There Will Be Killing (11 page)

“This is just for you, kid, and let us all drink to this birthday and especially to your next one back home.”

Everyone was eager to toast to that.

Like any good party this one had the rhythm of the ocean, swelling in and out with easy times, lively chatter, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Then later, as the sun dipped lower and the colors on the water deepened, things were quieting down, groups shifting, splitting off, couples necking.

Kate and J.D. had thus far kept their own touching discreet, as long as Gregg didn't count eye contact. After his little showdown with J.D., he had straightened up and acted like a big boy, didn't make anyone uncomfortable or exclude the apparent new couple from his inner circle, just kept telling himself that the cream always rose to the top and Kate would surely see he was still the crème de la crème of class acts.

He'd had lots of practice at this. He could wait J.D. out. Be there when Bond took a powder. And, just maybe it would be sooner rather than later considering the way J.D. was glad-handing Rick, clearly intent on attacking this Boogeyman case, bogus or not, by asking Rick if it would be too much of an imposition to steal some of his time in the Highlands during the evals they were coming up Monday to do at Ban Me Thuot—where Gregg was showing him and Izzy the ropes.

“Tell you what,” said Rick, “you docs are putting yourselves out to make a trip to my side of the world so the least I can do is arrange the ride, something a little nicer than the usual. I'll even throw in a visit to our Special Ops camp since there's been some messed up shit I'd like to get your take on. 1100 hours at the 8th Field's LZ sound okay?”

Apparently satisfied with his latest maneuvering of a situation to his benefit, J.D. faded into the background and by the time Gregg noted his absence, he was gone and so was Kate, who had actually spent quite a bit of time hanging out with Margie and Nikki.

The two roommates were off walking the beach now.

Despite his own Heartbreak Hotel refrain, Gregg considered it a day well spent because Nikki had a big admirer in the bad ass Special Ops trainer and commando that Peck would not want to mess with.

“No way, man,” Rick was saying to the group that had dwindled to Izzy, Robert David, Washington, and Gregg. “No way would I trade jobs with anybody here. Course, first of all, I love the Ops and I love my job, but you guys have one of the most heavy shit jobs around.”

“That's some heavy shit coming from Special Ops,” said Washington, tipping back straight from the bottle of Jack.

“No really, I thought like everybody else you were another group of REMFs, but it is one thing to go hand to hand with Charlie and a whole other thing to go at it hand to hand with our own guys turned crazy motherfucks—and have to be kind and gentle while you do it?” Rick shook his head and took a long draw on the bottle Washington handed him. “I won't ever forget when you came out last spring and helped us with Jennings.”

Gregg would never forget it either. He appreciated Rick acknowledging they weren't just a bunch of REMFs—Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers—because that was a big deal coming from someone like him. A big enough deal that Gregg was suitably humble.

“No, no, no,” he insisted, patting the air as Colonel Kohn did to settle things down and winning big laughs, along with a chorus of “Yes, yes, yes's” from the group, before he could finish with, “It's just what we do and you don't, Rick. Same way we could never do your job.”

Rick good naturedly punched Gregg in the arm and almost knocked him over. “No, no, no yourself, Doc. Let me tell it to Izzy. I'm gonna tell it because it's a fucking legend in our unit—The day Gregg Kelly took down Jungle Man Jennings and saved him while he was at it.”

And as Rick set about telling his version, Gregg sized it up next to his own. . .

It was a fresh day after a rain when Gregg, Robert David, Colonel Kohn, and Washington were asked to come out to the Special Ops training camp. Hertz volunteered as back up. It was unusual for any of them to get out there. Like the Special Forces, the Special Ops groups liked to take care of their own with as little outside intervention as possible; but Colonel Kohn was an old friend of the very tense major in charge, who briefed them with the assistance of his next in command, Captain Richard Galt.

