Big Numbers (24 page)

Especially if you’ve warned him off, Charles thought. “Well, thank you for your trouble. Where can I get something to eat?”

“Bar’s the best place. Maggie does a good chicken fried steak.”

“Right,” Charles said. “Thanks again.”

It took ten minutes for the water to get hot. Under the shower, Charles decided it was going to be difficult to even find Mike Savage, much less talk to him. He began to regret his decision to arrive in Cable Falls unannounced.

He dressed quickly, put a well-placed paper clip in the door and headed for Maggie’s Bar. It was dark now. The shapes of the buildings were silhouetted against the white landscape. A dog barked somewhere as he passed several small pickup trucks and pushed through the door.

Three men in heavy overalls huddled at the bar. At one of the tables, two grizzled old men slapped checkers on a board. In one corner, under a stark hanging light, two younger men were shooting pool and drinking beer out of bottles. A third leaned against the wall in boredom. Everyone looked up as Charles came in. He could feel their eyes follow him as he walked to a table in the rear.

“What’ll it be, mister?” A woman Charles guessed must be Maggie appeared out of the kitchen. She had a hard lean face, rough, red hands and strands of hair hung down over surprisingly soft brown eyes.

Charles smiled at her. “The man at the hotel says you do a good chicken fried steak. That would be fine. Oh, and a beer please.”

Maggie nodded and shuffled away, returning a few minutes later with an ice cold beer and the steak, batter fried, alongside a heaping mound of mashed potatoes swimming in brown gravy. There was also a small dish of sweet corn.

Charles ate hungrily, listening to the snatches of conversation over the drone of the radio, the crack of pool balls and checkers. He was acutely aware of the searching glances of the few customers. A few newcomers came in, but none of them was Mike Savage. Maggie seemed to read his mind though; he was sure the hotel clerk had already spread the word.

“Mike won’t be in tonight,” Maggie said, ringing up the bill on an old cash register. “If he comes in, it’s always earlier than this.” She slammed the register drawer shut with a bang.

“I don’t suppose you could direct me then?” Charles ventured. “It’s rather urgent that I see him.” The pool game had stopped. Charles was aware of the heavy silence that swept over the bar.

Maggie studied Charles for a long moment, glanced toward the pool table and pushed back a wisp of hair from her eyes. “Follow the road out of town north about twelve miles. There’s a turnoff on your right. Can’t miss it in this moonlight. Little ways up, there’s a fork. Take the one on the left. Mike’s place is about half a mile further up.” She turned abruptly and headed for the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Charles called after her. The crack of pool balls resumed as he stepped out onto the street.

He walked back to the motel for his car and drove out of town, checking the odometer and the rear-view mirror as he drove. No company and the turnoff was exactly twelve miles. He turned and soon reached the fork Maggie had described. He stopped the car for a moment. The one on your left she had said. Charles went right. Another couple of minutes and his headlights caught a sign: BEWARE OF OWNER. Smiling, Charles parked the car off the road and got out.

He tramped up the hill along a worn trail recently cleared of snow. Every few paces he stopped, listened intently for any sounds, but there was only the wind through the trees until he’d gone a few more steps.

“Hold it right there, mister.” Charles froze. A shadowy figure emerged from behind a tree and moved toward him cautiously. “Hands on top of your head.”

Charles complied and looked at the man as he came closer. Just over six-feet tall, he guessed. Bushy eyebrows, heavy mustache and dressed in faded jeans and a scuffed sheepskin jacket. Despite the cold the man wore no hat, but his long hair was tied back in a ponytail. Charles knew he’d found Mike Savage and he was now looking down the double barrels of a shotgun pointed at his middle.

“They tell me at Maggie’s a government man’s lookin’ for me. That must be you, eh?” Savage moved closer. In the moonlight, Charles could make out his features, but he was not close enough to make a grab for the gun even if he wanted to.

“I confess,” Charles said. “May I be permitted to identify myself?”

“That’s the idea. Real careful now, with one hand, take out your wallet and lay it down in front of you.”

