Don't Leave Me

by James Scott Bell

  They wheeled Stan up to Chuck’s room.

  “Leave us alone,” Chuck told the nurse. When she hesitated he sang the opening of La Donna É Mobile and she left.

  Stan. He looked skinnier in his white gown, and his broken arm, in a sling, was like a stick in a handkerchief.

  But his smile was a hundred watts.

  “I did it, Chuck,” he said. “I fought the Wolfman.”

  “That you did,” Chuck said.

  Stan pulled up his gown. A massive bandage was around his middle.

  “You can put your gown down now,” Chuck said.

  “I wanted you to see.”

  “I saw. Believe me, I saw.”

  Then Stan put his hand out. Chuck took it. Stan squeezed it hard. “I won’t leave you, Chuck. I’ll be there when you need me.”

  Chuck said, “I know that, brother. I know.”

  .

  Another two days, and Chuck was going to start doing show tunes unless he got out there. He wanted to see Julia, and they weren’t telling him anything. Sandy Epperson said the Feds were in control and just hang tight.

  He decided he’d start with Oklahoma.

  The nurse––he was starting to think of the head day nurse like Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest––told him to wait, he’d be having a visitor.

  Another shock to the system.

  It was Lucy Bowers.

  His neighbor.

  Or was it? She said her real name was DeSoto and she started spilling the strangest undercover story he’d ever heard outside of an NCIS episode.

  Unbelievable.

  But the end was the kicker. They had Julia in custody. And she wanted to see him.

  .

  Thirty-six hours later, Chuck walked into the federal building in Westwood. Agent DeSoto met him in the lobby and took him by express elevator to the top floor. There were interview rooms up there, and she walked with Chuck to one near the end of the brightly lit corridor.

  She paused. “Before you talk to Julia, there’s someone else who wanted to see you.”

  “Someone else? Who?”

  “Does the name Vaso mean anything to you?”

  Chuck shook his head.

  Agent DeSoto opened the door. A man in an orange jumpsuit was seated at the spare interview table, his head down on hands shackled to a metal ring.

  He looked up. And Chuck had to fight to keep his sutures from ripping out of his body.

  “Hi Chuck,” Royce Horne said.

  Chapter 70

  “Mr. Horne has given us a confession,” Agent DeSoto said. “He’s waived his right to counsel.”

  “Didn’t order a mouthpiece, Chuck,” Royce said, smiling slightly. He had three or four day’s growth of beard. He was trying to look like he always did, secure and in control. But there was the slightest bit of vulnerability in his face.

  “And he wanted to talk to you,” Agent DeSoto said. “We have consented, as long as it’s understood this conversation will be recorded. You can have a seat, Mr. Samson.

  Chuck quietly pulled back the government-issue chair and sat down across from Royce. He was trying to keep his head from exploding.

  “I’ll be right outside the door,” DeSoto said, and left the room.

  Royce started with a smirk and a light tone. “You remember the first time you saw Afghanistan, Chuck? I know what came to your mind. God forsaken, that’s what you thought. It’s like a world where all the color got sucked out. A world from a bad fairy tale. How did God even make such a place? You haven’t given up on God, have you, Chuck?”

  Chuck said nothing.

  “What do you owe Uncle Sam, Chuck? You were a chaplain, not a soldier, but you went through the fire like the rest of us and when you came back, what do they do? They run you around because your DD214 is incomplete, through no fault of your own, mind you. So the VA says sorry, dude, can’t do anything more fer ya. The grass doesn’t grow and the money does not flow from the United States Treasury. Not for us. Not for the soldiers. It’s always been that way, Chuck. You, of all people, deserve better. So do I.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Chuck said.

