Текст книги "January Justice"

Автор книги: Athol Dickson

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He motioned for me to lower the glass.

I did.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Get out.”

I sighed. I reached over and picked up the roses. I opened the door and got out.

Valentín Vega’s bodyguard didn’t back away. He stood right in front of me, the Glock aimed at my belly, but within reach. That was a mistake.

I spoke to him in Spanish. “Do you know where we are?”

He said, “That is not important.”

I felt the rage rise up and knew I only had a second or two before I lost control. I didn’t want to kill the man, so I turned away and headed down the hill. I figured if he put a bullet in my back, it might be better all around.

“Hey,” he called from behind me. “Hey, pendejo, you better stop right there.”

Ignoring him, I kept walking.

I followed Simon’s directions, lining up the two largest live oaks and moving to a position about two-thirds of the distance between them to the right. I walked with the roses in my left hand and my face turned down so I could read the names on the bronze plaques. Behind me, Castro had stopped shouting. I had no idea if he was following and didn’t care enough to look. After a few minutes, I found her.

Haley Lane, it said. No middle name. No date of birth, or death. Just her name, because for most of the Western world, that would always be enough.

There was a small bronze vase beside her name. I hitched up my suit pants, squatted down on the balls of my feet, and slipped the roses into the vase. I put the palm of my right hand on her name. I felt the strength go out of me. I sat down hard on the grass beside her marker.

“Oh, God,” I said. “Oh, Jesus, God, help me.”

The ground rose up. I felt it rolling like Pacific swells below the Panache’s keel. It was as if the dead were pushing up against the turf around me. I was flotsam on a roiling sea of sorrow. I heard the cawing of a crow and looked straight up to see it circling. As it flew, it left ashes in its wake, ashes like a trail behind a jet spiraling above me, the blackened smudges spreading out to block the sun, swirling round and dropping down and meeting with the rolling turf, everything in motion, and me without my lover for a handhold. I closed my eyes and remembered my doctors, and I told myself to think of what is true. The ground was solid. The sky was clear. The only ashes were the ones inside my heart. I opened my eyes and looked again, and everything seemed normal, whatever that was.

“Get up,” said Vega’s bodyguard.

He was standing right behind me. I didn’t acknowledge him in any way.

Castro kicked me in the small of my back. “Get up.”

I winced and rose. I turned to face him.

He said, “You think you know what it is to grieve?” He made a little gesture with the gun toward Haley, and then he aimed it back toward my stomach. “This here, this is just one woman in a grave. In my country, there are fields where five hundred people lie together. They have no name above them, like this one here. Who are they? Nobody will ever know. But I know who put them there. It was you did that. You, the USA, and your puppets in the junta.”

It was the second time he had pulled a gun on me. Most men didn’t get to do that twice.

I said, “Fidel, look at me,” and behind his sunglasses, he raised his yellowed eyes to meet mine, and I stared at his face while I slapped the gun aside with one hand and took it from him with the other, a move I learned from a marine in Somalia. And then his Glock was in my hand, pointing back at his belly, and he was looking down from his gun in my hand to his own now-empty hand, and his pockmarked cheeks began to flush.

“How did you do that?”

“Shut up and turn around,” I said, motioning with the Glock.

He slowly turned his back toward me.

I said, “Get on your knees.”

Still standing there, he said, “You cannot do this here.”

I tapped him hard on the back of his head with the Glock. It staggered him. I said, “Shut up and kneel.”

He went down on his knees. I stepped close behind him, gripped the back of his collar in my left fist, laid the nozzle hard against the base of his skull. I said, “Apologize to her.”

He spat on Haley’s grave.

With a roar, I pistol whipped him. He rolled to the ground. I was astride him, the fabric of his shirt bunched in my left fist, the Glock in my right hand aimed at his face. In the fall his sunglasses had fallen off. As he lay there blinking up at me, my finger tightened on the trigger.

He said, “It does not matter. I have done my duty.”

It interested me a little. I said, “What duty?”

“I saw you talking to those men. I told Comandante Valentín you would betray us to the junta, and you did. But it does not matter, understand? Because the Comandante knows. I told him what I saw you do, and now I am ready to die for my people.”

He turned his yellowed eyes away from me and looked up toward the sky.

“Hail Mary,” he said, “full of grace, blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Hail Mary, full of grace…”

I breathed in deeply as he prayed. I let the breath out slowly. I thought of what I knew to be true. This man hadn’t actually hurt Haley. She was beyond that now. This man had his own burdens. He didn’t know that Haley had been my wife. And there were no crows above me. There were no ashes but the ones I carried in my head.

