The Last Detective ec-9

by Robert Crais

  "Thanks, Master Sergeant. I really appreciate this."

  I gave him my phone number, then started to hang up. He stopped me.

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  "Mr. Cole, ah, listen.., you would've made a good

  Marine. I woulda been proud to serve with ya." "They made it sound better than it was." His voice grew soft.

  "No. No, they don't do that. I spent thirty-two years in

  the Marine Corps, and now I'm on this phone 'cause I lost my foot in the Gulf. I know how they make it sound. I know what's what. So I'll walk this through for you, Mr. Cole, that's the goddamned least I can do."

  He hung up before I could thank him again. These old Marines are amazing.

  It was not quite six-thirty, which made it almost ninethirty in Middletown, New York. If the man on the tape didn't or couldn't scam a copy of my zoi, then the only other name he had to work with was Roy Abbott. The day would be half over for a family of dairy farmers. I had written to the Abbotts about Roy's death, and spoken with them once. I didn't remember Mr. Abbott's first name, but the New York Information operator showed only seven Abbotts in Middletown, and she was happy to run through the list. I remembered his name when I heard it. She read off the number, then I hung up. I thought about what I would say and how I would say it. Hi, this is Elvis Cole, does anyone in your family want to kill me? Nothing seemed right and everything seemed awkward. Remember the day Roy came home in a box? I made another cup of coffee, then forced myself back to the phone. I called.

  An older woman answered. "Mrs. Abbott?" "Yes, who is this?"

  "My name is Elvis Cole. I served with Roy. I spoke with you a long time ago. Do you remember?"

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  My hands shook. Probably from the coffee. She spoke to someone in the background, and Mr. Abbott came on the line. "This is Dale Abbott. Who is this, please?" He sounded the way Roy described him plainspoken and honest, with the nasal twang of an upstate farmer. "Elvis Cole. I was with Roy in Viemam. I wrote to you about what happened a long time ago, and then we spoke." "Oh, sure, I remember. Mama, this is that Ranger, the one who knew Roy. Yes, how are you, son? We still have that letter of yours. That meant a lot to us." I said, "Mr. Abbott, has anyone called recently, asking about Roy and what happened?" "No. No, let me ask Mama. Has anyone called about Roy ?" He didn't cover the phone. He spoke to her as clearly as to me, as if the two conversations were one. Her voice was muffled in the background. He said, "No, she says no, no one called. Should they have ?" When I dialed their number I didn't know what I would say. I hadn't wanted to tell them why I was calling or about Ben, but I found myself telling him all of it. Maybe it was my history with Roy, maybe the honest clarity in Dale Abbott's voice, but the words poured out of me as if I were giving confession, that I had lost a child named Ben Chenier to a man on the phone, that I was scared I would not be able to find Ben, or save him. Dale Abbott was quiet and encouraging. We spoke for the better part of an hour about Ben and Roy and many things: Roy's four younger sisters were married with families, three to farmers and one to a man who sold John Deere tractors. Three of the four had sons named after ' Roy, and one a son named after me. I had never known that. I had no idea. At one point, Mr. Abbott put on Roy's mom, and, while she spoke with me, he found the letter that I had written and came back on the line. He said, "I've got your letter right here, that one you wrote. We made copies for all the girls, you know. They wanted copies." "No, sir. I didn't know that." "I want to read something you wrote. I don't know if you'll remember, but this meant a lot to me. This is you, now; this is you, writing: 'I don't have a family, so I liked hearing about Roy's. I told him that he was lucky to come from people like you and he agreed. I want you to know that he fought to the end. He was a Ranger all the way, and he did not quit. I am so sorry that I could not bring him home to you. I am so sorry I failed. " Mr. Abbott's voice grew thick and he stopped reading. "You didn't fail, son. You brought Roy home. You brought our boy home." My eyes burned. "I tried, Mr. Abbott. I tried so hard." "You did! You brought my boy back to us, and you did not fail. Now you go find this other little boy, and you bring him home, too. No one here blames you, son. Do you understand that? No one here blames you, and never did." I tried to say something, but couldn't. Mr. Abbott cleared his throat, and then his voice was strong. "I only have one more thing to say. What you wrote in your letter, that part about you not having a family, that's the only part wasn't true. You've been part of our family since the day Mama opened the mail. We don't blame you. Son, we love you. That's what a family does, doesn't it, love you no matter what? Up there in Heaven, Roy loves you, too." I told Mr. Abbott that I had to go. I put down the phone, then brought the coffee out onto my deck. The lights in the canyon faded as the eastern sky grew bright. The cat crouched at the edge of my deck, his legs tucked tight underneath as he stared at something in the murky light below. I sat by him with my own legs dangling off the deck. I touched his back. "What do you see, buddy?" His great black eyes were intent. His fur was cobl in the early-morning chill, but his heart beat strong in the warmth beneath. I bought this house not so many years after I came back from the war. That first week after escrow closed, I stripped the floors, spackled the walls, and began the process of making someone else's home into mine. I decided to rebuild the rail around the deck so I could sit with my feet dangling in space, so I was outside one day, working away, when the cat hopped onto the corner of my deck. He didn't look happy to see me. Here was this cat with his ears down and his head cocked, staring at me like I was yesterday's bad surprise. The side of his face was swollen with a dripping red wound. I remember saying, "Hey, buddy, what happened to you?" He growled and his hair stood, but he didn't seem scared; he was cranky because he didn't like finding a stranger in his house. I brought out a cup of water, then went back to work. He ignored the cup at first, but after a while he drank. Drinking looked hard for him, so eating was probably worse. He was skanky and thin, and probably hadn't eaten in days. I took apart the tuna sandwich I was saving for lunch, and made a paste with the tuna and mayonnaise and a little water. He arched his back when I put the tuna paste near the cup. I sat against the house. The two of us watched each other for almost an hour. After a while, he edged toward the fish, then lapped at it without taking his eyes from me. The hole in the side of his head was yellow with infection, and appeared to be a bullet wound. I held out my hand. He growled. I did not move. The muscles in my shoulder and arm burned, but I knew that if I drew back we would lose the bond we were building. He sniffed, then crept closer. My scent had been mixed with the tuna, and the tuna was still on my fingers. He growled softly. I did not move. The choice was his. He tasted my finger with a tiny cat kiss, then turned to show me his side. That's a big step for cats. I touched the soft fur. He allowed it. We have been friends ever since, and he has been the most constant living creature in my life since that day on the deck. Even now, he still was;. this cat and Joe Pike. I stroked his back. "I am so sorry I lost him. I won't lose him again." The cat head-bumped my arm, then peered at me with his black mirror eyes. Seeing me, he purred. Forgiveness is everything.

