Three A.M. (23 page)

“No,” I interrupted. “Not because of you. Because of them. It’s all them. You’re perfectly innocent, Becca. Perfect…” I trailed off again. We sat like that for a long time. I rocked her gently in my arms, already beginning to formulate my plans. I would leave at dusk. It would be awful, leaving the first thing I had cared about in years, but it was necessary. To care about her was to leave at once.

I wasn’t sure if she was even still awake. Then, after maybe ten minutes, she leaned away from me and looked up, her eyes clear and bright. “I’m still hungry.”

11

She was upstairs in the shower. She had left the bathroom door ajar and I stood at the top of the stairs spellbound by her silhouette bending and twisting behind the pale curtain. It felt wrong—perverse, even—but I could not pull myself away. I was caught somewhere between voyeurism and admiration as the strength and powerful loneliness of this girl became ever more clear to me.

I had thought to scrawl a quick note and leave while she bathed. It was the only way to be sure she would not follow me. But lovely little Becca deserved better. Suddenly the water stopped running, and in a panic I turned and hurried downstairs as quickly as I could without making noise.

I paced aimlessly about the house, looking at a picture here, a painting there. The woodwork of the furniture was first rate, the carpets rich and intricate; everything was exactly as it should have been. I felt like something of a stranger visiting a museum in a foreign land. The chairs made sense to me. They were chairs. You could sit in them. But coming from a life of concrete and folding metal furniture and rusting zinc-lined shower stalls, a finely wrought piece made as much sense to me as a throne to a beggar.

The thin, checkered curtains of the living room rustled as a midday gust came through the open windows. I was captivated by them. Here too was something so innately familiar yet now amazing—a novelty. They actually hung to block sunlight. There was a soft cool breeze blowing across the land. I reached out and took the fabric between two fingers and rubbed it gently. I could feel the seams and change in grain where the pattern turned from stripe to box and back again. I pushed one of the curtains aside to squint out across the vast, rolling fields. My chest grew cold.

I turned and barreled upstairs, not even remembering that Rebecca would be changing. I tossed wide the door to her room and caught a fleeting glimpse of her nude body as she threw her towel around herself with a gasp.

“Does anyone know you’re here?”

“I … mean I suppose … yes…,” she stammered.

“Do you expect visitors? Ever?”

“No,” she answered, concern laced through her voice and across her face.

“Well, you’ve got one.” I led her to the bedroom window that faced out across the front yard and the hills beyond and pointed. Far off down the road—the road that ended at this house—a truck was heading our way.

“Oh my God…,” she said, choking up. Her arms fell to her side, and the towel drooped, revealing one of her perfect breasts. I reached out and straightened the cloth around her, covering her up again. She scarcely noticed. “That’s the same kind of truck Callahan and the soldiers drove. At least it looks like it—I can’t tell. Oh my God, what do we do?” She turned from the window and looked up into my face, fearful, searching for help.

I turned back to the window. It was still a few miles out. And very much alone. “Is there anyone … anyone good who would be visiting? A friend of your father’s or anything like that?” She shook her head. “Get dressed. We’ll deal with this and then make a plan. I walked from the room, pausing at the door. Over my shoulder I said, “And you should pull together some warm clothes and pack them.”

It had happened faster than I expected. When both the helicopter and this truck failed to return, they wouldn’t send another single-vehicle mission out. They’d send an army. I wouldn’t make it far enough to get away in time; the house was too small to hide in for long. I grabbed the rifle and my jacket, making sure the pockets were still stuffed with extra rounds. Peering out the living room window again, I estimated I had three minutes before they were in range. Four if I waited until they were close enough for kill shots.

“Becca! We have four minutes until the world is on its way here, okay? Pack us some clothes and get some blankets! Your truck works, right?” I shouted up to her.

She came to the top of the stairs, nodding, frightened. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice cracking a bit as she saw the gun in my hand.

