Whole Pieces (5 page)

9

“You've been a very foolish soldier, Haytham.” The voice boomed through the darkness.

But Hawk didn't need to look to see who owned that voice. In fact, he'd rather not look, considering the facts, the most important of which was that there was no doubt Thomas Constant was peeved.

“I've been called worse.” Hawk pressed himself toward the ground more, as if he could seep through the earth, and peered to the side.

“Of that I have no doubt.” The master of time lay on his back, tossing something between his hands as he bounced his crossed leg in the air.

“Haytham.” Constant said the name with a huff. Arching a refined eyebrow, he clucked his tongue three times. “I say your name not to remind you who you are, though your eyes betray
what
you think you are.”

“And what is that?”

“A failure, Haytham. A complete and utter failure—that being, of course, your thoughts of yourself. Not mine. I say your name because I am disappointed. You stole my watch, thought it would secure your victory.” A laugh rumbled through his chest. “Not so easy playing me, is it?”

“Playing
God
, you mean.”

Constant eyed him with as much amusement as disdain. “You have something that belongs to me, and you might want to return it quick-spot and not dillydally.”

“Dil—”

“Death is on his way, right behind me.” Fierceness edged out Constant's lighthearted demeanor. “You've already borrowed four hours that he wants back.” He puckered his lips. “You see, by breaking the laws—stealing something of mine—you also violated the fine print.”

“I never signed a contract.”

“Oh, you signed, Haytham. You
signed
.” Vehemence reddened the man's face as he almost dared Hawk to argue. “With the very blood in your veins, you bargained away your rights.” Constant jabbed a finger in Hawk's face. “You
stole
from me, and that annoys me. You do realize, don't you, that it is within my power to pull the ol' proverbial plug on this
gift
of time I've given you.” He arched that eyebrow again, jutting his jaw toward the boy who lay quietly beside Hawk. “You've complicated things by befriending the boy. Imagine the mess you'd leave him in if I exerted my rights.”

A protective nature that went above and beyond the soldier persona in Hawk leapt to the front. “Leave him out of this.”

“Oh no. Not possible. You've fully entangled him in your attempt to rewrite history.” He cocked his head at Hawk. “Have you any idea what you've done with the time—?” With a blink, he snapped his mouth shut, his eyes darting over Hawk's face. “My, my, my. You honestly have no idea what you're doing, do you?”

“I'm righting a wrong.”

“Or are you wronging a right?”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“More sense than you have at this point in time—and it's mine, Haytham. You have annoyed me to no end, first stealing my watch, then squandering—”

“I'm not squandering.” Okay, maybe he was. “I'm doing the best I can.”

“And clearly that is not good enough, now is it? You've used nearly the entire seven hours, and still you haven't succeeded.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “In fact, I am so disappointed, I'm tempted to let Death come. I had convinced him to look elsewhere for another soul, but perhaps your time is up?”

“You can't be serious. I still have time.”

“I want my watch back, Haytham.”

“Promise me more time.”

“Thieves have no bargaining power.”

Hawk closed his hand over the piece. “Then I keep it.”

Thomas tilted his head and looked over Hawk's shoulder. “Would you prefer to explain to him . . . ?”

Glancing back, Hawk saw only the starless sky. He scanned the veil of clouds . . . Wait. His heart jammed as what he saw registered. Not a starless sky with thin clouds. But a creature, subtle yet obvious, drifting closer, hovering, descending.

“Oh, merciful God . . . ”

“Yes, that he is, but let's keep this between us and Grumpy Ghoul, shall we?” All too pleased with the situation, Constant let out a chuckle that danced on the stream of time. He waved his fingers in a give-me manner.

Without the watch, what would happen? He couldn't peek into the outcomes. He couldn't correct this. But if he didn't give up the timepiece, then Death . . .

The harbinger lurked in the darkness, dropping closer and closer.

“You do realize it's perfectly within my power and rights since you resorted to petty thieving to cancel what you have left—”

“You can't do that!” Hands fisted, Hawk drew himself up straight.

“Oh, I can. I most certainly can.”

