Yellow Medicine

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t everything, but it was more than enough. I was catching on. They needed terrorists in custody to be happy. They needed to warp my brain enough so that I’d start believing that I was a terrorist-by-proxy and feel guilty enough to admit it. Fucking games. In order to be left alone, I had to believe they were telling me the truth about myself—I was a traitor.

  When you’re fucked, take a stand. I thought of Sean Connery in The Rock, a British spy squirreled away secretly for decades because he knew too much. The only way to fight the Feds is to keep living. That way they have to feed you, clothe you, talk to you, humanize you every day. You win by forcing your life in their faces. No longer a legend or a zealot. You’re a real man.

  I rested my head and eyes again, lifted my hand, flipped him off.

  “You don’t sleep until we’ve got the real picture.”

  “I’m done. I’m choosing to shut up.”

  He stood, lifted his chair, slammed it down again hard. Punctuating his words. “No! You don’t get to choose!”

  “Then you need to believe me.”

  He paced. Didn’t have enough room to, but he tried. Two steps one way, two back. Fingers on his chin. How many chips did he have left?

  Finally, the smirk returned to his face and he snapped his fingers. “All right. We’ll see. Be right back.”

  He rapped his knuckles on the door. The agent outside let him out, and I was left alone. Hey, bring on the next round. I would never give him what he wanted.

  I mumbled, “Do your worst.” Then fell asleep.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Paul’s head, forever exploding from a terrorist’s bullet, spoke to me.

  “I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”

  “Why terrorists? We could handle street gangs. They needed us. But fucking terrorists?”

  “Come on, they were wannabes. They weren’t going to do anything. It was just another meth scheme, that’s all.”

  The bullet entered in slo-mo, did its worst. A bloody piece of work, Paul’s face sliding and tearing as he spoke. And when the bullet exited, spreading blood and brain into the air, the action froze and slowly reversed until I was seeing my friend’s head whole again before the next cycle.

  “These guys killed my friends, my connections, college kids. You, for God’s sake. How was that supposed to make me sign up?”

  “Intimidation?”

  “I don’t think they ever wanted me on board. I was too much of a maverick. Soon as you told them about me, I bet they wanted me out of the way.”

  “Looks that way. I’m sorry, man.”

  I laughed. It was just like Paul to apologize when it was too late to matter.

  The next thing out of his mouth was a drumbeat. Steady and hard.

  Then I woke up. Rome was rapping his knuckles against the table. I lifted my head, blinked away the blurriness. The room felt colder than before. The door was open. Another agent held it open with his body, hands clasped together in front of him.

  “Sweet dreams?”

  “I…what do you want?”

  “We’re going for a little trip. Some sightseeing, for old time’s sake. You up to it?”

  I tensed, crossed my arms and hugged myself to stop shivering. It wasn’t the cold, but the fear. I wondered how much of his anger at me was manufactured, all designed to bring us to this point.

  *

  The list in my mind:

  —A face to face with Drew. Would it make me crack to know she was under the gun? Maybe.

  —A face to face with Spaceman’s mom, the waitress with the enormous breast who trusted that I would take care of her son out there in the woods, the one time a corrupt cop was good for something, I suppose.

  —Graham’s grave.

  —Ian’s grave.

  —Heather’s grave. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

  Then the SUV turned onto Highway 67, my river camp’s road.

  Maybe they had figured out that was where Paul died. DNA from the burn pile or something. If that was Rome’s play, then I imagined he had me. I’d cop to manslaughter and say it was personal, an old beef from our Gulfport days. That felt okay to me, an easier road out than attempting to guess what sort of fairy tale these Feds wanted to hear in order to convince them I was a contrite enough turncoat. I never thought I’d see a day when the FBI actually preferred outrageous fiction to disappointing truth. Yeah, so I’d work up some tears and say, “I took Paul’s life. I didn’t mean to, but I was just so angry.” It was a first class ticket to State & Local Land. Eventually I’d be a hero: I wasn’t a terrorist. I killed terrorists!

