“I did not,” Zimmerman said tonelessly.
“The fuck you think you’re pulling here?” Tom said. He leaned on the side panel of the door, gripping it with both hands as if he was about to roll the car over if Gillette tried to drive away. He kept an eye on Zimmerman, too, making sure the dickweed didn’t go for a hidden gun.
“I ain’t pullin’ nothin’,” Gillette said. “Honest to fuck, I’m not. You’re the one been twistin’ my jimmies.”
“You’ll make three … four times that, once you step on it.” Tom was struggling to control himself. He lowered his voice and spoke softly, trying hard not to sound like he was begging. “I don’t want any trouble. All I want is what we agreed to.”
Gillette gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead for a long time. His jaw worked back and forth as though he was chewing a tough piece of steak. The veins on the side of his head were throbbing. They looked like tangled strands of purple yarn under his skin.
“Way I see it? You’re simply givin’ me back what’s rightfully mine in the first place.”
“Richie Sullivan’s, you mean.”
“Yeah. Go on and think that if you want.” Gillette was still staring straight ahead. “Sullivan ain’t shit. But the way I see it? You been paid a decent finder’s fee.” He slowly rotated his head and, raising his shades with his right hand, stared at Tom. The distant gray light in his eyes chilled Tom.
“A finder’s fee,” Tom said, rolling the words off his tongue as if trying to get used to them.
“Yeah. To show how much I appreciate you returning my property to me.”
Tom was speechless. He couldn’t stop imagining pulling out his revolver and shooting both of them right here on the spot. Do to them what he had feared they might try to do to him. He was sure Gillette didn’t have a gun. Both of his hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, so even if he had one, he’d be dead before he got it. There was no telling what Zimmerman had. His right hand was down by his side, out of sight between the car seat and the door. He might already have a gun in hand.
“’Sides, Tommy,” Gillette said in a mild, placating voice. “Who you gonna complain to, the cops?”
He laughed, but Zimmerman didn’t laugh. His hand was still down below seat level and he was leaning forward slightly, scowling as he looked over at Tom.
“My advice to you, my friend,” Gillette said, “is be happy with what you got. The way the world is today? There’s a lot of scumbags out there who’ll fuck you over first chance they get. Another guy did this deal? You’d already have a bullet in your head. Wouldn’t he, Zim?”
“It’s likely.”
Tom narrowed his eyes and shook his head.
“Who’s to say I don’t waste you right here and now and take the shit and keep the money?” Gillette said.
Zimmerman, meanwhile, shifted in his seat. Thinking he was going for a gun, Tom jumped back and dropped into a crouch. His right hand went to the small of his back for the gun, but his thumb caught the hem of his shirt. When he finally managed to get the gun, his hand was so slippery with sweat, it slipped out of his grasp and clattered onto the dirt.
Gillette watched all this with thinly veiled amusement as he turned the key in the ignition and shifted into gear. Zimmerman raised his hand. He wasn’t holding a gun, but he had his thumb cocked back and his forefinger extended. He aimed it at Tom and mouthed the word BANG as Gillette pulled onto the road.
Gillette tromped down hard on the accelerator. The tires skidded in the dirt, kicking up a spray of gravel that pelted Tom. As he drove away, the car fishtailing slightly from side to side, he stuck his left hand out the driver’s window and flipped Tom the bird. The tires squealed when they hit the road and gained purchase on the asphalt. As the car sped away, Tom was left choking on dust, exhaust fumes, and his own helpless rage.
It was late.
The night was hushed, the house dark. A swatch of moonlight the color of old ivory angled across the floor of Ben’s bedroom, which had been Louise’s when they were growing up. The windows were open, and the curtains made faint scratching sounds as they drifted back and forth on a light breeze.
Ben was asleep. Because the night was warm, he slept bare-chested, wearing only boxer shorts, but his sleep was thin and another dream came.
