The cop wrinkled his nose, studying Jerry. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s not feeling well,” I answered.
“You high?” he asked Jerry.
Jerry licked his lips and tried to swallow. “No sir,” he choked.
The cop frowned. “Why don’t you pull to the side of the road and turn off your vehicle?”
Grant’s eyes flicked up at us in the rearview mirror. I shivered.
Gravel crushed beneath the tires as he pulled to the side, followed a moment later by the brief, protesting squeak of the brakes. He shifted into park and turned off the key. Then all fell silent except for the ticking of the engine and the wind whipping outside the truck.
“Aw man.” Jerry’s voice was tiny. He fidgeted as if he were looking for a way out of the truck.
“Jerry,” said Martin, turning and holding his gaze, “you need to calm down, buddy. You’re drawing attention.”
“I’m...” he swallowed, “s-sorry.”
“It’s all right, Jer,” I said. “They’re just checking for alcohol and drugs, and you haven’t done any of that.”
“Calm down, Jerry,” Martin repeated.
He pushed his palms into his eyes. “What if—I mean—”
“Jerry Knapp, you calm down right now or I’ll knock you senseless, so help me God!”
Jerry’s head snapped up, his eyes blinking rapidly. Martin glared at him from the front. Grant’s eyes continued to burn a hole in the rearview mirror. I touched his shoulder. “It’s okay,” I whispered.
He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s cool,” he muttered. “I’m cool.”
After a minute or so, I heard the sound of the officer approaching the vehicle from behind, his footfalls crunching through the frozen slush. Grant’s eyes left the rearview mirror to glance out his door.
“Mr. Collins,” the cop said to Grant, “would you consent to a search of your vehicle?”
“What for?”
“Well, I’m looking at your friend here, and I’m thinking he might be high, and that you might have some drugs in your vehicle.”
“He’s not high, he’s just sick.”
“All the same, I’d like to look.”
“No, I can’t consent to that.”
“You know, I thought you might say that.”
Outside, I saw two more police officers come up behind the vehicle, their hands resting on their side arms.
“Sir,” said Grant, “I am in my own vehicle. I have not broken any laws, and I am not carrying any drugs. Neither is anyone else in this truck. And if they were, frankly, I’d have left them on the side of the road. But right now, it’s late, it’s cold, my friend is sick, and I want to get him home before he yacks all over my backseat. You feeling me?”
The cop held up a hand. “Oh, I understand all right, but I’ve got reasonable suspicion there might be contraband in this vehicle, and I have a responsibility—”
“You don’t have probable cause.”
“I have a responsibility to do due diligence—”
“You don’t have probable cause to search this vehicle without a warrant!”
“Now you hold on a second. I let you talk, you let me talk. Don’t keep interrupting me. You won’t consent to a search of your vehicle, I’m gonna have to bring one of my dogs over here to do my searching for me. Are you sure you want that to happen?”
“You go right ahead. You could bring an elephant over here for all I care. You’re not getting in this vehicle without a warrant.”
The cop looked at him sideways, his mouth partway open. It turned into a grin, and he said, “All right.” Turning to the cops behind us he said, “Bring him up.”
A moment later, we heard the sound of a whuffing, sniffling animal probing the perimeter of our truck. The officer let the dog wend his way all around the outside for a long moment before turning to the cop at our windshield and shaking his head. The cop let out a long breath and handed Grant his license.
“All right,” he said. “You boys drive safe. Hope your friend gets feeling better.”
Grant put his license back in the visor. “Thank you, officer. You have a good night.”
He started the truck, shifted into gear and pulled away into the blackness. I turned and watched the dwindling silhouette of the police officer, hands on his hips, staring after us as we disappeared down the road.
***
We dropped off Jerry first, and then Grant drove away after leaving us at our front door late into the evening. Our house was cold and silent, and I was relieved to turn on the lights and fire up the furnace. Hearing the rush of gas to flame in the basement felt oddly reassuring to me, as if our home had been holding its breath the whole time we were away and had finally let it out again.
Martin stayed in the kitchen, idly flipping through the mail before dropping it onto the kitchen table in disdain.
“Anything important?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Just some bills.” He scratched his ear, clearly wanting to say something. I poured a glass of milk and waited, leaning against the counter.
“You—ah—you may have been right.”
I stopped mid-drink, grateful I hadn’t choked. Was it possible? Had Martin finally come around to reason? I swallowed and asked, “About what?”
“About Jerry.”
Jerry? “What about Jerry?”
He shook his head. “Naw, forget it.”
“No, tell me.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Everything’s something. Especially after this week.”
He smiled. “Huh. Good point. You told me you didn’t think we shoulda brought Jerry in on the plan. I didn’t agree with you, but I’m starting to think you were right. Maybe Jerry doesn’t have the head for this.”
“What? Because of the cop?”
He snorted. “Yeah.”
“He panicked.”
“Yeah. Badly.”
I swallowed the milk. “Okay. So what happens? You guys gonna fire him or something?”
He smiled humorously. “Not exactly.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s not my decision.”
“Grant’s?”
He nodded.
“What happens if Grant decides to pull him out?”
