by Mark Pepper
Once upon a time, life had been very simple. Special Forces made things that way. You followed orders. A soldier’s loyalty to the unit, and the unit’s allegiance to the flag – those things were unequivocal. Questions of morality rarely entered into it, much less issues of right or wrong with regard to the law.
Now, even though Joey DeCecco was The Law, everything was shades of grey. The only black and white was the car he rode around in. His partner had given him a real headache. Joey knew he had gotten Roth pretty shaken up, but his own fears had not been allayed. He had been put on notice that his wife was fair game. If he did talk to Gilchrist and Roth did follow up on his threat, breaking the bastard’s neck would serve only as revenge.
Joey twisted the faucet and stopped the jets. He could hear Laura in their bedroom, humming some jolly tune. He stayed in the shower for several minutes, a steady succession of drips tapping his flattened crew-cut. Eventually he swivelled the leaky head off to one side. His skin had turned to gooseflesh. Laura DeCecco was still making happy noises in the bedroom, excitedly sifting through a huge pile of baby clothes donated by her sister. Every so often, the humming would give way to coos of delight.
He climbed out of the shower and began towelling himself. His head kept making involuntary little shakes, though it didn’t negate the impending choice. How could he endanger his wife? If he said no to Roth, he was taking a mighty gamble on the man’s state of mind. Was he really on the ragged edge? Joey thought so, and if he tipped over, why would he not take someone with him?
He shook his head – a conscious movement this time. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t take the risk. The stakes were too high: Laura and their unborn child. The scan indicated a boy – his son. They were too defenseless. He at least had a fighting chance.
‘Honey, come in here!’ Laura called.
Joey wrapped the towel round his middle and went through to see the tiny clothes neatly arranged across the bed. Laura beamed at him, the same beautiful smile that had first captured his heart, but more radiant these days, aglow with the inner fire of motherhood. Then her gaze fell to the bed again, hypnotically drawn.
‘God, Joey, just look at these things. Can you believe it?’
Joey approached, stood behind his wife and circled his arms around her.
‘They’re cute, Babe,’ he said over her shoulder. ‘Real cute.’
‘Aren’t they?’
He gathered up her night-shirt with his fingers until it lay across the top of her warm, swollen belly, and placed his palms over his son. He nudged his nose through Laura’s long dark hair into the nape of her neck and he closed his eyes.
‘Feel those kicks,’ he whispered. ‘He’s strong.’
‘Just like his dad.’
Joey wasn’t so sure any more.
‘I love you, Laura,’ he said. ‘I love you both. Very, very much.’
She laid her hands over his, squeezed them, turned her head and kissed him.
‘Make love to me, Joey.’
Joey hadn’t thought he was in the mood, but found himself overruled; beneath his towel, something stirred. Its ascent was stopped by his wife’s bare ass. Laura took his hands and raised them under the high-bunched hem to her breasts, voluptuously enlarged by her hormones. He caressed and she moaned, feeling behind to undo his towel, which fell to the carpet. Joey bent at the knees, allowing his penis to rise horizontal between her legs, hard against her vagina. Then he gasped as she delved a hand and touched what was poking through.
Later, Joey helped Laura put the baby clothes away in the nursery. Characters from Toy Story ran around the walls, and a cot had been installed, caging an army of plush animals.
Joey’s preoccupation with work was etched into his face again. He could feel it there, narrowing his eyes, pinching his lips. The decision had been made. Now he was bulling himself up. If it had to be done, he was undoubtedly best-qualified for the job. The danger would be in letting Roth take control – and lose it. Hopefully, Roth wasn’t as dumb as he was crazy; maybe he was relying on his partner’s expertise to get them through. But Joey couldn’t help thinking how bloody things might get, and how some of it might escape from his own veins.
Laura pushed a drawer to and peered at him.
‘Hon, you okay?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’
‘Really? It’s not that whacko partner of yours, is it?’
He shrugged. ‘Kinda. No problem.’