He was sitting in a small skiff with low sides in rough waters off Rocky Point. Waves sloshed over the sides, and briny water swirled like black ink around his ankles, making his feet disappear. Using his Kevlar helmet, he started bailing out the boat, but the water he scooped out turned into hot sand that hissed like a nest of snakes when it hit the ocean.
As he scanned the horizon where the dark sky and darker sea blended into an almost indistinguishable line, a sudden bright red flash lit up the night. He bent down to pick up the oars to start rowing back to shore, but when he looked up to settle the oars into the oar locks, he sensed a presence behind him. Turning, he stared at an Iraqi child sitting in the bow of the boat.
A girl — maybe thirteen years old — wearing a beautiful silk hijab that covered her head. It might have been red or blue, but it looked black, framing her pale face. She stared at him without blinking, smiling shyly. Her wide teeth glistened like pearls in the darkness.
“Hey, kid,” Ben said. “Want some candy?”
He reached into the pocket of his fatigue jacket where he always kept packs of Skittles for the kids he met when he was out on patrol. “All part of winning the hearts and minds,” his C.O., Brian Hadlock, had said.
Without answering, the girl stood up and moved forward, gliding toward him through the water in the bottom of the boat without taking any steps, until she was standing directly behind him. Her hands were so cold the chill penetrated his body when she placed them on his shoulders.
Without warning, a mortar exploded not fifty yards away, the impact rocking the boat wildly from side to side. Hot shrapnel sizzled when it hit the water. Ben twisted around and grabbed the girl, throwing her down to the floor of the skiff and covering her with his body. The girl began to scream a high-pitched wail that rose in the night like a siren. The salt water in the boat turned to sand.
“You’re all right … You’re all right,” he kept saying, trying to sound both reassuring and in control at the same time, and she stopped screaming for a moment.
When he shifted back and looked at her, another mortar explosion flickered on the horizon, illuminating the distant land like an angry wound. The boom came seconds later, hitting him like a punch in the small of the back.
Terrified, the girl looked at him, her eyelids rolling back like the hinged eyes of a doll. When she opened her mouth to scream again, a torrent of beetles and scorpions and spiders poured from between her teeth and fell onto her thin chest before scurrying up and over the sides of the boat. They made a rapid plunk-plunking sound as they fell into the water. The girl’s body burst apart under him, and rivulets of blood flowed like dark streams onto the sand in the bottom of the skiff. Her hands thrummed madly on his shoulders.
He flailed crazily at the hordes of insects, swatting at them as they continued to pour forth. He wanted to push himself off the girl, but there was no place to go. He wanted to scream, but his breath was trapped in his chest. Another mortar exploded, right in front of the boat, lighting everything up with its white phosphorus light. Humming pieces of metal whizzed by his head but — amazingly — missed him.
He let out a wild, piercing wail that matched the little girl’s.
The transition from dreaming to reality was too quick.
Kicking the bedcovers aside, Ben rolled onto the floor, hitting hard enough to send spikes of pain up his legs to his hips. He was still yelling incoherently, not even realizing he was the one making these sounds as he scrambled about on the floor, slapping the hardwood with both hands as he felt around for his rifle.
He knew it was here … somewhere …
He reached under the bed and skinned his knuckles on the underside of the bedspr
ings. His yelp of pain was shrill in his ears, and it hadn’t stopped when a sudden blast of bright yellow light filled his vision.
“Get down … Get down … Incoming!” he shouted at the three indistinct figures standing before him, lost in a watery blur.
It was impossible to make out their features, but he lunged for the one closest to him, wrapped his arms around the person’s legs, and twisted his weight around to try to bring him down.
“What the fuck —?” someone shouted.
Ben didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded almost like Hadlock, but it couldn’t be Hadlock. His CO had died when an IED took out his Hummer in Ramadi.
“Jesus H. Christ,” another voice said. This was a woman’s voice, and Ben was confused why a woman would be here in the barracks.
