by Sandra Brown
“You gave me an excuse. But you’re withholding the reason.”
“In other words, I’m a liar.”
“Please don’t try to pick a fight to avoid an issue.”
“Now I have issues?”
“You’ve said so yourself!”
“Right,” he returned, matching her tone. “I do. So you should heed the warning and stay away from me.”
“Why, Dawson? Why do you say you want me with every breath, then push me away? I want to know. Tell me now. Why?”
“Because Jeremy put you and your kids through hell. I won’t do that to them or to you.”
“I’ve come to think that Jeremy didn’t have post-traumatic stress.”
“Maybe. But I’m not faking my nightmares.”
“I’m willing to help you through—”
“Thanks, but I’m not willing for you to.”
“Isn’t that my decision to make?”
“No.”
She paused to catch her breath. As she did so, she noticed his determination not to look directly at her. “Your nightmares aren’t the reason, are they? That’s just another excuse. Like the loner thing.”
“Loner thing?”
“Headly said you—”
“Oh, Headly said. You’ve talked about me with Headly?”
“You’ve assumed a loner outlook, when actually it goes against your nature.”
“What the fuck? Headly’s an expert on my nature?”
“I think there’s something to what he said.”
“What makes you think so?”
“A vasectomy at twenty-two for one thing.”
“That has nothing to do with what we’re talking about.”
“It has everything to do with it.”
“You’re wrong.”
“No, I’m not. If there weren’t some truth to what Headly said, you wouldn’t be shouting.”
Seething, he turned his back to her and switched from shouting to muttering.
“Where’s your story?”
He jerked himself back around to face her. “What?”
“Another excuse has been your heedless pursuit of a story. Nothing matters like the story. You’ll go to any lengths, take insane, life-threatening risks to get the story. So…” She gestured toward his sleeping laptop. “Where is it?”
“I haven’t written it yet.”
“Have you even started?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It hasn’t gelled. I haven’t decided on the direction I want to take it. Besides, the ending can’t be Jeremy dying alone in that cabin. The story won’t end until Carl is captured or killed.”
“That’s what you’re waiting on.”
“Exactly. That’s the only reason I’m still here.”
“Oh. You’ve hung around this long only to get the story.”
“That’s right.”
“Your involvement with me, the boys, only a means to an end?”
“The truth?”
“A yes-or-no will do.”
“Don’t make me hurt and embarrass you.”
“So that’s a yes.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You were only working an angle. Getting to us to get your story.”
After a beat, he bobbed his head once.
She held his stare for a long moment, then said softly, “You’re lying, Dawson.”
“You’ve repeatedly accused me of doing just that.”
“And you’ve vehemently denied it. You’ll never make me believe otherwise now.”
“Oh, yeah? Bet I can. You want to know how far I’ll go to get a story? I’ll tell you. But you may want to sit down first.”
She backed into a chair and sat.
His motions were angry and abrupt as he began to pace the width of the bed. “I had gotten some good material in Afghanistan. The stories had generated a lot of hype, notice. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. The real nitty-gritty.
“So I talked some army brass into letting me go to a combat outpost near the Pakistani border. A dark base. When the sun goes down, it’s dark until it comes up again. No lights. To move from building to building, personnel walk around with red flashlights. That kind of place. High alert twenty-four/seven.
“Stationed there was this platoon. They were set apart. Not much interaction with other service members. Tough guys. Small, wiry, lean and buff. When they weren’t on a mission, they worked out. Wrestled with each other. Everything they did was very physical, combative, and they did everything together. Like a wolf pack of trained fighters.
“They were great subject matter, what I’d been hoping for. I wanted to live with them, get to know them, learn what they were about. What made them good soldiers? Were they patriots? Or were they ruffians looking for a fight, and this was the best—or worst—to be found?
“They liked me but couldn’t understand why I was there when I could be somewhere else, anywhere else in the world, where there were women and booze, movie theaters, bars, normal life. I impressed upon them that the creature-comfort sacrifices were worth the story I would come away with.
“I slept in their barracks, talked smack with them, played poker. I couldn’t accompany them on their missions, because those involved finding enemy targets and taking them out.
“They’d be gone for days at a time and would return dirty, tired, hungry for hot meals, but always pumped. Mission accomplished. One less terrorist in the world. They’d talk. And talk. Eager to tell me about the most recent firefight. Talking over one another, outdoing one another with the foul language. ‘Get this down, Dawson.’ ‘You can quote me on this.’ ‘Don’t believe his bullshit. You want to know how it went down, talk to me.’ I’d won their confidence. They wanted me to tell their story.”
He stopped pacing and sat down on the end of the bed, facing her. “Then in May, they went out and were gone for longer than usual. The brass wouldn’t tell me anything. I didn’t expect them to. The mission was classified, of course, but this time there was a palpable tension behind the secrecy. With good reason, I found out later.
“An America chopper had crashed. The two pilots were injured, but they’d survived. The area had seen a lot of action, and the fighting was too hot for the pilots to be immediately rescued by air.