‘Honestly?’ she said, pressuring him with her eyes.
Joey wanted to open up, even more than he’d wanted to spew his guts to Gilchrist that morning, even more than he’d wanted to sever Roth’s spinal cord every second since he hadn’t spewed his guts. He shared everything with his wife. It was the most complete relationship he knew.
The words would not come out. At eight months pregnant, Laura required beaucoup R & R. She didn’t need her milk soured by his troubles. He couldn’t even tell her about his transfer request; on the heels of her last query, she would have no doubt something was wrong.
‘Yeah, don’t worry,’ he said with a reassuring smile.
‘You can talk to me, Joey. You know?’
Laura was a teacher by profession, and Joey thought she sounded like she was speaking to one of her kids. It didn’t bother him. She had taught him love, plucked a real softie from inside this macho Marine, and he would be eternally grateful.
‘Nothing to say,’ he lied. ‘Listen, d’you mind if I hit the sack? I know it’s early, but I’m tired.’
‘Sure, you go. I’ll stay up awhile.’ She kissed his lips.
‘Goodnight, Babe,’ he said to her, then stroked her belly. ‘Goodnight, son.’
Laura grinned. ‘Sweet dreams, Daddy.’
He left the nursery, crossed the landing and entered their bedroom, only to stand there as in the shower, paralyzed by his thoughts. His eyes idly wandered the walls, not really seeing anything. His focus had pulled back into his head to view a waking nightmare on the inside of his skull. Laura and their newborn, the boy swaddled in white, crying lustily as babies do; the mother in black, streaming the silent tears of a widow.
Suddenly his awareness came back to the room, something on the wall demanding its return. Moving towards it, Joey squinted like he’d never seen it before. He took it off the wall. The frame was specially made, slightly deeper than standard to accommodate the enclosed items.
His Marine insignia were mounted behind the glass. Three gold-colored metal badges. Naval Parachutist, Combatant Diver, and Distinguished Marksman. He remembered the day the first of those, the “gold wings”, had been officially pinned to his blue dress uniform – the proudest day of his life. Only surpassed by the occasion of his marriage to Laura, and every day since the creation of that new life inside her.
He sank onto the bed, rested the frame on his lap and stared at it.
‘What aren’t you telling me, Joey?’
He didn’t jump. He had somehow sensed Laura’s presence in the room a split second before she spoke.
‘I can’t hide from you, can I?’ he said.
‘Not even with all your camo-cream and special training.’
She waddled over to the bed and sat heavily beside him. She took the frame off him and put it to one side, then held his hands. He sighed but didn’t speak.
‘Hey, I can handle it,’ she said. ‘I let you go off with the military to God-knows-where in the world, didn’t I? How much worse could this be?’
‘You weren’t pregnant then.’
‘Come on ...’ she glanced down at her belly ‘... you’re saying this mini-Marine can’t take it?’
His eyes moistened as he laughed.
‘Tell me, Joey. You know I won’t let up until you do.’
He nodded and gave in – a willing surrender.
Joey told his wife everything. Everything save one piece of information. He couldn’t allow Laura to know she was a potential target of any revenge Roth might choose to exact should Joey not be com
pletely obedient to his demands. She was nearing full term. It would do immeasurable harm to her last idyllic days of pregnancy. The magic would vanish, and he had never seen someone so suited to the prospect of motherhood as his wife. She was in her element, loving every moment. How could he ruin that, even to maintain the perfect honesty their marriage had been built on?
So Joey told her only what Larry had planned, and not what might happen should he welch on what Larry wrongly perceived to be the obligations of a decent partner.
‘So that’s the choice,’ Joey summed up. ‘Either I rat him out or I go along with it. Either way spells trouble.’
‘Hmmm,’ Laura went, then took his framed badges off the bed and hooked them back in place.
Joey thought she didn’t seem particularly perturbed and decided not to stress again the seriousness of the situation. If she had chosen to ignore the severity of his plight, maybe he should let it be. As an expectant mother, perhaps she possessed some inbuilt defense, a block against life’s woes, a natural safeguard for the baby.
