Jason Frost - Warlord 05 - Terminal Island (18 page)

Eric’s wrists bled from the chafing of the handcuffs. There were ways to slip out of handcuffs, dislocating your thumb then easing the hand through. But Bao Nhu knew those methods too and had tightened the handcuffs so that Eric’s wrists swelled until the hands turned plump and blue.

As they walked through the woods and fields, Eric could almost feel them getting closer to Fallows. The others seemed to tense up, walk more carefully, more like formal soldiers. Even Bao Nhu.

General Bao Nhu had been one of Vietnam’s highest ranking military leaders as well as one of its most successful drug traders. He had used unknowing Vietnamese soldiers to transport the drugs through the jungle. Fallows had used the dead bodies of American soldiers being shipped back home to hide the drugs. The corpses had been cut open, plastic bags of white powder had been stuffed inside, and the bodies had been sewn up again.

Some of this came out at Fallows’ trial when Eric had turned him in for the slaughter of the civilian villagers. Fallows had gone to prison. Despite Eric’s testimony, General Bao Nhu’s name never appeared on any transcripts of the trial.

“Quite a step down, General,” Eric said. “Doing recon work for Fallows.”

Bao Nhu shrugged. “One must change with the times, Eric. I am no longer a general. After the fall of Saigon, your government relocated me to San Diego. I had a beer distributorship. Very lucrative.”

“Still grabbing all the gusto you can, huh?”

Nhu smiled. “Eric, this is not personal with me. It is only business. The world changed in Vietnam and I had to adapt. Now the world has changed in California and again I have had to adapt. Fallows offers the greatest opportunities for profit.”

“Just like ’Nam.”

“Yes. Like Vietnam.” Nhu smoothed his thin moustache with his thumb. “Don’t you ever miss it, Eric? The Vietnam you knew.”

“This is Vietnam,” Eric said.

Nhu thought about that a moment, then laughed. “Quite right, Eric. This is Vietnam, only the faces have changed.”

“Camp!” one of Nhu’s men said, pointing.

On top of a slight hill overlooking the demolished city of San Diego, was Fallows’ camp. Scrub brush stretched down the hill toward the freeway and city. Behind the camp stood a couple of acres of woods. From where he stood, Eric could see the familiar formation of tents, set up just as they had been fifteen years ago half a world away.

In that camp was Fallows and Tim. Finally things would be settled, one way or the other.

Suddenly Eric felt a hard kick to his kidney, the force of the blow propelling him forward to his knees. He sucked in air to keep from vomiting.

Nhu walked around in front of him. He grabbed a handful of Eric’s hair and jerked his head backward. “That, my friend Eric, is to remind you that I will be watching you. Again, this is business, not personal. In Vietnam you did what you had to and turned him in. I understand. In fact, I was able to get a new partner from the CIA and at a much more reasonable split. But now Fallows is the most powerful man around and that makes him valuable to me. Do not try anything in camp. If Fallows does not kill you, certainly I will. Understand?”

Eric nodded.

Nhu hauled Eric to his feet. “Good. Now, let’s have that army reunion.”

“Welcome home, Eric,” Fallows smiled. The morning sun glowed behind the Halo, casting an orange tint on Fallows’ white hair. It made his hair look as if it were on fire. Fallows’ smile looked genuine, and in some perverse way, Eric realized that Fallows really was glad to see him. Not just to kill him, which he would undoubtedly soon do, but out of that strange affection that had made him think Eric would be a part of his activities in ’Nam.

Even stranger, for a brief moment, as quick as a camera flash, Eric was glad to see Fallows. Yes, the hate was still there, but it was for a familiar enemy, one he had reason to hate. So much of Eric’s fighting lately had been with the faceless, nameless animals that attacked for no good reason. The graverobbers and cannibals and highwaymen who became mortal enemies because they wanted your shoelaces.

At least with Fallows, there was cause.

Eric appreciated the simple logic of that.

Fallows fingered the name stitched over Eric’s breast pocket. “I see you found Driscol. I never thought I’d see the day Eric Ravensmith robbed graves.”

“Where’s Timmy?” Eric asked.

“Timmy?” Fallows looked confused. “Oh, you mean Tim. He’s much too much the man now for such a baby name, Eric. Wouldn’t you agree, General?”

General Bao Nhu shrugged. “This is a game between you two. I will not become involved.”

Fallows’ smile broadened. “The general does not appreciate what I have been doing here. Sweeping through the state, campaigning, you might say, letting people know who I am. It’ll make it so much easier when I take over the place. What did Willie Shakespeare say? ‘Whenever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,/His honor and the greatness of his name/Shall be, and make new nations.’ ”

Eric looked around the camp at the dozens of armed and grim mercenaries. “ ‘Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues/We write in water.’ ” He stared at Fallows. “Or as the Beatles said, ‘Obladee Obladah, life goes on.’ ”

Fallows laughed heartily, his head thrown back and his lips unsheathing long teeth. “I should have known better than to match quotes with you, Eric. Even back in ’Nam when the rest of us were stacking whores in Saigon, you were out with some ambassador’s daughter talking about books. Though my spies told me you did more than talk.” He winked lewdly at Eric.

“Where’s Tim?”

