The Sixteenth Man

by Thomas B. Sawyer

  Shit, we useta work through this kinda stuff.

  He was back in Benton Harbor, the game almost in his pocket. The last batter – what was his name – Skinner – this leftie that finally made it three seasons earlier, played 18 games with Cincinnati then tore the crap out of his knee sliding home. Could never run for shit after that. But he still hit pretty good. .314 or something. A sucker for low inside.

  I just wish...my...fucking...arm didn’t hurt so bad...

  Charlie’s vision blurred as he let it fly. The follow-through almost put him away, but he slowly straightened. He’d known his arm would be dead, that with the darkness and wind, he’d have little sense of having thrown it far enough, or on an accurate line. But he knew – knew he’d pulled it off, thrown a killer strike. Like with Skinner. That’s when he crumbled, when his knees just – folded. His head spun. The weakness, it reminded him of something...something... On all fours, he dragged himself back to the little shelter, slumped in the vee. The snow was coming heavier again. The next wave of weakness, it came to him – the dentist...telling him to start counting backward...

  Doctor...? Doctor...? What...was...his...name...?

  Charlie Callan slowly blinked the snow off his eyelids, then flinched, frightened. The scraggle-bearded figure looming over him, black eyes staring into his – this wasn’t his dentist. But his initial fear gave way to apathetic curiosity. Why did the man not resemble any of the people who were trying to kill him? He decided to remark about it, and maybe, while he was at it, mention how cold his legs were. But he wasn’t sure what he should say. He didn’t want to offend the guy. That non-thought morphed into a question.

  Why are...my lips moving...but nothing’s coming out...?

  Charlie figured maybe his ears were plugged up. No, that wasn’t it – he heard the wind, his own shallow breathing. He concentrated on moving his tongue slowly – slowly – around his lips. He tasted something. What was it? Water. Snow. Again he tried to speak. This time words came, words that, ever hopeful, might buy him a few minutes of life. But he wondered why they were taking so long. Like a record played at half-speed. “If... you... promise... won’t... hurt... Phyllis... or... I... know... where... it... is...” Charlie was disgusted. Why was it so fucking hard to state something that simple? Worse, he forgot what he was trying to say. And then this man with the eyes, the weathered face and dirt-matted hair didn’t seem to have the vaguest idea of what in hell he was talking about.

  Guy’s gotta be some kinda moron.

  Errol McTeague watched blankly as Charlie’s eyes rolled upward, then closed. The scruffy man shuddered, turned aside, spat some tobacco, then knelt, placed a callused, stained finger under Charlie’s nostrils. Breath, but hardly so you’d notice. And a clatter from deep in the man’s chest. Snow was falling, thicker now. With full darkness, the wind had taken on an especially harsh edge. McTeague opened Charlie’s raincoat, found the briefcase. He quickly undid the belt, opened the leather bag, reached inside, came up with – an old baseball? His other hand found some loose paper. McTeague knew its feel. Money. A lot of it. He replaced the baseball, began removing Charlie’s clothes.

  Charlie’s eyes slowly opened. Locked onto the stranger’s. They stared at each other. Then Charlie spasmed. And was still.

  After a few moments McTeague closed the eyelids, looked away, just beyond the top of Charlie’s head. There, at the bottom of the vee, was a small black opening in the rock wall.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Present Time

  Thursday

  A cloud passed, partially exposed the rising moon, numberless stars. Packard was nearly catatonic, remained motionless except for his eyes. He became aware that he was sitting beside the prone, motionless figure of the young Italian, the one in the gaudy running-suit. Then he took in the others. Matanza – and the one who had fallen on his gun.

  The sound came again, hardly qualified as a whisper.

  Only marginally louder than his own wheezing, which he suspended. And waited...

  Then it came again, faint, distant. “Packard...”

  Ojesusgod.

  Packard scrambled to the edge, near where she had gone over the side.

  There it was again. Closer. A touch louder. “Packard?”

