by Ted Minkinow
"No," he admitted both to himself and The Man, "we could burn the entire country to the ground every day for a thousand years and you people would find a way to shoot us from the ashes."
2
Leland Graves knew introspection melted resistance and made Marlin pliable, useful. If not, the janitor's death would prove negligible to his plans.
All part of the acquisition cycle.
He continued.
3
"No need for further answer, Private. You understand that my homeland and I are one, inseparable. No power—certainly not the others…weaklings, all of them—could challenge my dominance." He stood, hands on hips, in front of Marlin. "Look around."
This was impossible, given the bite of the ropes. Marlin tried his best to obey anyway.
"Look around, Private Tilbury, I am this land." The NVA colonel surveyed the area like an adoring father admiring a daughter who’s come home early on prom night, "and this land has become me."
The interrogation, lecture, or whatever continued to balance on a point somewhere beyond Marlin’s comprehension. In his pontifications, the communist officer stopped speaking in typical socialist terms—us and our—and related in I and me.
I am the land, the land is me, repeated Marlin in his thoughts. This land is me? The place doesn't look like Vietnam.
Marlin believed that the dream constructed the location…and though the communist uniform did not seem to belong here, somehow The Man did.
I’ve created hell on earth, sleeping Marlin thought, complete with a devil. As the thought flashed, the officer's grin widened.
"Tell me now, Private, about your comrades." The question seemed innocuous, absent of valuable military information. Even so, he carefully picked his words.
"No different from me."
The officer erupted.
"Why do you waste our time with lies? My good will knows boundaries!”
"It's the truth,” Marlin said, then added, “But what does it matter, you killed them anyway."
Signaled by a glance from the officer, Stinky Man Rufus moved to press flab against Marlin…forced Marlin’s shoulder blades and spine deeper into the cutting bark. Marlin felt the blade’s cold, sharp point against his Adam's apple.
Stinky Man Rufus moved his lips to Marlin’s ear and growled through the gritted assembly of teeth. "Boy, you best be answering The Man here. Because as soon as he's tired of playing I get my turn. Now you get your heart in the right place, or I'll slit that coward throat of yours like a holiday pig and watch you slow-bleed."
The knife penetrated Marlin's skin. It drew blood…but went no further. Stinky Man Rufus stepped to the side to allow his master full view of Marlin.
"I hope this demonstration precludes more stringent applications."
Not knowing what the officer expected, Marlin sprinkled his answer with more detail.
"All except Sarge are draftees. Of the group, I trust Garcia most."
The officer’s face reddened. "Fool!" he said. "Why do you taunt with obstinacy? Could you believe I care about these feeble rotting carcasses?"
Marlin saw Stinky Man drool with anticipation.
"He hates you Private Tilbury—as do I. Perhaps he thinks I will somehow find you useful and spare your life."
This time Marlin heard the duplicity; not in his mind as he suspected earlier, but with his ears…and spoken like a stage whisper…Or maybe as a lunatic would speak.
The Man dangled this ray of hope…an enticement for Marlin to jump at the chance of self-preservation.
"You make him jealous...and jealousy animates the evil in Rufus. Will you help me restrain him?"
Marlin nodded, still not sure what actions would delay his death.
"Your comrades, Private. I ask you a third and, let me emphasize, a final time."
The man wanted a specific answer. Marlin gathered his courage and cleared his throat.
"Sir, exactly what do you want to know?"
"The old black woman and the white man, of course. You spoke with them earlier this evening in the hospital."
Another disorienting question. Aunt Hattie? Why would a North Vietnamese Army officer care about her?
"Do you mean Aunt Hattie?"
The Man’s eyes narrowed. "Hattie Jackson," he confirmed. "I want to know about Hattie Jackson."
Marlin's heart plummeted. He hoped the dream-enemy wanted military information because his subconscious knew the war ended long ago. But The Man wanted Aunt Hattie and Marlin believed it might not end when he woke. Even so, he was powerless to avoid betraying his only friend.