  “That world with the color sucked out, I saw it, too. I knew then that’s the world we all live in, no matter where we are. Then a warlord––a warlord, Chuck, isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?—he showed me some color. It was the color of money. I was a liaison. With Sajadi and his network. You never knew I was there, Chuck. You were too busy counseling soldiers. I was busy talking to Sajadi. Now, this villa, Chuck, I’m telling you. A compound with huge guard dogs, iron gates, and an inner garden, like something out of an old Steve Reeves movie. There he was, Asif, in his flowing robe to cover his grotesque thickness. Somebody made him special slippers, with the fronts curled up like a genie. A genie, Chuck! I almost laughed. He carried a Kalashnikov assault rifle with a gold-plated forestock. The strutting peacock. Zivkcovic was there and it was nothing more than a matter of money. They offered me the deal of a lifetime. All I had to do was keep a few secrets, and bring a few people in. And why not? We all know we turned a blind eye to the poppy fields, to the warlords, to the drug mafia. We let it go, because the money was flowing to the farmers, and they were happy, and the Taliban was underfoot. But look what happened after we pulled out and NATO came in. How long did that prosperity last? What good did we really do, you and me? So you see, Chuck, nothing in this world makes sense unless the poppy grows and the money flows.”

  Chuck said. “You’re telling me you were part of this drug business from the start?”

  “What you don’t know about Dylan Bly is that he was a ghost. An infiltrator. A CIA man. He was there poking his nose into things a little too deeply. The day before he died he and an Afghani named Daood killed two of Asif’s thugs and stole the equivalent of $20 million in gold and paper kept in two trunks. Daood was about to be taken in by us, but offed himself with a gunshot under the chin. I was to bring Bly in for questioning. I saw him talking to you that night. Yes, I was spying on him, and you. I knew it was something heavy, from the body language. Do you remember what he told you, Chuck?”

  The words echoed in Chuck’s mind, as if from deep within a cavern. “He said he was afraid of dying.”

  “The next day, the security patrol went out. You came along, probably because of Bly. Am I right? Then we got to the wadi, and Bly’s Humvee hits an IED. Only it wasn’t an IED on the ground. It was under the Humvee. I put it there. And used a remote.”

  Chuck said nothing, tried to picture it.

  “Bly was not supposed to die. But you jumped out and ran to him like some hero and Bly ended up dead, by a bullet that was meant for you, Chuck. They were shooting at you. They stopped shooting when they saw me. Do you remember what happened to you in that river bed?”

  “RPG they said,” Chuck said. “Concussive blackout.”

  “Wasn’t an RPG, Chuck. It was me. I beaned you one on the head.”

  “You what?”

  “To save your life, Chuck. To get you out of there. I was supposed to bring in Bly, so we could get him to talk. The idiot ends up dead. That left only you, Chuck. We took you instead. How much do you recall about what happened to you?”

  “I remember the rock feet.”

  “Asif Sadaji. He had deformed feet.”

  “I remember the smell of his breath. I don’t remember much after that.”

  “Then you don’t know that I was there. I was watching. I hope you believe me Chuck, but the reason you have all your fingers and toes is because I made that a condition of the questioning. They didn’t have to go along with it, but they did. Asif and Zivkcovic. You see, I felt bad about what you had to go through. No matter who I was in bed with, I didn’t want that happening to an American at their hands.”

  “I’m touched,” Chuck said. “But if you were there, why didn’t you get caught when they got me?”

  Royce smiled. “Who do you think got you out? Who do you think sent the a
lert? We were all long gone when the rescue team arrived. I convinced them not to kill you, Chuck. You were the only one who could tell us where the gold was. I was going to get at you later. But they took you back to the states before I had a chance.”

  Chuck was silent.

  “Then, when you showed up in LA, and came to the VA, I knew the day would come when you would have to be questioned by Zivkcovic. His new identity was well established, even though he secretly went into Afghanistan. On business. Isn’t that a gas, Chuck? On business! I worked my way up to be his right hand. That didn’t take much, considering what a lousy excuse for a son he had. I didn’t let them know about you being in Los Angeles, because I was stringing them along. I was planning a little coup, for the right time. And I was getting some help.”

  “From who?”