“He is highly dangerous,” Galt told them. “I repeat, highly dangerous. He came in last night from patrol. Seemed to be just a little messed up after he got mail and we thought oh shit, something from home, he's been here back-to-back, stayed an extra six months, mostly out on patrol and running ops. He's a good one, but he paced all night talking and yelling about his wife. Guess he got Dear Johned or something.” Galt paused, shaking his head. “Anyway, just about dawn he got out his weapon and fired off a burst and then sprayed the room and cleared it out. He's still in the hootch and yelling about how he knows he's surrounded and they will not take him alive, says he will kill himself before they get him. Crazy shit like that.”

“OK, got it.” Colonel Kohn then assured Galt and the major, “We can handle this. Gregg's the best. He'll talk your man down and we'll back him up. Let's go now. Where is he?”

“Go?” Galt repeated. “Go? Are you kidding? This guy is fully armed, he's lethal. We're going to gas him and wanted you here to help calm him down after we get him restrained.”

“If you try to gas him then he knows he is being attacked,” Gregg reasoned. “And what if he gets out? The way you describe him, if he's as lethal as you say, he likely is going to take out somebody before he goes down. Give us a chance at him first, okay?”

The two Special Ops officers exchanged uncertain looks.

“He is such a good man, Major,” Galt told his commander. “One of my best. And he's short. Only a few weeks left in-country. I hate to see him leave like this, but—”

“Then let us go in,” Robert David insisted. “Let us take care of him if we can. Nothing on his record. Just TLTM.”

Galt asked, “What's TLTM?”

“Too Long and Too Much,” Gregg filled in. “Come on, just stand behind us. He knows you, right, Captain Galt?”

“Well, he did last night. But really, we should go in with weapons. Doing it your way is too risky. He could take us all out.”

“No.” Robert David shook his head. “No weapons.”

Gregg to Galt then, “Tell him it is you and you've got friends and let us go in. Have your guys cover us just in case, but stay out of sight.”

Galt looked dubiously at the major, who hesitated, then gave a curt nod.

Minutes later, they were outside a hootch and Galt was shouting, “Jennings! Jennings, it's me, Galt. I got friends with me and we are coming in. Don't shoot.”

And in they went. Jennings, tall and lanky with looped cords of muscle standing out all over his body, had no shirt on, and his face, a bright red, was so contorted and agitated it looked like snakes raced under his skin. He held an M16 rifle.

“Stop it!” he screamed, waving the M16 in the air. “Stop, damn it, it is all fucked up. Everything is all fucked up!”

That's when Gregg did what he always did in this kind of situation, just slowly started walking forward, right at the person, because whether they were twenty, thirty years old, or five, he could always see that they were really just scared and hurting and the hurt is what drew him, what was drawing him now to Jennings.

“Hey,” he said to him softly, “Hey, hey Sarge, slow down now, stand down, okay? We came to help. We cleared the area. It is all clear out there now, they're all gone. Nobody is out there now.” Gregg had his attention, Jennings was looking at him. Gregg kept talking.

“I see you, Sarge. I see you, and it is OK.”

“Bullshit!” screamed Jennings, “Bullshit! Who are you? Who are these guys with you? Spies? Motherfucking cheaters, fucking babykillers, wifestealers. . .” Jennings stopped rambling, then suddenly yelled, “Are you ready to go? I am ready to take you out!”

“Sarge, hey Sarge, where is home?” Gregg asked, soft and calm. “Where are you from, Sarge?”

“Chicago, you fucking asshole. Chicago is my home. . .no, I ain't got a fuckin home. . .goddamn it no home, no wife, hell. . .nothing.” Jennings looked around wildly while he locked and loaded a round in the M16.

“Hey, hey, hey Sarge. . .Jennings. Come on, Chi-town, talk to me. You a Cubbies or a White Sox guy, Chi-town?” A long pause as Jennings looked at Gregg from far, far away, and then—

“Cubbies, dammit.”

“Well, I thought so. I thought you were a Cubbies man.” Gregg took a step closer. “And who said Aparicio was better than Mr. Cub?”

Jennings blinked, his eyes focusing on Gregg. “No fucking way. Sure Aparicio can play but he can't even carry the glove of my man Ernie.”

