by Greg Dinallo
I hang up.
Nancy questions me with a look.
“Toyota van.”
Suddenly, I’m seeing flashes of the blue sedan, and the driver with the sunglasses, and the guy in the hotel room with the sunglasses, and the excruciating pain in my arm, and the tiny piece of needle, and I’m hearing the words heroin, cocaine—speedball—might’ve killed you . . . killed you . . . killed you—and then suddenly I hear myself saying, “Maybe they wanted to kill me.”
Nancy’s head jerks around as if I’ve just shouted an obscenity. “Wanted to kill you?” she asks, incredulously.
“Yes. What were those buzzwords that detective used?”
“Rolex ring?”
“No, the other ones.”
“Oh, kink-and-coke party.”
“That’s it. A kink-and-coke party gone wrong. A businessman goes to Vegas, buys himself that double header he’s always wanted, does a little coke, decides to go a little further, agrees to let one of the little girls put a needle in his arm . . .”
“I thought you said the idea was to make sure you were knocked out?”
“So did I, until now. But if you really think about it, why didn’t they just hit me over the head?”
She shrugs. “That’s like asking why you in the first place?”
“That was my next question.”
“A stroke of bad luck.”
“No, no way. There was a guy next to me at the blackjack table who had a cowboy hat in his lap filled with black chips; he was up over ten thousand bucks. Why not him? Why take the risk for a crummy five or six hundred?”
“I don’t know. Besides, no one knew you were going to Vegas.”
“They could’ve followed me.”
“And had the time to set up such an elaborate charade?”
“I don’t have all the answers. But if money wasn’t the target, you’re looking at all that’s left.”
“Okay, just assuming they were out to kill you, why go to all that trouble to make it look like an accident?”
“To keep the police from looking for a motive. So they wouldn’t ask ‘Why would somebody kill Cal Morgan?’”
She shakes her head, dismayed. “I’ll ask it. Why?”
“I don’t know. Why was that guy in the blue car watching the house?”
“What does that have to do with this? Come on, Cal, he could still be a burglar, or what’s her face’s lover, for that matter. You’re starting to see conspiracies everywhere.”
“Don’t start psychoanalyzing me, okay?”
“Hey, this is me, remember?” she says gently, stung by my tone. “I’m concerned. I don’t like what this is doing to you. You haven’t been yourself since we were in Washington. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. I mean, you don’t have an enemy in the world, yet you—”
“That I know of.”
“Honey, it doesn’t make sense. People don’t go around committing murder without a reason.”
“Chrissakes, Nance,” I snap, interrupting her. “You’ve got an answer for everything, just like those cops. Next you’ll be telling me you think I was partying.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“At least we agree on something.”
We stare at each other in silence. The electronic twitter of the phone breaks it. Nancy scoops up the receiver, then hands it to me. “Mr. Collins,” she says coolly.
“Jack?”
“Hi, I tracked down Bartlett, the mortuary guy.”
“Thanks, that’s great.”
“Not really. He’s at a VA hospital in Denver. They said he’s in pretty bad shape.”
“How bad?”
“He’s in the AIDS unit.”
I groan.
“Yes, I wouldn’t waste too much time. They said it could be a matter of weeks or even days.”
“Days?”
“Uh-huh. By the way, you have any luck with that guy Foster?”
“No. To make a long story short, nice man, good musician, no information, painful experience. I’ll tell you about it someday. You have an address on that hospital for me?” I jot it down, then hang up and head into the kitchen to get a beer. When I close the fridge, I notice Nancy standing in the doorway behind me. I pause and hold up the bottle. “Want one?”
She shakes no and folds her arms. “What’s going on?” she asks suspiciously.
I shrug nonchalantly, fetch an opener from a drawer, and methodically remove the cap, then take a long swallow. I’m stalling. I’ve been stalling since I hung up the phone. Nancy knows it, which is why she followed me. “I’ve got to go to Denver,” I finally reply apprehensively.
She lets out a long breath. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“We’re going to see Phantom tomorrow.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Really?” she responds facetiously.
“Come on, Nance,” I say calmly. “The guy’s dying. He’s my only link to the past. Probably the last chance I’ve got to identify that soldier.”
“You know,” she says wearily. “I really don’t think I care anymore.”
“You know what I think?” I shoot back sharply, heightening the tension. “I think you’ve misplaced your priorities.”
“No. You’re my priority. Can’t you see what this is doing to you?”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you gave me a little support instead of fighting me every step of the way.”
“God,” she exclaims in a throaty growl, her tone a mixture of disappointment and disbelief. “You sound just like you used to.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Paranoid, compulsive. You know what I mean. Look at yourself. One minute you’re telling me you think people are trying to kill you, the next you’re talking about dashing off to Denver tomorrow. You think that’s rational behavior?”
“Ohhhh,” I say, my eyes widening in a spooky stare. I can feel myself starting to lose control, feel the need to lash out coming over me like a long-dormant plague surging to life. “You know those wacko Vietnam vets. If they aren’t having nightmares about fire fights and nape, they’re stalking our cities and towns, blowing people away just for kicks.”
