There Will Be Killing (12 page)

“If I could, I'd stay here and never leave.”

“Your wish is granted. At least for the night.” He gestured toward the village. “I arranged a special place, just for us. There might even be a big wrapped box just waiting for you to open. And a little box, too. Something to go with the bracelet.”

In the early morning after the party, alone now in her private cottage at the mission, Kate laid in bed with nothing on but a bracelet. Her clothes and sheets were strewn more like flower petals than the aftermath of a tsunami on the bamboo floor. She was limp, exhausted, still shimmering with sweat on her skin and between her thighs, and she was blissfully, ecstatically out of her mind with the residual reminders of a night that was not at all what she had expected.

She actually felt like a corny version of Audrey Hepburn in
My Fair Lady
. She could have danced all night. She still felt like she had him all over her, his taste, the scent of him. It was a very, very,
very
bad sign to wake up with this urgency to feel J.D. all over her, all over again, to keep replaying his whispers that were as sultry and suggestive as the French he spoke, the moves he made that were unlike anything she had ever experienced.
My God what he had done with those pearls. . . .

She felt like someone who had been going out with adolescents all her life and hadn't realized it until now. Her mother had been right. Beauty was a powerful but transient tool. Intelligence and strength is what lasted once the surface began to fade. J.D. saw more than the surface. He saw
her.
And he had let her know in the deep dark of the night that she was beautiful to him because of her imperfections, right down to the unseen scars of a botched abortion.

Gregg was one of the very few who knew about it too, but he wanted to hold someone else accountable. Why? Because Gregg thought he loved her. She knew better. What Gregg loved was an idealized version of the girl next door who never should have used him like a guinea pig in a biology class.

She never should have told J.D. about that. Never, ever should have. It was like breaking a sacred trust of a secret sin between her and Gregg who would probably make yet another excuse for her, say his rival had an unfair way of extracting information.

True enough. But she wasn't laying any blame on J.D. for what she had too easily given up. Just like Nikki while they were walking the beach, talking girl talk, with Nikki a whole lot forthcoming after just a few beers, confessing Peck had introduced her to some naughty bedroom games that involved. . .oh, she just couldn't say, and mercy her family would be so horrified if they knew, which only made such private activities all the more invitin.'

Kate slid a hand over one breast then the other, then over the belly that would probably never be able to carry a baby. Just for a moment, she felt a pang of regret. . .

But just for a moment. Raising the arms she had gripped J.D. with, she held them high and open above her head. A thin silver bracelet trickled down her left wrist and she thought of that delicate instant when he explained:
My Montagnard friendship bracelets
,
from the tribal people in the Central Highlands. These are very precious to me. I never take them off.

And then he did. Just one.

Kate smiled again.

She knew how Audrey felt after dancing all night.

He hadn't wanted to leave and J.D. knew that was a very, very bad sign. What had transpired between him and Kate was not part of the plan. He had, in fact, stayed longer than was wise before reluctantly forcing himself away in the very early morning. He needed some time to think. About Kate, about the night, about putting on his clothes then taking them off again when she beckoned him back with a single finger. About wanting her to wear something he treasured as if it kept his skin on her somehow after he was gone in the Bermuda shorts and aloha shirt he had worn to the island party.

Now he looked like an Aussie tourist hailing down a cyclo the morning after, the sky starting to redden and purple. Riding along, he chatted in Vietnamese with the driver who had moved to the city from Can Tho down in the Delta. There were so many search and destroy actions going on down there that he had given up farming to work for his uncle in the city, doing the cyclo to make money to send for his loved ones back home.

That's when an insidious thought imposed itself upon J.D.: What would it be like to have someone he wanted to go home to?

The cyclo dropped him in the harbor area and he went directly to a familiar fishing boat and quickly arranged for a ride out to the island he sometimes called home. He loved this island and came often enough that he had rented a small house in the village from the Headman, who was like the elder or mayor of the little fishing town.