“How about the stick?” Another step closer.

“Are you crazy? You know Ernie, he hits better than any shortstop in the game and. . .”

Almost within reaching distance of Jennings, Gregg kept it going. “I'm a Dodger guy, Jennings. Dodger blue, you know? Course you know Ernie Banks beats on us like a drum, but Koufax, when he is on, he is the man.”

Jennings, really looking at Gregg now, a bit of contact there, enough for Gregg to take another step closer, so close Gregg could feel the fear in him, the smell of him, the way his eyes came and went from that horrible place where his own brain was betraying him, where Jennings' thoughts were like a record skipping speeds and songs in a nauseating, sickening way, and then another little moment of contact as Jennings bellowed out:

“Koufax! Koufax was just another shit Dodger. Fergie, he is a pitcher.”

“You got that right big man, Ferguson Jenkins, he can bring the ball. Hey, how bout you just hand that weapon here and we got cold brews outside, and you and me, we'll talk some baseball. Come on, Chi-town, you and me. . . .” The other guys right behind him, Gregg took his last step towards Jennings, when outside the tent:

“Okay, we got the gas and we're ready to go after him and—”

Shut up, shut up, I almost have him—

At the speed of thought Jennings' eyes went cold and far away again, and Gregg was throwing himself on Jennings, pinning the rifle against his chest, wrapping his surfer arms around hulking muscle for all he was worth, and then came the mass of Washington landing on top of them both, while Hertz raced outside to shut everyone up and Robert David came in fast with the needle, plowing it down to inject the IM benzo into Jennings—enough to drop an elephant and still Jennings was bucking and crying and screaming while the cumulative pile of five hundred pounds struggled to hold onto him, and then suddenly—

It hit. Jennings was still. They rolled off.

For a while there was only the sound of Robert David's and Washington's and Gregg's own labored breathing, and then another sound that had them looking up from the ground at what appeared to be the whole Special Ops group surrounding them.

Rick Galt was smiling, shaking his head like he couldn't believe what he saw as he began the slow clapping….

“You guys were so fucking great. Like I said, it's legend,” Rick concluded, having told the story that for the most part lined up with Gregg's remembrance of it. A remembrance that had Gregg happy to accept the shared bottle Rick offered as he added the best part of all. “And, you know after you evaced him, Jennings got home, even got back with his old lady. He's a training NCO now at Special Forces Fort Bragg. Not sure if you knew that, but I hear he wrote you, Gregg.”

Gregg winced at the sting to the back of his throat, but it went down smooth and he had to smile. “Oh yeah, he wrote me all right. Don't know how he did it, but he had a case of Jack delivered—tasted just as good as this, maybe even better since there was a Cubs cap inside, a real one.” Not wanting the night to end too soon, thanks to a little too much Jack, Gregg grabbed enough beers to pass around their little group with a shared history, worthy of a toast:

“Here's to another cold one and to good friends, old and new.” Gregg pointed his bottle to Izzy, then raised it high. “But most of all, here's to Jennings, that lucky man back in the world.”

“Damn straight!”

“Here, here!”

“I'll drink to that!”

Izzy picked up his guitar and went to work on “Classical Gas,” proving himself amazingly dexterous, despite an impressive consumption of beer, Jack, and weed. And as the music played on, as the moon floated paper white above the crystal blue sea, for that moment they were all back in the world in that someplace called home.

Peck watched from the Ironwood tree shadows, a safe distance and yet not too far away to discern the comings and goings of those he had a particular interest in watching.

This in particular would be Nikki and the retard on ethanol overdoses of testosterone.

Retard reminded him of his cousin, the poor relation who liked to say “boats, planes and women, why own 'em when you can rent a new one?”

Nikki, he would own. Or at least he would convince her she wanted to belong to him and if he didn't tire of the game she didn't know they were playing, then he might actually make good on the offering he planned to tempt her with tonight.

The entire set up was an elaborate ruse he had thoroughly enjoyed constructing.