Charles knew the drill. He complied again and stepped back. “You’re a very careful man. I guess news travels fast around here. Do you always greet visitors this way?”

Savage grinned as he glanced at the ID card. “Mister, you’re trespassing on private property and this is a small town.” He studied the card for a moment, keeping one eye on Charles. “Okay, this looks good. Now what can I do for you? My taxes are up to date, I don’t owe anybody anything and I send my ex-old lady two hundred a month.” Savage shifted the shotgun to the crook of his arm.

“Nothing like that I assure you,” Charles said, putting his hands down. “I came to talk to you about Vietnam.” Even in the shadowy light, he could see Savage’s grin vanish.

“What about it? Nam was a shithole and I don’t recommend it,” he said flatly.

“Your time there is actually what I mean. More specifically, an officer you served with. Lieutenant Robert Owens.”

“Owens?” Savage spat out the name like a curse and laughed without humor, a hollow, chilling sound. “Served with, huh? Yeah, I guess you could say that. He left us to join some intelligence unit after. What about him?”

“He defected to Russia about five years ago and now he wants to come home.”

Savage lowered the shotgun further and flipped Charles his wallet. “You’re CIA, right?” Savage studied Charles intently.

Slowly, Charles returned his wallet to his pocket. “Let’s just say government attached. Can we talk about it?”

Savage gazed at Charles for a full minute before answering. “Why not? You’re the first guy that’s asked. C’mon, we’ll be more comfortable inside.”

Savage turned abruptly and started up the trail. A few minutes later they arrived at an expanse of cleared land. A small, rough-hewn cabin squatted near the edge of a bluff. A wisp of smoke curled up from the stone chimney. From the edge of the bluff, Charles could see a wooded meadow stretching below. He could only imagine what the view was like in daylight.

A honey Labrador bounded around from the back of the cabin with a tail-wagging greeting for Savage and a curious sniff for Charles. “That’s Pappy,” Savage said, roughly stroking the dog. “Come on in.”

Inside the cabin, Savage lit an oil lamp, threw a couple of logs on the fire and motioned Charles to a battered leather chair. “Coffee or whiskey?”

“Whiskey’s fine.”

Savage returned with a tumbler of Scotch and a beer for himself.” I didn’t figure you for a beer drinker,” he said, dropping into another stuffed chair next to Charles. The moonlight spilled in the window and snow flurries began to cling to the glass, forming tiny patterns of crystal before sliding wetly down. The fire made the room glow and Charles suddenly wished he were there for some other reason.

“Built it myself,” Savage said, sensing Charles’ silent approval. “Good place to get away from things.” He took a gulp of his beer. “Look, I’m sorry about the greeting, but there are a couple of people I don’t really want to see again. The town is alright once you’re accepted, but they can be a bit tight-lipped.”

“I noticed.” Charles smiled. Savage seemed suddenly more relaxed, as if he were happy to have a visitor, unannounced or not. Charles guessed few people had seen the inside of the cabin.

“You eaten? I got some chili on if you don’t have a squeamish stomach.”

“No, thanks. I had one of Maggie’s steaks before I came up. She told me the way. Well, almost the way. She made a slight mistake about the turn at the fork.”

Savage laughed. “No mistake, but Maggie figured if you could find the way, you must be okay. She’s alright, kind of adopted me when I moved here. Her son bought it in Nam.”

Savage stood and went to the kitchen. He brought Charles another drink and a steaming bowl of chili in a stone bowl for himself. He ate in silence, occasionally glancing at Charles who sat contentedly, warmed by the fire and Scotch, letting his gaze roam over the cabin. On one wall, some rough shelves held an impressive collection of paperback books.

Savage followed his gaze. “Passes the time,” he said. He finished eating and lit a cigarette. “What do you want to know about Owens?” he asked as he popped open another beer.

Charles shifted in his chair. “I’d like to hear about you first.” He regarded Savage with real interest. Remembering the file, he wondered how a boy from the streets of Chicago survives Vietnam and ends up on the side of a mountain. “How did this all come about?” He waved a hand around the room.