  “Hold onto your chair, Chuck.” Royce looked like a kid getting ready to tell his mother he ate cookies before dinner. “Julia.”

  Royce paused, his eyes filling in the blanks.

  Chuck’s words were a whisper. “You and Julia?”

  “Things happen at home when guys are off playing war. It’s an old story, Chuck. But she never said anything bad about you. She never—”

  “Shut up!” Chuck gripped the chair arms. “You say her name again, I’ll throw this chair through your teeth.”

  Royce sat back, as far as the cuffs would let him. “That’s not like you, Chuck. Not like a man of God.”

  “You better not say his name, either. Unless you’re crying out for mercy.”

  “Maybe he’ll give me a break, Chuck. Isn’t confession good for the soul?”

  “Why did you confess?”

  “I’m tired, Chuck,” he said, and smiled. “You want to hear something funny? Killing people makes you tired. You either keep juicing yourself up or sleep it off. I just want to sleep. God must respect that, right Chuck? Besides, I was doing some good, looking out for you the way I did.”

  “You did what?”

  “The day you rear ended Dag’s car—I mean, the day he caused you to do that––I was watching. I had been tailing him that day, because I knew he had in mind to try to prove himself to his father. But he was going to jeopardize everything, and it was part of my job to keep a reign on him, try to keep him from blundering into something that would drag you in. I’m the guy who called you, Chuck. Remember? She can see past the grave?”

  “What . . . you?”

  “To keep you from getting in too deep, Chuck. I was protecting you. I wanted you all to myself.”

  Chuck shook his head, blood rushing behind his eyes.

  “And then I had to pop that guy who stopped to help,” Royce said.

  “You did that?”

  “Sure. He could ID Dag. That’s when things started going crazy in my head. Chuck, it was like . . . did you ever watch the old Ed Sullivan show on tape? My dad had 'em. There was a guy I saw once, a plate spinner. He got a bunch of plates spinning on these long sticks and he had to keep them all going at once. Sometimes it looked like one of them would fall, but then he would run over and get it going again. That’s what my life has been like and you know what? I’m kind of glad that’s all over. I just wanted you to know that your life isn’t over. I want you and your brother to live.”

  “What about her death? Julia’s death?”

  “The Feds know all about that––” he looked up at the camera mounted on a ceiling corner––” Right guys?”

  “You’re talking to me now,” Chuck said.

  “It was Hillary. Had to get rid of him. And it was a way to get rid of Julia, too, so to speak.”

  “I saw her body.”

  “On a monitor. You spend a little money, and have a guy named Vaso visit you, a coroner might do some neat tricks for you. Another one of those plates, Chuck.”

  “Spin to your grave,” Chuck said. “I’m done.” He stood.

  Royce shook his hands hard, jangling the shackles. “I want you to forgive me, Chuck. You have to. It’s your calling!”

  “I’ll work up to it,” Chuck said. He started for the door.

  “Chuck! I have to know. Where is it? Where did they bury the gold?”

  “Why would I tell you if I knew?” Chuck said.

  “I can’t do anything about it now. I just have to know.”

  “You let them cut my throat to find out.”

  “We weren’t going to let you die. I wouldn’t have let them kill you.”

  “You’re a prince.”

  “Where is it buried, Chuck?”

  Chuck pointed to his left temple. “In here. And if I ever dig it out, I’ll send you a postcard.”

  Royce smiled, a forced one from the look of it. “Deliver the news personally,” he said. “I’m going to need visitors.”

  Chapter 71

  “She’s in the next room,” De Soto said. “Look, if you want to wait—”

  “I want to go in now. Are you going to record it?”

  “We have to.”

  “Not this time. Please. I think maybe I’m owed that much.”

  Agent DeSoto paused, took out her phone. She turned her back and walked a few steps away in the corridor. She was back in thirty seconds.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  When the door clicked behind him Chuck thought for a moment it was his own heartbeat. Because Julia was at the table, in shackles, just the way Royce had been. Her coveralls were blue. Her eyes, once beautiful to him in ways he could hardly express, were now empty rooms with the lights out. No electricity running through the house.