“No! Please, you can't. I need the hours I have left. I've
got
to change this.” He motioned to the men around him . . . and stilled. Nobody seemed to be moving. Or talking. Or anything. Were they frozen? Was that how this conversation was taking place without anyone noticing?

Time is frozen.

God, please . . .
The team hadn't been saved. In fact, things were worse. There had to be a way. A route to take that would alter this.

What if the original route was the right one?

No. Absolutely not.
He couldn't accept that. Wouldn't believe that it had been right for six men to lose their lives.

“I want those last two and a half hours.” Hawk braved the storm that was Thomas Constant's face. “I was wrong—to steal the watch—but these men around you, their lives are worth everything. I want to save them.”

“What if they aren't supposed to be saved?”

Haunted that Constant had voiced a thought that had just flitted through his mind, Hawk shook his head. “I won't accept that.”

“It is not for you to accept or deny.” He narrowed his eyes. “Haytham, you do realize the difference between a gift of time and the ability to override the power of the Creator.”

“Oh, what? Getting religious now? A few minutes ago you wanted to leave him out of this.”

Was Thomas growing? Where had all this light that illuminated his face come from? How could Constant's face be illuminated and yet darken with anger? His lips pulled taut. His chest rose and fell unevenly. Then he snapped his gaze away. “Alas, I'm a gentleman, and gentlemen do not steal from those who have given gifts to them—”

“I apologized!”

Constant held up a hand. “—nor do they allow those below them to badger and manipulate them into getting their way—”

“I just want to save my men!”

An icy finger slid down the back of Hawk's neck. Colder still, it traced his spine. Prickling dread drenched Hawk. He stretched his neck.

Constant was glowering now. “And I most certainly—”

“Hold up!”

A roar plugged his ears. The chill coiled around his shoulders and chest, drawing his gaze over his shoulder to the sky. Dark and forbidding, a solid blanket of black closed in. Screams and shrieks burrowed through his mind.

Death.

“Hey!” He snapped a look to Constant, who merely flicked up that stupid eyebrow again. “I'm just—” Another check to his six affirmed the harbinger closing in. “Okay, okay,” Hawk shouted. “Just stop him.”

Time held out his long hand, fingers stretching to infinity, it seemed. “Return it to me, Haytham, and perhaps I can persuade Death to take a detour this dark night.”

“What? No way, not till you agree to give me the last couple of hours.”

Constant adjusted the French cuffs peeking out of his coat sleeves and then smoothed a hand down his waistcoat. “As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me—we're not doing well in the manners, are we, Haytham?”

Hand held up to Constant, Hawk drew back from the frigid, hollow sensation overtaking him from Death's direction. Heat yet cold danced along his neck, his hairs standing on end. “Okay, I'm sorry. You're right.” He swallowed and looked back, his thoughts stumbling over each other. The team—he needed more time to save them, and apparently Constant wanted him to beg for it. So be it.

Ashley.
Oh, man. If he died right now, he could never tell her how much he loved her, how much . . .

He'd been a jerk. Class-A jerk. How many times had he yelled at her, ordering her to go away, when he'd just hated having her see him weak and broken. She deserved so much more. So very much more. She deserved the world. She was
too
good for him.

Shrieking enveloped him. Pecking at him, his courage, his will to live. Flying in and out, tiny black wisps plucked at his clothes, his flesh, his mind, playing a melody that lured him into wanting to surrender.

Just give up,
they whispered.

You failed. It doesn't matter. . . . You don't matter.

Walk away. Nobody needs you. Nobody wants you.

Yes, you're a hero, but they don't appreciate you.

The voices, thick yet whisper-thin, swooped and dove, in and out. Through his mind. Through his heart. Through his soul.

The same voices he'd heard on the bed back in the original time strain.

The same voices that convinced him to kick Ash out of his life. To give up on the love she had for him. And to just . . . surrender to death. It'd be easier. He'd tried to let himself die. Gave them do-not-resuscitate orders. The only thing with a DNR was that the person had to die. And despite his every effort, he hadn't been able to die.

God doesn't care about them.

He wants them to die. You're of no use anyway.

You failed. Again. Just like everything else.

Just . . . surrender . . .

