16
Eric’s wrists bled from the chafing of the handcuffs. There were ways to slip out of handcuffs, dislocating your thumb then easing the hand through. But Bao Nhu knew those methods too and had tightened the handcuffs so that Eric’s wrists swelled until the hands turned plump and blue.
As they walked through the woods and fields, Eric could almost feel them getting closer to Fallows. The others seemed to tense up, walk more carefully, more like formal soldiers. Even Bao Nhu.
General Bao Nhu had been one of Vietnam’s highest ranking military leaders as well as one of its most successful drug traders. He had used unknowing Vietnamese soldiers to transport the drugs through the jungle. Fallows had used the dead bodies of American soldiers being shipped back home to hide the drugs. The corpses had been cut open, plastic bags of white powder had been stuffed inside, and the bodies had been sewn up again.
Some of this came out at Fallows’ trial when Eric had turned him in for the slaughter of the civilian villagers. Fallows had gone to prison. Despite Eric’s testimony, General Bao Nhu’s name never appeared on any transcripts of the trial.
“Quite a step down, General,” Eric said. “Doing recon work for Fallows.”
Bao Nhu shrugged. “One must change with the times, Eric. I am no longer a general. After the fall of Saigon, your government relocated me to San Diego. I had a beer distributorship. Very lucrative.”
“Still grabbing all the gusto you can, huh?”
Nhu smiled. “Eric, this is not personal with me. It is only business. The world changed in Vietnam and I had to adapt. Now the world has changed in California and again I have had to adapt. Fallows offers the greatest opportunities for profit.”
“Just like ’Nam.”
“Yes. Like Vietnam.” Nhu smoothed his thin moustache with his thumb. “Don’t you ever miss it, Eric? The Vietnam you knew.”
“This is Vietnam,” Eric said.
Nhu thought about that a moment, then laughed. “Quite right, Eric. This is Vietnam, only the faces have changed.”
“Camp!” one of Nhu’s men said, pointing.
On top of a slight hill overlooking the demolished city of San Diego, was Fallows’ camp. Scrub brush stretched down the hill toward the freeway and city. Behind the camp stood a couple of acres of woods. From where he stood, Eric could see the familiar formation of tents, set up just as they had been fifteen years ago half a world away.
In that camp was Fallows and Tim. Finally things would be settled, one way or the other.
Suddenly Eric felt a hard kick to his kidney, the force of the blow propelling him forward to his knees. He sucked in air to keep from vomiting.
Nhu walked around in front of him. He grabbed a handful of Eric’s hair and jerked his head backward. “That, my friend Eric, is to remind you that I will be watching you. Again, this is business, not personal. In Vietnam you did what you had to and turned him in. I understand. In fact, I was able to get a new partner from the CIA and at a much more reasonable split. But now Fallows is the most powerful man around and that makes him valuable to me. Do not try anything in camp. If Fallows does not kill you, certainly I will. Understand?”
Eric nodded.
Nhu hauled Eric to his feet. “Good. Now, let’s have that army reunion.”
“Welcome home, Eric,” Fallows smiled. The morning sun glowed behind the Halo, casting an orange tint on Fallows’ white hair. It made his hair look as if it were on fire. Fallows’ smile looked genuine, and in some perverse way, Eric realized that Fallows really was glad to see him. Not just to kill him, which he would undoubtedly soon do, but out of that strange affection that had made him think Eric would be a part of his activities in ’Nam.
Even stranger, for a brief moment, as quick as a camera flash, Eric was glad to see Fallows. Yes, the hate was still there, but it was for a familiar enemy, one he had reason to hate. So much of Eric’s fighting lately had been with the faceless, nameless animals that attacked for no good reason. The graverobbers and cannibals and highwaymen who became mortal enemies because they wanted your shoelaces.
At least with Fallows, there was cause.
Eric appreciated the simple logic of that.
Fallows fingered the name stitched over Eric’s breast pocket. “I see you found Driscol. I never thought I’d see the day Eric Ravensmith robbed graves.”
“Where’s Timmy?” Eric asked.
