by Glen Carter
Liz studied him. “Sarah was a great catch. Beautiful, rich. Good family.”
Kallum didn’t care about the money. Sarah knew that. She loved him for it. Bolt squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t appreciate being baited.
“Are you all right?”
Sarah could have had any man she wanted. She chose Kallum. She couldn’t breathe without him. Kallum felt like a god when he was with her. Christ Almighty, get out of my head.
“Samuel?”
The air was suddenly electric, portending a storm. Somewhere behind his eyes, a dam was about to break. Bolt stepped back from the tree. Diana had said nothing to him that morning about her dead son. Sully, on the other hand. He had said plenty. Sarah had remarried when Kallum didn’t come home from Iraq. How long had she grieved?
Sarah and Kallum forever.
Nigel walked over, stabbing at his smart phone. “Rutter was part of the first wave into Iraq. It appears this Kallum fellow was, too. A small town answers the call and gives up two sons. One came home, the other didn’t.”
“And the guy who made it home got the prize,” Liz said.
Jeff gave her a crooked grin. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”
Liz apologized, which was blatantly unnecessary, since Kallum Doody was long dead, just a name carved into bark.
“Are we finished?” asked Bolt.
Liz nodded. “Thanks for playing tour guide, Samuel. We appreciate it.”
Bolt strode off.
Nigel suddenly pulled Liz back. Held his cellphone to her face. “This guy look familiar?”
It was a photo of the senator’s unit in Iraq. The guy standing next to Rutter could easily have been Samuel Bolt.
* * * * *
They left the park with all the video they needed. Once they’d flushed out the Kallum Doody angle, they’d have another element for the Sarah Rutter story. Nigel listened while Liz laid it out. Half a world away, war had played a tragic role in Sarah Rutter’s journey. A man she loved had not returned. Another man had. As a result, her life had taken a turn she could never have predicted. Maybe all the way to the White House. It was fate. It was juicy.
“I love it,” Nigel exclaimed.
They were at the same pub where they had eaten lunch. This time the place was full. Waitresses picked their way through the crowd with trays of beer and food. Tourists and locals stood two deep at the bar. In one corner, a guy strummed a guitar and belted out the lyrics of some maritime ballad.
“Diana,” Nigel went on. “Will she go on camera?”
“I can’t see why not,” Liz replied.
Bolt sipped his beer, quietly. Diana was the custodian for the precious memories of her late son, and she’d guard him with a mother’s ferocity. He could have said this. Instead, he held his tongue.
The waitress brought another jug of beer. Jeff gulped what remained in his glass and poured for the rest of them.
“Oh, the year was 1778 . . . How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now . . .” The balladeer was staring from across the pub. “A letter of marquee come from the king . . .”
Bolt guessed Liz was used to the attention.
“To the scummiest vessel I’d ever seen . . .”
But he wasn’t staring at Liz. Bolt realized the gaze was meant for him.
“Goddamn them all . . .”
The guy refused to look away. Bolt ignored it, but after a while it got to him. He excused himself, stood up, and walked to the bar, out of the guy’s line of sight. A minute later the song ended, and a minute after that, Bolt could feel someone standing too close behind him.
“Thirsty work,” the man said, a voice like gravel on drum skins.
Bolt turned. “Excuse me?”
“Something cold and wet. Doesn’t matter.” He opened his mouth to showboat a toothless smile, then reached into his pocket and popped in his dental work.
“Keep falling out when I sing, so I keep ’em in storage.”
Bolt gave him a half-smile. The man was short and round with a bald head and a friendly face. He had fiery emerald eyes that were staring at Bolt’s empty beer mug. Bolt could have told him to piss off, but the beer was cheap and friendliness cost nothing. He caught the bartender’s attention and showed him a pair of fingers.
“Abraham,” the man said. “You can call me Abe.”
Bolt shook a meaty, callused hand. “Samuel.”