It'd be so much easier. Hawk closed his eyes. Let the thought sink in, let himself sink into the nothingness.

Then, four letters flitted through the heaviness.

Abda.

10

No! Not surrender. Fight like never before.

But not fighting the way he had with angry words and epithets, abandoning his faith and love. Fighting
through
surrender.

Whoa. What a heady thought. Hawk felt a strange new rhythm pumping through his chest.

“It's quite fascinating to me,” Constant said with a smirk, “how contrite the impudent become when Grumpy Ghoul swoops in—” he made a motion like a bird of prey diving in for the kill—“for their souls.”

“You're right.”

“I'm sorry?” Craning his head forward, Constant tucked a finger behind his ear and nudged it out. “Say again?”

Crouching from the nearly tangible frost of Death, Hawk leaned away. “You're right.” He held out his hands to placate time's master. “Please, I . . .” What could he say? He was wrong. Constant was right—his attempt to play God and rewrite the lives of these men had failed miserably. Inadequacy, an old foe from high school days, rushed in.

This isn't your battle.

“Very good. Now.” Constant flicked his long digits and immediately the death chill evaporated. Warmth returned to Hawk's soul as Constant adjusted the slender tie around his neck. “Now, if you'd be a good soldier in uniform and keep your mouth closed and take orders, we can get on with this.”

Hawk ignored the gibe.

“Now, where was I before you, yet again, so rudely interrupted me?” Constant looked down and frowned.

Sarcasm would've been Hawk's first response, but he had none of that left. Only desperation. Desperate hope to make this right. Desperate need to save these men. “Gentleman. You were reminding me how you're a gentleman.”

Constant's eyes brightened. “Ah yes.” He tapped his cane against Hawk's chest. “Good man. Thank you. Now, since I
am
a gentleman, I do not take back what I give, no matter how poorly the recipient has treated me; then I—”

“Seriously?” Hawk's rapid-fire pulse slowed.

Brow knotted, Constant glowered.

“Right. Sorry.” Hawk shoved
contrite
over his action-first mantra. “Please go on.” Was it too much to hope he'd have the remaining hours?

Again, Constant held out his hand. “My watch, Haytham. Return it to me.”

Tugging the item from his pants pocket, Hawk hesitated. The full weight of oppression and failure closed in around him as the shadow of Death trickled over the piece. “It didn't . . . I failed.”

“Then perhaps no mistakes were made originally. Is it possible you did all you could do, that you did the right thing last time, letting the boy live?”

“No way!” His head felt rigged to blow. The air grew heavy and thick. Hawk stared at the silver piece in his palm. He could do this—save them—or at least swing things in their favor somehow. A few more hours . . . a chance to redeem . . . “I need more time.”

“Afraid not.” Constant snatched the watch. “Ours is not to steal from others, but to make the most of what we have.” He thumped the piece against Hawk's temple. “That's for stealing it from me.” He huffed and secured the watch on a chain that hung from a breast pocket of his pin-striped suit.

Shoulders squared, he pinned Hawk with an infamous Constant glare. “Now, please. Don't annoy me again. I can revoke this agreement at any point. In fact, Mr. D. was less than pleased that I gave you the chance at all.” With a dark smile, he gave a fake shudder. “Should've seen that showdown.” The smile grew. “I won, naturally. Or you'd be—” he lifted his eyebrows and indicated the hard-packed earth—“buried six feet under. Wow. This foxhole makes a perfect grave, doesn't it?”

“No!”

Another cocked head and arched eyebrow. “You have time, Haytham. But not supernatural powers.”

“What are you saying?”

“That you can move a rock from point A in one stream to point B in another, but suspending their lives, altering them . . .” Constant shrugged. “You're playing hopscotch in the garden of Time, Haytham. And the garden doesn't belong to you.”

“Meaning?”

“Some things you can control; others you cannot.”

Hawk stilled, curious over the implication. Thomas Constant seemed to be hinting at something profound. Truth seemed to feather-brush against his mind.

Thunk!

Hawk blinked and rubbed his temple where, once again, Time had thumped the watch. “What was that for?”

