The Mortal Groove (13 page)

“But don't you get it? It's not just the fact of the vision that makes the whole thing work, it's the time in your life that's important. When you're young, you're open to the world, to experience, to idealism, or as the Ojibwe call it, a vision quest.”

“Okay. I'll play along. What do you suppose the animals and trees in Vietnam were trying to tell us?”

“Waste or be wasted,” said Del. “The world is a rotting sinkhole. Corpses are heavy. Leaders are arrogant assholes at best, at worst, insane. We came home with that crap lodged in our souls. That was our vision.”

And so much more, thought Randy. “Larry always said we were there for righteous reasons. Me, I thought it was wrong, but I went anyway. I was drafted and I was too ashamed to let my family think I was a coward—but that's what I was. That's what I learned about myself over there. I was scared the entire time.”

“You weren't any different than any other guy. We were all
grunts, peeing in the bushes or our pants, hoping the next bullet that came along didn't have our name on it.”

“Not Larry,” said Randy.

“No,” said Del softly. “Not Larry. But we'd both be dead if it weren't for him. If I ever saw a real hero, it was Larry Wilton.”

Randy didn't like to think about it too hard. Larry had saved his life, for sure, but usually that's as far as the conversation in his head got. Nam wasn't the movies. Larry wasn't a hero because he was a deeply principled man, a natural leader who used his moral superiority to motivate men. No, Larry was just an average guy that, for whatever reason, hadn't been saddled with the same kind of paralyzing fear Randy had felt from the moment he set foot in country. In so many ways, Larry was in his element in Nam. He'd been such a great soldier that Randy had been a little surprised when he hadn't made a success out of his life back home. Obviously, the requirements were different, although Randy hadn't known that as a young man. Larry had gone from being a kind of god in Randy's life to a screwup—-but through it all, Larry always seemed to maintain a positive outlook. For Larry, the world was an exciting place, where possibilities abounded. Maybe, in some odd way, he was a hero after all.

“The worst part for me,” said Del, “was seeing my buddies die. That's what got me in the end. Not the bullshit about the importance of our mission, but the need to protect the only people I cared about. For
that
I was willing to kill—and die.” He tipped his beer bottle back and took a few swallows. “The world is a graveyard, man. Another vision to live by.”

“Hey, remember that old papa san who got the drop on us up near Phong Dien? Man, I thought we were dead meat for sure.

“But then Larry drops out of a tree right on top of the guy,
making
uga uga
sounds like a gorilla. I remember thinking, hell, if I was gonna die, at least I'd die laughing.”

“You know, if something had happened to you or Larry, if I hadn't had your friendship to lean on all these years, I don't—” Randy couldn't finish the sentence. Even now, the emotion was still so close to the surface that it choked off words. Looking away, he tried to stuff the feelings back down inside him.

“Hey, I see headlights,” said Del, standing and moving over to the railing. “This one's gotta be Larry.”

They watched as a red Dodge Dakota pulled into the drive.

“That's Ethan's truck,” said Randy.

“What's he doing out this late?”

As Ethan walked up to the house, Randy called to him from the deck. “Where you been?”

Ethan squinted into the darkness. “Oh, hi, Randy. I was . . . just out driving around.”

“Any particular reason?”

He inched his way toward the front door. “Nope. Just couldn't sleep. But I'm tired now. Think I'll go to bed.”

“Okay,” said Randy, shrugging at Del. “See you in the morning.”

They heard the door open and then shut.

“He doing okay?” asked Del, sitting back down.

“He misses Sherrie.”

“You and her . . . talking?”

“Not much.”

“My heart goes out to you, man. Kesia and my kids, they're why I get up in the morning.”

Randy didn't look at him. Instead, he walked over to the ice chest and grabbed himself a can of Coke.

“More headlights,” said Del, pointing at two pinpricks of light in the distance.

They both waited as the truck pulled into the drive.

“We're on the deck,” called Del, as Larry cracked the door.

“Be right there.” He cut across the grass and climbed the short stairway, rubbing his hands together. “Hey boys. The brewskies would be where?”

“In the cooler,” said Randy. “What happened?”

Larry leaned over and grabbed himself a bottle. “All is well, my brothers.”

“She take the money?” asked Randy.

“Yup.”

“Where's the file?”

Larry reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a key.

“What's that?” asked Del.

“It's for a locker at the YWCA on Lake Street. We gotta wait until tomorrow morning to go get it.”

Del grabbed Larry by his jacket, backed him up against the rail. “You're telling me you gave her all that money and all you got was a lousy key?”

“Don't worry, man. I made it real clear that I knew where she lived. If she messed with me even a little, she'd be hearin' from me again.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Randy, tossing the full can of Coke over his shoulder. “We got nothing.”

“Back the hell off, you guys. We'll have the entire file in the morning, I promise.”

“Did she tell you what she found out?” asked Randy, raking a hand through his hair.

“She talked to some people down in Waldo. Folks who remembered the night in question. I think one was the bartender at Big Chick's Lounge. And maybe your uncle, too.”

“It doesn't end here,” said Del, turning away from them and staring out across the dark meadow. “Not if these people are so willing to talk.”

“Let's just wait and see,” said Larry. “Believe me, I'm all over this one. Nothin' to worry your pretty little heads about. I'll take care of business, just like always.”