CHAPTER 24
Saturday, July 14, 01:46 am, Vienna, Alabama
"She's an old woman…harmless." Marlin wondered as he spoke.
The Man seems intimidated.
"I need no insight,” said Leland Graves dressed as the NVA officer. “I just need to understand her motivations—Exquisite aura.”
Marlin blinked. He knew nothing about an aura, he just knew he better say something.
"Don't know that much…works a couple of days a week at the library.” Marlin’s voice came in a whine. “Other than that, I don't know."
"And her young white friend, the one with the limp?"
"Tom Brunson."
"And what else?"
"Nothing, I swear."
Marlin exhaled in a rasp that sounded more like a death rattle than relief.
"Train your eye."
No question…maybe the dream’s improving. "I don't think I understand.”
The NVA officer smiled with the sincerity of a jack-o-lantern.
"You will understand, Private Tilbury.” The Man continued through the grin, “A man of your perception knows that I am not his enemy."
Marlin expected this.
"You see, I understand both you and your pain in failing…and how the same society that made you an outcast holds you beyond recovery." A shake of the head in mock pity, then, "I know you as a hesitant enemy to my people and to me."
His voice hardened. "Unlike the old woman and her ward."
A knot welled in Marlin’s stomach. He could not fathom this grudge against Aunt Hattie yet could not consider endangering his life to protect her.
"Hattie Jackson embodies those who would keep you drugged by your own fear. They do not care to know the true Private Tilbury. Not like I do. Is this not true?"
Ashamed of his answer, Marlin nodded.
Good, Private. I am encouraged by willingness to seek truth. Should I offer parole?"
Again, Marlin nodded.
“Parole means life. I expect payment in the currency of obedience." The NVA inched closer. "You must serve at a moment's notice…without hesitation.” His voiced lowered to a whisper. "What do you say, Private Tilbury?"
Marlin saw Stinky Man Rufus and the black man both move in behind the officer. Bodyguards are less dangerous than the one they protect. Perhaps he could cut this deal with the dream devil and wake up the next morning uncommitted. He hoped…but didn't believe for a second.
The three awaited his answer.
All Marlin could manage was, "Whatever you want."
"Keep close to our mutual enemy and remain vigilant. When time comes for action, you must not disappoint.”
With that, Stinky Man Rufus took a step toward Marlin…he smiled as he dragged the weapon across Marlin's face and metal gouged a thin red line into cheek flesh. Marlin closed his eyes and heard someone cackle—Skinny Man?—like a demon frolicking around a bonfire.
Marlin shut his eyes harder.
When he mustered courage to open them, he was back in the bedroom lying in his own sweat and urine…too frightened to move. Discomfort prevailed and Marlin climbed out of bed to change the wet underwear. He nearly vomited when his eye caught his reflection above the sink. Staring back from the mirror he saw a thin line of blood oozing from his chin to right ear.
CHAPTER 25
Saturday, July 14, 07:23 am, Vienna, Alabama, Hattie Jackson’s Hous
e
1
Hattie didn’t wake until well past seven o’clock and exhausted muscles mutinied when she tried to stand. Fire traced her ribcage, a vivid reminder of last evening's encounter and she breathed a short prayer as she reached for the terrycloth robe.
She plodded to the kitchen, found her way to the refrigerator, and grabbed three eggs and a half slab of bacon. This much she could accomplish on autopilot. Sputtering grease sharpened her senses and provided diversion for a heart that no longer beat as much as it ticked.
Two cups of boiling water created grits at perfect consistency. Hattie extracted the fried eggs from the skillet before the yolks could harden and arranged them on a plate next to a healthy serving of the bacon and grits. She placed Tom’s breakfast in her oven to keep it warm while she woke him.
Her adopted nephew lay diagonally across the bed, covers crumpled on the floor. The dream could not have been good. Even sleep gave her Tommy no refuge from his past. She bent over and gently rubbed her palm across his stubbly face. He opened his eyes.