Laura came back and sat on the bed. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you need to avoid pissing this guy off at all costs.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
Laura gave him a wry look. ‘Did you think that was my advice?’ she asked. ‘And you were ready to accept it?’
‘Well ...’
‘Honey, I’m pregnant, not retarded. It’s my hormones have gone crazy, not my head.’
‘So what is your advice, Babe? Go to the captain and risk becoming an outcast for ratting on a colleague who I know is highly regarded, or go to war with a bunch of heavily-armed Armenian drug dealers? Because, either way, I am screwed.’
She did not echo his despair even faintly. In fact, she smiled.
‘Oh, you military men,’ she said. ‘You know, not everything is do or die.’
DODGE CITY was closed for the night, shutter firmly locked down. Outside in the lot was Ginny’s Audi. Earlier that evening, Dodge had reassured his daughter as to his state of mind, and, with cheery waves from her and John, they had driven off in the Grand Cherokee. Whether Ginny had truly believed her father was well enough to leave on his own, Dodge wasn’t so sure, but he got the impression that this time she didn’t want to know. Her mood had been too ebullient, almost daring him to break it. In a way, it was nice to finally see a selfish side to his daughter, and if a bit of romance was on the cards then Dodge was happy to play his part as Cupid Car Rental. He liked John, and Ginny deserved a break. No one had really caught her fancy in years. She had been too busy building a career and worrying about her deranged dad.
But deranged did not begin to describe things today. His demons had always been there, scratching to get out like a man buried alive, but now he felt their power to devastate was overwhelming him. Today, the pressure in his head was nudging critical mass. Donnie was dead, and Dodge blamed himself. His son had flown off to South America to enter what amounted to a war against his own country, and Dodge had been oblivious. Had he stopped wallowing in his own misery for a while he might have noticed. After combat, civilian life was never easy. He of all people knew that – he belonged to a generation still reeling from the fact – yet he had failed to acknowledge that history had a knack of repeating itself. Now Donnie was nothing but a faceless corpse in the ground, and, as the boy had been interred, the demons had exhumed themselves, screaming and raging against their captor.
In Namspeak, Dodge Chester was fugazi. Crazy. Fucked up. It had been a very long time coming, but here it was. Something in his mind had snapped or sparked or fizzed out. He didn’t know what his synapses were up to, only that they had finally given up the charade.
Inside DODGE CITY the overhead fluorescents were dark, but the range was shimmering with light. The floor was littered with popped flares, patches of blinding phosphorescence spewing smoke in billowing trails of yellow and red. It drifted through the building like a cheap special effect, shrouding the military targets Dodge had sent downrange.
He blinked, his eyes smarting, watering. He could feel the pattern of the green stripes across his face; feel where his pores had been blocked by the camo cream. The olive-drab bandanna was tight around his shaved head. As he stared at his reflection in the glass, he didn’t register his store on the other side. All he saw was his own form, outlined by the psychedelic glow to his rear. Nothing more than a silhouette, like the ones lost in the smoke, but he had substance, and he looked down at himself to verify the fact. The tiger-stripe camouflage of the Special Forces covered his body, the uniform cool against his skin. In his hands was a Vietnam-era CAR-15, the shorter commando version of the M-16 – and in full auto.
Dodge kicked an empty bottle of bourbon across the floor, then spun around, hefting the weapon to his shoulder. He sighted on an indistinct silhouette through the nearest booth and squeezed off a burst of automatic fire.
He was back in-country, kicking ass and taking names.
‘Rock and roll!’ he screamed, the tears coursing down his face.
He shifted along the booths, firing at the charging soldiers. No longer paper figures, now olive-clad North Vietnamese, raking the bush with their Kalashnikovs.
Several more bursts and the CAR-15 was empty. He squatted down, dropped the spent clip and reloaded. The range was silent, but not to Dodge. He was in the midst of a firefight, and the rest of his six-man team were defending themselves against the greater enemy force.
