The Gamma Option (3 page)

“Blainey?” Wareagle responded, turning so Blaine could see his tanned, leathery face that had remained unchanged for the nearly twenty years they’d known each other. They had served together in the same covert division in Vietnam, Johnny a lieutenant to Blaine’s captain. If McCracken’s exploits were legendary, then Wareagle’s were the source of myth. He could charge into a minefield or weave through a firefight without fear, because death, he claimed, was something that stared you down before it took you. And your best chance to avoid it was to stare right back.

“I just got to thinking that with all the shit we’ve been through together, I don’t even know how old you are.”

Wareagle moved sideways to lift a boiling kettle from an open flame and poured the water into a pair of mugs that held his homemade tea. “As old as the last season and as young as the next.”

“I mean in years, Indian.”

“Blainey, a man’s years vary like his thoughts. We are here from birth to the end of our chartered time, and what passes between is measured in whatever terms we choose.”

“You’re talking to a man who recently turned forty.”

“A man who did not drive all the way up here to celebrate.”

Wareagle finished stirring the cups and brought Blaine’s over to him where he sat in the high wooden chair. McCracken felt himself swallowed by the size of the furnishings. Everything in the cabin, from the height of the ceilings to the furniture, had been built with Johnny’s seven-foot proportions in mind. Blaine took the cup and sipped its steaming contents. He could taste the sweetness of the molasses and honey and felt somehow soothed.

“I got a belated birthday gift a few hours ago. Thirteen years belated.”

Wareagle sat down opposite him and leaned back so his ponytail of coal black hair flopped over the chair’s top. He said nothing.

“I’ve got a son, Johnny. He’s twelve years old, his mother’s dead, he’s at a school over in England, and he doesn’t even know I exist.” Blaine’s words came in a rush, as if hurrying the tale might make it easier to tell.

Wareagle just sat there across from him. Beyond the windows, dawn had come and gone, but the promise of the day was gray and overcast.

“I don’t know what to do. I can’t even think about it ’cause it scares me.” Blaine forced a laugh. “Listen to this. Look at what we’ve been through, all we’ve done. After that, is this what it takes to scare me?”

“The unknown holds the most terrifying prospects for us all, Blainey.”

“You know what I mean, Indian.”

“As well as the problem facing you: either you go to England or you don’t.”

“Reduced to bare terms, that says it all.”

“All life can be reduced to such terms, Blainey. We complicate our existences by creating additional choices that merely confuse our decisions. You speak of all we have accomplished and so often together. In those situations life stripped us of all choices and left us only with actions. We thrived because the thinking was spared us. We could heed the words of the spirits because nothing was in our heads to get in their way.” Wareagle eased his chair a bit closer to McCracken’s. “We faced physical complications with immediacy and relentlessness in the hellfire. That is what kept us alive. Moral complications must be treated the same.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask one.”

“Then let me make it as uncomplicated as I can: do I walk into the boy’s life or stay out of it?”

The Indian leaned back and sipped his tea. “What was I doing when you arrived?”

“Chopping wood outside.”

“For when?”

“Winter.”

“And now May is barely upon us. Preparing for what lies ahead is the essence of all life. Preparation holds the greatest opportunity for avoiding complications. But what if the seasons reversed themselves? What if winter began tomorrow? Then my pile of wood would be woefully inadequate. Would I freeze?”

“You’d find a way not to. You’d survive.”

“Even with the vital preparation unfinished?”

“The first cold wind would be your warning. Snow in May would give you a pretty good notion things were fucked up big time.”

“And what would I do?”

“Bring the wood inside, make sure it stayed dry, chop as much as you could, and stack it right here in the living room. Conserve whatever you had until you were sure you had enough.”

“And are emotions any different, Blainey? Must we not conserve and adapt them as well to the change of emotional seasons the spirits bring upon us without warning? We survived the hell-fire because we expected whatever might come. Preparation helped, but keeping our minds open is what saved us. We responded to the moment, not the hour, and we never closed our eyes to what was before us in the hope it would go away. Ignoring the cold, Blainey, would not have made us warm. Yes, the wood must be chopped. We must never forgo preparation for any events, even those that frighten us with their suddenness. If we do not accept that suddenness, as we did in the hellfire, we die. There are many ways to die, Blainey.”

