There Will Be Killing

by John Hart

  “No,” Gregg said. “I don’t think guys like him ever really relax.”

  “Even Hitler liked to paint and Fish liked to write messed up stuff when he wasn’t eating kids. Everyone needs some form of sanctuary, Gregg.”

  “Maybe.” Before Gregg could stop it, he was thrust back into the room where Rick was opening a body bag and extracting its contents with his pronouncement of, “Maybe not.”

  Izzy suddenly stopped on the cat tracks. “This isn’t really my area of expertise, but. . .”

  “What?”

  “I’m just thinking of that whole awful thing with the eyes being cut out before killing the victim—I’m pretty positive about that—but it just makes me wonder if that kind of torture could be more than just for fun, or to maximize the psyops value Rick was talking about. Like, could it be the Ghost Soldier’s own kind of sanctuary, or if it’s a group, even some kind of cult worship—especially if the killings involve some type of ritual mutilation?”

  “There’s a thought,” Gregg agreed.

  “I know it sounds strange but. . . ” Izzy held out his hands; they were no longer shaking. “For some reason it helps me to analyze. As disturbing and gruesome as all this is, laying the pieces out and trying to put everything together gives me a sense of control over the situation, even if I realize I’m feeding myself a load of crap for a false sense of security.”

  “Whatever works, man, I’m all for it.”

  They were still discussing the various possibilities while savoring a late night grilled cheese sandwich, a can of Campbell’s, and a bottle of Jack when Robert David appeared in the villa’s kitchen. If he noticed they immediately fell silent upon his arrival, he gave no indication, saying without preamble, “Kate called to invite us all to a little get together she’s hosting at the mission come next weekend. I told her I would pass the word to Nikki and Margie since she hoped they could come, too. Oh, and Izzy, my good man, this is for you.”

  As Izzy did a Jack-in-the-Box to latch onto the letter Robert David extended, Gregg made a mental note NOT to forget Rick’s letter to Nikki.

  Robert David sniffed the air, wrinkled his patrician nose, and took a closer look at them both. “Good Lord, you two look like hell and don’t smell much bettah. What happened in the Highlands today?”

  “Oh, you know the usual routine,” Gregg said. “Murder, mayhem, slaughter in a muddy hellhole. It is a great place the Highlands, a fun get away for anyone and everyone. Right, Izzy?”

  Izzy was pressing the letter to his chest as if it might resuscitate him from the shock overload of the day. Gregg knew Izzy had a little ritual of taking his letters to the beach to open them; not so strange really since most guys considered them holier than manna from heaven. But under the circumstances, Gregg figured this was one letter that would be ripped into the second Izzy got it alone in his room.

  “If I had to choose between the Highlands and this upcoming Woodstock festival Rachel’s been writing me about, I’m heading back to the Highlands, no question.”

  “Yep,” Gregg agreed, “Give me the Highlands over the Summer of Love any time, any year because I’d rather smell burning shit than those damn hippies.” Gregg touched his hair and silently promised Top to get a haircut.

  “Might I presume that Peck was not on his best behavior?”

  “He killed some elephants,” said Izzy.

  “He killed some elephants, what the hell?” Robert David looked from Izzy’s ravaged face to Gregg biting down hard on his lip.

  “Yeah,” Gregg said, sounding far away even to himself, “It was the elephants. A mother and her baby, right after we watched them play.”

  The Boogeyman was at Camp McDermott’s Court again and he wanted to play. But for now he was happy just to watch and blend in, wait his turn like everyone else while the sound of the ball, the rim, the boards, the grunts and curses mixed with the boombox music of Marvin Gaye.

  The game was sanctuary. It was something pure and holy like gospel songs lifting the rafters off a church, and those who watched were like the choir whooping the players on and hoping their own game could go that high until the last shot was dropped.

