More Deaths Than One (11 page)

He nodded. “It’s definitely your color.”

She held out the skirt and frowned at it.
“You’re sure? I never much liked pink. Too little-girlish.”

He smiled at her. “Believe me, you do not
look like a little girl.”

She put her hands on her hips and stared at
him as if waiting for something more.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you. You look nice, too, but I wish I
could have talked you into buying something dressier than those
navy slacks and that pin-striped shirt.”

“I don’t wear suits, and I definitely don’t
wear ties. Shall we go?”

***

Kerry immediately took to the Mulligans and
they to her. She chatted with them about her family back in
Chalcedony: fiery-tempered mother, easy-going father, staid
brothers—one older, one younger—both married with children. All
lived on the family acreage, which included hayfields, apple
orchards, and pastures for horses, cows, goats, and llamas.

During a lull in the conversation, Beth fixed
her with a challenging stare that reminded Bob of the way Kerry
sometimes looked at him.

“Jimmy says girls can’t like toads.”

“Why not? I like toads. I think they’re cute.
Back home, we have a great big toad living in our garden. Whenever
I’d go out and water the flowers, he’d turn his back on me like a
little kid who thinks if he can’t see you, you can’t see him.”

Beth threw a triumphant glance at Jimmy, who
shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly.

“Sometimes after a heavy rainstorm in the
spring,” Kerry continued, smiling at both children, “there would be
so many baby toads hopping around you could reach out and catch
them.”

“What did you do once you caught them?” Jimmy
asked.

“Let them go, of course. I suppose it’s silly
of me since I’m from a ranching family, but I don’t believe we have
the right to deny any creature its freedom. Especially wild
animals. I once had an or-phaned baby cougar. I loved her, but when
she didn’t need me to feed her anymore, I let her go. She came back
every day at first, but the periods between her visits grew longer
and longer, until one day she didn’t come back at all. I miss her,
but I like to think of her out there somewhere, wild and free.”

Beth scooted over on the couch until she sat
next to Kerry. “What other pets did you have?”

“A baby llama, a raccoon, rabbits, lots of
cats. I even had a prairie dog once. I called him Speck. When I
came home from school, he’d run to the door and greet me with a
happy little jump. My mother wasn’t too thrilled with the way he
kept digging holes in the sofa.”

“Do you like video games?” Jimmy asked.

Kerry nodded.

“Do you want to come play?”

When Beth jumped up and took her by the hand,
Kerry gave Bob, Rose, and Scott an apologetic glance, and let
herself be towed out of the room.

“Your girl is delightful,” Rose said.

The corners of Bob’s mouth twitched. “Believe
me, she’s no one’s girl but her own.”

Rose excused herself and went to see about
dinner.

Scott leaned forward. “I heard from my Lurp
friends today.”

Bob tried to keep his voice casual. “What did
you find out?”

Scott handed him a small piece of paper
containing an address. “They followed the green Ford to this place
out in Broomfield—the corporate headquarters for ISI, Information
Services Incorp-orated.”

“I’ve come across the name,” Bob said, barely
able to hear himself over the beating of his heart, “but I don’t
know who they are.”

“According to my friends, they’re a closely
held corporation, which means they do not fall under the
jurisdiction of the SEC since they are not listed on the stock
exchange. The stock is held by interlocking private trusts, so
actual ownership of the corporation is shrouded in mystery and
legal language. Ostensibly, they set up security systems for major
corporations, and their research division awards grants to
colleges, universities, private laboratories, and even individuals.
They also seem to have a strong link to the intelligence
community—they’re supposedly involved in a lot of black ops stuff.
In fact, many ex-CIA, ex-FBI, and ex-DEA agents work for them.
That’s all my Lurp friends found out.”

Bob stared at him, his mind blank.

“They appreciated the challenge,” Scott said.
“When they saw they were dealing with a major corporation, not a
couple of small timers, they got curious and did some digging.” He
gave Bob a level look. “If you tell me what trouble you’re in,
maybe I can help.”

“I wish I knew.” He thought about Herbert
Townsend and the way the two of them seemed to connect. Like the
veterans whose experiences in Vietnam had made them identifiable to
one another, did both he and Herbert have ISI’s name clearly
stamped on their foreheads?