Mischief danced in the blue eyes. “To help that thought get dislodged from the ambiguity.” He chuckled. “And of course, for stealing my watch.” He gave a two-finger salute, then waved. “Two hours, Haytham. Make them count.”

* * *

He'd lain there so still, so lifeless.

Abda dare not move as he stared at Hawk, who lay in one position for a very long time. Had a bullet hit him? What if his heart stopped working, like Moor's
plaar
?

But his eyes were open.

Heart thudding louder than the sound of gunshots, Abda waved a hand before Hawk's eyes. Nothing. No blink. No grunt.

“Hawk?” he whispered as he pulled himself forward to see into the man's eyes. Even with the different-colored paint on the American soldier's face, Abda could tell the man was a good man. He'd seen that in the way Hawk had treated him.

Maybe Hawk was just intensely focused. Even Plaar would ignore him at times when there was something very important. Abda looked out over the valley, the land he'd known all his life. The rocky parts, the grass, the small lake glistening in the distance.

A shadow moved over the lake. A cloud—

His gaze rose to the starlit sky. No, no clouds.

When he glanced at the lake once more, his heart was afraid. Though he saw something like a shadow dance on the waters, there was nothing there. A chill shuddered through Abda's body.

Cradling his box under his left arm, he scooted closer to Hawk. Hand on the man's shoulder—well, on his vest, really—Abda searched the man's face and eyes for signs of life. How could he possibly be alive and not moving? Wouldn't he tell Abda to get down? Shove him aside?

“Hawk?” With a heavy thump of his heart, Abda shook his new friend. “Hawk?”

What if he was dead . . . but not dead?

What does
that
mean?

Though he did not want to, he let his gaze wander to the lake. The air seemed lighter—no shadow! Abda let out a nervous laugh. As he looked back to Hawk, his breath shoved into the back of throat—there! The shadow. So close to the main road.

Panic shook him, like the day the Sand Spider grabbed Abda's tunic and lifted him off the floor, angry over something Abda did not understand.

He clapped his hand on Hawk's shoulder. “Hawk.” Spit clogged in his throat. He coughed.

“Sh!” Hawk's boss hissed.

Again, Abda shook his friend. “Hawk. What is wrong?”

Hawk jolted. “Augh!”

“Ahh!”

Hawk threw his arm up.

Abda tumbled back, his chest pounding at the alarm, but two strong hands caught him. What was wrong with Hawk? He acted like Abda had just woken him.

A bunch of hissed words shot their way.

Though Abda's eyes burned, he refused to cry.

Eyes wild and wide, Hawk stared at him. “What . . . what were you doing?” His Pashto rose and fell unevenly.

“You . . . you weren't awake.” Abda was glad when Hawk's grip loosened on his arms. “I got scared. There was some
. . . thing
in the field. And you weren't . . . Why wouldn't you talk to me?”

“I'm sorry.” He patted Abda on the chest. “We . . . we need to get you back to your home, yes?”

Abda nodded fast. “Yes, my
moor
.” And then he wouldn't be scared anymore. He sniffled back the stinging in his eyes. “She always worries about me, especially when it's dark.”

Hawk placed a hand on Abda's cheek. “You're very good to take care of your mom so well. Your father must be very proud.”

“Do you . . . do you have a son?”

His hand lowered to Abda's shoulder. “No kids of my own. But . . . I said before that I had a sister. What I didn't say was that I also have a brother about your age.”

Incredible! Imagine being the brother of an American soldier like this man. Such honor!

“Hey.” Hawk looked around to the others and spoke to them in English. Though Abda had learned some English from the soldiers, he couldn't use the language the way they did. He recognized two words: . . .
kid
. . .
box
 . . .

Abda held tighter to his treasure box. Surely they were not going to take it away from him. But then, the one opposite Hawk rolled onto his back, reached into a pocket on his pants, and tugged something free. He held it out.

Abda frowned and looked at Hawk. What did the soldier want him to do with it?

“For your box,” Hawk said in Pashto.

He spun back toward the man, then looked at the small flashlight. “For me?” It felt like a blanket, warmed by a fire, draped over his shoulders, when the soldier nodded.