Martin looked away. “It’s late. We should probably get some rest.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
I set my glass down and squared my shoulders. My palms tingled. “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare unload this bomb on me and just walk away.”
He shrank from me, his eyes furtive. I’d never seen him do that.
“What happens? If Grant decides to cut him loose, what happens to Jerry?”
He grimaced, his eyes red. I couldn’t tell if he was upset or just dog-tired. He shook his head, his mouth open. “Ah, Petey. You’re actually gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”
Nineteen
“He’s our friend, Martin! We’ve been best friends since we were kids.”
“I know that.”
“Grant will kill him, won’t he?”
He shook his head and spun away from the counter, away from me. I followed him into the living room.
“See, this is why you wouldn’t have made it in the Corps.”
“Don’t give me that! The army doesn’t kill its own soldiers.”
“Marines. Please. And that’s not the point.”
I grabbed his shoulder, making him face me. “Then what is? Huh?”
He slapped my hand down. “Don’t pretend you’d understand.”
“Just try me.”
Martin ran a hand through his hair. Then dropped into the La-Z-Boy and pulled off his shirt. The ugly scar on his shoulder puckered his skin, like some kind of alien parasite embedded in his pecs, stretching thin tentacles toward his jugular and his heart. He examined it a moment, as if checking to see that it were still there.
“We were the first in our conv
oy. There must’ve been like fifty trucks behind us. That stretch of road was an easy target for the terrorists. Everyone knew it. We couldn’t send a convoy out that way without getting some casualties one way or another. They’d hit us on the way there. Sometimes on the way back. Sometimes it was IED’s. Sometimes the Hajjis would get themselves an RPG to play with. Most times it was just gunfire. You never knew when it would hit. Or what they’d hit you with.
“First truck in the convoy we called the CF. Cannon Fodder. We were the tip of the spear, the first ones to get shot at. Or blown up. Nobody wants to draw the duty, but once you do,” he shrugged, “you strap on your gear, grab a seat and go.”
“What’s your point?”
He narrowed his eyes. “The point is you do what you gotta do. Even if it means you draw a one-way ticket. Every time we climbed into the lead vehicle, we knew it might be our last.”
I smirked. “So you’re saying Jerry drew a one-way ticket ‘cause a cop stopped us and he almost crapped his pants? Is that it?”
“No! It’s about you do what you gotta do. It’s about the mission.”
I threw my hands up. “What is it with you and this mission? Huh? What makes the mission more important than friendship? Than a man’s life?”
“How can you ask that?”
“I’m asking!”
“It’s about what we’re fighting for.”
“And what are we fighting for if it’s not for our friendship and the lives of our fellow men?”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “Peter, I am just way too tired to deal with this right now.”
“Then let me just say this, just so we’re clear: Jerry goes, I go. You can tell Grant I said that.”
He snorted and shook his head. “Tell him yourself. I’m going to bed.”
I wanted to keep arguing with him—tried to, in fact—but he wordlessly climbed the stairs and shut his door in my face when I tried to object. I stood there a long moment, staring at the hardwood barrier between us, trying to think of something to say, something that would change things. Around me, the house settled and creaked as the furnace’s warmth seeped through the walls and breathed life back into its rooms, but it felt wrong to me, like I didn’t belong there anymore.
I frowned, and then the sickening thought finally occurred to me. What if Martin had only told me this because Grant had already gone...?
I bolted from the house.
***
When I reached Jerry’s street I finally slowed down, grateful that no cops had seen me barreling down 104 into the heart of Webster, nor blowing through the streetlight at Five Mile Road heading for the main thoroughfare through town.
The Knapps lived on a side street off Ridge Road, nestled in a tiny hamlet called West Webster. Their house was a dark green Cape Cod with white shutters and a screened in front porch. Inside, the lights from their living room played warmly against the snow coating the ground in front. Through the curtains, I could see the twitchy flicker of the television casting inconstant hues off the living room walls, and the crown of Jerry’s head was clearly visible above the back of his father’s recliner. If I’d wanted to, and if I’d brought a gun with a decent scope, I could’ve taken him out from several hundred yards back. But I wasn’t here to hunt. I was here to protect.
I shut my lights off when I coasted by the front, not wanting to disturb them if I could help it. I was praying my hunch was wrong—that Grant had simply gone off to bed, leaving whatever decision he thought he should make undone until at least the morning. I didn’t see his SUV anywhere, but that didn’t mean a thing. I had no doubt Grant was capable of almost anything. At the end of the street, I turned around and parked, leaving the engine running for the heat, and sat there for a long time.
Above me, the sky was a black void, made further invisible by the icy glare of the surrounding streetlights. Streaks of water glinted white off the coiled wires running power, phone, and cable to their house. The wires swayed gently in the wind, like rocking cradles, and gradually I became aware of the sounds bleeding through the windows of my car, overtaking the rush of heat from my floor vents. I heard cars shushing by each other on the roads, the wind buffeting my doors and roof, and even, so I thought, the sound of Jerry’s television set broadcasting a comedy’s canned laugh-track through his picture window.
