Had my sarcasm been spittle, it would have hit Palmer in the face. He made no effort to wipe it off.
Staring sadly at the ground, in a low voice Doc said, “I didn’t want to believe it either.”
Having forgotten all about the coffee grounds on my feet, I waited for him to offer an alternative account. He repositioned himself on the bumper. “Let me tell you something about Roy Noonan,” he said. His eyes took on an unfocused stare as in his mind Doc Palmer returned to Vietnam. “We had holed up in a bombed-out pagoda at an intersection of sorts, little more than a cluster of dirt lanes that connected the nearby farms and villages. We set up an ambush.
“Just before dawn we heard an ominous creaking sound. At first we couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from, but it was getting louder. There was a curfew in effect, so we interpreted any sound as unfriendly. We figured it was a twenty-millimeter gun, or maybe one of those recoilless rifles on wheels. Anyway, the order came down to take it out as soon as it entered our kill zone.
“The next thing we know, there was a blinding flash of claymores—antipersonnel mines—being set off, and in the middle of it all was an old man and a team of oxen pulling a heavy cart. The oxen were riddled with shrapnel, and they began bellowing something awful and thrashing about. They blindly pulled the cart off the road and into a field where it got mired down.
“In all the confusion, an order was given to hit the position with mortars. But even after several rounds, the oxen were still alive and still bellowing while the old man found a place on the side of the road and began wailing over the loss of his oxen and his crop—peanuts—which were scattered all over the road.
“As the sky grew lighter, the situation got worse. The bellowing of the injured oxen was getting on everyone’s nerves. So was the old man’s wailing. That he had survived was a miracle itself. The only thing we can figure is that the thick sides of the cart protected him.
“Some of our men became so fed up with the cries of the oxen, that they began to throw hand grenades into the field, hoping to kill them. By now about a hundred local peasants had gathered on the roads and in horror were watching what the soldiers were doing. Finally, one machine gunner couldn’t take it anymore. He walked to the side of the field and opened up on the oxen until they were all dead.
“That’s when Lieutenant Noonan arrived to assess the situation. Also drawn to all the noise was the enemy. They chose that moment to open fire. We all scattered, diving for the nearest hole we could find, while the farmer, stunned by his loss, continued wailing on the side of the road, caught between two armies.
“Noonan took out after him. Under heavy fire he sprinted across the road, grabbed the farmer by his shoulders, and dragged him into a ditch where he tended the man’s wounds. Then he called for a medevac to airlift this wounded farmer to the hospital. Under a hail of bullets, Lieutenant Noonan carried the farmer to the chopper.
“Does that sound to you like a man who would wimp out during an exchange of enemy fire in the Ho Bo Woods?” he asked.
I had to admit it didn’t.
“A few days later,” Doc continued, “I was at the hospital getting supplies when I saw Lieutenant Noonan visiting that same farmer. I overheard him apologize to the farmer for the actions of his men and instruct the man where to submit the necessary forms to recover his loss.
“You don’t hear stories like that on the news. You hear about the atrocities, the ugliness. But that day I witnessed a man acting like a man. Taking responsibility. Doing what he could to make things right. For what? A peasant farmer he didn’t know. There were no cameras there to record what he did. Noonan stood up for what was right and decent. To me, that’s a true leader and I knew I would follow that man anywhere.”
Sometimes the way a man speaks of another man is more revealing than the words themselves. I felt a respect for Lieutenant Noonan I’d never had before simply by the way Doc spoke of him.
But Doc still hadn’t answered my question. “What reason did Douglas have for killing such a man?” I said.
“What reason does any man have for killing another man?” Doc replied philosophically. His face became drawn and saddened again. “Douglas told me what happened shortly before he announced he was running for a second term. At the time he was depressed and in a lot of pain.”
“Physical pain?”
The knowing smile reappeared. “Vietnam took its toll on Douglas more than is generally known. Not only his combat wounds, but diseases he contracted while on leave, and a degenerative disk disease in his back. We managed to hold him together for the rigors of the first campaign, but in doing so he became addicted to his pain medication.”
“Addicted?” It was the first time I’d heard any of this.
“As his personal physician it was my role to make him presentable to the public and lucid during key conferences and meetings. Each year my job grew increasingly difficult. I told them I would do it for only one four-year term and when Douglas decided to run again I opted out. At the levels he’s at, the medication is as much of a killer as the diseases. Most of the time anymore the man is so heavily medicated he isn’t competent.”
“Isn’t competent! I don’t believe this!” I cried.
“Naturally, it’s kept secret. Only a few people know how serious his condition is. As for what you believe . . . you came looking for the truth. Whether you accept it is not my concern.”
When I was researching the book my access to the president came in ten- and fifteen-minute chunks of time, and on more than one occasion was canceled without warning. Pressing affairs of state was the standard excuse.
“You said he was depressed when he told you about Noonan,” I prompted.
“He overreacted to my decision to leave him, threw a tantrum. He knew how I felt about Noonan and wanted to hurt me.”
Doc fell silent for a few moments. Digging up the memory dug up old pain with it.