  We passed the riverside park where I’d fished and guzzled light beer with Nate, Tordsen, and Graham on weekends, and sometimes on a lazy afternoon shift. We passed the nine-hole golf course where I tried to muster up love for the game but instead lost a bunch of balls and bent a few clubs around trees. However, I did enjoy a few lusty evenings in the third hole sand trap with the course manager’s niece, who worked the clubhouse between semesters at the university, once the last golfer had gone home. Her heavy Minnesotan accent intrigued me—I just had to find out what it would sound like while I fucked her. I’m sure the entire river valley heard her, too.

  Had we kept going past the house, we would’ve found ourselves at the casino, and then another five miles to the bar where I’d first seen Elvis Antichrist play, a couple of months after Drew’s prom night. She invited me, was so excited. They weren’t that bad, but I was glad they eventually got better. I was there for every moment of the group’s evolution. Right up until Drew came to me asking for help.

  That chased away any chance for further good feelings the last mile. Rome stared at me, tight-lipped, until the agent driving us slowed and clicked the blinker to turn into my driveway. I nodded at Rome before I turned to the familiar sight of my little piece of heaven on earth.

  Except that it wasn’t there.

  Some of it, pieces and rubble and ash. The garage was gone, too. Burned away. The evergreens, the rutabaga trees, the rusty abandoned farm equipment, the red canoe, my Weber grill, all gone.

  When the agent finally pulled to a stop, Rome leaned towards me, unhooked the cuffs, and said, “Go ahead.”

  He knew I wouldn’t run. I was trembling, barely able to pull the car handle and step out into the breeze, ashes swirling around my head. There was no warmth radiating from the remnants. An old fire. Pieces of the walls stood no more than waist high. Chunks of plastic—electronics, storage containers, kitchenware—poked out, strange and lumpy forms. Some furniture stood, singed but recognizable. The firefighters had soaked the place with water and foam. I couldn’t get my bearings. Stumbling, spinning, trying to find something to save. Guns? Wine bottles? Photos of Ginny, my kids? My Mississippi license plates? My grandpa’s duck callers?

  I stepped into the ashes of what used to be the bedroom, found what used to be the closet, and went to my knees. I dug through ash, mud, charcoaled wood and half-burned papers. Nothing was saved. You wouldn’t even know the thing in my hands had been a shoebox full of Polaroids. I wanted to scream, but I wouldn’t give the Feds the pleasure of hearing it. So I bit my cheek and closed my eyes.

  Rome’s voice behind me. “You still want to protect these guys?”

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  “What you told us doesn’t explain this. Maybe there was something here they didn’t want us to get our hands on. Or maybe someone sent you a warning. I don’t know the details, but I’ve got this tingling, see.”

  I stood, turned to him. In my peripheral vision, one of the agents unbuttoned his coat. They really had a bad perception of me. “Ever heard of Joseph McCarthy?”

  He wagged a finger at me, his face wrinkling. “Don’t you pull that. No, no. There’s a big difference here. You got caught red-handed.”

  Nothing was going to shake him. I foresaw my ex-wife getting dragged into this next. He’d put her on a plane to see me. What could I do? The worst part was realizing
that I’d missed something. He kept pushing because there really was a secret, a necessary key. Rome knew it was out there, but he didn’t have enough intel. Problem was, I had no intel.

  One more glance around the remains of my home. If ever there was a sign from God that I was about to pay full-price for all I’d gotten away with in the past, well…yeah.

  “I’m tired.”

  “What are they hiding? What are they planning?”

  The abandoned house next door was still standing. It looked as if only a few trees surrounding the house were taken down in the flames. A giant circle of scorched grass showed the extent. If I had the info he needed, you’re goddamned right I’d tell him.

  Instead, I walked through the remnants to the Suburban. “I don’t know. I’m very tired.”

  I stood at the rear door of the vehicle, head down. I stopped listening to his maneuverings, waited quietly by the door. Didn’t want to look back at the ashes.

  Before long Rome said, “Let’s go.” An agent helped me into the Suburban, stopping to cuff me first. Rome climbed in beside me, obviously pissed. Fuming. Barking at the other agents. Bye bye Washington office. Bye bye big promotion.