“And we’ve seen just about all of them, Indian.”

“Never all. Not even most.”

Blaine nodded. “I think I get the idea.”

Wareagle sipped his tea. “Travel well, my friend.”

Chapter 3

THE IVY-COLORED BRICK
walls of the Reading School rose in the damp mist that had swept in across the countryside. Blaine drove through the front gate and down the tree-lined entry road that took him past a collection of playing fields, or “pitches” as they were called over here, en route to a central building adorned with steeples. He was still not entirely convinced he was doing the right thing, and each slow climb over a speed bump along the drive brought him that much closer to turning back.

He had flown TWA out of Boston Monday night and arrived at Heathrow early Tuesday morning. From there the M-4 brought him straight to the city of Reading, where he had made reservations at its largest hotel, the Ramada Inn. He was not expected at the school until two
P.M
., which gave him four hours to rest and recharge himself following his uneasy sleep in the first class section of the jet. He soaked in the bathtub, showered, and grabbed a sandwich in the simplest of the Ramada’s restaurants, loitering the additional minutes away inattentively watching news on the television.

He crossed the Reading School’s final speed bump at five minutes to two and asked a group of boys dressed in charcoal gray suits where he could find the residence of housemaster John Neville who was expecting him. The boys’ answer came politely in unison and they pointed to the red brick house nearest at hand. Blaine parked his car and stepped outside. He felt the damp mist assault him instantly, reaching through his clothes and flesh for bones to chill. He noted a large bell tower perched atop the school’s central building as he walked toward the housemaster’s residence. He rang the buzzer and a chorus of heavy barks and snarls came from the inside before the chimes had even ceased.

“Come on now, back up!” he heard a thick voice order, and then the door was opening.

“Mr. Neville?”

“John. You must be McCracken. Henri told me to expect you to be right on time. Please, come in.”

John Neville was as big and thick as his voice, a powerfully built man with bands of muscle swimming through forearms revealed beneath the sleeves of his rolled up rugby shirt. Blaine was impressed by the strength of his grip as they shook hands. Neville closed the door behind them and the dogs, huge German shepherds, growled their suspicion.

Neville tapped one on the snout. “Enough of that, Bodie. You and Doyle go play now.”

“Bodie and Doyle?” Blaine asked.

Neville smiled warmly and the expression gave his face a youthful glow. His complexion was pitted, but there was color in his cheeks and life in his voice.

“I see you recall ‘The Professionals.’ ”

“British detective series from years back. The dogs are named for the heroes. I spent considerable time over here years back.”

“So Henri told me.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Just the barest details. You’re good to do this, Blaine.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’ve got tea ready in the living room.”

They moved from the hall into a spacious den dominated by a fireplace layered with the remains of yesterday’s fire. The radiators were old-fashioned, and to help break the chill a pair of space heaters had been strategically placed. The dogs followed them at every step, nuzzling against Neville for attention as soon as he sat down in the chair adjacent to the one he directed Blaine to. He fussed over Doyle, and Bodie growled from deep in his throat.

“Enough of that!” he scolded. “I won’t tell you again.”

Bodie lay down, whimpering softly.

John Neville handed a cup of tea across to McCracken from a tray. “Got something stronger to mix with that if you want.”

“No, thanks. This will be fine.”

Neville leaned back. A shock of dark hair slid over his forehead and he pushed it back. “You’ll want to hear about the boy.”

“About Matthew.”

“Matt he likes to be called. Good student and a top athlete as well.”

“Soccer?”

Neville shook his head and stroked Doyle’s shoulders. “Rugby’s the thing here. We’re a relatively small school as far as enrollment goes, so we could never hope to compete effectively in either if we tried for both. Rugby’s a tradition at Reading. There are lots of traditions. That bell tower you were admiring outside, seniors love to climb into it and carve their initials on the bell.”