He had the arrangements all made with a local character on this island, a self-aggrandizing little gook with a taste for American goods and a gold front tooth who called himself “Uncle Sam.” Now, Uncle Sam apparently had an inordinate number of nieces who specialized in more than the usual, and while that wasn't what this paying customer was in the market for—at least not tonight—there was something else Uncle Sam had that Peck wanted.

For the equivalent for a couple of six packs and a carton of Marlboros, Peck had scored a secluded little pleasure palace which he had filled with all the bells and whistles for tonight's bit of theater. He just had to get Nikki away from Margie and the rest of the group that hadn't wanted to invite him to their precious beach party.

Well, he would show them, show them all. Donald Peck the Third had been collecting trophies since childhood and Nikki would be a splendid addition to the keepsakes in his cabinet. Besides, he had to entertain himself somehow on this tour and she was an excellent diversion.

Retard suddenly stood up, walked in Nikki's direction and that seemed to be Margie's signal to go listen to Moskowitz play his guitar. As much as Peck hated to admit it, Jew boy had some talent, at least it sounded that way from a distance.

There was a bit less of a distance from his hideout to where Nikki and Retard appeared to be saying their good-byes, but too far away for Peck to hear what was being said. Dammit. Still he could see her nodding her head and smiling and that really pissed him off. Then Retard took the hand she extended and kissed it—
oh, please, who did he think he was, Sir Fucking Galahad? —
and Nikki nodded and smiled some more, then the fucker was gone. Just took off somewhere with a wave and disappeared like he had wings.

Nikki started moving in the direction of the group. Peck seized his opportunity.

“Nikki. Psst! Nikki, over here.”

Nikki gave a little start as he emerged from the shadows, laid the same hand the retard had kissed over her heart.

“Don, you just scared the dickens out of me! What are you doing here?”

“I'm here to make the other night up to you.” He drew closer, slowly, not wanting to draw attention to himself and have someone intrude before he got what he came for.

Nikki crossed her arms, shook her head, but at least she kept her voice low.

“You pushed me, Don. I am not giving you a chance to do it agin—again.”

Every now and then her inner hillbilly came out. Peck knew she needed some work but that was part of the game. His family would be horrified. Meanwhile he could shape and mold her like Playdough, toy with her brain while he was at it. Family/Nikki: Win-win.

“I promise it won't happen again.” He bowed his head so she couldn't see his lips twitch. “Please let me make it up to you. Please?”

Now he looked up, his eyes pleading. Her own softened. Nikki always wanted to believe the best of everyone. That's what made her such an easy mark.

“I don't know. I mean, you were really ugly to me, just downright mean and—”

“And I should never drink whiskey. It has a terrible effect on me.” Actually, it was the uppers on top of the booze that had gotten him agitated, but Nikki didn't know that. “I promise not to get drunk like that again. I wasn't myself, you know. Tell me you know that, Nikki.”

“Well. . .”

“And tell me you'll let me make it up to you.”

“We'll see, Don. Maybe we can talk later. After—”

“No, right here. Right now. I want to make this right.”

He whipped out the velvet jewelry box on ready in his pocket. Good planning was essential. He had this down. Nikki gasped on cue.

“Oh no, Donny. That's too much! I can't possibly—”

“Yes, you can.” He extracted the fake diamond bracelet and smoothly latched the knock-off onto her wrist. The one Retard had been an inch away from kissing. Now who was top dog? Nikki was his bitch. When he got through with her she would roll over and beg and come on call.

“I. . .it's beautiful.” She held it up, flashing the paste stones in the moonlight. “No one's ever given me something so—so. . .I don't know what to say.”

“Say you'll say good-night to the group and let Margie know Cinderella will not be home by midnight.”

“No?”

“No.” He smiled what he thought of as his ballroom dance smile—the one that dazzled silly girls and even their mothers into his charms and kept them there until he tired of them or went a little too far and had to pay someone off. “That's just the beginning, baby. You really like this island, don't you?”