  A BAD DAY AT THE OFFICE

  The five members of team 5-2 sat on the steel floor in the bay of the helicopter, the wind ripping up clouds of red dust. Cole grinned at the cherry, Abbott, a short, sturdy kid from Middletown, New York, waiting for Abbott's lurp hat to fly off. Cole nudged Abbott's leg. "'Your hat. " "'What? "" They leaned close to each other and shouted over the roar of the turbine engine. They were still on the lift pad at Fire Base Ranger, the big rotor overhead spooling up as the pilots readied to launch. Cole touched his own faded, floppy lurp hat currently shoved under the right cheek of his ass. "Your hat's going to blow off." Abbott saw that none of the Rangers except him were wearing their hats so he snatched his off. Their sergeant, a twenty-year-old from Brownsville, Texas, named Luis Rodriguez, winked at Cole. Rodriguez was one week into his second tour. "You think he's nervous?" Abbott's face tightened. "I'm not nervous. "" Cole thought th
at Abbott looked like he was about to puke. Abbott was new meat. He had been in the bush on three training missions, but those were close to the Fire Base and held little chance of contact with the enemy. This was Abbott's first true Long Range Patrol mission. Cole patted Abbott's leg and grinned at Rodriquez. "No way, Sergeant. This is Clark Kent with a Ranger scroll. He drinks danger for breakfast and wants more for lunch; he catches bullets in his teeth and juggles hand grenades for fun; he doesn't need this helicopter to fly to the fight, he just likes our company--" Ted Fields, also eighteen and from East Lansing, Michigan, encouraged Cole's rap. "Hoo!'" Rodriguez and Cromwell Johnson, the radio operator, the nineteen-year-old son of a sharecropper from Mobile, Alabama, automatically echoed the grunt. I54

  "Hoo!"

  It was a Ranger thing. Hoo-Ah. Hoo for short.