 

Early the next morning, Randy's eyes blinked open to the sound of a closing door. Sunlight streamed in through an open shade. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, he saw that it was just after six. He turned over on his back and listened to a truck engine cough a couple of times and then catch. It had to be Larry's new junker, an ‘84 Silverado.

Randy rubbed his eyes and then glanced over at the empty space next to him. He doubted he'd ever get used to sleeping alone. It was awfully early for Larry to be up, but then Randy figured Larry was as anxious to see the contents of that reporter's file as he was. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear his mind and go back to sleep, but once his mind engaged, it was all over. He might as well get up.

For a second he considered shouting to Larry from the bedroom window to wait, that he'd toss on some clothes and go with him. But then he remembered that Katie was asleep in her room downstairs. He didn't want to wake her. Instead, he slipped into his bathrobe and headed two flights down to the kitchen to make coffee.

Larry would be back soon enough.

 

 

O
n Friday morning, Peter made it to the airport by 7:20, and boarded an MD-80 headed for New Jersey at 9:15. His appointment with Cabot was scheduled for 2:00, which meant that if all went as planned, he'd be back home by late evening.

In the past few months, Peter had spent so much time waiting for something to happen—for a job offer, for Sigrid to leave him, for his money to run out—that actual movement felt exhilarating.

He stuffed his bag in the overhead bin, then sat down in his aisle seat. Cabot might not be able to do much other than confirm that Shifflet had found the right couple, but at least it was something concrete. Beyond that, Peter wanted to get a good look at the man who'd created so much havoc in his life.

As the plane took off, he closed his eyes. He usually slept when he flew, but he was too keyed up today. When the seat belt sign went off, he got up and opened the storage bin. Several days
ago, his father had messengered over some papers he wanted Peter to read.

Peter pulled the file folder out of the side pocket, then closed the bin and sat back down. Flipping through the contents, he saw that it was a bunch of position papers on various political topics, as well as a few of his dad's campaign speeches.

Because of his work as a cameraman at WTWN, Peter was familiar with most of the important issues in state and local politics. He'd also been present for several of his father's local appearances, so most of the speeches were variations on a theme. It wasn't something he'd ever expressed to his dad, but he was repelled by politics and politicians, although he understood the need for intelligent, decent, committed people to take on the job. He wasn't sure how well he'd do working for a political campaign, but he figured he owed it a shot, especially since he wasn't being inundated with marvelous job offers.

Even as a young child, Peter had been aware that he came from a family of overachievers. He wasn't one of them. For all practical purposes, his dad might as well have been Perry Mason and his sister Julia Child. Well, maybe it wasn't that bad, but sometimes it felt that way. And it wasn't just about personal achievement, either.

Both Peter's dad and his sister had an amazing inner strength—at least it sure seemed that way to him. All he really knew was that he didn't have the same kind of certainty about who he was or where he was going. Maybe it was partly because he'd lost his mother at such a young age. He'd wondered about that. But Jane had lost a mother, too. In her case, it seemed to focus her energy. She'd needed to grow up fast and she had.

Peter, on the other hand, had felt like a balloon filled with helium. If someone wasn't physically holding on to him at all
times, he was afraid he'd float away over the rooftops and be lost forever. He couldn't sleep in his bedroom after his mom was gone. He became terrified of the dark. Either he slept with Jane, or on the sofa in the basement rec room, where he could keep the TV on all night. Entering his parents' bedroom was impossible. The scent of his mother lingered in there and made him cry. Crying embarrassed him so he stayed away. And then Jane left to go back to England. One more tether to the earth came unstuck.

At five years old, Peter Lawless lost his faith in happy endings and slowly morphed into the kid who stood in the shadows, waiting for someone older to tell him what to do. He loved his dad, but he'd always been closer to his mom. She was the one who represented safety, tenderness, stability, all the things he craved. His father taught him right from wrong, but it was his mother who told him stories, helping him to understand the difference.

Long about seventh grade, Peter's dad began calling him a “people person.” It may not have been meant as a slam, but to Peter, who'd become supersensitive to attacks on his character, it seemed like a nice way of saying he was weak. Only weak people liked to have friends or family around all the time. Only weak people hated to be alone.

Peter didn't think he'd changed much from the little boy he'd once been. He didn't blame his family. His dad had always been there for him. He looked up to both his dad and his sister. But Peter wanted someone to look up to
him.
Jane always said how much she loved his gentle soul, but Peter read gentle as another flaw, another deficit. He wanted to be a man, like his dad. He wanted to take charge, be strong, make a difference. Maybe that was one reason he'd become so obsessed with finding
Margaret. He needed to prove he could succeed at something important.

 

Wood-Ridge, New Jersey, the town where Cabot lived, was about thirty minutes northeast of the Newark airport. Cabot suggested they meet at his house instead of his office in Jersey City because it was more comfortable. Peter didn't care where they met, as long as he got the information he'd come for.

As he pulled his rented Chevy into the wide drive in front of the three-car garage, his cell phone trilled. Sliding it out of his pocket, he checked the caller ID. It was Shifflet.

“This is Peter,” he said, glancing up at the expensive two-story colonial. The curtains in the living room parted slightly at the center, but because of the glare on the glass, he couldn't see who was inside.

“You got a minute for an update?”

“You bet.”

“I waited until Tanhauer left for work this morning,” said Shifflet. “That's when I talked to his wife. I figured I could get more out of her if she was alone. I asked her about Margaret right up front. At first she denied knowing anything about her.”

Peter's heart sank. He was hoping for a simple explanation. “She's lying.”