“Timmy?” Fallows looked confused. “Oh, you mean Tim. He’s much too much the man now for such a baby name, Eric. Wouldn’t you agree, General?”
General Bao Nhu shrugged. “This is a game between you two. I will not become involved.”
Fallows’ smile broadened. “The general does not appreciate what I have been doing here. Sweeping through the state, campaigning, you might say, letting people know who I am. It’ll make it so much easier when I take over the place. What did Willie Shakespeare say? ‘Whenever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,/His honor and the greatness of his name/Shall be, and make new nations.’ ”
Eric looked around the camp at the dozens of armed and grim mercenaries. “ ‘Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues/We write in water.’ ” He stared at Fallows. “Or as the Beatles said, ‘Obladee Obladah, life goes on.’ ”
Fallows laughed heartily, his head thrown back and his lips unsheathing long teeth. “I should have known better than to match quotes with you, Eric. Even back in ’Nam when the rest of us were stacking whores in Saigon, you were out with some ambassador’s daughter talking about books. Though my spies told me you did more than talk.” He winked lewdly at Eric.
“Where’s Tim?”
Fallows’ smile evaporated. He reached out one powerful hand and clamped it on Eric’s jaw, twisting his face to the side to reveal Eric’s scar. “I see you still have the little beauty mark I left you.” With his free hand he pulled out his knife, the black blade glistening with oil. He laid the blade against the long white scar. “Perhaps I should remove it for you. A gesture of remorse. I could just scrape it off. Like shaving.” He scraped the blade against Eric’s cheek until it bumped into the raised mound of scar tissue. He started slicing into it as blood seeped out from under the rubbery white line. Fallows withdrew his knife. “Manners, Eric. Watch your tone with me.”
Eric said nothing. He felt the warm blood drip slowly down his cheek. A few drops clung to the scar, following it along the jaw and down the neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. Eric kept studying the campsite, looking for some sign of Tim. Where was he?
Fallows turned to Nhu. “What about the two men?”
“The Russians?” Eric said.
Fallows looked at Eric, surprised. “You know? Of course. How did you discover them?”
“I asked them who won the 1928 World Series and what was Lana Turner’s bra size.”
Fallows laughed.
Nhu interrupted. “We killed the other, the black one, as you ordered.”
“Good.”
“The admiral will be upset.”
“Tough shit. He knew my conditions when he hired me.” Fallows glanced over at Eric. “But let’s not confuse my pal Eric. He’s probably wondering what’s going on. Or have you figured it out already?”
Eric shook his head. “I don’t care, Fallows. I only came for Tim.”
“All you had to do was ask, Eric me boy.” Fallows cupped his hands around his mouth. “Tim. Come on out. You have a visitor.”
Eric followed Fallows’ eyes to one of the tents. Nothing. No movement.
“It’s all right, Tim,” Fallows said, grinning at Eric. “He won’t hurt you. I’m here.”
“Tiiimmm!” Eric shouted.
The flap of the tent opened.
Tim stepped out.
Eric was shocked at the change. His lips moved as if forming words, but no sound came out. He could only watch as this boy, only vaguely resembling his son, approached.
In size alone, Tim was different. He had grown even more than the last time
Eric had seen him, standing now close to six feet. Eric had been that tall at thirteen, towering above many of his fellow students, but he hadn’t grown any after that. Big Bill had played him as center on the tribal basketball team, lying that Eric was Hopi. Two years later, many of the boys Eric had stood above, now were taller than he. Six feet wasn’t that tall anymore.
But it wasn’t only height that distinguished Tim. Through his tight green t-shirt, Eric could see the bulge and hard lines of chiseled muscles. Tim’s chest was broad, his waist narrow, his arms bunched with muscles. He looked formidable.
The worst shock was the face. Gone was the smooth child’s face, quick to laughter and impish even in sleep. This was the face of a much older boy, sallow and creased with deep lines of concentration and seriousness. It was the face of someone who had not laughed in almost a year.
The hair was odd, cut short on the top, but long and straight at the back and sides, hanging down to his shoulders. The total effect made Tim look eighteen or older. Not a boyish eighteen; a tough, hard eighteen. Not interested in borrowing Dad’s car or dating the cheerleader, but intent on breaking the arm of the guy who cut him off on the freeway.