  Then, when it was your turn to play. When you were next. You had better be ready. This was not some game you eased into. There were at least two, three teams waiting to get in while the team that had won would continue to hold court until they were beaten and nobody wanted to give that up. The “winners” were already high, and that’s where they wanted to start and keep on going. You shot for first outs and that winner would take the shot, top of the key and just nail that first jumper and the next and the next. And, then they would switch, and that’s when it always happened. Some fucking white kid jumping that high and shooting that kind of shit. . .the black guys just did not believe it at first. And if that white kid could jam down a rebound, ok then he was leading whatever team he was on and they were singing, taking the game higher and they were all back home for that moment and no one could take it from them.

  At least not until some asshole came along. It was late that night when he ruined the game for them all. Yes, he had a good game and he was strong and he could hit the boards and he could shoot. He seemed like just a great big good old boy trucked in from Texas. Fort Sam Houston he said, but he had a mean streak, a bad one. He had some good players with him too and they got up a little bit and started the mouthing that he took to the next level. Then Texas started with the cheap shots and little dirty hits in the stomach when guys were shooting, and deliberate bumps on the elbow. All the little crappy, crappy stuff that took away from the real game. When someone would make a nice move and come in hard for a good shot he would just knock the guy to the blacktop.

  “Not cool,” finally said one of the players. “Oh boo-hoo-hoo,” said Texas, “so sad.” He hit one and then another and another, and finally, when it was the final point and another player got ready to just drop the ball over the rim, Texas shoved him hard, right into the steel pole.

  Now Texas held The Court, and the guy with the big bruise on his forehead and his nose still bleeding sat cross-legged on the ground, watching a couple more games. And whenever Texas would pass he’d say to him: “Boo-hoo.”

  Finally. Texas left, unaware he was being followed. And as he headed toward the MP compound the shadow behind him could only think, “Hmm figures, a fucking cop. Probably go home and spend his life enjoying busting heads and hurting anybody and everybody smaller than him.”

  There was a dark quiet spot ahead. The shadow hurried a little to catch up, calling “Hey, Texas.”

  “Yeah, what do you want asshole?”

  “You hurt the game.”

  “Hurt the game, hurt the game you stupid fuck, I kicked ass.” Texas flicked a match and lit a cigarette, blew a stream of smoke in his worst nightmare’s face. “Walk away right now you little pussy—no, better, say ‘boo-hoo’ for me and then I won’t fix your face so your mama won’t want her little baby anymore.”

  Boogeyman chopped Texas right in the soft place in his gut. As Texas bent over, struggling to breathe, Boogeyman punched him hard, very hard, just once, right in that little place in the throat. He stood over Texas, watched him dying, trying so hard to breathe through his crushed windpipe.

  “You hurt the game. Not cool.”

  And then he bent down and looked Texas in the eyes and smiled as he died. With a twist of his Converse he ground out the still burning cigarette, picked up what Texas had dropped, and with the amazing grace of silent wings, disappeared into the dark, hot night.

  18

  Two days later, J.D. had not yet resurfaced. Neither had Peck. A phone call after Wednesday morning rounds, however, had Margie waving Gregg and Izzy over to the nurse’s station. Her tone was serious, hushed.

  “You’re both supposed to report to the HQ immediately. Apparently there is a CID colonel over there.”

  “What do you mean CID?” Gregg’s pulse up-ticked like there w
as a flashing red light in the rearview mirror.

  “You know, military police. Investigative unit.”

  “I know that, I mean what the hell do they want with me and Izzy?”

  “I have no idea, but promise you won’t get arrested. At least not until after the party Saturday since Nikki and I are counting on you two being our escorts to the mission.”

  Izzy was still smiling back at Margie when Gregg grabbed his arm. “We better see what’s up.”

  Walking down the cat tracks, the same path they had taken Izzy’s first day to meet The Emperor, Gregg noticed Izzy was not the same guy who arrived here. His walk was taller, his skin darker, his face more hard than bewildered. And, “Hey, you’re not sweating as much.”

  “I’m not wearing any underwear either. Crotch rot is bad, you know.”

  “May not be as bad as what’s waiting for us at HQ. Military police, that sounds serious. And Peck’s not here. Maybe Rick went back and killed him.”

  “Or maybe something better. Maybe Rick found the killer and this whole Ghost Soldier nightmare is over.”