I glanced at the house, startled to see that the lights were out, the television set turned off. I checked my watch. It was only ten-thirty. Had Jerry really gone to bed this early?
Or had something else happened while I missed it completely, absorbed as I was in the doings of power lines and traffic? My heart thudded in my chest, and I could feel my palms aching. A light blinked on in the upstairs bathroom. I released my breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. A few minutes later the light winked out again, and the light to Jerry’s bedroom came on. Inside I could see him moving about the room. He was okay.
I relaxed, leaning back in the seat. Now all I had to do was keep watch, be sure Grant didn’t show up and try anything before I had the chance to talk him out of it. I could’ve said something to Jerry, warned him about what Martin said, but then all Grant would have to do is deny it, and I’d wind up looking like an idiot for sounding the alarm. Truth was, I didn’t know if Grant intended to do anything or not, or if this wasn’t just another one of Martin’s sick mind games. But could I really take that chance? I nestled into the seat, breathing easier. Better to be safe than sorry.
Jerry’s room went dark. It was quarter to eleven. I turned down the heat and watched the house. I’d keep vigil all night if I had to.
***
Sometime around four a.m. I heard a tapping at my window. I woke startled, realizing I’d fallen asleep on the job. The tapping persisted. I rubbed my sleeve on the window, wiping clear the fog, and saw a man standing on the street, his breath a gray vapor illumined by the street light.
Martin.
I rolled down the window.
He leaned in close, shivering in the cold. “Come home.”
I glanced between him and the house. “I don’t trust you.”
“You’re a frickin’ idiot.”
“Maybe.”
“Jerry’s Dad sees you out here, you’ll freak him out. He’ll probably have a heart attack.”
I snorted.
“And what are you gonna do if he calls the cops on you, huh? Care to explain why you’re spying on your best friend?”
I didn’t answer. He stamped his feet, rubbing his arms. I noticed he was only wearing a flannel jacket. And I was the idiot?
“Come on, Petey! Look, I’m sorry I got you all riled up there. Grant’s not going to do anything. I promise. Now will you just come home already?”
I shook my head. Maybe he was right after all. I was being an idiot. I reached forward and started the engine, rolling up my window and shutting out the satisfied grin on my brother’s face. Heading home, I prayed Martin was right.
Twenty
I awoke the next morning to find Grant and Martin sitting at my kitchen table, sipping coffee. Martin said little as I came in the room. He poured me a steaming mug and pulled out a chair for me at the table.
I sucked my teeth and slid into the chair. Light from the blinding snow outside the kitchen window splashed across the table’s wood grain and framed Grant in a brilliant halo. I squinted my eyes to see him clearly before giving up the attempt.
Propping my elbows on the table, I turned my attention to the coffee, sipping it with a forced calm. Grant and Martin waited silently, like this was some kind of intervention for an addict, or more likely, an interrogation, with the morning sun replacing the conventional light-in-your-face. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing just how rattled I felt. As far as I was concerned, I was in the right here, and no amount of discussion would change that.
Finally, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I cleared my throat and said, “Mornin’.”
A single corner of Grant’s lip tu
rned up in the barest smirk. I wondered if he thought he’d scored some kind of point. He picked up his coffee and took a sip of it. “Mornin’ yerself. Heard you had a bit of a rough night.”
I snorted. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” I swallowed, trying to maintain my composure.
After a moment, his gaze softened and he turned to Martin. “Well?”
Martin breathed out a deep sigh. “Petey, I need to apologize to you.” My eyes flicked in his direction. This was unexpected. He splayed his hands on the table and continued. “It seems I left you with a bit of a false impression last night.”
“Really.”
Grant pointed his finger at me. “This is the part I don’t like. Right there.”
I pulled back from his finger. It was an instinctive reaction, but I wished I hadn’t. I wanted to be able to stare them both down, if need be.
He pressed his attack. “See? How could you think that of me?”
“It’s my fault, Grant,” said Martin. “He’s got this huge imagination. I forget sometimes how it gets away from him.”
“So I imagined it?” I half-laughed. “Is that your line?”
“Did you really think I’d kill Jerry? I mean, whether Martin led you there or not, you believed it?”
“Grant, I think you’d do almost anything.”
“What kind of animal do you think I am, anyway?”
I shook my head and took another sip of coffee. It had cooled off enough to chug it. I drank a large swallow and wiped my mouth. “There’s no way to answer that question right.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“No.”
“Have I proven unreliable, in some way?”
I shook my head. “But like I said, I think you’re capable of anything. I have no idea what limits you might have.”
He bit his lip and cupped both hands around his mug. I was suddenly aware of just how thick his forearms were. I could picture him snapping me in half without breaking a sweat.
He stared at me, his eyes boring into my skin the way I’d seen predators stalk prey on nature shows. “All right, here’s what you need to know. This operation concludes in less than two months. Do I like Jerry’s response to our little traffic stop last night? No. Does it concern me? Yes. But it’s also too late to find a replacement. We’re stuck with him, whether we like it or not. A poor craftsman blames his tools. Even a man like Jerry has his uses, just as you do. We just need to ensure his liabilities don’t jeopardize the mission.”
The Spirit of Resistance Page 11