“Kids must really love this place.”

“We do our best. Our situation’s unique in that we’re still actually a private school by definition. In addition to serving as housemaster for the boarders, I run the phys-ed and rugby programs.” Neville hesitated. “Matt’s in class now. I can get him, if you wish.”

“No,” Blaine said abruptly. “I mean, I don’t want to disturb him. I don’t want to … intrude.”

“Do you see this as intruding?”

“I don’t know what to see it as.”

“Would have been much easier for you if you hadn’t come. Not easier for him. He should know you.”

“He doesn’t even know I exist. You didn’t say anything, did you?”

Neville shook his head. “Figured you’d want all that business left up to you. Your timing couldn’t be better, though. There’s a school holiday tomorrow. Perfect opportunity to get acquainted. First meeting ought to be the toughest. After rugby practice this afternoon’d be perfect, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“I don’t mind,” said McCracken.

John Neville had a class of second formers waiting for him in the gym and left McCracken to pass the time before a bay window in the dining room with Bodie on one side of him and Doyle on the other. He watched the boys of Reading School, all dressed neatly in their gray suits, and wondered which one of them was Matthew. Then with the coming of the three o’clock bell the students rapidly exchanged suits for rugby shirts and shorts in the school colors and trudged off to practice fields not far from the school. John Neville returned shortly thereafter with a mesh bag full of rugby balls in hand.

“We’ll drive over,” he told Blaine, loading the bag into the hatchback of the British version of a Ford Escort. Then, eyeing McCracken, he added, “You might not be dressed for the outdoors.”

“I’ll do fine.”

In fact, he did anything but. After the drive, the walk across to the pitch where the third formers were practicing under the guidance of a small man with a mustache soaked his Italian loafers through to his socks. To make the proper impression at the school he had dressed well, in wear totally inappropriate for the damp outdoors. The cold was raw and unsettling, and the mist smelled like dank sweat. Neville had promised to come over and point Matt out as soon as he got his own practice started.

In the meantime Blaine was left again to his thoughts, again trying to distinguish which among the thirty boys performing warm-up exercises before him was Matt. He tried to narrow it down by recalling Lauren’s looks and attempting to superimpose them over the faces of the boys. But it was all to no avail. Strange how he had spent his life in unfamiliar places and had always been able to distinguish between the friendlies and unfriendlies at a glance. Yet here he was now coming up short in pursuit of his own …

“Come on now!” the little man with the mustache was urging, as game practice commenced with a drill in which members of two sides circled around a ball trapped in their center. “Push it out now! That’s it! And again! … And again!”

“Know the game at all, Blaine?” John Neville was asking, suddenly by his side.

“Bits and pieces.”

“A game made for children, this is. They can take the rough-and-tumble. Take a hard hit and bounce right back. The older one gets, the—”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“The small talk to help me relax. It isn’t necessary.”

Neville simply nodded and let his own thoughts stray briefly. “Playing on the right across the field. Striped shirt muddied in the front.”

And with his heart crashing against his ribs, Blaine found the boy just as a teammate gave him a perfect pass on the run and Matthew Ericson streaked down the far sideline like a champion thoroughbred. A deft stutter step stranded one opponent in his tracks, and a fake pass to the side left him with a clear path to the goal line.

The boy ran with graceful, loping strides, propelled by a high leg kick that tossed mud behind him off his soggy cleats. With token pursuit closing at the last, he slid to touch the ball to the ground in the end zone to insure the points. Then he rose to the shoulder slaps and praise of his teammates and mustachioed coach. He walked back toward the center line just as gracefully as he had sped in for the score, front thigh muscles rippling with definition. His hair was straight and longish, curled at the ends now from the dampness. His eyes were brown and radiant and he carried himself with a smoothness and confidence that seemed entirely natural.

“Want me to call him over?” Neville offered.

“No, please. Let him be.”

“Him or you?”