Krokodil

by Dustin Stevens

  Already dressed for Montana in jeans, a fleece vest, and heavy canvas jacket, I kept one shoulder pressed into the tree, oblivious to the weather, even as it pushed my hair across my forehead. By the same time next week it would be thirty degrees colder where I was, if not more.

  The wind whistling by served to make just enough noise to keep me from deciphering what the Director was saying, his voice muffled and distorted as it sounded out from the speakers set up to either side of him. With each puff of wind they swayed in place, threatening to keel over, feedback kicking through the microphone and out over the crowd.

  By the third such incident I could tell from his body language that he was ready to wrap things up, stepping away from the podium and turning to his right, shaking the hands of X, followed by Diaz. Both accepted the shakes with straight faces and terse nods, being forced to endure stolid words about jobs well done, making their country proud, the sort of things all directors said when cameras were rolling.

  The crowd clapped politely as he returned to the podium and made a few closing remarks, my hands never leaving the deep pockets of my coat as I watched and waited.

  Three minutes later the ceremony was over, Rogan and the other higher ups from the Administration staying just long enough for a couple of quick photos, awkward postures and forced smiles all around, before retreating inside. The crowd, consisting of mostly media personnel, remained just a moment longer with the stars of the hour before drifting away as well, heading towards the parking lot, a deadline looming.

  I watched as the janitorial staff went to work on the set up, breaking down chairs and clearing away the speakers. With collars flipped up and shoulders hunched against the wind, they worked quietly and efficiently, not one paying any attention to the solitary person that stepped down from the front steps and made their way to me.

  Diaz looked a little more tired than the last time I had seen her, the cold sapping most of the color from her face, belying dark circles under each eye. Her mane of curls was pulled back in a harsh ponytail, her face void of makeup.

  If not for the smile on her face, I would have said she looked absolutely miserable.

  “Weren’t even going to say hi?” she asked as she approached, hands buried halfway up her forearms into the pockets of her heavy black overcoat, her body drawn in on itself in an attempt to keep warm.

  A wry smile crossed my lips as I shook my head and said, “Didn’t want to interrupt you during your big day. Figured you’d get a second for little old me at some point.”

  “Little old you,” she repeated, shaking her head. She turned her body sideways so the wind was at her back and stamped her feet, rocking back and forth. “Could have at least clapped, you know.”

  A quick, sharp laugh passed over my lips, a bit of white extending in front of me. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “That you are,” Diaz said, raising her eyebrows and nodding. “Something tells me you won’t be this time tomorrow when they add Hutch’s name to the Wall of Honor in there?”

  The Wall of Honor, an award bestowed on all agents that died in the line of duty, a list now over thirty people in length. The last thing I wanted when leaving his house was to make a martyr of the man. He had tainted his own legacy beyond even being included as a footnote in the DEA history.

  How anybody could have found him hunched over in a chair on his front porch and thought to construe that as death in the line of duty was beyond me.

  I guess that was the kind of perk that came with being a ranking official.

  “Can’t,” I said, opting to comment as little as possible on the topic. There was a tiny shred of me that figured Diaz already knew what had transpired, both in the desert and here in D.C. An even larger shred told me she would never act on either. “Need to get on the road, get things ready for winter.”

  “Ah, yes,” Diaz said, giving me a knowing look that meant both she recognized me ducking the topic and would conspire with my return-to-Montana narrative. “The cabin in the woods, back to roughing it, all that.”

  Again the corners of my mouth curled up. Once upon a time, she would have made for a great partner, a quiet confidence and lack of bullshit that I could worked with for sure. “Yeah, all that.”

  “The Rocky Mountains are the marrow of the world.”

  A deep smirk pushed out of my nose, rocking my head backwards. “You finally watched the movie.”

  “I did,” she confirmed. “You’re no Robert Redford, but I could see the semblance I guess.”

  My lips widened even further, my teeth peeking out through the smile. It was the same line my mother had used on me a hundred times before, every time my father alluded to the origin of my name.

  “How about you? What’s next?”

  Turning at the hip, Diaz motioned towards the headquarters, extending an elbow without removing her hand from its pocket. “They offered us both positions here. Supervisory roles, promise of fast tracks to the top. They didn’t say as much, but I think the idea of a black guy and a Hispanic woman practically had the PR people salivating.”