“Near the crash site was a village. One of those built into the mountain face. Most of the dwellings are caves. The people are tribal, steeped in their traditions and religion, for the most part shut off from the rest of the world. But the villagers harbored the pilots. My platoon was sent there to provide protection until a rescue could be planned.
“But Afghani rebels with Taliban ties got wind of it and reached the village ahead of the platoon. They killed the two pilots execution-style, then began punishing the villagers for sheltering them.
“For days the platoon, who’d had to take up a position on a lower plateau, hammered them relentlessly, but they were dug in deep. And when they did come out from cover, it was to kill a civilian where our guys could do nothing except watch helplessly. They murdered them singly, sometimes two or three at a time. The lucky ones, they shot. Some weren’t let off that easily. Old men. Kids. Women, who were…” He paused to clear his throat. “What they did to them is unspeakable.
“Our guys finally got air support and stormed the place, but it was literally an uphill and bloody battle. They took out a few of the enemy, but many got away. The carnage they found in the village was unimaginable.”
He spread his knees wide and stared at the serviceable but ugly carpet between his boots. “When they returned to the outpost, they were whipped. Casualties had been heavy. Six men dead. Five seriously wounded. Those were helicoptered to the hospital at Bagram. One of them died en route. The rest of them took these losses hard.
“In the barracks the mood wasn’t boisterous. No one was pumped. They didn’t joke or swap insults or play grab-ass. They didn’t talk except when necessary. They barely made eye contact with each other. They had see
n the ugliest face of war, and it had changed them. They’d had an up-close-and-personal experience with it, and it wasn’t glorious.
“That was going to be the hook for my story. What happens to the warrior when war ceases to be noble and deteriorates into savagery? Not especially an original theme, but I figured I could write it with fresh insight. If I could get them to talk about the experience.”
He continued to stare at the floor. “Gradually, with some gentle prodding, a few of them began to open up to me. They told me that some of the villagers had been used as human shields. They were having a hard time dealing with the fact that it was actually their bullets that had ripped apart the bodies of grandmothers, boys, girls barely past puberty, a woman heavy with pregnancy.”
He stopped speaking, and for a moment, Amelia believed he was finished. When he resumed, his voice was husky and uneven.
“One of the men I hoped to interview was a corporal named Hawkins. Good-looking ranching kid from North Dakota. Smart. Natural leader. Everybody’s friend. He’d come through the mission without a scratch. He’d consoled those who’d lost a particularly close buddy. He wrote letters to the kin of those who’d died, commending their valor.
“One morning, I was on my way back to the barracks after breakfast. Hawkins was sitting on the crest of this rise, his back to the mountains, which were about two miles away. The sun had just topped them. He was in silhouette, and I had to shade my eyes to see who had called out to me.
“He said if I wanted a story, to come up and join him. I started up. But the ground was loose sand and rock—I mean, this is the most desolate, lifeless, godforsaken place on the planet. The climb was a struggle. I kept losing purchase and slipping back down. He was laughing, deriding me, telling me to hurry my ass along.”
He clasped his hands between his knees and studied the ridge of his knuckles. “I finally made it to the top. The sun was blinding. Sweat was stinging my eyes. I shaded them so I could see Hawkins against the glare. He gave me his homespun smile.
“‘Want a story, Dawson?’ I said, ‘That’s what I’m here for.’ God’s truth, I can feel how idiotic my grin must have looked. I was blinking sweat out of my eyes, wishing he’d given me time to get my laptop, fishing in the pocket of my vest for a pencil and pad.”
He placed his elbows on his knees, bent from the waist, and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. “Hawkins put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
Overwhelmed with sorrow for him, Amelia remained unmoving until he lowered his hands from his face and looked across at her. His lips formed a bitter line. “I got my story.”
Quietly she said, “That’s your nightmare.”
“Last thing I hear before my own scream is the gunshot.”
Mournfully, she whispered his name.
“Don’t feel sorry for me.”
She left the chair and walked toward him. “You’re pushing me away again. Or trying to.” When she got closer, she reached out to stroke his cheek.
He yanked his head away from her touch. “Thanks anyway, but a pity fuck isn’t going to rid me of the nightmare.”
“Another push, that one more like a hard shove.” She moved between his wide-spread legs. “But not hard enough, Dawson. I’m still here.”
He placed his hands on her hips as though to forcibly push her away. But upon contact, his fingers reflexively curled inward, digging in to hold her tighter. One heartbeat later, his head dropped forward. Grinding the crown of it into her middle, he rasped, “Yes, you are.”
She held his head close, her fingers moving through his hair. “Thank you for telling me.”
He looked up at her. “You’re thanking me?”
“Who else has heard that story?”
“No one.”
“Headly?”
“No one.”
“But you entrusted me with it. That makes me special.”
“You were already special,” he said gruffly.
“Don’t push me away again.”
He rubbed his face against her breasts. “I don’t want to, God knows.”
She tipped his head up. “Then why do you? The reason this time.”
Before he could speak, there was a knock on the door.