“I’m going to buy us some time. Get food too.” I pulled on my boots and slipped out the front door. It was crisp and sunny outside. Silent save for birdsongs and an occasional breeze; eerily idyllic. I jogged across the bright green grass, keeping hedges and trees between myself and the road. I’d make sure she was safe and then get out of her life. I’d only fuck things up for her. Crouching behind a bush, I eased myself around it slowly, parting the brambles and peering between them so as not to let my profile stick out from the shrub.

The truck was close now. I recognized the model—I’d ridden in that same vehicle many times. We were taken out onto the highways in them, in fact. We lay across their roofs to gain a better vantage point for reconnaissance, to get a better shot. So now I had come full circle. There could be as many as eight troops in the back and three up front, so I’d need to disable the vehicle. No way would I be able to take all the men, even if it were only half-loaded.

I slid behind the bush, the coarse leaves scratching at my unshaven face. After rolling onto my back, I did a quick check of the rifle to make sure the action was sliding smoothly and the sights were lined up. It had been sixteen years since I’d done that. I pulled one of the loose shells from my pocket: 5.56 millimeters of high-grain lead with a little red titanium tip. That’s what would do it, let me punch through the quarter inch of glass and take out the driver. If I waited until they were on a turn, maybe I could get the truck to roll. Maybe we’d have enough time to actually make a break for it.

I turned over onto my stomach and crawled forward past the edge of the manicured lawn and into the high grass. They’d be in range in less than a minute. I yanked back on the bolt and released it. It clicked home, chambering a round. Shooting at people again … not something I ever wanted to do. I hated it. I hated it so much. These poor fucks, just following orders. But it was for her. And it was against them. Not the soldiers, but all of them. There are times when blood must spill. Even if some of it was to be innocent blood, I was determined to have not a drop of it be Rebecca’s. Not today. No one asked for my permission when they fogged me in; no one asked for my approval when they plucked me back out … framed me … would have killed me.

“Well, you should have done it when you had the chance, Kirk. Watley. All of you.” I rose up on both elbows, the fingers of my right hand wrapping slowly around the grip and trigger, my left hand sliding forward into a shooting platform. The black metal stock of the rifle was cool and mildly damp against my skin. The old familiar sent of oil filled my nostrils, strangely comforting amidst the confusion. Blood pounded in my temples. I squinted against the bright light and lined up my sights on the truck, tracking it slowly.

Every few seconds, the windshield flashed in the sun as the vehicle made slight turns one way or the other. “Sorry,” I whispered aloud as the truck entered a turn toward me. It was maybe half a mile off and coming down a long, gentle slope. The sun flashed again off the glass of the windshield. I took in a deep breath and began slowly exhaling it, steadying my muscles.

The curve tightened. The sun danced across the truck, and I fired two shots in close succession. The reports crackled through the hills as the rifle bucked in my arms. Nothing. Still driving smoothly. I took in a sharp breath and again exhaled, this time making sure both eyes were open wide. Slowly, steadily, I led the truck along with the front sight of my weapon and let my conscious thinking subside. It was silent after those first two shots. Not a bird singing or leaf rustling in the breeze. The scent of the fresh grass mixed with the lingering odor of cordite. The sun was hot on my back, and my hands were steady.

Before I knew I had committed, I squeezed off three shots in a tight group. The sun glinting off the windshield disappeared. For a moment, the truck kept following the curve it was on, but then it wavered and began to drift onto the grass. The vehicle lurched back onto and then across the road, far overcorrecting, and began to tip. With a great thunderous crash and grinding of metal, it went over, rolling off the road and into the lush field, where it came to rest on one side.

Then all was silent. I glanced back at the house to find Rebecca peering through the partly open front door. I smiled at her and pointed to the ruined truck, proud of myself. Her brow knit with concern, she withdrew back into the house. Chastened, I turned my attention back to the wreck. This would be the hard part, both emotionally and tactically: dealing with potential survivors. At first, there was no sign of life. A thin trail of smoke rose from the vehicle.

Then from behind the crash stumbled a single man. He wore the gray fatigues of a soldier and looked badly hurt. He took a few uneven steps and then fell to his knees, one hand going to his head. For a long time he stayed there like that, on both knees and with a hand over his face. Then finally he slumped down to sit Indian style. I drew a bead on him and wrapped my finger around the trigger, but I could not bring myself to fire.