Then, recalling the concentration of U.S.
government agents in northern Thailand because of the drug trade,
he wondered if perhaps Kerry was right after all, and they had
somehow gotten wind of Hsiang-li’s gold Buddha.

Feeling Scott’s eyes on him, he stirred. “How
much do I owe your friends?” When Scott named an amount that seemed
too small, Bob added a bonus. “For the extra work,” he
explained.

Scott pocketed the money. “They said to let
them know if they could do anything else for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rose appeared in the doorway. “Dinner’s
ready.”

***

When the lasagna, garlic bread, and salad had
been mostly consumed and Bob and Kerry’s wine bottle emptied, Kerry
glanced from Bob to Scott.

“How did you two meet?”

Bob and Scott busied themselves with the
remains of their dinner, but out of the corner of Bob’s eye he
could see Rose and Kerry exchanging looks.

Rose shrugged. “I don’t know what the big
secret is. They met at a Vietnam veteran support group.”

“My dad was a CO in the war,” Beth said
proudly.

Bob shot a questioning glance at Scott. “A
commanding officer?”

Scott snorted. “Not hardly. I registered as a
con-scientious objector.”

“He got sent into combat,” Rose said. “Can
you believe that?”

Bob drew back. “Combat? A lot of
conscientious objectors, including Quakers have served in the
military, but they were usually given duties like medic or clerk. I
never heard of any being sent into combat.”

Scott shrugged. “Well, they sent me. I don’t
know if it was a mistake or someone’s idea of a sick joke.”

“Dad wouldn’t fire his weapon,” Jimmy said.
“He believes killing for any reason is wrong.”

“He won’t even kill bugs or spiders,” Beth
added.

Kerry laid aside her fork. “It must have been
terrible.”

Rose nodded. “They assigned him jobs of a
particularly filthy or menial nature, like permanent latrine duty,
trench digging, and retrieval of dead bodies.”

“Someone had to do it,” Scott said.

“I know, but they didn’t have to harass you
the way they did.”

“They thought I was a coward, hiding behind
my religious beliefs to get out of combat duty.” He sighed. “Maybe
I was.”

“No you weren’t,” Rose said fiercely. “It
took a lot of courage to maintain your dignity in the face of their
hatred. And you always had to dodge bullets and skirt explosions on
your way to rescue injured men.”

She turned to Kerry. “During combat he had to
get the wounded out of the line of fire and to help the medic care
for them.”

Kerry’s eyes widened. “I can’t even begin to
comprehend the strength it must have taken to survive not only a
combat zone, but the torment of one’s own countrymen.”

“I had my faith to sustain me,” Scott
said.

Beth shuddered. “They shot my dad.”

“The bullet gouged a furrow on my thigh, a
flesh wound.” Scott smiled. “In the movies they always say, ‘It’s
just a flesh wound,’ as if it’s nothing, but mine hurt like the
dickens. They wouldn’t give me many painkillers, either. One nurse
pompously told me they didn’t want us wounded soldiers getting
addicted so they cut back, but another nurse whispered that the
hospital workers had used the drugs themselves for fun. They must
have received new supplies, because I didn’t notice much after
those first few days—they kept me doped—but I do remember being
transferred to a hospital in the Philippines.”

“Can you believe they sent him back to
Vietnam after that?” Rose said. “It makes me furious thinking about
it.”

Scott reached across the table and grasped
her hand. “When I got back, my sergeant said to me, ‘Now that you
know being a conscientious objector doesn’t keep you from getting
wounded or even killed, are you ready to do your duty as a combat
soldier?’ ‘I have no control over the actions of other people,’ I
told him. ‘If the VC choose to shoot me, there’s not much I can do
about it. The only choice I have is whether or not to shoot them,
and I will not kill anyone.’ He glared at me and ordered me to get
out of his sight and to keep out of his sight, because I disgraced
the U.S. Army.”

Scott kept silent for a time while his family
gazed sympathetically at him. Bob watched them, thinking the man
had more than his faith to sustain him.

