The Drifter (3 page)

S
he sat him down at the big kitchen table, where the static prickled at the base of his brain. Peter took long, slow breaths. His knee bounced to the time of his internal metronome. In a few minutes his shoulders would start to get tight.

Dinah set her large canvas handbag on a wooden chair, then went deeper into the house to hang up her coat and check on her boys. The bag was big enough to carry a complete change of clothes, including shoes. Maybe two or three pairs of shoes.

He heard the front door open, then her sharp intake of air. And the growl of the ugly dog at the far end of its rope.

She came back into the kitchen. “Lieutenant Ash.” She raised her eyebrows in an expression that was half surprise and half reproach. “You’re doing more than a few repairs. My porch is gone.”

She didn’t comment on the dog.

“Please, call me Peter,” he said. “And yes, I took some liberties. But once I started to take it apart, I could tell it wasn’t safe. Don’t worry, I’ll have it together again tomorrow or the day after. And it’s all on the U.S. Marine Corps.”

Peter had seen her picture in Iraq, Dinah with the two boys.
Jimmy carried it in his shirt pocket on every mission. Said they were his good-luck charm.

He’d clutched it tight waiting for the medevac, eyes locked on the faces of his family while the corpsman was putting the tourniquet on his leg. “I’m such a lucky bastard,” he said, his grin widening as the morphine kicked in. “You got to come visit when you get stateside.”

Peter had gone to the mountains instead.

—

In the picture with her kids, Dinah had seemed fragile, like fine china kept high on a shelf.

In person, she was anything but.

He knew she was an ER nurse, so he was expecting the air of calm competence. But he wasn’t prepared for how the green hospital scrubs showed her shape, or the way she carried herself, fluid, capable motion with her head held high, her back straight as an iron rod.

And the picture definitely hadn’t captured her eyes.

They were the pale blue of deep glacier ice, and filled with knowledge and sadness. And no small amount of concern.

Dinah Johnson clearly hadn’t made up her mind about him quite yet.

Jimmy came home damaged in body and soul. Peter hadn’t done a very good job taking care of Jimmy over there, and he’d never come to visit when he got stateside. Jimmy had recovered from his physical injuries, after multiple surgeries and months of physical therapy. But his other injuries, the ones not visible to the eye, must have been beyond healing.

Less than a month ago, Jimmy had killed himself.

The least Peter could do was fix the porch on Jimmy’s house.

Even if he had to lie to Jimmy’s widow to do it.

—

He’d called her from Manny’s house, less than a week after he’d heard the news. He wanted to help.

If he was honest with himself, he’d say he
needed
to help.

So he invented a Marine Corps program that provided free home repairs for the families of veterans. Dinah was the only client, and funding came from Peter’s back pay.

From Jimmy’s description of the house, there would be no shortage of projects.

And from Jimmy’s description of his wife, Peter knew Dinah wouldn’t take the help unless he showed up at her doorstep and got to work.

Peter had known women like her all his life. Women who worked long, hard days. Women for whom, even when there was no extra money, even with bills left unpaid, charity was what you did for others.

For yourself, you worked harder. You made do.

But maybe he was wrong. There were new facts to be considered.

A suitcase full of money, for example.

He wouldn’t mention the four pale plastic-wrapped rectangles. For the moment, he’d tucked them under the seat of his truck.

Peter hadn’t quite made up his mind about Dinah Johnson, either.

—

When she returned to the kitchen and began to rummage in the cabinets, Peter picked up the little suitcase and set it on the table.
The static was rising, and he could feel the muscles starting to clamp up in his shoulders. He didn’t know how much time he had before he’d need to go back outside.

“I found this under the porch,” he said. “It might have some use left, if you want it. Or maybe you know someone who wants it.”

She swiveled the suitcase this way and that, half smiling. “I can scrub that mildew right off.” She turned to Peter, her face open and curious. “How is it on the inside?”

Nobody could be that good a liar.

She’d never seen that suitcase before in her life.

“You’ll never believe it,” said Peter.

