by Glen Carter
“A dead man.”
“A dead man who ran. According to the only living witness.”
Bolt had read nothing of Kallum Doody’s act of cowardice, which was punishable by imprisonment or even death. “Why wasn’t it made public?”
Diana shook her head. “A quiet ultimatum. Kallum’s widow was due death benefits, but the military wouldn’t hear of it after an act of cowardice that led to the deaths of three other men. They told Sarah that if she didn’t go after the benefits, Kallum’s military record would be suppressed. It was an easy choice.”
The story had a lot more. The capture and the murder of four POWs.
“The Iraqis were savages,” Diana continued. “I hated for a long time, but then it just seemed to be so wrong to taint Kallum’s memory like that.”
“Rutter made it out.”
“Rutter was the final man standing when the Rangers got there. The official version is that he fought valiantly.” Diana was about to say something else, but it didn’t make it out of her mouth. She swallowed instead.
Rutter could tell whatever story he wanted, Bolt thought. He was the only one left alive.
Diana sipped from her glass. “Years after it happened, one of the local reporters came sniffing around. Started asking questions. But I was in no mood to answer them.”
“Was there ever any story?”
“Yes, of course. Billy Rutter was the story. It was his first run for the senate, and the Sentinel did a profile piece. It’s a Republican rag, so the item was all gush and glory. Which in a way was strange.”
“Strange how?”
Diana thought about it. “The reporter was digging for something juicier. He wanted to know if I believed the official version of events in Iraq. I told him not by a long shot. I guess he didn’t dig very hard, because I never heard another word.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Of course. He’s retired now, but he still does the occasional op-ed piece.”
After a moment, Diana reached into the trunk. “I gave Kallum a watch for his eighteenth birthday.” She lifted the timepiece from the bric-a-brac of her son’s personal effects. Diana closed her hands around it, as if to protect it from light. She took a breath, then opened her hands and turned the watch over. The crystal was shattered. Frozen on its final mechanized minute.
Diane read the date in a solemn whisper.
His last day on earth, Bolt thought.
* * * * *
Diana was quiet. Stepping carefully through the lush gardens at the back of the house. Bolt watched as she stooped to tend to a flower the colour of sky.
“I planted this from a clipping,” she said, plucking a weed at the flower’s stem. “It’s as beautiful as the original. The same in every way.”
He suspected a lot of time was spent here, and Bolt was content as a spectator in her special place.
“Nature is wonderful, the way it regenerates things of beauty so effortlessly.”
“Sometimes not so beautiful,” he said, stooping to pick another weed.
Diana smiled warmly. “I guess you’re right. But everything has beauty, in its own way, Samuel. Everything is a miracle of creation.”
“Some miracles we’re not meant to understand.”
“You’re right,” she replied. “It’s impossible to comprehend the Hand of God. It’s like expecting a gnat to grasp quantum physics.”
They laughed.
“The plant biology I could explain,” she said. “But that would be it. One flower a clone of the other, a replica nurtured from the DNA of the original. A fragment made again into the whole. But science can’t explain the work of God on earth and in heaven.”
Diana was correct. Science was a clump of rock, bashed around to produce the occasional eureka spark. How arrogant for men of caves to think they could ever unravel the profound mysteries beyond their stone walls.
They stood face to face. Diana’s aging features bathed in sunlight. She would have been beautiful once. She still was. The exquisiteness of a woman who had dealt with life’s cruelty with dignity and grace. Bolt admired her, with intensity that went well beyond the scant hours since he’d fallen into her life.
“May I?” Diana said.
Without a clue, Bolt simply nodded.
Diana closed the space between them and wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders. A long breath was expelled. Somewhere, a songbird made its presence known, and without awkwardness of any sort, they stood together for an immeasurable, lovely moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time.”
Of course you have.
“You would never understand the regrets a mother has with the loss of a child.” Diane swept a hand down his arm, taking his hand in hers. “One last hug, one last ‘I love you.’ The things I never got to say.”
Bolt was truly moved. Kallum had lost so much, including the woman standing there.
Would the Hand of God ever make things right?
33
The private investigator made a fresh entry in his notebook. An address and a time and a pair of names. Samuel Bolt and Diana Doody had hugged, she had cried. It smacked of some kind of mushy family reunion. A man with the fingerprints of Diana Doody’s dead son walking with her now in her splendid garden. Enjoying each other’s company. Smelling the roses and plucking the stupid weeds. Things were getting even more fucked up. The private investigator punched a series of numbers into his cellphone. It was answered on the second ring. “He’s here,” the PI said. “With her.”
No unnecessary words would be spoken. Too many possible ears. “Make your play,” the voice on the other end said, and hung up.
* * * * *
Sully knew the address. The man was a drinker, all reporters were. Ginny Dwyer had been his fare too many times to count. Always ten dollars on the meter, and never a tip, even though Sully had often carried him to his doorstep.
They came to a stop outside a narrow, two-storey house not far from the harbour on a rundown street named after a long-dead president. There was a rusted Lada parked in the driveway. Every window at the front of the house was shrouded.