  They were all grinning at Abbott now, the whites of their eyes brilliant against the mottled paint that covered their faces. Here they were, the five of them--four with serious bush time plus the cherry--five young men wearing camouflage fatigues, their arms and hands and faces painted to match the jungle, packing Mi6s, as much amino, hand grenades, and claymore mines as they could carry, and the bare minimum of gear necessary to survive a one-week reconnaissance patrol in the heart of Indian Country.

  Cole and the others were trying to take the edge off the new guy's fear.

  The Huey's crew chief tapped Rodriguez on the head, gave him a thumbs-up, and then the helicopter tilted forward and they were off.

  Cole leaned close to Abbott's ear, and cupped his mouth so that his voice wouldn't blow away.

  "You're going to be fine. Stay calm and stay silent." Abbott nodded, serious. Cole said, "Hoo. " "Hoo. "

  Roy Abbott had come into the Ranger company three weeks earlier and had been assigned a bunk in Cole's hootch. Cole liked Abbott as soon as he saw the pictures. Abbott didn't talk out his ass the way some new guys did, he paid attention to what the older guys told him, and he kept his shit Ranger-ready, but it was the pictures that did it. First thing the new guy did was pin up pictures; not fast cars or Playmates, but pictures of his morn and dad and four younger sisters: The old man ruddy-faced in a limegreen leisure suit; Abbott's mother heavy and plain; and the four little girls, each one a sandy-haired clone of their

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  mother, all neat and normal with tucked skirts and pimples.

  Cole, stretched out on his bunk with his hands behind his head, looked on in fascination. He watched the pictures go up and asked about them.

  Abbott eyed Cole suspiciously, as if one sharpy too many had made fun of him. Cole would have bet ten dollars that

  Abbott said Grace before meals. "You really wanna know?" "Yeah, else I wouldn't've asked. ""

  Abbott described how everyone worked the farm ,and lived in the same little community where their aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents had lived for almost two hundred years, working that same land, attending those same schools, worshipping the same God, and pulling for the Buffalo Bills football team. Abbott's father, a deacon in their church, had served in Europe during World War II. Now Abbott was following in his footsteps.

  When Abbott was done with his own history, he asked

  Cole, "How about your family? '" "It's not the same thing. " "What do you mean? " "My mother's crazy. "

  Abbott finally asked another question because he didn't know what else to say.

  "Was your dad in the Army, too? "

  "Never met him. I don't know who he is. '"

  "Oh. '"

  Abbott grew quiet after that. He finished putting away his gear, then went off to find the latrine.

  Cole swung out of his bunk to look more closely at the pictures. Mrs. Abbott probably baked biscuits. Mr. Abbott probably took his son deer hunting on opening day. Their family probably ate dinner together at a great

  long table. That's the way it was in real families. That's the way Cole had always imagined it. Cole spent the rest of the afternoon sharpening his Randall knife and wishing that Roy Abbott's family was his.

  The helicopter banked hard over a ridge, dove for a shabby overgrown clearing, flared as if it was landing, then bounced into the sky. Abbott clutched his M6, eyes wide in surprise as the slick climbed above the ridgeline. "'Why didn't we land? Was it gooks?" "'We'll make two or three false inserts before we unass. That way Charlie doesn't know where we get off. " Abbott craned forward to see out of the banking slick. Rodriguez, who was the Team Leader, shouted at Cole. "'Don't let this asshole fall outt. " Cole grabbed Abbott's rucksack and held on. Since the day with the pictures, Cole had taken Abbott under his wing. Cole taught him what to strip from his field kit to lighten his load, how to tape down his gear so nothing rattled, and had gone out on two of Abbott's training missions to make sure he got his shit together. Cole liked to hear about Abbott's family. Johnson and Rodriguez came from big families, too, but Rod's father was a drunkard who beat his kids. The weather briefing that morning told them to expect showers and limited visibility, but Cole didn't like the heavy clouds stacked over the mountains. Bad weather could be a lurp' s best friend, but really bad weather could kill you; when lurps got into deep shit they radioed for gun ships, medevacs, and extraction, but the birds couldn't fly if they couldn't see. It was a long way to walk home when you were outnumbered two hundred to one. The slick made two more false insertions. The next insert would be for real. "Lock and load." All five Rangers charged their rifles and set the safeties. Cole figured that Abbott would be scared, so he leaned dose again. "Keep your eye on Rodriguez. He's gonna run for the tree line as soon as we un-ass. You watch the trees, but don't shoot unless one of us shoots first. You got that?" "Yeah. " "Rangers lead the way. "" "Hoo. " The helicopter pulled a tight bank into the wind, nosed over, then cut power and flared two feet off a dry creek in the bottom of a ravine. Cole pulled Abbott's arm to make sure he jumped, and the five of them thudded into the grass. The slick pulled pitch and powered away even as they hit the ground, leaving them behind. They ran for the trees, Rodriguez first, Cole at the rear. As soon as the jungle swallowed them, team 5-2 flopped to the ground in a five-pointed star, their feet at its center, the Rangers facing out. This way they could see and fight in a 360degree perimeter. No one spoke. They waited, watching for movement. Five minu tes. Ten minutes. The jungle came to life. Birds chittered. Monkeys barked. Rain tapped at the ground around them, dripping inexorably through the triple canopy overhead to soak their uniforms. Cole heard the low rumble of an air strike far to the west, then realized it was thunder. A storm was coming. Rodriguez took a knee, then eased to his feet. Cole I58