Eric could see the tiny scars on his face and arms, recognized the knife cuts, cigarette burns that signatured Fallows’ conditioning style. Eric’s heart squeezed like a fist at his son’s pain. Tears blossomed in each eye, but he fought them back. They wouldn’t help.
Perhaps the most shocking sight of all to Eric, was the gun on Tim’s belt. The Walther P.5 holstered within easy reach.
“Your troubles are over, Tim,” Fallows said flatly. “Look who’s come to save you.”
Tim just stared for a moment, studying Eric as if he’d never seen him before. Then he did something that chilled Eric, that made his legs go limp and his stomach revolt in spasms of pain.
Tim smiled.
Not the smile of joy or pleasure with the wrinkles that bunched under his eyes just like Annie’s smile. But the hungry, smug smile of the lizard who has cornered the beetle and wants to watch him scuttle in terror a few seconds before biting him in half.
Fallows’ smile.
* * *
17
“What did you expect?” Fallows laughed. “ ‘Say, Wally, have you seen the Beaver?’ ‘Gosh no, Dad.’ That sort of thing?”
Eric didn’t reply. He stared at Tim, probing his son with his eyes, hoping to find that light in them that had been Tim’s alone. But the eyes that stared blankly back were flat and opaque. As if a thin membrane covered them, like that of certain amphibians.
“We’ve been doing a little celebrating around here, Eric. Seems Tim here killed his first man last night. Oh yes, quite a fight too. Knives and booze. All that was missing was a loose woman.” He winked at Tim. “That comes next, eh Tim?”
“Why are you here?” Tim said to Eric. The voice was slow and hesitant, deeper than before.
“I told you,” Fallows said. “He’s here to rescue you. Take you away from all this.”
A few of Fallows’ soldiers guffawed and snorted.
“Timmy,” Eric said.
“Yes, Tim, listen to your father,” Fallows said. “He wants to be your protector again, your daddy. After all, he did such a swell job the first time around. If you don’t count your dead mother and sister. And you.”
“This man is the man who killed them, Tim,” Eric said. But he knew it was no use trying to reason. Fallows had twisted Tim’s thinking through physical abuse as thoroughly as a religious cult leader. Combine that with the confusion of emotions after recently killing a man, and there was no getting through. He was still on that manic high from taking another life. Inside his mind was fighting the guilt the way the body fights a transplanted heart. He was feeling elation, disgust, and most of all, power. Eric remembered the pattern well. The first time he had killed a man, Fallows had been there too.
It wasn’t in Vietnam, but in Miami Beach, just south of the city of Miami. Fallows had led the Night Shift trainees through the Everglades on a survival tour. That night they had gone into town for recreation. Private Charles Kupcek, recruited to Night Shift from a stockade for striking an officer, started picking a fight with Eric. Didn’t like Indians, he’d said, poking the Hopi necklace Big Bill had made for Eric as a going-away gift. Eric didn’t explain that he wasn’t an Indian. He merely grabbed Kupcek’s thumb and bent it back until the bigger man dropped to his knees and wailed in pain. Then he let go, said no hard feelings, and offered to shake. Kupcek stormed out of the bar. Fallows had sat at his corner table huddled with a buxom woman, never looking over at the fracas. But Eric knew he’d been watching.
That night the overpowering smell of stale beer had wakened Eric seconds before Kupcek was about to plunge a knife through Eric’s chest. After a brief scuffle that awakened the others in the barracks, Kupcek lay dead on the floor, his knife planted neatly in his chest.
In the back of the barracks, Colonel Dirk Fallows sat on the edge of his bunk and smiled. Eric had the feeling that Fallows had been watching everything from the moment Kupcek had entered the barracks. Watching to see the outcome.
The way he was watching now.
“Well, Tim,” Fallows prompted. “No father-son embraces? No pecks on the cheek? Hearty handshakes?”
Tim turned away and walked back to his tent, not hurrying, not emotional. Just slow deliberate steps.