“Please, Cal,” Nancy pleads vulnerably, her eyes starting to glisten. “We haven’t done this in twenty years. I hated it then and I hate it now.”
I take a long swallow of beer, then another, trying to wash down the lump of in-country anger that’s rising in my throat. “Can’t hate it without hating me, babe,” I say, punctuating the remark with a flick of my forefinger that sends the cap from the beer bottle rocketing off the counter and across the kitchen like a miniature hockey puck. “Go ahead, Nance,” I taunt, knowing it will hurt her. I don’t want to but I can’t help myself and do it anyway. “Go ahead, say it, if it’ll make you feel better. I can handle it.”
“I don’t hate you, you know that. Seeing you like this is torture.” She sighs defeatedly, then, tears rolling down her cheeks, she comes around the counter and gently, comfortingly puts her arm around my shoulders.
My body is rigid and ungiving. I ignore her presence as I drain the bottle, then step away. “Yeah, well it’s torture for me too.”
“Don’t do this, Cal. I’ve been through it once, but as much as I love you, I don’t think I could handle it again.”
“Well, neither do I, dammit!” I shout, tossing the bottle across the room. It smashes into the stone wall that encloses the fireplace and bursts, showering us with beer and shards of glass.
13
I’m standing in front of a mirror in our bedroom knotting my tie. It’s pure silk, elegant and expensive, but I rarely wear it on weekdays because the avocado, black, and cream print with red accents is a bit loud for business. Nancy bought it for me; and I’m wearing it today as a subtle signal, an apology for behavior that was, at the least, inexcusable. I feel guilty and remorseful. I was out of control, I had turned back the clock, I did lapse into one of the par
anoid rages that marked my return from Vietnam. Nancy I was right about all of that. However, after a night of soul-searching, I’ve decided she was more right about it’s being irrational to imagine that people are trying to kill me, than about going to Denver. Despite recent events, my commitment to learning the soldier’s identity remains unshaken.
Nancy comes out of the shower. She hasn’t said a word to me since yesterday’s incident and continues to ignore me as she towels off and dresses for school. The tie isn’t working.
“Come on, babe. I don’t want to leave like this.”
“Taking your car again?” she asks curtly.
“What do you mean?”
“I was planning to have the Rover serviced when you went to Vegas, but you drove yourself to the airport.”
“Stop trying to pick a fight, okay? You know I had to leave from the office.”
“You still could’ve used a company driver.”
“I didn’t think of it. I told you I arranged for one this morning.”
“You tell me a lot of things,” she snaps as she brushes her hair, using short, quick strokes to communicate her anger.
“Look, I’m sorry. I said I was out of line. I really don’t want to leave like this.”
“Then don’t go.”
“Nance . . . You know I have to. I get in tonight at seven-fifty-five. Will you be at the airport?”
“I’ll be at the theater with the Grants.”
“Yes, well, I guess I should’ve mentioned the bottle wasn’t the only thing I broke yesterday.”
Her brows go up.
“I called Gil and cancelled.”
“You what?”
“I made an excuse about Laura coming down unexpectedly. I’m having the driver deliver the tickets to his office.”
“All of them?”
I nod contritely. “He’s taking an associate and his wife. I’m sorry. I wasn’t myself when I did it. I can’t take them back now.”
She glares at me, fuming. “You’ve got a lot a gall, Morgan.”
“A is for acid indigestion,” I quip in a last-ditch effort to loosen her up.
“Not the phrase I have in mind.”
“Besides, I know how much picking me up at the airport means to you.”
Her eyes are burning with rage. Finally, they cool, slightly, and she emits an exasperated groan.
“Well, what do you say?”
“You’ve been doing this to me since high school, haven’t you?”
“A is for always,” I reply, grinning.
“All right,” she snarls grudgingly. “I’ll be there.”
“Thanks. Maybe we can talk this out.”
“Maybe.”
I want her to smile but she doesn’t.
United’s 9:15 flight to Denver is scheduled at two hours, eighteen minutes. Due to the change in time zones, I arrive at Stapleton Airport just after 12:45 P.M. It takes a half hour to pick up a rental car and twice that long to make my way through the downtown area to Fort Logan just off Route 285 near Sheridan, a picturesque rural area near Lake Marston, fifty miles southwest of the city.
The road that leads to the VA hospital is lined with budding trees and manicured landscaping. At first glance it looks more like a resort than a government facility. But once inside, I’m quickly reminded this is a place where once-proud men, crack combat troops who stormed enemy positions, fighter jocks who flew super-sonic jets, now shuffle aimlessly about corridors—if they have legs that function, if they have legs at all. The thought of how close I came to being one of them sends a chill through me. I feel more than a little conspicuous in my Armani suit and doeskin wingtips. I’ve certainly worn the wrong tie.
A woman at the reception desk directs me to the Immunodeficiency Unit. I’m stunned by this confrontation with the walking dead. The blank, sunken eyes. The skin drawn like parchment over bones. The ghastly sense of hopelessness. These aren’t concentration camp inmates, but they could be.