  “Kate?” He flattened himself, slid forward till his head, shoulders projected over the trail-rim as far as possible without losing his purchase. “Kate?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice seemed to come from the left. And then in the emerging moonlight he saw it. Seven or eight feet below, a shrub of some sort, sage, whatever, growing out of a rock-fissure. Moving. And – shapes at its base?

  Fingers? Fists? Yes. Threatening to pull the frail plant out of its uncertain rooting.

  “Okayokay – hang on.” Quickly, Packard removed his jacket, wound the end of one sleeve around his right wrist, swung it down. The other sleeve brushed the shrub’s outer branches.

  “I see it.” Kate’s voice was weak.

  Packard maneuvered the garment till the sleeve came to rest near her hands. “Okay, can you---?” The sudden tug at his arm told him she’d grabbed on. The second tug was heavier, bearing most of her weight. “Gotcha. You ready? Can you hang on?”

  “Yes to both.”

  Packard braced himself, jabbed his boot-toes into the ground, started to pull. Slowly. The soreness in his left arm and right shoulder was fierce, relieved somewhat when she found a toehold.

  Then, suddenly, he recalled that the little film canister was in the pocket of the jacket he was using as a lifeline.

  Shit.

  And there was Kate’s face. Three, maybe four feet below. He wanted to kiss it, allowed himself cautious elation. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.”

  Packard heard some movement on his left. Running suit was stirring. “Christ.” The gun was between them.

  “What?”

  “You anyplace where you can plant your feet for a second?”

  Groggy, Vercelli tried to sit up.

  Packard felt a slight lessening of the weight on his arms, enough to chance loosing his left hand. He let go, groaned at the stab of pain that ran across his right shoulder. He brought his left arm up, groped for the gun, found Vercelli’s hand already on it. A glance revealed the young man, torso half-raised, arm extended. Packard made a fist, smashed it down on Vercelli’s fingers.

  “Owww. Motherfucker.”

  As Vercelli withdrew his hand, Packard closed his around the weapon, found the trigger, aimed, squeezed. The shot resounded through the canyon. Vercelli emitted an ugly, gurgling sound – and fell back. He did not move.

  “Holy shit. Packard...?”

  Packard reached down, caught her hand in his left. “Don’t ask.” He helped her the rest of the way up onto the ledge, where they permitted themselves – though without much choice in the matter – to collapse. They lay beside each other for a minute or more, catching their breath. Then Packard rose on an elbow, reached over, gently touched the abrasion on her forehead, another on her cheekbone. He knew then how fortunate he was, to be looking at that face. Kate smiled, took his hand, moved it to her mouth, kissed it. The moonlight-flash on the knife-blade made him aware of the figure standing unsteadily over them.

  Desi Matanza was bloodied, angry, his voice raspy, unnatural, his words difficult to understand. “...Fucking...shoulda...fucking... garage...cunjo...fucking film---”

  “Okayokay. Just let me---” Packard started to rise, felt the sting of Matanza’s knife-tip at his throat.

  “But first I gonna waste you...” Matanza pulled the knife back, preparing to thrust. “...you fucking piece of---”

  The gunshot sounded like a small cannon. The bullet ripped into Matanza’s head, hurled him back and to the side.

  Both Packard and Kate looked to their left. A few feet down the trail was a man in a raincoat, dark suit, pale blue shirt, necktie. The 9mm pistol in his hand was smoking. He made no move to put it away, which was why Packard’s “Than
ks,” came out more wary than grateful. Packard gathered up his jacket as he rose, assisted Kate to one of her feet.

  She cautiously put weight on the other, grimaced, responded to his concerned look. “Just a sprain, I think.” She sat down.

  Packard turned to the man. “You’re the fellow in the Taurus?”

  The man kicked Vercelli’s pistol over the edge. It clanked, bounced to a distant splash in the creek. “Give me the negatives.”