  Just the thought was enough for Gregg to feel his body slightly release inside. If this awful thing would go away and J.D. along with it, he could just count the days while convincing Kate to go home with him. Add in a good night’s sleep and then he could call it perfect.

  Upon entering HQ, Gregg was struck by the freshly painted walls and he wondered how Terry felt sitting at the desk that Top had commandeered. Terry raised the arm that wasn’t bandaged in greeting and Gregg plowed a hand through the hippy surfer hair that still needed that damn haircut he’d promised Top to get.

  “How’re you doing, Terry?”

  “Still working on the load of cookies Nikki brought me and I’m still around to eat them, so no complaints here.” Voices rose in the direction of the CO’s office. “The two of you better go on in. You’re expected.” Terry’s smile bore little resemblance to the effusive young West Point officer the last time he allowed them past Colonel Kellogg’s door.

  Moments later, Gregg and Izzy entered the domain of their commanding officer.

  “Shut the door,” ordered Kellogg.

  If a room could boil with tension, Gregg figured he and Izzy would be cooked faster than a couple of lobsters in a bubbling cauldron.

  In one chair sat Peck with a smug look on his face. In another chair was a full bird colonel, his assistant standing behind him, all of them facing Kellogg who rose from his desk in a clear fury as Gregg and Izzy gingerly stepped closer.

  Peck decided to stand up too. “I want to press full charges, sir, and—”

  “Sit down Major and shut up. You will speak when either I or Colonel Johnson ask you to, and not before. Captain Kelly, Captain Moskowitz, thank you for coming. As for you—” Kellogg jabbed a finger in Peck’s quickly seated direction. “This is what you have done so far. You came back from the field with some pissant complaint to your CO—that would be me—that you had been assaulted and threatened by a fellow officer and when your CO—again that would be me—told you to knock it off, you went over your CO’s head to contact military police headquarters in Saigon, which has caused the head of the CID—that would be Colonel Johnson here—to come all the way to our division to find out why I cannot manage my own people which makes me look. . .well, do you see where I am going with this?”

  “I do, sir,” Peck responded. “But you have to understand that these people were in the company of those who were threatening me and as the ranking officer—”

  Kellogg guillotined the air and politely turned his attention to Izzy and Gregg. “Doctors, do you care to weigh in here? To your knowledge was Major Peck inappropriately dealt with by either Major Mikel or Captain Galt under whatever the circumstances might have been?”

  Gregg and Izzy exchanged glances. In unison they responded, “No sir.”

  At that point Colonel Johnson leaned close to Peck and thumped him once, squarely in the chest. “You are not the ranking anything except idiot and fuckup, Major. If I get one more call from you, or about you, I will personally see that the rest of your tour here makes a firebase look like cooking up brownies in an Easy-Bake Oven. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Peck blanched. He looked from Johnson to Kellogg, darted a furtive glance at Gregg that reminded him of, “I’ll get you my pretty and your little dog, too!” before contritely nodding, nodding. “Yes sir, my apologies, sir, I understand. I see I have made a terrible mistake. You won’t hear from me again.”

  Kellogg pointed to the door. “You are dismissed Peck. Just remember, if I hear one more thing about you myself from Doctors Kelly, Moskowitz, or Mikel that doesn’t make me want to invite you to my daughter’s wedding, you are goner than gone to wherever Colonel Johnson wishes to send you and that includes Hell.”

  “Thank you, sir, yes sir. Thank you.” Peck all but bowed his way out.

  Upon his departure Colonel Johnson beamed at Gregg and Izzy. “Doctors, Mikel tells me he is more than pleased with your performance so whatever it is that you are doing to assist him, carry on.”

  “Me too, sir?” interjected Kellogg.

  “Yes, you carry on, too, Colonel.” Johnson passed Gregg and Izzy on his way to the door where he paused to say, “Sorry to have bothered you with this.”

  A salute, and before they could return it, Johnson was gone.

  Kellogg was still holding his salute pose when Gregg and Izzy haphazardly saluted him back and made their own exit.

  Terry was taking a swig from a Milk of Magnesia bottle at Top’s desk.