  Her lips were dry and cracked.

  And Chuck had to keep reminding himself that this was real.

  He sat.

  Julia tried once to make eye contact with him. He saw a flicker of candles in those empty rooms before she turned her head away.

  And sobbed.

  He had never seen her cry like that. She’d always had a command of her emotions, a strength. He’d admired that about her, even though it sometimes seemed like a hard shell. Now what? Here in a federal interview room? Should he comfort her? Why? After what she’d done to him? And Stan? Should he hit her with something sharp to make her pain match his?

  How about walk out and leave her without another word?

  And then he found himself saying, “You have a lawyer?”

  Julia, head down, sucked in breath behind her sobs. There was a box of Kleenex on the interview table, the only other object in there. No doubt for times just like this, from suspect or witness.

  Chuck snagged a couple. He reached over and gently tipped up Julia’s chin. She turned her head away. “No, Chuck.”

  He turned her head back. “Let me.” He dabbed her eyes gently, then under her nose. He crumpled the Kleenex into a tiny ball and tossed it on the floor.

  Julia took a few deep breaths. “Public defender,” she said.

  “You need a good lawyer.”

  “She already cut me a deal,” Julia said. And now she looked at him.

  When she did, Chuck felt a wave beating against his chest. He wanted it to come crashing through and cover her and drench her with regret. Instead, he closed his eyes to dam it up, and said, “What happened, Julia? How . . .?”

  Julia took in a deep breath. “How well did you know me when you married me, Chuck? We didn’t know each other at all. You didn’t know much about my past. You didn’t know what I was capable of.”

  “I just knew I wanted to be with you.”

  “And I thought getting married to you could save me.”

  “From what?”

  She looked down at her cuffed and folded hands. “I’m not a good person, Chuck.” She paused for a moment that stretched out until Chuck spoke.

  “Is that it?” he said. “That’s your excuse?” He snapped the words with a whip-like bitterness. It felt good for half a second. Then he thought, maybe she deserved one click off the reel, one inch of slack. But only one.

  Julia said, “You know that book of poetry I had? E
dna St. Vincent Millay?”

  “Oh yeah. Burned up in a fire. Sort of fitting, isn’t it?”

  “I deserve that.”

  “Who knows who deserves anything?” Chuck sat back in the hard chair and folded his arms. He felt like a piece of beef hanging upside down in a big meat locker. Powerless to move, to think, to do anything but wait for someone to unhook him.

  Julia.

  He had loved her powerfully, but maybe brokenly, too, and that was the tragedy of it.

  “Can I tell you something about it?” Julia said.

  “About what?”

  “The book.”

  “It’s your show.” He said this tiredly. His energy was fast draining, the way you crash after a caffeine high comes to a rapid conclusion.

  “It was the one book that spoke to me when I was growing up,” Julia said. “Her sonnets were a lifeline for me.”

  “I don’t know anything about your growing up,” Chuck said. “Or sonnets. You never let me in.”

  She laughed then. Short, sharp, jarring.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “There’s a sonnet in that book that’s my favorite one. I’ve got to tell you the first line. This door you might not open, and you did; So enter now, and see for what slight thing you are betrayed.”

  “Touching,” Chuck said, his mind chopping up the word betrayed into several mental pieces and scattering them around.

  “That’s the way I kept you out, see?” Julia said. “I had this door I didn’t want you to open. I didn’t want anybody to open it. I thought it would drive you away. I thought if we got married I could keep the door closed. But there is a crack in the door, there’s a big crack and the door is flying off the hinges. You want me to tell you about it? It’s not particularly interesting. Other girls have been abused. It’s not like I’m unique. It’s not like I deserve any breaks. But I just want you to understand. I just want you to see . . .”

  “See what?”

  “That it wasn’t your fault. I don’t want you to go away thinking any of this was your fault. You don’t deserve that. And Stan doesn’t deserve that.”