A nurse shows me to a room where a man in a wheelchair is sitting in front of a window. His back is to the door, his head is tilting slightly to one side. An oxygen bottle rides in a holder beneath the chair. An IV stand, affixed to one of the armrests, towers over him like the grim reaper’s scythe.
Though it’s not an airborne virus and I’ve never been homophobic, I stand there for a long moment, anxious about approaching a man who’s dying, anxious about it, about AIDS.
“Mr. Bartlett?” I finally say.
A few seconds pass before his hands lower to the chair’s push rims in response, then his fingers slowly grasp them and he wheels himself around to face me.
I introduce myself, explaining I’m a Vietnam vet, and ask if we can talk for a few minutes.
He nods imperceptibly, without looking up, and motions to a chair against the wall. I slide it closer to him and sit down. A clear plastic tube carries the steady drip of dextrose and sodium chloride to a vein just above his wrist. Another snakes over his shoulder to his upper lip, where bluish prongs dart up into his nostrils. His freshly shaven face has a waxy sheen that intensifies its hollowness. As he lifts his head and looks at me, his eyes narrow with what appears to be uncertainty, then they widen in shock, and he lurches backward in the wheelchair.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, assuming he’s having an attack or seizure of some kind. “You want me to call a nurse?”
He shakes no emphatically and cocks his head to one side, studying me out of the corner of his eye.
“You sure you’re all right?”
He nods warily, then reaches out and touches my face with a skeletal hand as if confirming I exist. I want to pull away but don’t, afraid I’ll offend him.
“You,” he says in a hoarse whisper, expelling a stream of stale breath, which nauseates me. “You’re—you’re dead.”
Is he invoking a curse, making a macabre prophecy? “What do you mean?” I ask with a nervous laugh.
“I saw you dead.”
“Obviously I’m not. I don’t understand.”
“Were you a twin?”
“No.”
“Well, then a grunt who looked a lot like you died in Nam,” he explains, in a voice illness has reduced to an eerie rasp. “I debagged him.”
“You remember the face of every GI you processed?”
“Of course not, but there’s no way in hell I’ll ever forget this one.”
“Why?”
“Because it was weird, real weird.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, which gives me hope that there is more to come. “It was—April? No, no, May. First or second week May of ’68. I was just starting my shift, we did twelve on/twelve off. This one morning, I come into the morgue and find bodies everywhere. On the tables, in piles on the floor, stuffed into the big walk-in reefer; they were in bags, wrapped in ponchos, even rolled up in tent flaps. Worst I’d ever seen it. I’m waist-deep in bodies. I start debagging this guy . . .” He gasps and pauses to catch his breath, using the time to study my face again. “Hell, if it wasn’t you,” he resumes, shaking his head in disbelief, “it sure was damn near your double.”
“I think I understand,” I say, my mind racing, as it begins to dawn on me that this case of mistaken identity may not have been a mistake at all. “You remember what killed him?”
“Shot in the chest.”
I remove the casualty report with Bartlett’s name and signature from my briefcase and show it to him. “Is this the man?”
He holds it with frail, trembling fingers and stares at it for what feels like an eternity. I’m starting to wonder if he hasn’t just quietly expired when he rasps, “A. Calvert Morgan.” Then he shrugs, tucking his head down between bony shoulders that come up to the bottoms of his ears. “Could be. I don’t remember his name.”
“My double,” I say, gently probing, “he was never processed, was he?”
“That’s right,” Bartlett replies, clearly surprised by my certainty.
“Why not?”
He pushes agains
t the armrests with his elbows, leaning back to get a better look at me. I sense he’s measuring me, measuring the significance of the moment as if he didn’t want to waste it. Then, decision made, he nods several times. “I guess it’s now or never, isn’t it?” he asks, as if he’s about to reveal a long-locked secret and is tremendously relieved. “Like I said, I’m getting this body out of the bag to log it in when the out-processing NCO who’s coming on duty walks by. He takes one look at the corpse and freezes, then gets this look on his face like he’s just been jabbed in the butt with a cattle prod. At first I figure it’s a close buddy or something like that because I sort of recall seeing the guy around. Then the NCO takes me aside and tells me to rebag him.”
“That why you remember what he looked like?”
He nods emphatically. “Like it was yesterday.”
“Why’d he want you to rebag him?”
“Good question.”
“You didn’t ask?”
Bartlett shakes his head no.
“It was an improper order. Wasn’t it?”
He nods.
“And you just went ahead and did it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How come?”
“No choice.”
“You mean this NCO who was calling the shots outranked you?”
“No. The other way round.”
“Then why didn’t you refuse and report it?”
“The man had leverage, he didn’t need rank.”
“What kind of leverage?”
“This,” he replies, gesturing to his emaciated body. “This thing that’s killing me. But he got his. Somebody fragged the son of a bitch.”
“You?”
“Wish to hell I had.” He grins wickedly at the memory. “You see Murder on the Orient Express?”
“Uh-huh. You saying the man had a lot of enemies?”
Bartlett nods emphatically. “Everybody hated his fucking guts. CID gave up trying to figure out who killed him.”
“You recall his name?”
He shakes his head no. “It was unusual, I remember that. Been a long time. I’m sorry.”