  “I don’t have ‘em.”

  “Wrong. You found them up above.”

  “Jesus.”

  He gestured “come on” with his forefinger.

  Packard didn’t move. “Suppose I tell you to go screw yourself.”

  “Then I kill both of you, and take them.”

  “And if I give ‘em to you...”

  “You’re free to go.”

  Packard’s glance at Kate asked if she believed that. Her look was an emphatic no.

  “Now, Packard. This is not a negotiation.”

  But – you can’t afford to kill either of us till you’ve got them in hand. Hurt us – maybe...

  As if reading Packard’s thoughts, the man moved to a point that placed Kate between them, pressed his gun to the top of her head. “Now.”

  “Okay. Wait. Look, I’m reaching for them, see?” Carefully, deliberately, Packard moved his right hand toward his jacket, which he held bunched in his left.

  “Slowly.”

  Kate squirmed. “Packard, don’t---”

  “Shut up.” The man jammed the pistol-barrel down on her skull, stared at Packard. “I’m waiting.”

  Packard had frozen in mid-movement, not unlike a kid playing statues. His head was a frantic jumble; all his surmises were off – the only sure thing: he must find a way to distract the man. Quickly. He located the pocket, slipped his hand inside, felt the canister. And knew what he must do. His words were separate – distinct. “Listen – to – me – mister. If – you – harm – her – at all – you – are – never – going – to – get – them.”

  The man displayed the tiniest flicker of uncertainty.

  “The same if you shoot me... Now, I’m removing them from the pocket. See...?” Packard slowly withdrew his right hand, displayed the canister. As the man started to reach for it, Packard stepped back, stretched his arm away, so that the little can was beyond the edge of the trail, out over the canyon’s dark openness.

  “Don’t be a god damned fool.” The man made a move toward him, keeping Kate in view, the gun pointed at her.

  “Hey - I mean it. Another step, this is gone – unless you take the clip out of that thing, and I have your guarantee---”

  The man stopped, still several feet from him. “Packard...” It was spoken sadly.

  “...I give them to you – and the killing stops, right?”

  “Of course. We want what you want---”

  Kate cut in, rubbing her ankle. “Don’t listen to him, Packard.”

  The man continued. “...What everyone wants. To close the book on it. To know what really happened, who was really behind it.”

  “Then – you wouldn’t object if we just put it out there ourselves.”

  The man pointed the gun at Packard’s face. “Do you really want to die?”

  Packard focused on the hole in the end of the gun, then on the man’s eyes – and felt it rise again, like vomit – the overwhelming anger he’d experienced – when – was it really only a few minutes earlier? Only this time he mustn’t give in to it. Not now. Not yet. This was no half-crazed Cuban. This had to be all about cool.

  He breathed in, slowly. Then: “Fuck you, mister.” Packard flipped the canister out into the canyon. And saw the man’s eyes follow it, incredulous.

  “You – dumb – son – of – a---” Less than a second till the eyes started back toward Packard, but enough that he’d lost the moment.

  Packard took a step toward him, deflected the gun with left forearm, caught his jaw with an arcing right. At the same time Kate hurled herself at the backs of the man’s knees. The gun fired as he fell backward, the shot pinging off the sandstone above them, still echoing as he hit the ground. Packard lunged at him as Kate scrambled clear, wrenched the knife from Matanza’s dead fist.

  It wasn’t needed. Packard was astraddle the limp body, holding the head up with hands wet from the man’s blood. His head had struck a rock when he fell. “C’mon, damn you, wake up.” Packard was shouting into his face. “C’mon!” The eyes opened. “Who are you?”

  The man coughed. His speech was slow, voice weak. “Do – do you have any idea...of...what...you’ve...done?”

  “I said – who the fuck are you? CIA? FBI? What?”

  “It...doesn’t...matter...”

  “The hell it doesn’t. Too many people’re dead because---”

  “All...guineas’ doing...” His voice gurgled. “Fucked up...We were...trying to...” His next cough brought up blood. His eyes closed.