  A couple of miles down the road, I said, “You remember in the eighties, that movie about nuclear war came on TV? The Day After?”

  Rome nodded. “Hm.”

  “It freaked everyone out, but when you think about it now, it really wasn’t so bad. People survived, they moved on, even if it was hard.”

  “Surviving could be worse than dying, they said.”

  “Yeah, but so what? People would survive. It’s not like every square inch of earth would be fried. They rebuilt Hiroshima. Listen, it’s like all these movies though, they have these characters, just normal people, and we’re supposed to identify with them so we’ll feel bad if the bombs fall.”

  “Always some young couple,” Rome said. “Always someone who doesn’t believe it’s going to happen. Bunch of stereotypes.”

  “But none of them were really special. Just normal people. And it was set in Kansas or somewhere like that. Nebraska.”

  “They had all the missile silos in the cornfields.”

  “But no one in Nebraska or Minnesota ever thinks they’re going to be the bullseye. That’s what’s nice about living out here. The world leaves you alone, mostly.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t know. It’s pretty innocent, that’s all. People don’t know what to do with nukes or terrorists or gangs or any of that shit. Why would anyone want to bother us?”

  He turned his head to me. “You got an answer?”

  “Well, if you want to really shake up the country, you don’t hit New York or Los Angeles or Chicago, but still. I’m talking Sioux Falls, Kansas City. Fargo. You do some damage there, it’s scary.”

  “I can’t believe you’re just now figuring that out. They’re everywhere. They hate all of us.”

  I shrugged. “Just never thought of it before. Where can you be safe?”

  After a long sigh, Rome said, “You can never be completely safe. But I’ll take a little risk over boredom any day.”

  I grinned, said, “Me too.” But then wished I hadn’t. I thought of Ham and Savannah growing up in a world where every choice was like that—is it a risk worth taking? Driving to school. Shopping at the mall. Buying gas. What you eat, drink. Each day a little more dangerous than the one before.

  Think about it: someone in another country was told that God wants him to dedicate his life to going undercover in America, pretending to like us, only to find a way to kill a bunch of us at once—and himself included—because I like Jesus and MTV better than Mohammad, and because I don’t mind shoving it in their faces. Hell, I wouldn’t kill nobody over something like that. That takes effort. You’ve really got to despise someone to go that far.

  Then Umar spoke to me, his prayers running laps in my head. Eventually becoming words I could understand: You hated me plenty enough.

  Maybe that’s what they want. They want us to hate them as much as they do us. Seems that’s the only way life makes sense for them. A constant state of war. But I can’t do it. Neither can most of us. No matter what, we just can’t seem to hate them as much as they do us. Like the bully on the playground who punches you until you react. He only wanted the reaction. Gives him an excuse to beat you even harder.

  I was too numb to even feel the punches anymore.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Back at the station, one of the desks had been transformed into a buffet, every inch of surface covered with casserole dishes, aluminum trays, a slow cooker. Several different types of hot dish, the signature Minnesota meal, plus some cocktail sausages, sandwiches, and some spaghetti that sounded unappetizing as one of the men scooped out a spoonful and plopped it on his plate. Layla stood at a nearby desk filling glasses with iced tea, handing them to agents after they’d passed through the food line.

  I passed by, starving, wondering if they would even offer. I took a long look at the hot dishes. I hadn’t liked any I’d tried before, usually some combination of leftover meat, noodles, and cream of mushroom soup. The kind of stuff you hated eating as a kid. I missed muffalettas, gumbo, and fried catfish. I missed Mom. I’d give anything to start over again, try a different path in life. But here I was, stuck smelling Minnesota Hot Dish with shackled ankles and wrists.

  Rome said to me, “You want some? Fix you a plate before we talk again?”

  I must’ve made a face. Got him grinning. I thought of the stuff I’d really miss, so I said, “How about you run up to Hardee’s, get me a roast beef sandwich?”