“Show him the bottle as soon as he opens the door,” Sully told him. “He won’t let you in if you don’t.”
Bolt lifted the bottle like a conqueror’s sword. “As you say, my liege.”
“Funny.”
He got out, and Sully sped off. Maybe it was a waste of time. The phone call had lasted all of a minute, during which Dwyer had managed a few questions, not making much sense, except for the part about being thirsty. Some time ago, Dwyer had shown an interest in a dead soldier. He had questioned the official military report on Kallum Doody’s cowardice. Had asked his mother, straight up, whether she believed it. That likely meant Dwyer didn’t. Reporters were diggers. At least Bolt hoped so.
He hefted the Maker’s Mark and strode to the door, knocked a couple of times, and waited. A curtain shimmered, and a face appeared. Bolt tried not to look, but he made sure the bottle was in sight. A moment after that, the door creaked open, just a sliver, and an eye assessed him. Bolt showed it the bourbon.
“Bolt?”
“Yes.”
“You got ID?”
He pushed the bottle closer.
The door swung wide.
Once inside, it took a couple of minutes for Bolt’s eyes to adjust. He stood there squinting through the gloom and dust, not sure if anything was living beneath the mountain of newspapers on the couch. Dwyer was in the kitchen, retrieving a glass. He returned a moment later with a solo tumbler and snapped open the bourbon. He didn’t stop pouring until liquor kissed the rim of the glass.
“I assume you’re a five-o’clock kind of man,” Dwyer said.
Bolt found a wall clock that showed the lee side of noon. “Thanks, anyway.”
“Cheers.” Dwyer tipped the glass and drank.
The man was tall and thin, with a long, angular face and a full head of grey hair. He was wearing a T-shirt with a Greenpeace logo and orange Bermuda shorts. His flip-flops looked like chew toys.
Bolt pushed aside a large stack of newspapers and carefully sat. Waited patiently while the bourbon did its work.
When the glass was half-empty, Dwyer wiped his chin and stared at him, as if for the first time. He reached slowly for a cigarette and struck a match.
“Have we met?” he asked, exhaling.
“Not likely.”
“You’re a friend of the Doody woman.”
“That’s right.”
“Working on a family history?”
“Thanks for seeing me.”
Dwyer went to work on the glass again. A good mouthful. “I don’t know how I can add anything to your little project, Mister Bolt, but I’d never turn away the gift of fine Kentucky bourbon.”
“Call me Samuel.”
Dwyer nodded. Took another pull on his smoke while he stared at him.
“I’m hoping you can help with the death of Kallum Doody.”
“You a relative?”
“A family friend.”
Dwyer’s eyes wouldn’t let go of him. “A war casualty,” he said. “A man’s sacrifice for his country. Write it that way and move on to the next member of the clan. Are we done?”
“His mother said you saw it another way.”
“That was a long time ago, and as I remember, his mother didn’t have a lot to say on the subject.”
“You had questions about what happened in Iraq. She said you were looking into the military’s account of what happened.”
Dwyer glanced at the pile of newspapers on the couch. No doubt remnants of his “body of work.” “I was working on a profile piece on Rutter during his first senate run. I needed to fill in some blanks about his service record. Doody was part of that, so I went to see his mother.”
“And?”
“There is no ‘and.’ Four men were executed by the Iraqis in the chaos of a rescue mission. The Iraqis were pricks like that. Slash and burn in defeat. Look what they did to those Kuwaiti oil fields when they turned their tails. Rutter was the lucky one.”
“So, you wrote it that way and moved on.”
“Let’s just say what I wrote was edited that way.” Another tip of the glass, like Dwyer was trying to douse some stubborn flanker. “As a soldier, Rutter was a fuck-up. That’s what I actually wrote. Along with some stuff about growing up poor and unloved. I think there was some abuse, maybe physical. He was a damaged little puppy. The narrative was pathetic, not the kind of story that would have propelled him to Washington.”
“I’m assuming the editorial board wasn’t happy.”
“I was an idealist who believed in the truth,” Dwyer said. “The owner of the paper is a Republican asshole.”
The cut had obviously been deep. Now Dwyer was soaking his journalistic wounds in bourbon. “Were you fired?” Bolt asked.
“Fuck no. I had a pension to work for. They moved me to the crime beat.” A sour look crossed Dwyer’s face. “But when Rutter announced for president, I tried to rekindle the story. A lot more was at stake with the man running for the White House. They knocked me down hard. Strike two.”
“And here you are, guzzling Maker’s Mark with not a Pulitzer in sight.”
Dwyer laughed. Smacked his lips. “You got it. They offered a package, which I took. I contribute a column now and then. That’s it.”
The guy was warming up. Bolt requested a glass, so he’d have someone to drink with, which Dwyer retrieved. He poured him two fingers and sat again. Bolt brought up the glass and grimaced through the fumes. “An acquired taste.”
“Like Republicans,” Dwyer quipped.
“Speaking of which, will Rutter win?”
“Yes, I believe he will. Folks like his message. He’s pushing all the right buttons, and his base doesn’t include many geniuses. Me, I think he’s a criminal and a cunt.”