Fallows’ smile evaporated. He reached out one powerful hand and clamped it on Eric’s jaw, twisting his face to the side to reveal Eric’s scar. “I see you still have the little beauty mark I left you.” With his free hand he pulled out his knife, the black blade glistening with oil. He laid the blade against the long white scar. “Perhaps I should remove it for you. A gesture of remorse. I could just scrape it off. Like shaving.” He scraped the blade against Eric’s cheek until it bumped into the raised mound of scar tissue. He started slicing into it as blood seeped out from under the rubbery white line. Fallows withdrew his knife. “Manners, Eric. Watch your tone with me.”

Eric said nothing. He felt the warm blood drip slowly down his cheek. A few drops clung to the scar, following it along the jaw and down the neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. Eric kept studying the campsite, looking for some sign of Tim. Where was he?

Fallows turned to Nhu. “What about the two men?”

“The Russians?” Eric said.

Fallows looked at Eric, surprised. “You know? Of course. How did you discover them?”

“I asked them who won the 1928 World Series and what was Lana Turner’s bra size.”

Fallows laughed.

Nhu interrupted. “We killed the other, the black one, as you ordered.”

“Good.”

“The admiral will be upset.”

“Tough shit. He knew my conditions when he hired me.” Fallows glanced over at Eric. “But let’s not confuse my pal Eric. He’s probably wondering what’s going on. Or have you figured it out already?”

Eric shook his head. “I don’t care, Fallows. I only came for Tim.”

“All you had to do was ask, Eric me boy.” Fallows cupped his hands around his mouth. “Tim. Come on out. You have a visitor.”

Eric followed Fallows’ eyes to one of the tents. Nothing. No movement.

“It’s all right, Tim,” Fallows said, grinning at Eric. “He won’t hurt you. I’m here.”

“Tiiimmm!” Eric shouted.

The flap of the tent opened.

Tim stepped out.

Eric was shocked at the change. His lips moved as if forming words, but no sound came out. He could only watch as this boy, only vaguely resembling his son, approached.

In size alone, Tim was different. He had grown even more than the last time Eric had seen him, standing now close to six feet. Eric had been that tall at thirteen, towering above many of his fellow students, but he hadn’t grown any after that. Big Bill had played him as center on the tribal basketball team, lying that Eric was Hopi. Two years later, many of the boys Eric had stood above, now were taller than he. Six feet wasn’t that tall anymore.

But it wasn’t only height that distinguished Tim. Through his tight green t-shirt, Eric could see the bulge and hard lines of chiseled muscles. Tim’s chest was broad, his waist narrow, his arms bunched with muscles. He looked formidable.

The worst shock was the face. Gone was the smooth child’s face, quick to laughter and impish even in sleep. This was the face of a much older boy, sallow and creased with deep lines of concentration and seriousness. It was the face of someone who had not laughed in almost a year.

The hair was odd, cut short on the top, but long and straight at the back and sides, hanging down to his shoulders. The total effect made Tim look eighteen or older. Not a boyish eighteen; a tough, hard eighteen. Not interested in borrowing Dad’s car or dating the cheerleader, but intent on breaking the arm of the guy who cut him off on the freeway.

Eric could see the tiny scars on his face and arms, recognized the knife cuts, cigarette burns that signatured Fallows’ conditioning style. Eric’s heart squeezed like a fist at his son’s pain. Tears blossomed in each eye, but he fought them back. They wouldn’t help.

Perhaps the most shocking sight of all to Eric, was the gun on Tim’s belt. The Walther P.5 holstered within easy reach.

“Your troubles are over, Tim,” Fallows said flatly. “Look who’s come to save you.”

Tim just stared for a moment, studying Eric as if he’d never seen him before. Then he did something that chilled Eric, that made his legs go limp and his stomach revolt in spasms of pain.

Tim smiled.

Not the smile of joy or pleasure with the wrinkles that bunched under his eyes just like Annie’s smile. But the hungry, smug smile of the lizard who has cornered the beetle and wants to watch him scuttle in terror a few seconds before biting him in half.

Fallows’ smile.

“What did you expect?” Fallows laughed. “ ‘Say, Wally, have you seen the Beaver?’ ‘Gosh no, Dad.’ That sort of thing?”

Eric didn’t reply. He stared at Tim, probing his son with his eyes, hoping to find that light in them that had been Tim’s alone. But the eyes that stared blankly back were flat and opaque. As if a thin membrane covered them, like that of certain amphibians.

“We’ve been doing a little celebrating around here, Eric. Seems Tim here killed his first man last night. Oh yes, quite a fight too. Knives and booze. All that was missing was a loose woman.” He winked at Tim. “That comes next, eh Tim?”

“Why are you here?” Tim said to Eric. The voice was slow and hesitant, deeper than before.

“I told you,” Fallows said. “He’s here to rescue you. Take you away from all this.”

A few of Fallows’ soldiers guffawed and snorted.

“Timmy,” Eric said.

“Yes, Tim, listen to your father,” Fallows said. “He wants to be your protector again, your daddy. After all, he did such a swell job the first time around. If you don’t count your dead mother and sister. And you.”

“This man is the man who killed them, Tim,” Eric said. But he knew it was no use trying to reason. Fallows had twisted Tim’s thinking through physical abuse as thoroughly as a religious cult leader. Combine that with the confusion of emotions after recently killing a man, and there was no getting through. He was still on that manic high from taking another life. Inside his mind was fighting the guilt the way the body fights a transplanted heart. He was feeling elation, disgust, and most of all, power. Eric remembered the pattern well. The first time he had killed a man, Fallows had been there too.