"Time for breakfast."
"Thanks Aunt Hattie, I'll get there in a minute."
Hattie waited. Tom exceeded his customary five minutes in the shower.
He's thinking about his date.
"Trying to kill me with fat?" Tom said, though he inhaled loudly and with a smile.
"Boy your age needs a good breakfast. My father lived to almost one hundred off-"
"Yea, I know. One hundred years of hard work and steady eating." His insides growled like a starving Grizzly in a salmon pool.
"Sounds to me,” she said, “like your stomach just cast the deciding vote.”
"On second thought," he said, "maybe once a week is OK.”
Tom poured two coffees and sat down opposite Aunt Hattie. He waited as she offered thanks and then cracked the yolks and mixed them into his grits. He picked up a piece of bacon and put half of it in his mouth before speaking.
"How are you feeling today?"
"Better," she answered. "Sore, but better."
"I ought to stay here today."
"You will not, Tommy. You told me the other day how worried you are about delivering that software thing. I'll not have you puttering around me all day and then sitting down at the computer all night."
Tom rolled his eyes. "Do I get a vote?"
"Who said anything about voting? Go to work and put in a good day…then clear your mind and have fun with your doctor friend."
The doorbell interrupted Tom's reply and he opened the door to a fifty-something looking, vaguely familiar man.
“Aunt Hattie?" No explanation, just the question.
The guy looked terrible. “Shot at and missed, crapped at and hit,” is how they would have described it in the fighter squadron. Bone skinny with gray, greasy hair perched above a taut face with sunken features; a starving cur dog would look better.
"What can I do for you?" Tom put on the officious, “you’re bugging the heck out of me,” tone that worked as a prologue to “don’t let the door hit you in the rump on the way out.”
"I work at Grimes Hospital. I saw Aunt Hattie and you there last night."
Tom squinted as if trying to remember.
"I-I came by to check on her, you know,” he said, “to see if she needs anything."
Tom made no reply, but rather conjured his best “I can see right through you, pal” look.
Hattie’s voice beckoned from behind. "Come in, Marlin, I'm surprised to see you."
It took a few moments before Tom let the man pass.
"What on earth brings you out so early in the morning?"
"Just thought I’d check on you."
Hattie thought Marlin looked tired, maybe a bit edgy and apprehensive too.
“You were on the night shift last night. You need to be home in bed."
"I couldn't sleep much. Worried about you all night and had to come by this morning."
Uncomfortable with the attention, Hattie directed the subject of their conversation away from herself. "You look hungry, Marlin," she said. "Come sit down with us and let me fix you a plate."
2
The janitor moved toward the table and Tom kept his eyes on Marlin all the way to the chair. This Marlin fellow kept his gaze to the floor—avoided eye contact.
Hattie said, "Tommy, you need to start thinking about getting on."
"I can do some design work here for a couple of hours," he replied without taking his eyes off the janitor.
Marlin sat staring at his plate, toying with the food Hattie placed in front of him. Tom's eyes met Hattie’s and he shot a quick glance in the visitor's direction and then back to her.
"If you need to do design work at this late date, then you must be in trouble with the delivery.”
Tom saw that Aunt Hattie would take no part in his charade.
"You don't need to worry about us,” she said. “Marlin and I can find a lot to talk about."
"If you say so, Aunt Hattie."
Tom rinsed his empty plate in the sink. He walked to the front door and hesitated for a last look at the two before stepping through.
CHAPTER 26
Saturday, July 14, 07:36 am, Vienna, Alabama, Grimes Hospital
Dr. Walters checked her watch.
“If the arrogant fop can’t get to work on time,” she said to the bank of windows overlooking the parking lot, “he should move closer or find a new job."
Another glance at the watch. If his eminence showed up in the next fifteen minutes Cassandra could make it home, complete her chores and get a few hours’ sleep before meeting Tom at the airport. Maybe.