  “No, dammit, no.” Packard shook the man’s head. “Who’s ‘we’? Tell me.”

  The eyes half-opened. “All...there. Nobody gets...it...even now...” He tried to continue, made no sound.

  Packard’s shout resonated through the canyon. “No, you sonofabitch! What don’t they get?”

  Then, weakly: “It – was – everybody... M-military-industrial, Dagos. Cubans. Langley---” He inhaled, grotesque, wet. “Had to die---”

  “Kennedy.”

  “Out...of...control. His brother, him... Crazy... b-bastard was going to pull...plug.”

  “Plug...?” Packard glanced at Kate.

  She shrugged, brushed some matted hair from her face. “Wait – Vietnam...?

  Packard remembered his father telling him about it, how, seven or eight days before John Kennedy was killed, he’d publicly announced that he would soon begin withdrawing U.S. troops from Vietnam. Could that had been the final insult?

  “Jesus. Okay, so what do you need the goddam film for?”

  “You...can---”

  “What---?” Packard stopped. The man was trying to move his head from side-to-side, to speak.

  “...Never...” A deep, liquid cough, then: “...understand...” He tried to form the next word. It seemed to start with “Pa...” His mouth went slack.

  Packard lowered the head to the ground. He knew the man was dead, felt for the carotid artery anyway. He wiped his bloody hands along the man’s coat, stopped short of the pockets. Even more unnecessary would be a search for identification; whatever he might find would surely be bogus. He sat back, trunk upright, haunches on the dead man’s thighs, arms hanging at his sides, head down, spent both physically and emotionally. His mind felt empty.

  But there was something. He tried to isolate it. A state of – what was it – grace? That was part of it. A feeling of – of floating almost, of liberation, of freedom. From his anger, yes, but more than that – something yet elusive. Then he saw it. In the old photograph Kate had shown him: the face of her grandfather, Charlie Callan. The sixteenth man. Packard had reached the place he’d sensed was possible. He had come to know the man. Not every detail, yet fully – his essence – as he had never before come even close to knowing the human remains that had been part of his life for so long, the anonymous ancients whose histories were so impersonal – at best informed fabrications.

  He had found his closure.

  He became aware of a hand on his shoulder. Kate’s. He covered it with his own. They remained silent, motionless, for a long time, enclosed by darkness. Then they both stood. He took her in his arms, held her to him, his face in her hair. His eyes took in the bodies strewn around them. He thought about how little he cared who they were, how badly he needed her. Her hands flattened against his back told him she felt the same.

  Still wordless, they started up the trail. Up, past the motor-home, to where they’d left the white Mercury.

  Pekoe greeted their return noisily, enthusiastically, jumping from rear-shelf to laps to headrests and back.
Kate mooshed the cat’s head, rutted in her bag, came up with the can of tuna and opener they’d picked up at a convenience store. The calico circled anxiously, quacked, purred as Kate opened the can, reached over, placed it on the back seat. Pekoe leapt onto Packard’s shoulder, launched herself at the food, went at it voraciously.

  Kate sat back, quiet, reflective. Then: “That last thing – what he was trying to say – did you...?”

  “I think so. Hey, maybe I’m just projecting, but I think the word was ‘power...’ That we – none of us – could ever see – maybe because we don’t want to – that – that’s the only thing it was ever about...”

  She nodded, sighed. “God, what a waste – all those people...”

  Packard stared out over the wheel. “And a lot of others we’ll never know about...” He glanced toward the motor-home, quickly looked away. “All of it from that day in Dallas – and your grandfather just happening to be where he was...”

  “And now – nobody’s ever going to learn the truth...”

  “That depends...”

  Kate glanced at him questioningly. Then her eyes went to his right hand, which he withdrew from his pocket.

  “...On what we do with these...” Packard opened his palm. On it were the negatives.

  The End