“He told me that when they separated from the rest of the platoon in the Ho Bo Woods, he saw his chance to rid himself of Noonan, who he saw as a threat. Not so much in Vietnam, but when they got back home and into politics. Douglas could see himself playing second fiddle to Noonan for the rest of his life.
“You know . . . now that I think of it . . . I remember Douglas’s attitude changing soon after Thorson arrived. Under normal circumstances, new guys aren’t readily accepted. Their lack of experience can get a whole unit killed. This guy, Thorson—Thor’s son, he made a big deal of it—latched onto Douglas the moment he arrived and was constantly huddled together with him.
“I’m telling you, the man was strange—this Thorson fellow. One time in the middle of a firefight I happened to look up and there he was sitting at the top of a tree paying no attention to what was going on down below. Well, one of the VC saw him and fired at him. The guy dropped out of the tree like a ripe piece of fruit. Then, when we went to get him—to pick up the pieces, we thought—the guy wasn’t there. It was as though the earth had swallowed him up. No one saw him until later that night when he came strolling into camp, pretty as you please. Said he’d gotten confused and it took a while for him to find us.”
“Thorson . . .” I said, reaching for a writing pad I keep in my shirt pocket. “I don’t believe I came across that name in my research.”
“First name, Gregory. I think he was from New Jersey, but that don’t matter. Don’t bother to look him up. Near the end of our tour of duty, Thorson wandered off during an ambush and never came back. Presumed MIA.”
“And you think he influenced Douglas into killing Noonan?”
Doc shrugged. “A hunch. I just know I never liked the guy. He always acted like he was better than everyone else. Which is strange, because how can anyone from New Jersey think they’re better than anyone?”
I laughed.
Doc laughed too, but his levity was short-lived. As he thought of what he was going to say next, he turned deadly serious. “In the Ho Bo Woods,” he said, picking up the story
, “when Douglas and Noonan were separated from the rest of the platoon, a grenade exploded near them. No real damage done. It stunned Noonan, knocked him out. Douglas said he saw an opportunity, a big one, the kind that can change a person’s life.
“Noonan stirred and started to come around, so Douglas leveled him with the butt of his machine gun. Then he took one of Noonan’s grenades—Douglas was very clear about this. He figured by taking one of Noonan’s grenades, should anyone notice that he hadn’t thrown one, his grenade count would bear testimony against him. Douglas pulled the pin, stuffed the grenade in Noonan’s pants pocket, and rolled him over, face to the ground.”
The huge Montana sky stretched over us in silence. The only sound on Doc Palmer’s farm was as a breath of wind whipped a cloud of dust past us.
Clearing his throat, Doc took up the story again. “He miscalculated, Douglas did, and got some shrapnel in his own leg. But even that worked to his advantage. He was an instant hero when the other soldiers saw him bloodied and limping and carrying Noonan’s body back to the night defensive position.”
We sat there. The two of us. Mourning Noonan’s death. But also, at least for me, mourning a day that would be sadder when I went to bed than it was when I woke up.
Doc slapped, then rubbed both legs. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. But I’ll settle for a cup of coffee. Want a cup?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I still have a couple of hours on the road if I’m going to make my flight.”
Truth was, I just wanted to be alone right now. My world had changed dramatically and it would take me some time to adjust.
“Word of advice?” Doc offered. “Don’t mess with them. A smart man knows not to fight if he has no chance of winning. There’s no shame in picking your battles. Do what I did. Disappear, Mr. Austin. Plenty of land around here to do that. Once they see you’re no threat to them, they’ll leave you alone.”
Find a big hole, Mr. Austin.
Ten minutes later I was driving south on Interstate 15 mulling over my encounter with a dead man. His story. His advice.
I was angry with myself. I drove away without asking him what all that business was about having me take off my shoes.
My head hurt from thinking. When you write a book you create a world that has a sense of order to it. But since my book had come out, it seemed that every time I turned around someone was challenging that sense of order, and my grasp on reality. I kept hearing the same refrain played over and over—
Things aren’t the way you think they are.
The first thing I was going to do when I got back to Washington was slap Doc Palmer’s obituary on Ingraham’s desk and tell him that for a man who is supposed to be dead, Doc has some interesting opinions on life and presidents.
Then what? Would I rewrite the book? Do an exposé on the president’s medication addiction for the New York Times? It wasn’t in my nature to be a muckraker reporter, but then I hated thinking that I’d been played for a patsy.
For the moment, though, out here under an endless sky, passing endless stretches of scenery, driving down an endless road, I was going to give it a rest. A brain can only take so much stirring up. After a while everything becomes murky, like an ocean bottom when the silt is fanned. It does no good to thrash around. You have to let the silt settle. And what better place to do that than on a Montana road?
I punched the radio ON button.
For some reason I remembered a television commercial from my youth. The scene is of a cowboy herding cattle in the great open spaces. He is listening to music on a transistor radio, a live performance of a New York opera. Joining voices with the featured tenor, the cowboy belts out the signature aria from Pagliacci.
Classical music in cowboy country. That might be fun. I pushed the search button and listened to the cascading lineup of stations, most of them country-western or news.