J.D. greeted the Headman and patiently sat and listened to all the local gossip with a cup of tea and shared breakfast. The Vietnamese with their ancient fears of ghosts had of course embraced the Ghost Soldier stories that had quickly made the rounds on the islands. Unfortunately the Headman had nothing solid to offer, only an echo of “
Con Quy
.”

After promising to lend his assistance with a local issue, J.D. declined another cup of tea and thanked the family, then walked down to his little cottage. It looked just like any of the others on the outside. Inside, though, he kept a radio and communications setup and a Teak stereo with a tape system that ran off a generator. There was a rattan book case, a traveling typewriter and desk, a box of supplies, and a rattan rocking chair. He had a tatami mat in what passed as a “bedroom” but the hammock in the trees outside was where he liked to read in the breeze that came off the sea, and that's where he usually slept.

Changing into a bathing suit, J.D. took his mask and snorkel and fins off the wall pegs and picked up his sling spear. He walked down to the fine sandy beach and then entered the water, headed out to the reef. The diving here was extraordinary; the reef very healthy and alive with every kind of tropical fish. There were the yellow Tangs in golden clouds and then he passed by a big blue rainbow hued Parrot fish and white mouthed eels. He took a deep breath and dove lower. He wasn't really hunting for fish, he just felt calm here in the quiet blue deep. A different world with different rules where he could listen to himself insist:
you know that you cannot really have someone like Kate
.

He remembered her now as the soft, warm water caressed him, and how her skin felt on his hands, the way she smelled. He had someone once like that. . . .

He never allowed himself to say her name or even think her name because then he had to remember what had been done to her because of him. He broke his own rule that time. She paid.

Would Phillip tell Kate? No. At least J.D. didn't think so. Phillip hadn't even wanted her to be aware he was in Nha Trang the other day for a private strategy meeting. According to Phillip he had only sent her there on the pretext of doing some undercover work as a little reward for some favors she had granted him under the covers.

J.D.'s jaw clenched. He hadn't liked that. But he had been careful to appear not to care.

He remembered yet again how Kate touched his own neck, how her lips felt on his skin. The way she made him feel…it wasn't supposed to be happening this way.

Maybe he could see Kate a little, just for a little while, maybe that would be okay?

He never lied to himself and so J.D. knew he was lying now. But he so wanted to be touched by her again like that. So … maybe it would be okay. Just for a little while.

He watched as the octopus changed color and became nearly invisible as it entered the small cave and then took its prey.

There were teachers everywhere.

J.D. moved the sling to the killing position; took a breath and dove down to the Grouper.

By Monday morning all the red eyes and major hangovers had pretty much subsided, though good spirits still lingered from Hertz's birthday/beach party. Izzy noticed that even Peck was whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” until he, and his pet lackey Sgt. Johnson, arrived at the LZ with the rest of their small group.

Peck planted himself on one side of the landing pad with Johnson, and like the flick of a light switch, quit humming, crossed his arms. Johnson did the same.

Despite his familiarity with aberrant personalities, Izzy just couldn't get used to Peck's Jeckle/Hyde thing, and not for the first time he wondered if Peck could have anything to do with the monster they were after—presuming there was one. Gregg had his doubts.

J.D. strode to the other side of the L.Z. opposite Peck. Despite their ongoing cold war, Gregg joined J.D. and Izzy did the same as the sounds of Santana concussed the air with “Black Magic Woman” and the eye-popping
Crystal Blue Persuasion
swooped out of the sky. Landing with bullseye precision on the chopper landing pad, up close the metallic purple and black attack helicopter looked even fiercer, whipping the wind with its blades like a chain saw slicing paper at Samurai speed.

As he had at the party, Rick Galt managed to make quite the entrance. He was in full Special Ops battle mode in faded tiger fatigue pants and black tee-shirt, a camo bandana and bush hat, and with two day's growth of beard he looked like a twenty-first century pirate welcoming them aboard his Disney on acid ship.

“This is absolutely cool!” Izzy shouted above the bleating chopper blades while he and Gregg threw in their duffels. “I wish I had a camera to prove I got to ride in this thing.”