She threw a glance toward it. “Room service.”
“About bloody time.”
Another knock. “Mr. Scott?”
She sighed. “Bad bloody time, but I don’t think he’s going away.”
Dawson made to get up, but she told him to stay put. She walked the short hallway, released the bolt, and opened the door. Anticipating a room-service waiter bearing a tray, she was momentarily puzzled by the funny-looking man holding a wilting bouquet of flowers.
Which he immediately threw to the floor, leaving only a pistol in his hand. He jammed it against her ribs as he pushed her backward into the room.
She turned and cried out to Dawson. He bounded off the bed, but drew up short when Carl caught her around the throat from behind and placed the barrel of the handgun against her temple.
“Well, how about this? A little reunion with my beach friends.”
Dawson’s hands balled into fists at his sides. Enunciating each word, he said, “Let her go.”
“Now, why would I do that?”
“Because if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
“You’ve got it wrong. I’m killing you.” He swung the pistol away from her and aimed it at Dawson.
Chapter 28
I’m about done for the day. Before I sign you over to the evening shift, is there anything I can get you?”
The nurse was one of Headly’s favorites. Even so, he replied grumpily. “Cheeseburger and fries.”
“Don’t ask for what I can’t deliver. You’re still on a restricted diet.”
“He knows,” Eva said from the chair where she was thumbing through a magazine. “He’s just being ornery.”
The nurse wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his biceps. “How about some skim milk?”
“How about a stiff bourbon?”
She swatted his arm. “BP’s lowered. That’s good.” As she noted it on the chart, she asked Eva if she was staying overnight again. “That foldout can’t be comfortable.”
“It’s not bad. The patient, however, is a pain in the butt.”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here.”
The nurse chuckled. “I know what a grouch he can be, so I think it’s sweet of you to stay with him, Mrs. Headly. In fact, your ears should have been burning earlier today.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I was bragging on you.”
“To whom?”
“This little old man who was waiting on the elevator. He saw you in the hall talking to Mr. Scott and recognized him. I confess the conversation got gossipy. I told him how y’all had known Mr. Scott since birth, that he was your godson, but mostly I bragged on you for staying here in Mr. Headly’s room, taking very few breaks. Like everyone else, he was impressed.” She made one final adjustment to Headly’s IV drip. “Changed your mind about the milk?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well then, I’m out of here. Rest easy. See y’all tomorrow.”
As the door closed behind her, Eva remarked, “Sweet girl.”
“Hmm.” Headly worked his head deeper into the pillow and closed his eyes. He was more tired than he let on. A physical therapist had been in earlier doling out wisecracks, bonhomie, and sheer torture. By the time the fifteen minutes was up, Headly’s hands and arms were tingling. Which was a relief, but still.
As though reading his mind, Eva said, “You should be doing the exercises the therapist showed you.”
“Give me ten minutes’ rest.”
“He said—”
“Ten minutes and I will.”
“Gary.”
“Eva. Just because you’re the most popular girl on the third floor, don’t think you can boss me.”
“I do have my admirers, it seems.”
> “A little old man? Humph. You’ve already got one.”
She sighed. “You’re right. I guess I’m stuck with you. Besides, it sounded like he was as interested in Dawson as he was in me.”
Headly was about to make a wisecrack about that when suddenly it felt as though an electrical charge had shot through him, jolting his brain and body out of lassitude. “Eva!”
She tossed her magazine aside, lunged from her chair, and was at his side in a blink. “What? Are you in pain?”
“Get her back.”
“What?”
“The nurse, get her back in here!”
She didn’t waste time on questions but dashed from the room and, within seconds, was propelling the startled young woman back through the door. Headly said, “What did he look like?”
She just gaped at him.
“The man. The little old man you were talking to about Eva and Dawson. He asked questions about them?”
She nodded, swallowed. “He recognized Mr. Scott.”
“What did he look like? Describe him.”
“He was a little old man,” she said in a helpless tone. “A cancer patient.”
To Eva, Headly said, “Get Knutz on the phone.” Going back to the nurse, he asked her the man’s approximate height and weight, age, what he’d been wearing. By the time Knutz answered, Headly had a description.
Eva held the phone to his ear as he rattled off information. “Carl’s disguised himself as a cancer patient. Shaved head. No eyebrows. Baggy clothes and a blue baseball cap. He was in the hospital, on this floor, around ten thirty or eleven this morning. Check the security cameras.”
Knutz began putting up a reasonable argument, but Headly cut him off. “Goddammit, of course it could’ve been a little old man with cancer,” he shouted. “But this is like something Carl Wingert would do, and I fucking know it was him. It feels like him. Yeah, yeah, I’ll hold.”
He secured the phone between his ear and shoulder and said to Eva, “Call Dawson. You have his new number?” She fished her phone from her handbag and called the number Dawson himself had programmed into her speed dial. Headly added, “Tell him to take this as a serious threat. Not to be macho and blow it off.”
The nurse was crying and wringing her hands. “If I did something wrong, I’m sorry. We were just talking.”