I decided not to soil the rolling ground above Haley with the man’s blood. I did my best to remember what is noble. What is excellent. I eased off the trigger. I threw the gun as far as I could. I stood. I straightened my suit jacket and turned toward the car.

Behind me, Castro offered thanks to the mother of God as I walked away from Haley and from death.

12

I drove aimlessly for hours. I spoke to Haley as if she were in the seat beside me. I spoke to Jesus, too. Actually, I yelled at him a little. I had a few hard questions, but he didn’t seem to have the answers. Ever since I had begun to come back to myself in the hospital, Jesus hadn’t been as real to me as Haley, and even she no longer answered.

When there was no place left to go, I pulled up to the gates of El Nido. They swung open majestically, and I followed the long driveway, parked Haley’s Bentley in Haley’s garage, and walked across the property to Haley’s guesthouse, where I went into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face and drank from my cupped palm.

When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, there were ashes on my forehead. I told myself the ashes weren’t really there, but I bent over the sink again and washed them off anyway.

I changed out of the suit into a pair of dark blue cargo shorts and a white polo shirt. I slipped into a pair of flip-flops and went outside again. I crossed the grounds toward the water. There, between a stand of eucalyptus and the seawall, I found the bench where Haley used to sit to watch the sunset, and over it the arbor Teru had erected with violet bougainvillea. I sat where Haley once sat. I said, “Happy birthday, baby.”

I remembered we had planned to spend that very day in Italy, on Lake Como, at a place she owned on the water, which I had not yet seen. She had loved the water. She had spoken about a powerboat she kept there—an old wooden Riva, sparkling with varnish from its torpedo stern to its plumb bow, with bright-red leather upholstery and a white Bakelite steering wheel. She had promised we would water-ski along the lake and take the Riva out into the middle around midnight every evening to drift with the engine off and lie on our backs and stargaze.

I pictured her and me alone between the Alps and Bellagio, lying on a sunpad on the stern of the motorboat, me flat on my back, her leaning on one elbow beside me tracing the hard ridges of my abdomen with a lazy fingertip. I saw her leaning down, her moonlit hair a blond curtain all around our faces, her lips touching mine, gingerly at first and then urgently, as if she had to draw me deep into herself or die trying.

The sun went down on Newport Beach. I sat in the dark awhile; then I stood up and went inside the guesthouse and sat in the dark some more.

After a while, there was a knock at the door. I got up, turned on a light, and opened the door. Teru and Simon came in. Simon had a bottle of Glenlivet in his hand.

I said, “The twenty-five?”

He said, “Of course.”

Haley had stocked nothing but the best.

I went into the kitchen and came back with three water glasses. We sat down together at the dining table. Simon removed the cork from the bottle and poured generously.

Teru lifted his glass, his Asian eyes welling up. “To her,” he said.

We drank a birthday toast.

Simon lifted his glass. “And to your recovery, sir.”

“Hear, hear,” said Teru.

We drained out glasses. Simon refilled them. We drank another glass, and then another. Then we began to talk of life and love and good and evil and all the things that matter most.

At some point in the evening, I said, “Simon, you know I was a gunnery sergeant before they demoted me.”

“Yes, sir. Miss Haley informed me of that fact.”

“Did you know gunnery sergeants don’t like to be called ‘sir’?”

“Indeed, sir?”

“It’s because we wouldn’t want to be mistaken for officers. Officers don’t usually know what they’re doing, you understand, and we always know what we’re doing. When men call us ‘sir,’ it doesn’t conform to our sense of self. It toys with our identity.”

“Am I to infer that this concern has survived your transition to civilian life?”

“You are.”

“Very good…Mr. Cutter.”

I sighed. He watched me silently. I said, “ ‘Mr. Cutter’ is my father, Simon. I don’t like him much. Besides, when you call me that, it makes me feel old.”

“What appellation would you prefer, if I might ask?”

“Why not Malcolm?”

“Oh dear.”

“You used to call me Malcolm.”

“There has been a change in circumstances, and one does hesitate to employ a Christian name when addressing one’s employer.”

“I’m not your employer.”

“I am distressed to hear it. One had hoped to be compensated for one’s services.”

“Okay, I guess I will be paying you, now that you mention it. At least until I can sort out this inheritance thing. But that doesn’t make me your employer. Not really. And even if it did, we’re not in England, Simon. Butlers don’t say ‘sir’ all the time over here.”