  tapped Abbott's leg. Time to get up. They stood. No one spoke. Noise discipline was everything. They set off up the hill. Cole knew the mission profile inside and out: They would crest the ridge to their north, then follow a well-worn NVA trail, looking for a bunker complex where Army spooks believed a battalion of North Vietnamese Army regulars was massing. A battalion was one thousand people. The five members of team 5-2 were sneaking into an area where the odds would be two hundred to one. Rodriguez walked point. Ted Fields walked slack behind him, meaning that as Rod looked down to pick a quiet path, Fields would pick up his slack by watching the jungle ahead for Charlie. Johnson carried the radio. Abbott followed Johnson, and Cole followed Abbott, covering their rear. Cole walked point on some missions, with Rod walking slack and Fields walking cover, but Rod wanted Cole on the cherry. They stretched into a thin line, three or four meters apart, and moved quietly uphill. Cole watched Abbott, cringing every time the new guy caught a vine on his gear, but overall he thought the kid was a pretty good woodsman. Thunder rolled over the ridge, and the air grew misty. They climbed into a cloud. It took thirty minutes of hard work to crest the hill, then Rodriguez gave them a rest. Darkness had fallen with the weather, cloaking them in twilight. Rod made eye contact with each man in turn, glancing at the sky, his expression saying that the crappy weather was screwing them. If they needed air cover, they wouldn't get it. The
y slipped a few meters down the opposite side of the ridge, then Rod suddenly raised a closed fist. All five of them automatically dropped to a knee, rifles out, leftI59

  side/rightside to cover both flanks. Rod signaled Cole, the last man. He made a V sign, like a peace sign, then cupped his fingers into a C. He pointed at the ground, then opened and closed his fist three times--five, ten, fifteen. Rod was estimating fifteen Vietcong soldiers.

  Rod moved out, and, one by one, the rest of them followed. Cole saw a narrow trail pocked with overlapping footprints. The prints were made by sandals cut from old tires and were still crisp, telling Cole that they had been made only ten or fifteen minutes ago. The VC were near.

  Abbott glanced back at Cole. His face was streaked with rain, and his eyes were wide. Cole was scared, too, but he forced a smile. Mr. Confidence. Keep it tight, troop; you can do this.

  Team 5-2 had been in the jungle for fifty-six minutes. They had less than twelve minutes left to live.

  They continued along the ridge for less than a hundred meters when they found the main trail. It was laced by VC and NVA prints, and a lot of the traffic was fresh. Rod made a circle with his upraised hand, telling the others that the enemy was all around them. Cole's mouth was dry even with the rain.

  Exactly three seconds later, all hell would break loose. Rod stepped alongside a tall banyan tree just as a gnarled finger of lightning arced down the tree, jumped to Rod's ruck, and detonated the claymore mine strapped to the top of his pack. The top half of Ted Fields vaporized in a red mist. Meat and blood blew back over Johnson, Abbott, and Cole as the backblast from the mine kicked Rodrfguez into the tree. The concussion hit Cole like a hypersonic tidal wave and knocked him down. Cole's ears rang and a great writhing snake of light twisted wherever he looked. The lightning's flash had blinded him.

  Johnson screamed into his radio.

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