A minute later, two fresh glasses were placed in front of them.
Abe guzzled half the mug. Suds rolled off his chin. He smacked his lips and for a long moment didn’t say a thing. Just stared. Which was weird.
“Sully called it,” Abe said. “Sure as there’s shit in a dead cat.”
Bolt picked up his mug but didn’t say a word.
Abe looked him up and down. “Sully’s a halfwit, and he’s got a dead eye, but good God, he’s got the cut of your jib. Samuel, you said?”
“Bolt. Samuel Bolt.”
“Well, well, well.”
“Nice meeting you, Abe.” He turned to walk away.
“Sully says you’re from Vegas.”
“Sully likes to talk.”
“Lots of dirty money, that Las Vegas. Mob still run things?”
“Not for a long time, Abe. Now it’s greedy corporations.”
“Gut maggots,” Abe said. “At least the mob looked you in the eye when they put a bullet in ya.”
“The good old days.”
“You got it.”
“Have a good night.”
“Mind if I ask a question?”
Personal space meant nothing to the guy. “Ask away.”
“Any relatives this way?”
“None.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m guessing you mean Kallum Doody.”
“I do, and by God I’d bet my left nut.”
“You’d want pretty good odds for that.”
“I’m good with the odds, Vegas boy.”
“No relation.”
Abe looked at him smugly. “Well, Bolt. That lookout you were at this morning. That tree in the park. You sure know a lot for no relation. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have another beer.”
25
Kallum Doody never made it to Hawaii. Samuel Bolt had. But a rat-infested container ship carried none of the seafaring cache of a fine double-masted schooner named Mystic Blue.
“It’s the way the wind slides across the sails,” Abe slurred. “The snap of canvas when she’s coming about.”
“The clean salt air,” Bolt added.
“That’s right. As pure a journey as there is. God’s wind, water, and guiding stars.”
They were aboard Abe’s boat. A sloop with an unpronounceable Gaelic name, docked next to a hodgepodge of rusty work scows. There was a bottle of scotch on the galley table and two empty bowls. A cast-iron pot was warming on the gas stove. Nets were hung everywhere, stuffed with canned goods and root vegetables. Amber lanterns cast soft shadows on teak and brass from bow to stern.
“You must have seen plenty from the deck of that container ship,” Abe said.
“Some.”
“Nasty, gut-wrenching seas.”
“She was dynamically stabilized.”
“Weeks at sea. The boredom.”
“We surfed the Internet. Watched HBO.”
“The whores got our pay. Bangkok, Marseille. There was a place in Caracas.”
“Never been,” Bolt said.
Abe was downcast. “Things are different now.”
“Just better.”
Back at the pub, Liz had walked over and was introduced to Abe. He bowed and kissed her hand and said something in Gaelic that sounded flirtatious. She had a busy day ahead and said go
od night.
Abe then drained his mug and invited Bolt back to his boat. There was a bottle of scotch, he said, and a fresh pot of stew. That was an hour ago.
Bolt was good with finding another friend of Kallum Doody.
“What’s with the girl,” Abe asked, pouring.
“She’s a reporter. Doing something on Sarah Rutter, First-Lady-in-waiting. I tagged along for a while today.”
“People talk in a small town. I knew that. That’s not what I meant.”
Bolt grinned. “Am I sleeping with her?”
“Maybe none of my business.”
“The answer is no.”
“But you’d like to.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Understood.” Abe swallowed, lips stretched tight across his shiny dentures. “Can I ask you something?”
The scotch was warmth. He was feeling just fine with his new friend. “Go ahead.”
“What’s your business here, Bolt?”
“Sully thinks I’m a grifter. Here to take advantage of an old woman.”
“Sully’s Sully.”
Bolt thought for a moment. “I get an itch, I pick up and leave. I’m not tied to Vegas.”
“What are you? Professional gambler or something?”
“I do okay.”
“Married? Kids?”
“No to both.”