“I'll send a note to your press secretary,” Rick shouted back and gave him a hand up, then lent Gregg the same assist.

J.D. hopped in by himself.

Peck, at the other side entrance stayed put. Glaring at Rick, he yelled, “What the fuck is this kind of hot rod, Captain? This is not authorized transport. I will not ride in this!”

“Then I guess you can take the slow bus instead that has about five stops,” Rick yelled back. “I hear they are getting the shit shelled out of them up there, so they'll probably make a couple of extra stops to pick up casualties, and be really glad to have you. Then again, with all the heavy stuff happening, you could be a casualty and never come back yourself, so good luck!”

Izzy slid a glance to Gregg and he grinned back at him as Johnson got in and extended a hand to Peck, who glowered at them all before sitting down in a huff across from J.D. Izzy couldn't help but think that he would sit anywhere but there if J.D. was looking at him like that. Not even a look really. The aviators reminded him of glossy black snake eyes, and his face was still and hard, like a hockey mask.

It was really unnerving, even more than a very first helicopter ride in something that looked like it came out of a futuristic comic book. As flashy and high-tech as it was on the outside with all its weaponry and rockets, though, the inside was as drab and utilitarian as a box. They all had seats on basically benches with web belts and most of the interior was evidently for the gunner and his huge machine gun.

Izzy could see the pilot and copilot up front nodding at whatever instructions Rick was issuing through a headset with a mouthpiece they must be using to communicate, and he wondered what Rachel would think, if she could even imagine him somehow part of a team with a Special Ops warrior and a spy. The chopper ride he would write her about. It gave him something exciting to bring to the table after Rachel's latest rundown on the Rockefeller collections being introduced at the Met, but more significantly “still hanging out down in the Village, grooving, listening to Joan Baez. Just got tickets to another concert at Fillmore East! Bonnie and Delaney, you know them?” and no he did not.

There was no getting ready or a “fasten your belts” announcement before they took off, only the ear splitting sound of Jimi Hendrix, a neck snapping lift, and they were thundering through the sky in a gunship that was rising, spinning, banking off in a shuddering turn toward the sea, and then another turn, heading towards the dark green mountains known as the Highlands.

Izzy watched the countryside roll past beneath the swaths of dark green and light green, the rubber plantations and rice paddies and rivers and small villages, where water buffalo outnumbered the crude roads below. They were climbing higher now toward the mountains and the air was much cooler. That's when Izzy realized that he was not sweating for the first time since his arrival in Vietnam, and the wind, amazing. He looked over at Gregg and smiled, and Gregg smiled and nodded back—then Gregg's mouth opened in a stunned “O” and he was frantically pointing down as they dropped and headed right for a small group of men running across a narrow dike in the paddy. They had weapons and two of the men spun around, crouched down, opening fire on the helicopter that swooped down so fast Izzy's stomach felt like it hit the ceiling while the rest of him remained paralyzed, watching in disbelief as their gunship, the one he was in, fired a rocket that just obliterated the two riflemen and then—

The Rolling Stones blasted “Jumping Jack Flash” from the huge speakers that pierced the air and the rocket ship skimmed the top of the dike toward some other men futilely running ahead while the guns opened up and then the ship was slowing and circling the carnage that had the pilots and their gunman whooping.

Izzy puked out the side of the ship. Someone handed him a green army towel.

“It's good you got to see that, Doc,” Rick said close to his ear. “It's war, and that's what we do. It's what the soldiers you see every day are doing, you know?”

No, Izzy did not know, so why he nodded as if giving some tacit approval he did not know either. He was glad that no one else looked at him as he wiped vomit off his shirt and the ship climbed up into the blessedly cooler air where he silently chanted his mantra of
wake the fuck up,
in between 351 and a wake up.

At some point his hands quit talking for him and his stomach settled down, and it helped that the ship was in even cooler air high up over the Central Highlands. Rick played personal tour guide, pointing in specific directions and explaining, “Here we have a string of outposts guarding against the incursion of the VC into what's ours in South Vietnam. And over there, look over there, Izzy, that's Ban Me Thuot.”