Afraid the man would jerk it away and laugh, Abda slowly reached for it. When his hands closed around the metal, he pushed his gaze to the soldier. “Thank you.”

The man smiled.

“Here,” another said.

Abda froze when he saw the candy bar. They were so sweet and good, better than cashews. He accepted it with a nod and thanks. As he placed the two items in the box, he heard the others talking. They passed him a cord bracelet, a packet of Army food, and other things. His box was as full as his heart. Abda could barely close it when he turned to Hawk, who crouched by the edge of the foxhole.

“I can't believe it,” he said with a laugh. “So many things. I will need another box.”

Hawk reached into his side pocket and pulled out a thin device. Abda had seen other soldiers with those things, and long wires going up into their ears. Hawk plucked the wires out—and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

Hawk went very still. Not as still as when he looked dead.

Abda lifted the paper, surprised to find a pretty woman. “She is your wife?”

A half smile teased Hawk's mouth. “No.” He took the picture back.

“Why not? She's pretty.”

The smile grew big. “Yeah, she is.”

“You should marry her and have children. A son, like me!”

Though he smiled, Hawk didn't look happy.

“What is wrong? Do you love her?”

Hawk swallowed. “Yeah . . .”

“Hey.” Hawk's boss looked mad. “Move. Now.”

“Come on,” Hawk said as he crawled out of the hole and motioned Abda to come with him.

He clambered out and followed the soldier with all his gear and weapon. They scooted around the edge of the hill, past Delaram and the other sheep. Crouching behind a tree, Hawk paused and pointed to the homes. “You live there?”

Abda nodded. “Yes, and the Sand Spider is still there.”

“Well, here.” Hawk tugged out wires from his pocket, plugged them into the device, then pressed a button and spoke into it.

What was he saying? Abda couldn't quite tell because he'd spoken so softly.

Hawk placed the tips of the wires in Abda's ears and then showed him how to turn it on. Music flowed through the wires. Loud, thumping music. With a swipe of his finger, Hawk changed the song. A softer one.

Then one more move and he heard this: “
Abda, you will always be my friend. Proverbs 16:32 says, ‘Better a patient person than a warrior, one with self-control than one who takes a city.' Remember to have self-control, friend.”

Abda looked up at the soldier. “Really? We are friends?”

On a knee, Hawk caught him by the shoulders. “Abda, listen.” His eyes looked back and forth over Abda's face. “I . . .” He sighed. Squeezed Abda's shoulders. “Do you believe in God?”

“Allah? Yes.”

That didn't seem to be the answer Hawk wanted. “We are friends, yes?”

“Yes, I like that very much.”

“I need you to promise me one thing.”

“I will try.”

“Do not tell anyone about us, Abda. No matter what they ask you, I need you to tell them that the only thing you saw on that hill was your sheep.”

“Delaram—her name is Delaram.”

Hawk gave a quick smile. “Remember you told me your cousin was killed?”

Sad and a bit scared at why Hawk would mention that, Abda nodded.

“Well, I had a very bad sort of dream where you went back and told your parents of me and my team—”

“Oh no. I wouldn't!”

“In my dream, you did. And your parents told some very bad people, who hunted my team down and used a grenade to kill us.”

Abda put his hand on Hawk's shoulder. “Friends do not kill friends. Right?”

Sadness played on Hawk's face. “Right. Just remember, if you tell your
moor
and
plaar
that the other soldiers and I are up there, I will have to watch
all
my other friends, the same ones who gave you gifts—” he tapped the treasure box—“die. The man you call the Sand Spider will order men to kill us.”

A little taller and a little angry, Abda stood straight. “I will
not
tell him. I promise, Hawk.”

“Please.” Hawk's grip was tight, and it hurt, but he noticed and let go. “I don't want to die, Abda. And I don't want my friends to die.”

“I will not say anything, Haytham. You are my friend, and I do not want to see any more friends die.” He sighed. “It makes my heart sad.”

“Thank you, friend.”

“Will I see you again?”

Hand on Abda's head, Hawk smiled. “It would be nice—when there is no more war.” He rumpled his hair. “If you are tempted to tell anyone of us, play the message I recorded. Remember, we are friends. You and me. America and Afghanistan.”