  “Let me know if you need any meds,” Izzy offered.

  “Thanks, Doc Moskowitz, I’ll let you know.” Then to Gregg he said, “Looks like you guys have connections. That’s always a good thing, right?”

  Gregg had once thought so, but now? “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  *

  J.D. showed up Friday, butt-crack-of-dawn, at the villa. At this point he had basically dropped the ruse of coming in for rounds at the hospital and only slid in an appearance if there was something case-specific. Gregg thought it might be good news that no new reports of Ghost Soldier mangling had surfaced; their beds were just constantly occupied by damaged and deranged soldiers brought in from the field under typical circumstances.

  Gregg found himself thinking about his thinking again: What did it say about his own mental health when he considered damaged and deranged young men a welcome reprieve and classified war in terms of “typical circumstances?”

  He wished to God he had never walked through the door of that morgue. Sleep had once been a respite from the unrelenting suffering he witnessed daily; now he dreaded crossing the line from consciousness into the unguarded territory of sleep. The first nightmare shook him, but he passed it off as a singular event. The next night when he woke himself up shouting, he let it go too, nothing chronic to worry about.

  The body needed rest but the brain needed sleep and the deprivation of it, now four nights in a row, was not pretty.

  “What happened to you?” The alarm on J.D.’s usually inscrutable features made Gregg wonder if he looked even worse than the mirror had indicated before following the aroma of freshly brewed coffee into the kitchen.

  “None of your damn business.” Gregg knew he sounded grumpy because he was grumpy, and he completely did not care. J.D., on the other hand, apparently cared enough to pour a cup from the percolator he was manning—and fix it just right with a splash of milk and two sugars before handing it to Gregg, whose mother would have been horrified that instead of a polite “thank you” he snapped, “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

  “Because I pay attention.” J.D. tapped the top button of Gregg’s mis-buttoned shirt. “You may want to try this again. And tie your boot strings while you’re at it.”

  Gregg refrained from muttering “screw you” as he clomped over to the kitchen table, plunked down the mug harder than intended, and bent down
to tie his boots. He was so damn tired he was ready to crawl on top of the table and go to sleep right there.

  J.D. pulled up a chair next to him and tapped his fingertips together. “So, how bad are the nightmares?”

  Gregg shrugged. “Bad enough.”

  “Can you take something to help?”

  “I’m thinking about it.” And he had. What Gregg hadn’t expected was his own resistance to signing up for the very medication he was so liberal in dispensing. Not that he prescribed the Rxs., that end of the job went to the MDs, but as for why he was so reluctant to dip into the medicine cabinet himself…

  On some level some part of him had decided that it would be like admitting the war had won. And he did not want this miserable mess of a war to beat Gregg Kelly.

  “Look, Gregg, I’ve been thinking, too. I know we have this thing between us—”

  “Kate is not a thing. She’s a wild child with an incredibly intelligent mind and she’s a woman with a sweet and generous heart that’s not always so wise. I know what she looks like now, but I still see a girl with braces and a bad perm that earned her the nickname Bozo and when some bully down the street called me her little clown she knocked that bastard flat and told me to take my best shot. Tag-team, me and Kate. I loved her then. And I love her now. I will always love Kate. Even if she doesn’t always love me back the same.”

  Gregg quickly put the mug to his mouth before he said more. Worse, before he choked up in front of J.D., who genuinely looked sympathetic.

  God, what was the matter with him? Everything he’d said about Kate was true but his emotions and his nerves were so raw he was saying shit he would normally keep to himself, or maybe after a few beers confess to a trusted friend like Robert David or Izzy too now. But not to J.D. Telling him this, letting him in on personal territory, was like giving Intel to the enemy.

  “But she does love you, Gregg.” J.D.’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. Gregg half expected him to pull out a box of tissues and start taking notes, like he was the therapist sympathizing with the wreck on the couch. “She even told me she didn’t deserve you. Maybe that’s why she thinks I deserve a chance with her. I probably don’t. Actually, I’m quite positive that I don’t. But even guys like me need something good every now and then, something to remind us that certain things in life are worth living for. Whether we deserve it or not.”