“So, you picked up and left for a little town on the New England coast. Known for its clean sea air and friendly people.”
“And maybe the next president.”
According to Abe, there was no limit to Rutter’s ruinous politics. “He’s a miscreant son of a bitch. Pity the country, Bolt. God help us.”
He was getting into his drunk, and Bolt let him go on, like drunks had a habit of doing. Needing to be listened to. Bolt had seen his kind before, with his bombast and thuggery. Abe Power was a toothless brawler who would never hold back.
“I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire,” Abe slurred. “But you probably have that impression already.”
“How did Kallum feel about him?”
Abe had lots to say on that subject, too. “Kallum didn’t trust him, but that’s an understatement.” He swirled the liquor in his glass. Thinking. After a moment, Abe got up and disappeared to the front of the boat. A minute later he returned carrying a small wooden box that he placed on the table.
“I got a funny feeling about you, Bolt. Maybe I’m just drunk. I dunno. We’ll see where it takes us.”
Bolt was all in.
Abe pulled the box closer. “Kallum liked to talk more than write.” He reached into the box and pulled out a cassette tape. “I got this in the mail about a week before he was killed.” He handed the tape to Bolt and bent over to get at the storage compartment beneath his seat. He then placed an ancient cassette player on the table. “Go ahead,” Abe said, grabbing his drink and sitting back. “It’s had a few runs, but the quality’s still good.”
Bolt popped in the cassette and hit play.
Sounds emerged from the tinny speaker. The scratchy sounds of a microphone being moved around. Someone breathing. A few seconds of nothing. Then:
“Hi, buddy. How was your Christmas?”
Abe broke into a wide smile. Closed his eyes tight.
“You been a good boy, I hope. Staying out of trouble?”
Bolt leaned in. How bizarre, hearing that voice.
“Santa didn’t get to us. Op-sec and all. No matter. Wudda blown him out of the sky he come anywhere near the FOB. That’s the truth. Things are pretty edgy right now.”
A pause. The strike of a match. The intake of breath.
“Yeah, I know. Another nail in the coffin. Don’t tell Sarah I’m smoking again. She finds out, I’m dead.”
The sound of inhaling. Bolt imagined the rush of smoke floating to the top of Kallum’s tent. The soldier laid back on his bunk, fixed on the drab green canvas, wanting to come home.
“That may have been the wrong choice of words.”
There was a hardness in his voice.
“It’s the waiting that gets to you.”
His voice dripped with tones and cues that Bolt found close. Uncomfortably intimate.
“Miss everyone, buddy boy. Especially you know who. Take care of her for me, Abe.”
At this point the tape was filled with the sound of Kallum stubbing out his cigarette. For a long moment there was complete silence. Then:
“I need to tell you something, Abe, but not a word, you hear me? Not a bloody word to Sarah.”
Abe looked grimly at the player. Knowing what was coming because he’d heard it all before. How many times, Bolt wondered, after how many bottles? The tape rolled, hummed along with the treasure of words spoken by a living, breathing human being. Abe’s best buddy.
“The other day. Cleaning my weapon. Rutter was cleaning his. We’re sitting there on our bunks, the two of us, talking about how we can’t wait to get home. Get drunk on the beach, have a decent meal. Start stocking for the big trip, Sarah and me. Can’t wait. So, I go for a piss, and when I’m back, I start again with my M-16, and I’m doing a good job getting the darn sand out of it, working the oil, and then . . .”
Another silence. A deep, ragged breath.
“The gun goes off.”’
Abe’s fists tightened, like he was about to pound the machine.
“I nearly shit myself. Luckily the bullet goes through the tent into the stars, but Jesus, a second before, this Marine was looking right down the barrel of that M-16. Anyway, then the place goes up. The tent is suddenly full of fatigues with sidearms drawn. Everyone’s in a panic. A general clusterfuck, until they figure out what happened . . . that it’s not the Republican Guard coming through the gates. Just stupid me, cleaning my weapon with a round still in the chamber.”