He thrust to his feet and opened up on the swarms of imaginary NVA. Breathing heavily, laughing maniacally, he was practically delirious in his reorganization of the past. Another empty mag, another quick exchange.
The empty casings spewed from the side of his weapon as he whirled round and sprayed the acrylic glass with an arc of fire.
The bullets pierced through, impacting across the front wall of grey breezeblocks. Several hit the entrance door, shattering the glass, before the full metal jackets punched through the exterior shutter and strayed into the parking lot. Dodge pulled an M26 grenade from his jacket, bit the pin out and lobbed it through the doorway into the store. But the clear path he envisaged to his target did not exist. Barely three meters away was a free-standing display unit. The grenade struck it and dropped to the floor.
The M26 had a blast radius of ten meters, dispersing one thousand fragments with a fifty percent hit probability against anyone standing in the open.
The four-second fuse-delay expired and the grenade exploded. The remaining glass cracked out and fell and Dodge was thrown backwards by the blast, feeling his body violated by the shrapnel. There was no sense of pain, merely dull thuds like numb punches thrown by an invisible hand, but the wounds did not return him to the present, only immersed him deeper in the past, tripping memories of injuries suffered way back in late 1969.
The flares in the range were beginning to burn down, but his will did not diminish with them. He crawled to the threshold of the store, propped himself against the jamb and levelled his CAR-15. He emptied the magazine in a haphazard spray, then reached his finger forward to the weapon’s second trigger. Mounted under the barrel was an M203 40mm grenade launcher. He pumped the tube and pulled the trigger, and the projectile hurtled through the shop to demolish the shutter.
When everything had settled, Dodge managed to gain his feet. White blast-smoke was merging with the yellow and red from the range flares. He staggered through it and found himself firmly back in the present, staring slack-jawed at a sight even his twisted mind could not reconcile with a Vietnamese landscape.
Parked out front, his daughter’s Audi was a burning wreck in the night.
Faintness overwhelmed him, and he lowered himself to sitting. Broken glass crunched under his boots. Outside, the San Fernando Valley was still humming its incessant vehicular monotone. Through the jagged metal hole by his head, the tricolor smoke swirled out like water down a plughole, and, when it thinned, Dodge could see a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, too wary to inves
tigate, too curious to walk away. He could hear a siren, but it might have been destined for anywhere; his wasn’t the only sadness in the city. Either way, the emergency services would be there soon.
He inspected his wounds. None felt mortal, and he experienced a sudden and profound pang of sorrow for that. It could all be fixed up or replaced. His body, Ginnie’s car, the building.
All but his sanity. A lifetime of hurt and loss had caught up with him.
In those first hours on the road together, their rapport stood the test of time. Conversation barely faltered. John was continually amazed by the ease of communication with his traveling companion. There seemed no effort involved, no struggle for topics. He had never known anything like it. He only hoped Virginia felt the same and was not simply one of those rare individuals who could get along with anyone, because he was baring his soul that evening. No subject was taboo between them. Answers were limited by knowledge not reticence. Questioned about it, he frankly described what it felt like to kill a man. Afterwards, he realized a weight had lifted he had not known existed, and for that alone he could have kissed her.
They ended their first leg at a motel in Hawthorne, a small town off Highway 95, western Nevada. It was gone midnight when John jumped out and paid the old guy at the desk.
Inside their chalet, the double bed made him cringe.
‘I asked for two singles. I honestly asked for two singles.’
Virginia appeared to find his discomfort amusing. She gave him a subtle smile, then began to unpack her case, leaving him to consider the possible interpretations of that smile.
John took his sponge bag and went through to the bathroom. While he undressed to shower, he thought about the situation. Ironically, their obvious connection made the next step awkward. Any move on his part could seem like taking advantage, which Virginia might resent. He popped his head round the doorway and tried to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Did you bring your stun-gun?’
She looked up. ‘Yeah, why?’