  Another low chuckle slid out from me, nodding in agreement. I would have never thought to frame it quite that way, but I couldn’t disagree with her either. “Congratulations.”

  “Naw,” she replied, shaking her head, drawing the word out several seconds long. “This place isn’t for me. I gave them a list of things I needed back in Cali, told them where to send my raise.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said, though her words didn’t surprise me. Once, right before moving to California, I too had been offered a position in D.C. Having gone to undergrad nearby I had no problem with the city, but the thought of working in that bastion of bureaucracy was enough to make my skin crawl. “X?”

  “Jumped at it,” Diaz said. “Asked me to say thank you if I saw you and to let you know you’re more than even. Said he’d be in touch once you got settled.”

  That, too, wasn’t a surprise. If somebody were to ever sit down and analyze our trade I’m sure a winner could be determined, though neither one of us ever would. He went out on a limb for me in a time of need, I made sure he was rewarded for his efforts. Had the situation been flipped, I liked to think it would still play out the same way.

  I slid my gaze from the building to Diaz, her face taking on a ghostly pallor. “So back to the desert for you.”

  “Back to the desert,” she said, “where it’s not so damn cold.”

  This time I managed to bite back a laugh, shaking my head from side to side. “I would say you’re welcome to visit in Montana at any time, but if you think this is cold...”

  She smiled without showing her teeth, her lips pulled into a tight line. “Just the same as I would say you’re welcome back in California at any time. I can always find room for a good consultant.”

  I matched the thin smile, both of us acknowledging the offers without comment. At some point, perhaps, one of us would pick up the phone and make good on them. Perhaps not.

  With a tiny nod I moved forward and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, her cold cheek pressed against mine. Her hands slid around my back and she returned the embrace a long moment before releasing, both of us taking a step back.

  “Thank you,” I said. There was so much more I could have added, defining every last thing I was thankful for, from her offer to all she had done in the preceding weeks. I didn’t though, knowing, fearing, I would leave something out, and the situation deserved better.

  “Thank you,” she echoed, following my lead, making no attempt to define it.

  One step at a time we drifted away from each other until eventually we both turned, putting our back to one another, both already moving on towards our next destination.

  The sun was high in the sky, a golden orb sitting directly overhead, casting a bright yellow glow over everything it touched. The grass alongside the road seemed radiant, bathed in its hue, the river in the distance reflecting it, dancing along the rocks beneath it. After
weeks in the desert, twenty long days of staring at nothing but varying shades of sand, the entire world seemed amplified, like a movie with just the right amount of color saturation.

  The skin of my forearms was deep chestnut brown as they draped over the steering wheel, the hairs along them sun-bleached blonde, standing in stark contrast to the canvas beneath them.

  The engine of my truck rumbled over the highway as I drove along, leaning forward, willing us to go faster, for my destination to somehow move itself closer. On the seat beside me sat my discarded shirt and tie, a blue blazer long since stripped off and stuffed in my duffel, stowed in the truck bed. Atop the rumbled pile of clothes beside me was my faded holster and service weapon, the leather sweat-stained and cracking, beginning to give off a pungent scent.

  Wearing only a tank top and slacks, I let the warm southern California air wash over me, cocooning around me, pleasant without being too hot. It swirled inside the cab of the truck, drowning out the radio, filling my senses. On it danced the scents of jasmine, lavender, the spring rains awakening the desert community, bringing out the foliage in full force.

  Two miles west of the turnoff for Tecate I hooked a right, turning south onto an unmarked road, the narrow lane wide enough for just a single car at a time. Wild grasses and shrubs hugged the drive tight on either side, their bright green standing in contrast to the grey asphalt, their tops swaying in the breeze. My tires found the grooves worn into the roadway by years of use, the engine pushing a little harder than necessary, the road stretched out in a straight line in front of me.

  The Gonzalez farm slid past on my left, a series of low-slung buildings all standing quiet, sun reflecting off their roofs. A pair of thick and waddling horses grazed in the paddock out front, neither one looking up as I passed, their tails swatting flies in a constant circular motion.