Cassandra had not committed to the date, had she?
“Not ready for romantic involvement” was a line she reserved for colleagues. Those guys acted like oversexed alligators, interested in devouring unsuspecting women before conversations about the wife and kids could start. She wondered if fighter pilots swam in the same swamp.
A sports car screeched to a halt outside and the noise broke her train of thought. The eighteen-hour shift made her grumpy enough so Cassandra decided to take three deep clearing breaths before saying a word.
"So sorry I'm late, I had to-"
She stretched her palm and cut him short. Dr. Lammons and his wintergreen breath could set her off on a good day. This comb-over version of Napoleon enjoyed delaying her life.
"There are no patients in the emergency room. We saw seven last night. No admissions." Cassandra spoke in an even, monotone voice, never moving her eyes from his.
"The nurse completed the evening report about two hours ago."
"Lighten up Cassandra," he said, and the smug voice nudged her temper closer to the edge.
"Company policy clearly defines-" she began. It was his turn with the stop sign gesture.
"What are they going to do, fire me?” Lammons snickered. “Where could they find someone crazy enough to take the position?”
And that did it.
“It’s your colleagues that suffer when you fail to honor the schedule.”
He raised his eyebrows in mock shock as she continued.
“You know that I will cover the patient load until you decide to wander in. The arrangements you keep with corporate, I don’t give a rat’s bald tail about. Those you make with me, I do. You owe me the better part of an hour that I’ll collect the next time I follow your shift.”
After making sure to log in bold notation—as if it would do any good—the precise time of the jerk’s arrival, Cassandra found her car. Eight hours later, she located the dirt road leading to Blown Oak Airport.
Saturday, July 14, 3:41 pm, Blown Oak Airport, outside Vienna, Alabama
1
Tom dredged sufficient excuses to arrive at the tiny airport two hours earlier. He only half-expected her to show. Even so, he found himself glued like a lazy coonhound to the stained sofa opposite the large pane window in the pilot’s lounge.
As four o’clock approached, he afforded increasin
g focus to the gravel lot. At precisely four, he was pleased to see Cassandra maneuver into one of the slots. He made his way outside.
"Hi Cassie!" He held her car door as she stepped out.
"Hello Tom." She couldn't help returning the smile.
Tom's heart fluttered. Dressed in faded blue jeans, a grey Vanderbilt University T-shirt, and a pair of 1960's style Jackie O sunglasses, Cassandra looked like a real person.
2
Cassandra also rated Tom in the manner of a woman on a first date. Besides clean hair and a shave, Cassandra noticed a shine to his skin that she could not remember in the emergency room the night before. She did not know what to expect from this point forward, but so far she felt good about keeping the date.
"We need to take off within an hour, so I'll only have a few minutes to show you around."
"Blown Oak," she said and glanced above the black rims of her sunglasses, "deserves the name airport as much as Vienna rates the title city."
Tom smiled. “Let’s see,” he said and tapped his chin with a finger. “I’ve got it…Audrey Hepburn…Breakfast at Tiffany’s…1960.” Then he frowned slightly. “Or was it 1961?” She punched his arm.
Cassandra did not count the small propeller airplanes tied down in rows at the grass strip; the total would have numbered twenty-five. In addition to the aircraft, she saw five metal hangars. The small wooden building from which Tom emerged to meet her rounded out the rustic scene. The airfield sat in a narrow valley bordered on all sides by rolling terrain covered with tall pines.
As Cassandra completed the survey, her little “something’s not right” voice buzzed into her ear. She stopped the parade, concentrated, and the answer appeared right in front of her.
"And where," she asked in seriousness, while hoping to sound playful, "do the airplanes take off and land?"
"Right out there in front of you Cassie." Tom pointed at what looked like a pasture sans cows. On closer inspection, she saw two weather-vane things—Windsocks?—spaced a little more than half a mile from each other, at either end of the field.