I lowered the weapon and looked away. When I turned back, I found the man now lying down on his back. I couldn’t tell if he had reclined or sagged. I moved the barrel slightly to the right and fired a single round at the exposed belly of the truck. It caromed off with a loud metallic clang. The man did not move. I was torn. If he was alive enough to crawl, he was alive enough to use a radio. Shoot again?

I rose to a crouch and backed up toward the house, keeping my eyes on the crash scene the whole time. Nothing stirred. Inside, Rebecca was sitting on the stairs, looking down at the floor. “Are they all dead?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.” She looked up at me reproachfully. “Can I have your keys?”

She rose and walked into the kitchen, and I heard her fumbling in a drawer and then the familiar jangle of a keychain as she returned. She extended her hand to me but kept her fist closed. “Do you remember how to drive?” she asked.

“I think so.” She opened her hand and dropped the keys into my palm.

“Do you want me to do it?”

“No. Thanks. I don’t want you down there.” She nodded and I turned to go.

Then her hand was on my shoulder. “Be careful.” Her eyes were soft, forgiving. “I know you had to. I just hate it.”

“I hate it too.” I placed my hand over hers and squeezed it gently, then removed it from my shoulder and left the house.

*   *   *

I swerved back and forth across the road. I was sixteen all over again, narrowly avoiding skids and rollovers as I tried to steady the big red truck. Going fifty miles an hour felt like the speed of light. It was exhilarating, liberating. Just as my muscles were remembering how to control a vehicle, I was at the crash site. At the sight of the body sprawled out on the grass, my mood darkened as quickly as it had lifted.

I pulled the pickup alongside the ruined truck and jumped out, rifle cocked, raised, and ready to fire. I went first to the man I had seen alive. He was very much dead now—the right half of his face and skull were covered in deep lacerations. Blood stained his uniform from lapels to bootlaces. Next I peered through the shattered windshield. The driver hung limply from his seat belt, a gunshot wound in the center of his chest. The passenger was slumped against the side window that rested on the ground, his knees near the roof and head down below the seat.

Walking around the back of the truck, I strained to listen for any noise from within, but there was none. A crow’s ragged call and my own tense breathing were the only sounds. One of the back doors was ajar. I slowly slid the rifle barrel into the open doorway and grabbed the latch with my left hand, swinging the door wide open. My fingers came away bloody.

The interior of the truck was dark, and I could see nothing with the bright sun in my eyes. I shielded my face and leaned into the truck. As my eyes adjusted, I could see two soldiers lying dead, their bodies bent and broken into horrible poses. A third man was hanging from his harness on the opposite wall. He wore a gray blazer and khaki pants with a bloodstained shirt tucked into them. He was thin, nearly bald, and had a bookish air about him. He was moving.

His fingers were trembling as they dangled in space. His head jerked from side to side erratically. He was in shock. Badly hurt.

“Can you hear me?” I asked. He turned his head and looked at me, his eyes unfocused. There was a horrid gash across his neck. “Can you understand me?”

He tried to reply, but it came out only as a sickening gurgle. He was racked by coughs. Blood and phlegm dripped from his face as his head sagged back. He was finished. In agony. I set my jaw and raised the rifle to my shoulder. The man tried to reach inside his jacket but was too weak. His hands flopped uselessly at the ends of broken arms. He gurgled once more, and I put two bullets through the side of his head. Flecks of blood spattered onto my hands and forehead, and I recoiled from the deafening reports and the gore. Behind me, the crow took flight and cried out balefully as it soared away.

I took a knee and dropped the gun beside me. My hands were shaking.

“There was no other way,” I repeated to myself several times aloud. I lowered myself roughly to sit in the grass, realizing as I did so that I was inadvertently mimicking the motions of the soldier I’d watched from afar. His legs were sticking out past the back of the truck. The drying blood was crimson as it soaked into his slate gray trousers. I crawled over toward him. His eyes were open, staring up at the sky. In one of his hands he held a crumpled pack of cigarettes. That just about broke my heart.