Dinah popped the latch and her eyes grew wide. The hundred-dollar bills were crisp and new. She covered her mouth with her hand. Then reached out and slammed the lid shut. Glaring at Peter, she said, “You take that out of here right now.”

That wasn’t what Peter had expected.

“You’re telling me this isn’t your money?” he said.

Hands on her hips, she glared at him. “Lieutenant, do you think my home would be in this condition if it was? You think I’d keep
that
in a suitcase under my porch?”

“Maybe you’re holding it for somebody,” said Peter.

She shook her head, those clear blue eyes locked on his face. “No.”

“You know whose it is?”

“No,” she said again, but her eyes went sliding off to the side. “I haven’t the slightest idea.” Abruptly she stood up and began to take things out of the refrigerator. “I really haven’t.”

She hadn’t been lying before, about not having seen the suitcase.

But she was definitely lying now.

—

She stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled wonderful. Peter’s shoulders were clamping up in the small kitchen, sweat beginning to pop on the back of his neck. The fact that three dark doorways opened to unseen parts of the house didn’t help. The static turning into sparks. His breath felt trapped in his chest.

This was Jimmy’s house, he told himself, breathing deep. Jimmy’s kitchen. The long, slow breaths helped stall the static as he watched Dinah’s graceful dance from fridge to sink to stove, and it calmed him. Bought him a few minutes, anyway.

He said, “You could do a lot of good with that money, ma’am.”

She wore her dark hair short and simple. No makeup that he could see. But there was something formal about her, a guarded perimeter that did not invite intimacy. Maybe it was her grief. Maybe it was something else. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to call her Dinah.

She didn’t call him Peter, either.

“Lieutenant Ash, I don’t want that money. And I don’t wish to talk about it. Have you eaten supper?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Please let me feed you before you go,” she said. “I don’t keep alcohol in the house, but would you care for a glass of milk?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

He didn’t mention the four plastic-wrapped rectangles under the seat of his truck.

She set down a tall glass of milk and a big china plate loaded with eggs scrambled with onions and peppers and cheese, buttered wheat toast and spicy refried beans on the side, then carried out two more loaded plates to the bedroom for Charlie and Miles. The smell of the food was like a drug. The static subsided, just a little.

She served herself and sat at the table.

“This was James’s favorite meal. I hope you like it. I made it every Sunday night when we first got married. When he was home on leave, he wanted it every day for a week. That man surely could eat.”

Peter took a bite of the eggs. They were rich and spicy. He took another bite, with some of the beans on the fork, too. It was easy to see why this would be anybody’s favorite meal. “It’s delicious,” he said. “Thank you.”

But Dinah hadn’t taken a bite yet. She said, “Tell me something I don’t know about my husband.”

Peter set down his fork and thought for a minute. “He was good at his job—”

“You mean killing people.” Her stare was bleak.

“No, ma’am,” said Peter softly.

The static crackled and climbed, distracting him. He cleared his throat.

“Jimmy was a very good Marine. When there was fighting, you were glad he was there. But for Jimmy, that wasn’t a sergeant’s real job. His real job was to understand the men he commanded. To protect them. To keep everybody alive while they did their job. He was my second in command for two long deployments. I only knew him for a few years, but he was my best friend in the Corps.” He blinked. “In the world.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “James and I didn’t talk about the war after he came home. Maybe he was afraid of what I would think of him. He joined up after Nine-Eleven, to fight the Taliban. He wanted to defend our country. But he ended up in Iraq, fighting the wrong war.”

She looked at Peter. “Maybe you don’t agree with that,” she said. “But he loved the men he worked with. He talked about
returning to school so he could get a job at the VA. He wanted to help his men after they got home, too.”

“He would have been good at it,” said Peter. “He was smart. And Jimmy—well, you know what a big guy he was, and with body armor, a helmet and an M4, he was huge. He was intimidating as hell, is what he was.”

Peter stared into the darkness, remembering.