Bolt checked the bottle. Dwyer was headed toward a stupor. There’d be a sweet spot on his path, a waypoint of clarity and righteousness. Then he’d stumble into the nonsensical, repetitive pattern of a sloppy drunk. “That’s not something I’d write.”
“Now you’re sounding like the assholes who fucked me over.” Dwyer poured more into his glass.
“How a fuck-up?”
“What?”
“You said Rutter was a fuck-up, as a soldier.”
Dwyer took another cigarette and lit it. “I got hold of the mission logs from the forward operating base where he was stationed. The routine daily stuff, patrols and the like. As the radio and navigation guy, Rutter was out of his depth. Couldn’t plot a straight line to the latrine. They weren’t even supposed to be in the area where they were captured. Anyway, Rutter got reprimanded. Lots. I acquired those reports as well. Doody was called in on one of the debriefs. Something about Rutter leading a convoy into a kill zone.”
“Doody ratted him out.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
Bolt thought about the competitiveness that had existed between both men. Doody had stabbed him in the back. How brutal it must have been for Rutter to live with that.
Dwyer got up. Taking a second to steady himself. Without a word, he left the room, returning a moment later cradling an overflowing file. He placed it on his lap and dug around inside until he found what he was looking for. “This is the shit I managed to dig up after Rutter announced for the primaries. Nothing in it would make a father proud, believe me.”
“Speaking of which.”
“Mother’s dead. Father’s rotting away in a home.”
Dwyer held up a document. Read the date. “This one’s about Doody. Careless discharge of a weapon while cleaning his rifle. Doody claimed it didn’t happen that way, but he wouldn’t elaborate, so the investigation went no further.”
“Rutter was with him when it happened,” Bolt said.
“Sounds like you’ve been at this for a while.”
Bolt told him about the tape he’d heard on Abe’s boat.
“Christ,” Dwyer exclaimed. “A dead soldier’s suspicions that a bunkmate tried to kill him. That bunkmate now running for the Oval Office. Great story. I talked to Power after Rutter announced, but he basically told me to fuck off.”
“Sounds like Abe.”
Dwyer took a long swallow and another puff. “What I know is this. Two men, childhood friends, go to war. One does his job, the other is incompetent. Bad blood develops, and then one day they wind up as prisoners of war. The cavalry charges in to find four dead, and one alive, the underachieving fuckwit.”
“You’re leaving a lot out.”
Dwyer nodded in agreement. “When our man returns from battle, he marries his dead friend’s widow. In a way, she’s a ticket to the rest of his life, and look at the bastard now. Leading the polls. And by the way, as shady as they come. As a senator, he’s managed to beat off half a dozen ethics investigations. There are red flags all over his fundraising. Not to mention his politics. Fuck, he’s got neo-Nazis goose-stepping at his rallies. A bunch of left-wing think tanks are convinced he wants to light up the Middle East. Can you say World War III?”
“Sounds like you’re still on the job.”
Dwyer hauled on his cigarette, then stubbed it out. “Like I said, I got shuffled to the crime beat. Which reminds me. Cops like to talk, makes them feel important. Anyway, story goes, some local filed a complaint. Claimed Rutter assaulted him. A couple weeks later, the guy dies in a house fire, along with his mother and a younger sister. The assault complaint went away.”
>
“What are you suggesting?”
“Not suggesting anything,” Dwyer slurred. “I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid.”
He spent another ten minutes talking about Rutter’s rise in the Republican Party. His easy progression from a senator’s assistant to heir apparent when that senator died of a heart attack. It was a long story, and Dwyer had recounted it, bitterly. Bolt guessed he was in some way a victim within the history. Maybe Rutter pulled some strings and got him yanked from the political beat.
“We can go back further. If you like,” Dwyer said. “The death of Sarah Vanderson’s parents.”
“A boating accident,” Bolt recalled.
“That’s what they said. That the Vanderson fellow got sloppy with his propane tank. Kaboom.” Dwyer thumbed his way through a sheaf of papers. Stopped and took a moment to check something. “The young Rutter was on the property that day. Claimed he hammered a campaign sign on the guy’s lawn and then left.”
“Do you believe it?”
“He’s a psychopath. I don’t believe a fucking word that comes out of his mouth.”
The guy was spinning quite the yarn. Still trying to connect dots in his booze-soaked brain. No newspaper would have published his insinuations. Dwyer was trying to focus. “You sure we haven’t met?”
“Anything’s possible. Why hasn’t the national media ferreted out the Rutter story?”
Dwyer coughed a laugh. “Poor bastards don’t know if they’re coming or going. Used to be different. When journalists actually had time to do the job, before the big corporations ran the news business. It’s all about cost-cutting and profits now. No one cares anymore about good journalism.”
Bolt nodded. He felt sorry for Dwyer, because deep down his cause had been righteous and his reporter’s instincts true. Half the liquor was gone. It was time to leave.
Dwyer abruptly stopped, put his glass down. He reached into the file again. Brought out a handful of photographs. Shuffled through them and held one to his face. The name doody was stenciled on the back. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed, looking from the photo to Bolt. “Why didn’t you say you’re Doody’s bloody son?”