”
Niner’s fingers were wrapped around the bat handle. Sure enough, Webb saw a stub where Niner’s little finger should have been. Nine fingers. Niner.
“I said, get that piece of dog poop out of my hangar!” Niner was screaming now, some spit spraying from his mouth.
“In about a minute,” Lee said, “he’ll have worked himself up enough to start smashing our headlights. Let’s see if I can get his blood pressure really going.”
Lee hit the horn and held it for about ten seconds.
Niner’s eyes started bulging, and he let rip with a string of curses that included words Webb didn’t even fully understand.
As Niner kept going, Lee said, “Only thing you can do is wait until he runs out of air.”
When Niner took a much-needed breath, Lee pushed open his door and yelled, “Put a sock in it, Niner.”
“What the…?” Niner said.
Lee stepped out of the car, laughing. “Dang, I wish I had that on video. No wait, I do have it on video.”
“Lee? You son of a—”
“Good to see you, Niner,” Lee said. “You still shanking the ball a couple times a round?”
“Lee Knox,” Niner said, grinning now. “You’d find out if you ever delivered on your promise to golf Myrtle Beach with me. I got the morning open, if you want.”
Niner dropped the bat, and it pinged on the concrete. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Lee’s belly, lifted the larger man off the ground in a hug and then set him down.
Webb stepped out the passenger side.
“Niner, meet Webb,” Lee said.
Niner looked at Webb with suspicion and said to Lee, “You picking up road trash these days?”
“It’s your hair,” Lee told Webb. “Niner still hasn’t got past the hippie days.”
“Drug-smoking, flag-burning, long-haired…” Niner let fly with a bunch of imaginative swear words.
When Niner had to draw breath again, Lee said, “Niner, go easy on the kid. He’s the one that took the video of you and your baseball bat. If he puts it on YouTube, you’re going to have a million people laughing at you, not just me.”
Once more, Niner was off and running. Webb found it amazing that Niner had not repeated a single curse the entire time. When Niner came up for air, Lee said to Webb, “We’d do this all the time in Saigon. Was the best entertainment we had, right, Niner?”
Niner kept squinting at Webb in suspicion. “Look at him, Lee. Just like one of those university protesters who let us go to ’Nam and do the dirty work.”
“Niner,” Lee said, “he’s a good kid. Really. You should listen to him on guitar. Webb, why don’t you play a song for Niner?”
“Nope,” Webb said. “I’m not a trained monkey.”
“See, Niner? The kid’s not easy to push around. It’s why he’s growing on me. Now, how about you settle down and let me ask you for a favor?”
“A good kid?” Niner said. “You’ll vouch for him?”
“Yup,” Lee said. “I’m here because someone burned my house down, and Webb’s helping me find out who did it.”
Niner walked to Webb and stuck out a hand. “Then nice to meet you.”
Webb accepted the grave and serious handshake, getting the impression that Niner had no middle ground and now Webb was on his good side.
Niner said to Lee, “Only favor I can do for you that others can’t, I’m guessing, is transportation. I’m all yours. Plane can be ready in twenty minutes. Just need to do preflight.”
Webb hated asking anyone for a favor. He marveled that a man like Niner would drop everything to help an old war buddy, no questions asked. Must be a nice feeling, being part of something like that.
“I need to register a flight plan,” Niner said. “Where we headed?”
“New Orleans,” Lee said. “Lakefront Airport.”
“Hey, Smitty’s in New Orleans. Heard he got remarried. Some girl half his age, built like a—”
“Heard the same thing,” Lee said. “But we can’t meet Smitty. Need to keep this quiet.”
“Too bad. What I heard about his wife was—”
“All business, Niner. Best if you didn’t even get out of the airplane.”
“I could’ve picked you up in Tennessee,” Niner said. “It’s not far out of the way from here.”
“I couldn’t call ahead,” Lee said. “Worried that your phone might be tapped. Same reason I’m wondering if you might be able to list Baton Rouge on your flight plan, and we divert to New Orleans on short notice.”
“Done,” Niner said. “You want to stay under the radar.” He grinned. “Literally.”
“Exactly,” Lee said. “No credit cards and no ATMs. Brought my checkbook though, and I’ll cover the expenses. It would be helpful if you waited a few days to cash my check. I’ll tell you the whole story while we’re in the air.”
“I won’t take a dime for this,” Niner said.
“Niner…”
“Unless you agree to that,” Niner said, “you’re going to drive to New Orleans. Friends don’t pay friends for help.”
TWENTY-TWO
The airplane was a 1962 Beechcraft Bonanza P35, capable of a cruising speed of 150 knots per hour—which, Niner explained, was just over 170 miles per hour. It was cherry-red and, gleaming in the sunlight, it looked new. The
interior was all polished hardwood and leather.
Webb liked it. A lot. And he liked the sense of movement. They were headed south and west, to the Gulf Coast.
Lee and Niner shared the cockpit, talking over the headsets, and that left Webb some solitude in the back. He pulled the Baby Taylor out of his bag and started strumming and picking. Six strings, and he could pick any one or any combination with his right hand. Left hand on the neck, forming more combinations, holding the strings down against a fret, then sliding down to a new combination on a lower fret. He did it automatically, with barely any more thought than it took to lift a foot to take a step. That’s what you needed to do—play for hours and hours and countless hours, until your brain didn’t need to direct your hands and only needed to decide what note was to be played. Walking was no different. The brain didn’t tell the feet how to walk; it only decided where it wanted the feet to take the body.
For years, Webb had done exactly what he was doing now: letting his fingers roam the guitar neck and strings. He’d done it watching television, repeating a single riff endlessly while he learned the rhythms, feeling the song. Webb didn’t talk much about what was inside him, but it poured out when he held a guitar.
They were flying at an altitude where vehicles were mere dots on the highways, and the forests looked like carpet. Lakes like mud puddles of various colors glinted in the sun as they headed southwest.
Niner had said it would take about five hours, that they’d be bucking a headwind typical for late December. They’d have to stop for fuel once, a couple of hours short of New Orleans.
Webb liked having this time alone in the back of the airplane, looking out the window as he experimented with some new riffs. Thing was, he couldn’t get that song out of his head.
There won’t be any trumpets blowing / come the judgment day / On the bloody morning after / one tin soldier rides away.
Webb began to experiment with a minor key, adding some darkness to the melody, changing up the rhythm a bit. He liked it, got lost in it. He was startled when the engine of the plane changed pitch, and he glanced out the window to see the tops of houses as they skimmed toward a landing.