  A mile further down the Rhodes spread came into view, a central farmhouse with white construction and a red roof standing two stories high. The smell of hay and livestock passed over my nostrils as I passed, glancing over to see the pristinely kept front lawn, the fountain beside the driveway spouting water in a wide fan almost ten feet in height.

  Nervousness, excitement, apprehension welled in the pit of my stomach as I crested a hill and my final stop came into view.

  Tucked away in the corner of a small valley, a two-story farmhouse sat warm and inviting, its light exterior standing out against the dark green background. Behind it flowed an offshoot of the Tecate River, a lazy, rambling finger that framed the house on two sides, providing all the water that was needed, keeping things cool in the summer.

  My heart hammered away in my chest as I pulled off to the left without bothering to use the blinker, the only other car that ever ventured this far down sitting beside the house. Bits of gravel kicked up from my tires, pinging against the undercarriage of the truck, a plume of dust rising behind me as I slid to a stop and stepped out.

  The moment my boots touched the ground, the front door of the house swung open, long and easy, its springs groaning as it traveled in a complete half arc and reached the wall behind it. The familiar clomping of boots on hardwood rang out, one at a time, in no particular hurry, as my wife stepped out onto the porch.

  Her hand-stitched brown leather boots stopped mid-calve, giving way to toned legs and a yellow sundress, the hem starting mid-thigh, ruffled a bit by the breeze. Her honey-blonde hair swung down around her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with clear blue eyes and high cheekbones.

  She stopped on the edge of the porch, one hand resting on the railing, her right foot crossed over her left. A mischievous smile flirted with her lips as she stared down at me, a sparkling light flashed from her eyes.

  Given the time of day, I knew Alice was down for her nap, tucked away upstairs, curled up with her favorite stuffed bunny. In an hour or two I would take the stairs three at a time to wake her, joining her in bed, demanding to know every last detail since I’d left.

  For the time being though, it was just me and Elizabeth.

  The grass of the front lawn was soft underfoot as I walked across it and stopped just short of the front steps, staring up at her. I’d pictured her in my mind every moment since I’d been gone, but it was nothing compared to seeing her in the flesh, an expectant look on her face, feeling the air crackle between us.

  “Damn, it’s good to see you,” I whispered, letting her hear every bit of feeling I had for her, cramming it all into just six words.

  She stared down at me a long time before tilting her head to the side, her hair drifting out across the exposed skin of her upper arm. “What took you so long?”

  There was no good way to answer that question, no way for me to ever explain all that had transpired since we last saw each other, so I didn’t even try.

  “Just got held up for a while, had to go hunt some Krokodils.”

  “Did you get them?” she asked, a look of complete understanding on her face.

  “Yeah,” I whispered, adding a small nod for emphasis.

  “Yeah,” she repeated, extending a hand out towards me.

  One step at a time I rose to the porch and accepted her hand, her soft skin sliding against my palm, our fingers intertwining. Without a word we passed together through the front door of the house, the world around us succumbing to darkness.

  The sweet, sweet darkness of peaceful slumber.

  Thank you for reading!

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read Krokodil, which I hope you enjoyed. I know the title is a bit funny, and looks misspelled at first glance, so I appreciate you taking a chance on the story.

  The original idea for this story began as a simple track-em-down tale set in Yellowstone Park, with the working title being Tracker. Once I sat down to plot out things though, the character of Hawk began to grow in a way that such a straight ahead narrative wouldn’t accommodate. Because of that I decided to expand it into a government agency and international waters, not only to heighten the suspense, but enrich the protagonist and his backstory. In the end I hope it made for a more compelling read, and achieved the goal of making Hawk a more relatable lead.

  Finally, and I apologize in advance, but I need to ask a favor. If it is not too much of an imposition, I would welcome a review from you of Krokodil. The purpose of this is twofold. First, as many of you are familiar, reviews are the lifeblood of ebook publishing. Second, and perhaps even more importantly, the feedback I receive is taken very seriously with an eye towards the future.

  Much love,

  Dustin Stevens

  About the Author

  Dustin Stevens is the author of The Zoo Crew series, Quarterback, Be My Eyes, Scars and Stars, Just a Game, 21 Hours, Liberation Day, and Catastrophic. He is also the author of several short stories, appearing in various magazines and anthologies, and is an award-winning screenwriter.

  He currently resides in Honolulu, Hawaii.