Kallum stopped. Another long pause.
“Thing is, Abraham, I checked my weapon. Sure as there’s shit in a dead cat, buddy. There . . . was . . . no . . . round in that M-16. At least not until I came back from the latrine.”
Another match struck. Kallum inhaled deeply.
“Screw the cigarettes. I think that bastard Rutter tried to kill me.”
* * * * *
They sat quietly with Abe watching him.
“Kallum prone to drama?”
Abe laughed. “No drama. He said it like it was, straight up.”
“Did he go after the guy?”
“I’m betting he did. If he had a problem with you, you’d hear it.” Abe took a swallow. “And I can tell you, the man would not have been cleaning a loaded weapon.”
“So?”
“If Kallum suspected Rutter was up to something, he would have dealt with it.”
“Dealt with it how?” Bolt asked.
“Head-on,” replied Abe. “Head-fucking-on.”
“Did Sarah know?”
Abe shook his head, sadly. “A week later, Kallum was dead. Seemed like a moot point.”
The cassette tape wasn’t the only thing in Abe’s wooden box. There were photographs, which he removed gently and placed on the table between them.
Bolt picked up a couple. In one, a much younger Abe was playing his guitar at a campfire surrounded by a bunch of young people. Everyone looked like they were having a great time, drinking and horsing around.
“Kallum. Sarah,” Abe said, stabbing at the photo. Sarah was tucked between Kallum’s knees, wrapped in a beach blanket. It was cozy and she looked content, like there was nowhere else on the planet she’d rather be. Kallum was staring menacingly into the camera.
“Kallum doesn’t look like he’s having a good time,” said Bolt. “Looks like he wants to kick the shit out of the guy with the camera.”
Abe shook his head. “Rutter was always taking pictures of his woman, mostly when he wasn’t in them.” He thought for a moment. “Everything was a contest between them. School, cars. Sports. When Sarah came along, the stakes went way up.”
“And?”
Abe chuckled. “Everyone knew Kallum and Sarah were meant for each other, but Rutter was a sore loser and a pain in the ass. He stuck his snout between them whenever he damn well could. It pissed Kallum off mightily, and I didn’t blame him.”
“You said when Sarah came along?”
Abe took a mouthful of liquor and swished it around. “She was in France or Switzerland somewhere. Some fancy private school. Came home all grown up, and that’s when the heads started turning. Rutter got to her first, but then Kallum caught her eye, and the rest is history.”
“How’d Sarah’s parents feel about Kallum?”
“They never met him, but being the son of a trawler captain, you can guess. In the end it didn’t really matter. Both her parents were killed in a boating accident. A goddamn tragedy. But that’s another story.”
“Jesus.”
“Kallum was her rock.” Abe took the photo and looked at it for a moment. “They were like glue after that. Sarah was all alone, and Kallum was her whole goddamn world.”
“A rich little orphan,” Bolt added.
“Yup. There was a trust fund, but basically she got the entire fortune, the house included. Kallum didn’t care a whit about that. In fact, I know it bothered him.”
“Where was Rutter?”
“The bastard was waiting for his chance.”
“And then?”
“Kallum and Sarah got married. Just a couple of foolish kids, full of love for each other and convinced that’s all they needed. Kallum continued to fish with his old man, and Sarah found work at some boutique in town. He wanted no part of her money and privilege, so they shuttered the main house and moved into that log place on the water. That was the compromise.”
Bolt was impressed. The young man Sarah had married was naive and an idealist. But he had a good heart, and like any woman, Sarah would have loved that. Sadly, when cabin fever set in and the big house beckoned, she would have tired of her husband’s selfish nobility. Found it an irritating barrier to her richly entitlements. Would Kallum Doody have matured into the man Sarah deserved and needed? Perhaps he would have. Love was the genesis for many things, Bolt thought. Good and horrible.