“He’s shy,” Fallows whispered. “And modest. He cored Judd like a rotten apple. Saved me the trouble. He’s become quite the team player. Not a showboat like you, Eric.”
Eric looked at Fallows, controlling the hate that flowed as thick as lust. It would do no good to attack Fallows now and get killed all the quicker. As long as he was alive there was a chance for Tim, a chance to turn him around.
Fallows nodded appreciatively, as if he could read Eric’s thoughts. “Smart, Eric. Very smart. Stay cool and live a little longer. You know that I can’t end it all with a quick kill. Too much has happened between us for that. Still, I might indulge myself a little.” He lashed out his foot, kicking Eric squarely in the crotch.
Eric doubled over, flopping in the dirt, his hands still cuffed behind him. He choked down the dizzying pain, gasped for air. He lifted his head from the dirt, caught a glimpse of Tim turning around. Tim’s blank eyes took in the scene with no expression. Then he ducked into his tent.
“Children,” Fallows said philosophically. “Break your hearts.” Fallows snapped his fingers and two of his soldiers pulled Eric to his feet. “Well, General Nhu, perhaps it’s time we shared our little scheme with our old pal Eric?”
General Nhu’s voice was firm, almost angry. “I see no reason to. If you wish to kill this man, do so.”
“You never really got the California spirit, General. Mellow out a little.” Fallows waved for one of his men. “We’re going down to see the admiral. If we aren’t back in two hours, kill the boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fallows looked at Eric. “That should keep you calm.”
“Mellow,” Eric said.
Fallows laughed. “See, General, that’s why you’ll never be a real Californian. Even with all this going on, Eric still keeps his head.”
The three of them started down the slope toward San Diego.
“You’re going to love this,” Fallows said. “The sweetest deal I’ve ever been in on. And if everything goes right, Tim and the general and I will be off this island in two days. Forever.”
* * *
18
“That’s him,” Fallows said. He pointed to the lone man wearing nothing but shorts and running shoes who was jogging along the beach. Keeping pace twenty feet behind the runner were four uniformed men carrying Colt Commando assault rifles. They were barefoot. The lone runner loped gracefully across the sand, barely touching the ground before launching ahead again. The men following him ran hard and heavy, their feet chewing up the sand like a giant tractor.
“He will not like this,” Nhu said.
Fallows gave Nhu a cold stare. “Who cares?”
The three of them started down the sandy slope. Unlike northern San Diego, this part of the city had not been drowned under an encroaching ocean. Instead, the land had buckled slightly, like a blanket kicked down to the bottom of the bed, lifting it a little higher out of the water.
The San Diego Bay used to separate the city from Coronado, the small island that held the U.S. Naval Air Station and the U.S. Navy Amphibious Base. But the quakes had hoisted Coronado, bumping the two land masses together. The San Diego-Coronado Bay Bridge lay in a twisted metal heap on the ground. Water still filled in the south part of the island, completely washing away Silver Strand Blvd. The city itself had been hit by a few hefty tidal waves, but most of the destruction and deaths came from the ensuing fires. The three of them had hiked along the 94 Freeway watching occasional raggedy gangs of bony people scurrying through the streets with clubs and spears and hammers. To Eric they looked like concentration camp survivors, their bodies so skinny and waxen that it was hard to tell the men from the women.
Whatever they were, they stayed away from Fallows and Nhu, who aside from handguns, also each carried new Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns they’d liberated from the marine recruits who’d taken them from Marine Training Center down the street. Fallows and his men had sneaked in one night and slit the youngsters’ throats. No bargaining.
The glare of the orange sun filtering through the Halo made Eric squint. Still, he could see across the beach to Coronado, the flurry of activity of men in U.S. Navy uniforms busily constructing something in the wreckage of the U.S. Naval Air Station. He could also see that the fences surrounding the base were being repaired and made thicker and higher. Outside the fence, a squad of men were carefully digging holes and planting land mines.
“They look like farmers, don’t they,” Fallows said of the men hunched over the mines, shoveling dirt on them.
“Not much,” Eric said.
Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island Page 12