“Get down!” he shouted as he slapped the hardwood floor with the flats of both hands. His vision was swimming with swirls of bright light mixed with shadows so sharply defined they looked like razorblades.
Then one of the figures bent down and, reaching forward, grabbed Ben by the shoulders. Rough, calloused fingers dug into his skin hard enough to make him wince.
“Jesus, Ben! Snap out of it.”
Somehow, he recognized his father’s voice, and he shook his head, trying to imagine how in the world his father had made it to Iraq. But as his vision adjusted to the bright light, he gradually realized that he was down on the bedroom floor on his hands and knees. His breath roared in his lungs, and he was panting like he’d just finished running a marathon.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” someone else asked, and now he recognized his brother’s voice.
Ben flushed with embarrassment, his skin burning as he slowly rocked back onto his heels and crouched on his haunches, wrapping his arms around his legs. His throat was raw. It felt like he’d swallowed a gallon of seawater, but somehow, he managed to take a deep, steady breath and look around as the familiar surroundings of his sister’s bedroom gradually came into focus.
”You were wailing like a goddamned banshee,” his father said.
Ben looked up at him and Pete and only then realized that the third person standing there was Bunny Dawkins. She was wearing nothing but an old yellowed strap t-shirt that reached halfway down her thighs, which were white and dimpled with cellulite. The rounded sides of her breasts were hanging out the sides. The expression on her face was one of pure shock.
“Damn,” Ben said as he cupped his hands over his face and rubbed hard.
“Sounds like one hell of a doozy,” Wally said.
Ben nodded but said nothing as took a few deep breaths through his fingers. He focused on the whistling sound the air made. Then, once he was ready, he looked up at the three nighttime visitors.
“Sorry about that,” he said. He knew he sounded lame, and he was embarrassed by what had happened.
“What the hell was it,” Pete said, “a flashback or something?”
Still breathing through his cupped hands, Ben nodded and looked at him.
“Yeah … something like that,” he said.
“You okay now?” Wally asked.
He regarded Ben with a long, steady stare. The earnest concern in his father’s face was obvious, but there was something else. Not disgust, really. A certain amount of disappointment mixed with worry that there might be something seriously wrong with his son. It didn’t matter that his son had seen and done things nobody should have to see and do. He shouldn’t be letting his emotions show like this.
“Yeah … I …” He stood up slowly as cold aches throbbed deep inside his joints and muscles. His bruised hand ached. “I’m fine.”
“You want me to get you a glass of water or something?” Wally asked.
Ben shook his head, embarrassed that Bunny Dawkins was seeing him vulnerable like this. It was one thing if it was among family members, but because Bunny had witnessed it, word would get around that he wasn’t holding his shit together very well.
“I can get my own damned water, thanks,” Ben said, scowling as he waved Wally away.
Pete snickered and regarded Ben with a long, sly look.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Ben said. He took a threatening step closer, ready to wipe that smirk clean off his little brother’s face if he had to.
“Me? No … Nothing,” Pete said, raising his hands and taking several steps back.
Still, he was wound up, and the note of mockery in his brother’s voice irritated him more than it would have ordinarily. He squeezed his fists so tight his wrists began to throb.
“Why don’t you and your girlfriend go back to bed?” Ben said to him.
Wally chuckled and, moving up close to Bunny, slid his arm around her plump waist and said, “What makes you think she’s with Pete?”
Chapter Ten
Honey Pot
“I’ve been looking for you,” Julia said.
Shouting to be heard above the Alice Cooper song that was blasting from the sound system, she sidled up to the bar next to Ben. She smiled as she placed her hand on the crook of his elbow. His biceps were tight beneath his shirt sleeve, and the mere touch of his skin reminded her of their afternoon on the beach.
Ranged along the bar at The Local, clustered around both sides of Ben, were several men. Julia recognized a few of them from around town, but none of them had ever done more than nod a silent greeting to her whenever she passed on the street. She noticed the way their gaze lingered on her breasts now, and it made her skin crawl.