Scott drew in a breath. “Everyone still
treated me the same until after the next engagement. We were under
heavy fire, and many of our guys got wounded. I kept busy hauling
injured men away from the front line. Afterwards, the sergeant came
to me and said, ‘Glad to see you finally got some balls.’ The
others guys stopped ostracizing me as if by getting shot I had
passed some sort of test, like an initiation, but sometimes I could
hear them snickering at me behind my back.”

“Do you think maybe you changed?” Kerry
asked.

“No. Well, in little ways, of course. I
became more self-confident, knowing I had never wavered in my
beliefs even though my faith had been severely tested, and
occasionally I have nightmares that make me sick to my stomach, but
for the most part I’m the same as always.”

Kerry pushed aside her plate, folded her arms
on the table, and gave him an intent look. “What kind of
nightmares?”

Scott fidgeted for a few seconds as if
getting ready to speak, but didn’t answer.

“The reason I ask,” she said, “is that Bob
has nightmares, too, and I wondered if yours are anything like
his.”

Her gaze met Bob’s across the table. He broke
contact first.

“I’ve met lots of Vietnam veterans,” she
said, “and so many seem to have an underlying sadness.” She looked
from Scott to Bob. “Do you have these sadnesses too?”

Bob blew out a breath. “No. I was a supply
clerk. I never had to fire a weapon at another person, or have one
fired at me. I never had to watch a buddy die.”

“Yet you have nightmares. I hear you
thrashing around at night, and sometimes you call out.”

“I see things in my dreams,” he said quietly.
“Things I cannot explain.”

“Besides the jungle, you mean?”

He glanced around the table. The Mulligans
focused their attention on him, and he squirmed.

“What kind of things do you see?” Kerry
asked.

Bob shook his head, but found himself
responding to her question. “Surreal images of war. Sometimes the
scenes are strobic, coming and going so quickly I don’t get a good
look at them. Other times they are kaleidoscopic, a continuous
stream of fluctuating forms I can’t clearly define.” He nodded at
Scott. “That’s why I couldn’t stay at the meeting the other day.
Since I never saw combat, these dreams can’t have anything to do
with me. I must be receptive to other men’s stories.”

Kerry turned to Scott. “What about your
nightmares?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Jimmy said. “You always say
we can do anything.”

Rose gazed at Scott with anxious eyes. “Maybe
you should tell her, dear. You have always refused to talk about
your nightmares, even to us, but perhaps it’s time.”

“Go ahead, Dad,” Beth chimed in. “You can
tell Kerry.”

“But what if you find out my life is a lie?”
Scott asked his wife. “What if you find out I’m an evil
person?”

Rose looked at him in astonishment. “Evil?
You?”

“In my dreams I am.”

“But those are only dreams.”

Scott held her gaze. After a moment he spoke
in a voice so low Bob could barely make out his words. “In one of
my dreams, the VC is firing on us. I see a man down. He’s hurt
badly and is trying to crawl away. I go to help him, but before I
drag him to safety, I take his M-16 from him. I don’t know why. I
just do it. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, I
shoot the VC. I see blood spurting out of the men I shoot, and I
hear their screams, but I keep shooting. When the rifle is empty, I
return the weapon to the injured soldier, who is staring at me as
if he can’t believe what he saw. He laughs, and I awaken with the
sound of his laughter still echoing in my ears.

“All the dreams I have are similar to that
one, but they involve different firefights and different men, as if
I killed many times.

“I don’t know what these dreams mean. I don’t
know why I dream them. But the idea that I murdered people, even if
only in my dreams, makes me so sick I have to vomit. Sometimes
after I’ve thrown up I feel as if I’ve gotten rid of the evil, but
other times I feel as if the evil is a permanent part of me, and I
wonder if somehow I did do those things.”

He looked at Bob with sad, sad eyes. “But it
is only a dream, right?”

“Of course,” Bob said.

“And you’re not responsible for what you
dream,” Kerry added.

The Mulligans gathered around Scott, hugging
each other and crying. Kerry caught Bob’s attention and tilted her
head toward the door. He nodded to show he understood.

Trying to make as little noise as possible,
they arose and let themselves out of the house.