  “Oh really? Like I’m your waiter or something? Seems to me you’d love this hot dish.” He waved his hand across the desk like the food was a game show prize. “Smell that down home goodness. Mmm mm.”

  I turned my head, but that wasn’t enough for him. A couple of agents laughed along, but most were stone silent. Rome got in my face. “Should I fix you a double helping? That’s a good place to start, I think. How about it?”

  Sheriff Tordsen raised his hand, got Rome’s attention. “Why can’t you just get the man a roast beef sandwich?”

  Rome turned back into a suit, all business as he clasped his hands behind his back, stepped over to Tordsen.

  “Sheriff, I’d ask you to not interfere with my suspect.”

  “You’re still a guest in my department, Mister Rome. I believe if Lafitte wants a roast beef sandwich, then what’s the goddamned harm?”

  Rome paced a circle around Tordsen. “And who’ll fit the bill? You want the U.S. government buying fast food for traitors? Wouldn’t our taxpayers find that pretty offensive?”

  Tordsen dug in his pants pocket, pulled out a five and some ones. He motioned to one of his deputies, told him, “Do me a favor and run up to Hardee’s, get him a roast beef. Make it a combo.” To me, “You like curly fries?”

  I nodded. “Yes sir. And a Dr. Pepper.”

  Tordsen handed the money to the deputy, watched him leave.

  Rome crossed his arms, shook his head. “Your service to your country will be noted.”

  “Just a sandwich, is all. And he’ll eat it out here, not in the cell. I expect you to treat Mister Lafitte with the same dignity you afford other men who haven’t been proven guilty yet.”

  “Is that all?”

  Tordsen began, “I wish you’d tell him. It’s just not right.” Trailed off.

  “Sheriff, I told you—” Rome said.

  “Tell me what?” Fear hit me cold, as cold as I had been after climbing out of the river. “What is it? My kids? Drew?”

  “That’s enough!” Rome burned a hole in Tordsen before getting me out of there quickly, shouting for one of his agents. He shoved me into the interrogation room and slammed the door. If I’d known what it would lead to, I would’ve demanded a deep-dish pizza or fried walleye sandwich, something a little more difficult that would take a small effort to round-up. But I wondered what the new sheriff w
as talking about. Now I knew for sure Rome was hiding something. Fuck the roast beef. I’d just lost my appetite.

  *

  After a while of me listening to muffled arguments through the walls, not understanding the words but definitely catching on to who was saying what, Rome came in scratching the back of his neck. He stared at the floor. In his hand was a simple manila folder, very thin.

  He slapped it on the table and took the seat across from me. Slouching some, knees out wide. He’d loosened his tie. Whatever he was about to tell me, he sure as hell didn’t want to.

  Rome spoke firmly, a very low timbre. “Look, you’ve got to understand the pressure I’m under here. We need to make sure that you and I are truly communicating. Sometimes, that means I have to hold back some information, see if what you give me matches up—”

  “It’s just a sandwich. Isn’t starving a guy something like torture?”

  He flipped through his file folder. Two flips. Very little was in there. The fear crept in again, my arms sprouting goosebumps.

  I said, “I’ve been thinking about all this, and I hope you realize I want to help you. Maybe I’ve done some shit I ain’t proud of, but I never crossed the line into treason.”

  “Good, good. I need to tell you something.”

  Keep talking. Hold back the inevitable. “Believe me, if there’s anything I can do, hell, I can change. I’ll outline every dirty thing I’ve ever done as a deputy here. I’ll even pay back the Katrina money. Come on, anything, I swear.”

  He’d tried to interrupt the entire time, until he finally raised his voice. “Shut up, okay? That’s enough.”

  Quiet. Another flip through the file. He was sweating. Here I was scared to death, but it was him who was more afraid. I think I heard the words in my head before they came out of his mouth.

  “Drew is dead. I’m sorry.”

  My fists shook, rattling the shackles. I swallowed hard. Dry. No saliva. Thoughts drifting: Car Wreck. Jail. Suicide. The terrorists forcing her to suck dick, then beheading her like poor Heather.