“Until he smiled. When he cracked that wide, goofy smile at a checkpoint or a neighborhood meeting, everybody else would smile, too. The civilians, the soldiers. Hell, the whole Mahdi Army. That smile was contagious. You just knew, seeing it, that he would be a good friend if you let him. Everybody liked him. Which made all of us safer. The platoon. The civilians. The women and children down the street.”

Peter looked over at Dinah Johnson. She sat very still in her green hospital scrubs, her back straight and proud, her untouched plate steaming on the table, while the tears slid slowly down her cheeks.

After a moment she stood and went to fill the coffeemaker.

Peter finished his meal while the static rose and the room got smaller and his chest felt like it was wrapped in steel bands.

—

She came over with two white china mugs and the coffeepot. “Do you take cream or sugar?”

Then she looked at him. Her eyes on his face, his posture. The way he twitched in his chair.

“Did I say something?”

“It’s nothing.” He shook his head, and the simple motion made his vision blur, just for a moment. It was like sparks were coming
out of his ears. Part of him was surprised they didn’t light up the room. “I should go.” He stood and took his jacket off the chairback and walked to the door.

“Lieutenant? Is something the matter?”

He opened the ruined door and walked down the steps as the cool night air washed over him. The stars were dim in the ambient light of the city, but still they shone overhead. His shoulders dropped and his chest began to open.

She watched him from the doorway for a long moment. Peter was ready to leave when she said, “Stay right there.”

She disappeared inside, but left the door open. Peter took deep breaths.

When she returned, she wore her long wool coat and carried the two mugs steaming in the night air. “It’s decaf,” she said.

She sat on the steps, her mug on her knee. Peter stood in the yard, listening to the wind in the trees, feeling his breath come more easily.

“Thank you,” he said.

For the food, for the kindness. For not asking questions.

“You’re welcome.” She lifted her mug. “Drink up before it gets cold.”

They drank their coffee in silence.

“Listen,” Peter finally said. “About that suitcase.”

“No.” She shook her head sharply. “Take it with you, or give it away. I don’t care what you do with it. But I don’t want it in this house.”

Peter nodded. “I understand that,” he said. “But what happens if the person who left it under your porch comes back for it?”

He didn’t mention the plastic-wrapped rectangles.

He didn’t want to worry her more than she already was.

She watched the steam rise from her cup. Peter could see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She was the kind of person who wore her thoughts on her face, if you paid attention.

He said, “If that person sees the porch has been fixed, won’t he wonder about his money? And won’t you want to have it here, to return to him?”

She warmed her hands on her mug and took a sip before looking up at him. The pale blue of her eyes was startling.

“It must have been James’s money,” she said. “I can’t think of how else it might have gotten there.” She shook her head, looking down at her coffee. “That’s not honest money. All those crisp, new hundred-dollar bills.”

If it truly was Jimmy’s money. But Jimmy was the most honest man Peter had ever met.

He said, “So I should turn it over to the police?”

Dinah didn’t say anything.

“Why shouldn’t that money be yours?” said Peter. “Think of it like winning the lottery. Pay off your house. Pay for college for your boys. Save the rest for a rainy day.”

“No,” she said. She took a breath and let it out. “It would be noticed.”

Peter felt the muscles bunch involuntarily in his arms and shoulders.

Now he understood why someone had broken into her house. The thieves hadn’t found what they were looking for. But maybe they were still looking.

He said, “Is someone watching the house?”

“Leave the money here tonight,” she said. “I believe I know where it came from. Tomorrow we’ll go make certain.”

“Dinah, wait.”

She stood with her coffee and stepped up to the badly repaired doorway. “I work an early shift tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll be home about three. We’ll go then.”

The skin around her eyes was tight, the wide and generous mouth set hard, but she stood tall and proud. No, there was nothing fragile about her. She was a military wife, a strong mother of boys. A queen in green hospital scrubs. Jimmy always said he was a lucky man.

She said, “Thank you for all your work today. It will be so nice when I can have my morning coffee on the front porch.”

Peter could take a hint.

He also could tell a lost cause when he saw one. He turned to go.