“. . . next week where President Douglas will attend several key fund-raisers. San Diego party officials have pulled out all the stops on the president’s trip, knowing that this may be . . .”
San Diego.
I muttered the words of the president’s warning to Christina. “Under no circumstances is Grant to go to San Diego. Is that clear? Hog-tie him if you have to, but keep him away from San Diego!”
Turning the radio off, I pressed the accelerator and calculated my new arrival time at Great Falls airport at the increased speed. I tried using my cell phone to call the airline. No bars showed on the display. I was still out of range.
I didn’t know when the next flight was from Great Falls to San Diego, but I knew I was going to be on it.
After coffee and a nap, Doc Palmer nudged the screen door open with his elbow. His arms were full. One arm carried empty whiskey bottles; the other, his shotgun. Both had become a significant part of his daily routine. The whiskey helped him sleep better at night; and the shotgun . . . well, it helped him sleep better at night.
Maybe it was his Montana surroundings, but he felt like an old, retired gunslinger. He knew sooner or later they’d send someone to hunt him down. He knew they’d kill him. All he wanted was to get a shot or two off before he died, get a lick or two in, just so they’d say that Doc Palmer didn’t go down without a fight.
The empty bottles clanked in his arms as he walked into the barn and found his case of whiskey. He put the two bottles back in the carton and pulled out two fresh bottles.
When he turned around, someone was standing just inside the door of the barn. With the light behind him, he appeared as a flat silhouette. The figure was empty-handed, so Doc was startled, but not alarmed.
Doc took a couple of steps toward the stranger, ready to drop the whiskey bottles and raise the shotgun at the first sign of trouble.
The man made no move. He just stood there.
“Whoever you’re looking for,” Doc said, “he’s not here.”
Doc heard a rustling sound behind him. Holding his ground, he glanced over one shoulder, then the other. There were two more of them, black and featureless, standing in the shadows. The back of the barn was closed off. They must have already been in the barn waiting for him. Doc saw no weapons. That meant they were sneaks, and sneaks were never up to any good, but were usually scared off with a gunshot blast or two.
“I don’t have anything worth taking,” Doc said. “Leave now and no one gets hurt. I’m going to give you only one chance.”
They didn’t move. The three of them just stood there, not making a sound. Doc dropped the whiskey bottles, one of them broke in half, spilling spirits in the dirt. He pointed the shotgun at the man standing in the barn door, figuring he was the leader.
“I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time. There’s nothing here for you.” He could hear fear in his voice.
The figure in the doorway took a step back. With one foot, he stepped on the heel of the other foot and kicked off a shoe. Then he kicked off his other shoe.
Doc saw the man’s feet. He gasped.
The figure said, “Douglas told you about us, did he?”
Doc had seen some strange things in his life, but nothing like this. The man’s feet didn’t reach the ground. He stood a good inch above the dirt.
He approached Doc. He made no footprints.
As he came closer, Doc was able to get a better look at him. “Thorson!” he cried.
Yet Thorson hadn’t aged. He looked the same as he did in Vietnam, and he grinned the same insufferable grin that made Doc grit his teeth.
“Actually, it’s Semyaza,” he said.
Lightning fast, Doc lifted the shotgun at the man’s chest and fired three quick rounds.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
The man didn’t flinch. The blast went right through him. His chest, his clothes were undisturbed.
Doc lowered the shotgun, resigned to his fate. “I knew if you really existed, someday you’d come for me,” he said. “The boy. Austin. You wanted him to find me.”
“He needed to hear
what you had to say.”
Doc nodded. The shotgun clattered to the ground. “Do me a favor? Make it quick.”
The grin appeared again. “Oh, we will kill you, Doc. Make no mistake about that. But not for years. You’re far more use to us alive than dead.”
Movement in the rafters caught Doc’s attention. He heard skittering sounds, like rats in an attic. Only these rats were whimpering. And they had faces, the faces of medieval gargoyles, leering down at him with hungry eyes.
There were dozens of them—no, more—in the corners, in the shadows, the far reaches of the rafters . . . hundreds of them.
They strained to come down, but something was stopping them. What?
In the next instant, Doc knew. They were waiting for a signal. With the slightest of nods, Semyaza granted their request.
The first one hit Doc in the back, clawing its way into him. An instant later, another hit his chest; another, his head. At each place, the first one to enter him met some form of natural barrier, but once that was broken through, the others streamed in effortlessly.
Doc’s head filled with a thousand voices.
He sank to his knees. He screamed, but he couldn’t hear himself—the shouts in his head were louder than the shouts from his throat.
He could feel them moving inside of him, wrestling for room, elbowing their way deeper and deeper, tearing at his spirit, snapping and tearing it like dogs fighting over a scrap of meat.
Doc remained aware of his surroundings. He could see Semyaza and the others. They oversaw the possession with compassion in their eyes, not unlike what he would expect to see on the faces of Red Cross workers handing out bowls of food to starving children.
Then, the three were gone. Vanished. Leaving Doc Palmer alone on the floor of his barn with a thousand voices screaming in his head.
A Hideous Beauty Page 15