“Alas, I believe the practice is falling from favor even in the United Kingdom.”

“One must adapt.”

“Just so. However, one suspects certain standards should still be maintained.”

Teru looked back and forth between us, grinning.

I said, “I have standards too, you know. I have a typical American’s sense of egalitarianism. And if you keep insisting on this ‘sir’ business, then my sense of egalitarianism will require me to do the same to you. Then we would be ‘siring’ each other at every opportunity, and that would be ridiculous.”

“And yet one really does feel there would be a certain impropriety in using your Christian name. One feels quite uncomfortable at the prospect. Perhaps in the spirit of egalitarianism, as a personal favor if one may be so bold, ‘Mr. Cutter’ might be used instead?”

I sighed. “Oh, all right.”

An hour or two later, Teru said, “How much longer are you going to let us hang around?”

“Until the Scotch is gone, I guess.”

“You know what I mean.”

I nodded. “As far as I’m concerned you can stay indefinitely. It depends on who gets the property. Maybe you can work something out with them.”

“You’re really sure that’s what you want to do?”

“I already explained that. There’s no other choice. It’s too much money. People would notice. They’d find out where I got it and hate Haley for marrying me. I won’t let that happen.”

“Haley wouldn’t mind.”

I looked at Teru. “I’d mind.”

He finished off his drink, then poured himself another. He said, “How are you going to get rid of the estate without people knowing?”

“I asked that New York lawyer to handle the arrangements. Give the money to an orphan.”

“What about her other houses? You gonna sell them, too?”

“I am.”

“What about her cars? The helicopter? The jets?”

“The limo was mine already. I’ll get rid of the rest.”

“Seriously?” said Teru. “You’re seriously going to just give it all away?”

Simon interrupted. “Perhaps one should not inquire too closely about Mr. Cutter’s plans.”

Teru drew himself up a bit and said, “Sorry.”

“Look,” I said, “it’s going to be a good thing. Just today I was thinking about all the people the Salvation Army helps. Simon, you gave the sunroom furniture to them because you thought Haley would have wanted you to, right?”

“That is correct,” replied Simon. “Miss Haley often offered them support.”

I nodded, staring down into my glass. “So I was thinking…maybe the Salvation Army. For the furniture and little things like that.”

Eventually the Scotch was gone, and everything we could think to say had been said several times.

Simon stood up and said to Teru, “We should let him rest.”

“You going to be able to sleep?” Teru asked me, slurring just a little.

“I’m going to try,” I said.

“I will be in my quarters if you desire some company,” said Simon. “Please call me at any time.”

“Or we could stay with you here tonight,” said Teru. “I could take the couch.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

They walked together to the door. Simon went on out into the night, but Teru paused and looked back. He said, “About Laui Kalay. I know there’s more to the story. Something you’re not telling us.”

I stared at him.

He said, “Well? Isn’t that right?”

I couldn’t answer him, so I said nothing.

Teru smiled and said, “I knew it.” Then he walked out and closed the door.

13

I sat there at the table for a long time, thinking. Earlier in the evening, Simon had said something that reminded me of something else, which I should have already remembered. Only the fact that I might still be a little crazy could explain why it hadn’t come to mind before.

Haley had been working on an idea for a motion picture when she died. It was going to be set in Guatemala, based loosely on some of the stories I had told her of my time down there. I hadn’t been able to discuss much of that time with her, but she had been fascinated by the few details I could reveal. She believed they would make a great beginning for a screenplay. She had planned to produce and direct the film herself, and because she was Haley Lane, she had easily attached some A-list talent. The project had still been mostly in the idea phase, but it was far enough along to issue a press release. She had even mentioned it in an interview with People magazine. And she’d mentioned that the film would be set in Guatemala.

Guatemala. I thought about that for a long time, finishing the single malt, and then I went into the bedroom, stripped down to my underwear, and got in bed.

It was a funny thing. On every other night since my release from the hospital, I had welcomed the escape of sleep, but that night, even after all the Scotch, sleep wouldn’t come. I lay awake, my thoughts swinging relentlessly back and forth between memories of Haley and memories of my encounter with Castro earlier that day. I had nearly murdered the man for disrespecting her, but I knew if I had done that, nothing could have been more disrespectful to her.

I got up and went to the bookcase in the living room. I pulled a Graham Greene novel from the shelf, then got back into bed. I read the opening paragraph three times and still had no idea what it said. I put the novel on the bedside table and turned off the light.