“Oh … Hey … Yeah, hi,” Ben said. “Whatta surprise seeing you here.”
It was obvious he’d already had more than a few beers. His eyes were glazed, and his voice was slurred.
“I thought you had to stay home and take care of your old ma — your father,” Ben said.
One of the men at the bar — a skinny guy with thinning dark hair, white beard stubble, and a serious gap between his two upper front teeth — started to say something but then apparently thought better of it and took a sip of beer instead.
“He’s doing better,” Julia said. She leaned close enough so the warmth of his breath washed over her face. It reeked of sour beer, and she realized the folly of meeting up with him here tonight. She should have waited until morning. “I was … Can we go outside and talk?”
A couple of the men at the bar perked up at that. One of them — a chubby guy who was wearing a stained wife-beater t-shirt — gave Ben an “atta-boy” punch on the arm. It looked hard enough to hurt, but Ben didn’t wince. He glanced at his beer, which was almost gone, tossed his head back, and drained what was left and then slammed the empty glass onto the bar. Kicking away the barstool, he hooked Julia by the arm and walked with her to the front door. He staggered, but only a little.
Even though the night air was tinged with the smell of mud flats at low tide, the fresh air was a relief from the sour smell of booze and men’s body sweat. The moon was hiding behind a raft of high, fast-moving clouds. Far off in the distance, she could hear waves slapping gently against the wharf pilings.
Neither of them spoke as they walked down the side street, their feet scuffing the gravel as they passed a collection of dilapidated fishing shacks. At the end of the dirt road, they took a narrow, winding road leading out onto a point of land that overlooked the harbor. Lights in the houses across the bay rippled in the water, and the air was fresher, tangy with salt and moisture.
Julia was glad that Ben held her hand, lacing his fingers between hers and gripping her firmly but not too tightly. He was unsteady on his feet, and she told herself that it was a mistake to try to talk to him when he was like this.
“You’re the center of attention down there,” she said, indicating the path leading back to The Local with a quick flip of her head.
“Awhh … just talkin’ a load of bullshit about what it’s like over there.”
She didn’t need to be told where “over there” was. Since they met, she had wanted to broach the subject with him. Besides being c
urious about what he had experienced over there, she wanted to know how he felt about what he had seen and done … Was it as bad as the news showed? She sensed he carried wounds from the war … that he had demons banging around inside his head … that he struggled to keep them under control and not let anyone see.
For now, anyway, she decided to leave it alone.
They walked past a few houses, most with the lights off except for the outside lights, until they came to a bluff overlooking the water. There, they stopped. The riotous sounds coming from The Local had long since faded away, and the night was filled with the rhythmic rush of waves against the shore. In the distance, a dog barked. Ben stumbled and almost fell as he leaned his head back, took a deep breath, and then belched.
“How romantic,” Julia said, smiling.
“Sorry ’bout that.”
Julia laughed, but her stomach was tight with tension. She knew she had to say what she had come here to say. It was going to be tough, but if she was going to have any kind of chance with Ben like she hoped, she had to get this out of the way.
“I …” She started, but her throat constricted. “There’s … ummm … there’s something I have to talk to you about … something I have to tell you.”
For a moment or two, Ben was so silent she began to wonder if he had even heard her. The only sound was the waves washing against the rocks somewhere below them in the dark.
“Don’t bother,” Ben said. Suddenly, he didn’t sound nearly as drunk as she thought he was. “I know what you’re gonna say.”
Julia was stunned.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Ben covered his mouth with his fist and belched again. “You think you know who slashed my tires yesterday.”
“How do you —?”
“Is that what you were gonna say?”
“No. I mean — Yes, but I …”
Her voice faded away as a sudden rush of dread took hold of her. Even more than in the bar, she regretted her decision to try to talk to him tonight.
“’S Tom Marshall, right? That’s who you think did it?”
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