Savage smiled understandingly. “That’s what my dad wants to know. He doesn’t like this either,” he said, fingering the pony tail. “I haven’t cut it since Nam.” Shrugging he went on. “After I was discharged, I went back to Chicago. Got married, got a nothing job—probably exactly what I would have done if I hadn’t gone to Nam, but it didn’t work. Nam changed a lot of guys. Me for one. I got into some heavy dope dealing. I guess you know about that. Anyway, I made some money, got lucky on some investments and split for the open skies. Just got in my truck and drove till I saw this place. It’s about as different from Nam as you can imagine. Parked the truck, built this place and well, here I am.” He flipped his cigarette into the fire.

Charles sat back. How many were there like Mike Savage? Scarred invisibly by a war they didn’t believe in but fought nevertheless. Returned to scorn, confusion, hopelessness and broken lives. Scattered about the country, their fears locked away, dreams unfulfilled.

Charles took out a briar pipe and a pouch of tobacco. “Owens was only with your unit a few months, right?”

“I got something better to pack that with if you feel like it.”

“No, thanks. I tried it once with my daughter. Didn’t do anything for me,” Charles said.

Savage shrugged and took a stubby pipe from over the fireplace. He filled it from a stone jar. Lit, the pipe produced the pungent aroma of marijuana. On the floor, Pappy raised his head, sniffed the air and moved to the corner.

“Pappy doesn’t approve?”

“Naw, doesn’t like the smell, I guess. Found him when he was a puppy. Just a stray, like me.” Savage settled back in his chair and stared into the flames. “Yeah, Owens wasn’t with us long, a few months was enough. Guess you’ve done your homework,” he said, looking at Charles.

“How is it you remember him so easily?” Charles sat forward and sipped his drink.

Savage’s laugh was hollow again, like a rattle. “Remember him? Hell, I almost killed the bastard. Had him right in the sights of my M16, then just as I pulled the trigger, one of the guys jerked it away and I missed.” He laughed again. “Just think, I might have saved you a trip up here and you’d have one less defector to worry about.”

“How did it happen?”

Savage took a pull on his pipe, sucked in some air and coughed slightly. “Owens was a replacement. Nam wasn’t like your war. We didn’t train together, ship over together, fight together or come home together. Everybody shipped in one at a time. Our second in command got wasted when he stepped on a mine and what was left of him was sent home in a bag.” Savage paused, shaking his head.

“No real experience. Owens, I mean. Green as they come. A twink with bars on his shoulders. There were some nineteen year olds that were scary, man.”

Charles nodded. Child men, transformed overnight into hardened combat veterans with blank gazes, storing up memories they’d never be able to shake.

“Anyway, on this one patrol, Owens panicked under fire. He called for support mortar shelling, but he fucked up the coordinates. Our own guys were shelling us. Everyone begged him to hold off, but he wouldn’t listen. He hadn’t paid any attention in the briefings. Always had his face in some computer book. He’d been to college, he was always telling us.

“We were caught in some pretty heavy action about then, which if we got out of it was okay because that meant we could up the body count. That was the big thing in Nam, man. Body count. If it was really good we’d get a shipment of ice cream and cold cokes dropped by chopper.” His shoulders slumped and he looked at Charles with a pleading expression. “I mean what was that war about anyway?”

Charles wished there was something he could say that would penetrate what Mike Savage was feeling, even after all these years.

“Like I said,” Savage continued, “Owens thought he knew better than anyone else. A few of our guys bought it. One took a direct hit. He’d been in Nam three days. He was seventeen. Hello and goodbye war.”

Savage seemed to sink even deeper in the chair. His pipe had gone out. “We survived, the rest of us, though, I don’t know how. The mortar fire was finally straightened out and I guess Owens got his ass reamed good when we got back. Big fucking deal. We got into a light skirmish on the way. Owens was just up ahead and when I saw him there in my sights, I thought, fuck it, I just…” His voice trailed off and he stared into the fire.

Charles remained silent. The wind rustled the snow against the windows. The dying fire crackled and hissed. After a bit he said, “And Owens left after that?”