Lying there alone in bed, I stared into the darkness and thought of Haley examining my hand on the night she had proposed to me. Stroking my hand, talking about how strong and hard it was. We were over in the mansion. She had dismissed Simon for the evening, and we were alone, drinking a very good pinot and listening to Diana Krall and cuddling on a sofa in a room lit only by the flames in the fireplace.

“Where did this one come from?” she had asked, touching the scar below my thumb.

“A jealous husband in Manila,” I said.

She giggled, then replied, “No, seriously.”

“Well, let’s see. That one was a piece of rock that got chipped off when a round hit a wall I was standing beside in Iraq.”

She pushed my shirtsleeve farther up, then touched the scar on my forearm. “And this one?”

“Same thing.”

“How about this?” She traced her finger over the short white line along my neck.

“That was a bullet in a battle in a place I can’t mention.”

“Oh, so you’re a mystery man, eh? Do you have any more?”

“I do. But they’re in other places I can’t mention.”

“Private places?”

“Very.”

“Can I see them when we’re married?”

I pulled away and looked at her. “What?”

“Marry me,” she said. “Stay with me forever.”

I touched her face. I said, “Haley…”

“Oh no,” she said. “I’m sorry. Forget I said that.”

“Haley.”

“It’s the wine talking. The fire. The music. I’m really sorry. Have I ruined things?”

“I love you.”

“I know. And that’s enough. I’m so sorry. I really am. Let’s just forget it. I don’t want to—”

“Will you shut up a minute?”

She stared at me. “Okay.”

“I wish we could get married. I’d give anything for that. And I’ll never marry anyone else, ever, for as long as I live.”

“Okay… but…?”

“But I can’t.”

“You’re not already married. Tell me you’re not married.”

“No. It’s nothing like that. It’s worse than that.”

I told her then. And of course she had already heard about the war crimes of Laui Kalay. Every American knew the details, which had been repeated by the press in horrific detail. The coldhearted desecration of the bodies in search of nearly worthless jewelry and a few gold and silver teeth. The photo opportunities, posing with the dead, draping lifeless arms over each other’s shoulders, staging sexual positions. The monstrous jokes. The horrific laughter.

Haley stared at the flames in the fireplace as I spoke, and when I was done, she continued to watch the burning wood for a while. Finally she said, “No. It isn’t possible. You didn’t do that. You had nothing to do with that.”

“I was convicted, Haley. They stripped me of my rank and put me in the stockade for six months, then kicked me out of the Marines with a dishonorable discharge.”

“All right. But tell me you didn’t do it.” She looked at me, searching my face.

The agony within her eyes was more than I could bear. I broke a vow. I said, “I did not.”

She moved against me, snuggling her cheek against my chest. She said, “Tell me the rest.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“I know, but I can’t. I’ve already said too much.”

“Why? Is it some kind of military secret?”

“No.”

She looked up at me. “But you made some kind of promise?”

It shocked me that she could get there so fast. Haley simply knew things. She wasn’t psychic; she was just that smart. But I couldn’t acknowledge it. I could only stare into the fire.

She said, “You gave your word to someone.”

I said nothing.

“And you let them do that to you, knowing you were innocent.”

I said nothing.

“And you think this is a reason not to marry me?”

“You know about my father. You know how I grew up, what everybody thought. It’s a terrible thing to live with that kind of shame. I won’t… I can’t let them say the things they’ll say about you if you marry me.”

She pressed her cheek against my chest again and stared into the flames and said, “Oh, my dear, sweet, idiotic man… how I do adore you.”

Then there was a crash. It brought me back. I might have lain awake all night, torturing myself with sweet memories of Haley except for that crash, which was the sound of breaking glass.

Sitting up in bed, I saw a red light blinking on the floor. I got out of bed and crossed the room. On the floor in the moonlight, I could just make out the shape of a brick. I knelt to look it over. I thought it must be from the planter edging outside the guesthouse. I assumed it was what had shattered the window. In the darkness beside the brick was a blinking, red light. I went back across the room and switched on the overhead lights. The floor was littered with shards of glass, and I was bare-footed, but that wasn’t important. I quickly went back to kneel beside the bomb.

It took about one second too long for me to realize someone had attached a digital timer and a booster battery to a blasting cap, which was inserted into a small block of C-4, just about enough to level the guesthouse. It took one more second to realize I didn’t have enough time to do anything about it. I didn’t even have time to throw it back out through the window. I knelt there watching the red numbers as the timer counted 2, and then 1, and then I closed my eyes to die.