Bonne Femme Chapter Two

Bonne Femme
Chapter 2
Fear
May 8
        Footprints puddled on the parquet floor behind her as she hurried, wrapped in a hastily donned robe and with wringing wet hair, to pick up the phone.
17.
"Oh, Richard," she said when she recognized his voice. "I am glad you called."
        "If you have not spoken with him, perhaps you should not." His silence sharpened her regret. "I was not thinking. It is---"
"Already taken care of," he said to forestall her. "Don't worry about it."
"How did . . . What did he say?"
"I don't remember exactly, but it's going to be all right."
"I should not have asked."
He cleared his throat nervously. "Listen, the reason I called is . . . well I came into these tickets for a . . . a concert up at Traverse City . . . for tonight. I was thinking maybe you'd like to go if you have nothing else to do."
       She hesitated, afraid that he would construe accepting as acknowledgement that she had purchased his services. As much as she despised manipulative women, she now wondered if she were the one being manipulated.
"Are you still there?" he asked.
        If Richard was trying to manipulate her she would know soon enough, and then she could end it before it got as far as her ill-considered relationship with Mic had gotten.
"When do we leave?" she asked impulsively.
"Five-thirty?"
"That is only an hour from now."
"Yeah, I know. Sorry."
"I can be ready by then, but why so early?"
"Travers City is a long drive, and we'll be coming back late I'm afraid."
18.
        She didn't respond for a moment, already having second thoughts. "Jill, I . . . hope you're not thinking of this as . . . Look, you're not obligated or anything."
"I know. I . . . uh . . . I am looking forward to it."
        Jill placed the phone back in its cradle and closed her eyes. "Why did I do that?" she asked herself.
"Because a night free of worry will be a relief. I deserve it."

        Later, as she fastened her earrings in the mirror, her second thoughts came back. "You were terribly wrong about Mic," she said to her reflection. "What do you really know about Richard?"
She heard a knock at the door. "Too late now," she mumbled. She pulled on a sweater and threw a light jacket over her arm before going out.
        "I told Marta about the concert," she said casually as they went down to the car. "Poor girl. With her fiancé so far away she goes nowhere but to the university." The white lie was to let him know that someone knew where she was and whom she was with. She hadn't thought to call Marta.
        The scent of her perfume as he helped her into the car evoked feelings that were premature at best. Richard realized that he had virtually extorted his date with her.
        "I hope you enjoy the Lightfoot concert," he said. "I don't even know what kind of music you like."
"Lightfoot? Is that a group or a soloist?"
        "He's a singer-songwriter. Lots of hits from all the way back in the sixties through the eighties. Great lyrics, lots of meaning. You'll recognize the voice."
19.
"Tell me about his music," she said.
The situation made them both awkward.
        "Good words set to the right tune is like magic. There's no better means of communication according to my dad. He loved his music. He taught me to really listen. He said that great musicians always have something to say."
Jill noted the past tense. Richard's father was no longer alive. "He was a musician then?" she asked.
        "Not professionally. Just a working man---raised a few cows, worked in the switchyard down by the quay."
"Switchyard?"
        When Jill didn't know a word it surprised him. Her command of English was better than any native speaker he knew. Even the slight accent he had noticed at first had completely disappeared. Her intelligence was almost intimidating.
        "A switchyard is where they make up trains, you know, reorganize and couple together the cars. It's kind of a dangerous job. One night when I was in high school we had a bad ice storm. Dad must have slipped or something. No one ever knew exactly what happened."
"I'm sorry, Richard."
"That's okay. It was a long time ago."
"Do you still have your mother?"
        "Yeah, but she's living in Florida now. While I was in the Marines she married a guy named Charles . . . nice guy . . . crazy about her. What about your parents?"
        "My parents divorced when I was twelve. Neither could be bothered with an inconvenient child who might interfere with starting a new life. My Aunt Mirabelle is my real mother."
"So where's home, Jill? I mean, I know it's in France, but where exactly?"
"Bretagne-a-Mare. It's in Brittany."
"Brittany? So it's on the ocean?"
20.
She didn't tell him that "a-Mare" literally meant "on the ocean."
        "We live south of Normandy in the province of Bretagne Atlantique. It's eighty kilometers from the ocean at St. Nazair on the south coast of the peninsula."
"Tell me about your Aunt . . ."
        "Mirabelle," she supplied. "She suffered a . . . a stroke I think you say. She is in a convalescent home now, and I do not know if she will ever be very well again."
"You miss her terrible, don't you?"
        "Yes. I did not wish to leave her, but she insisted that I come here and finish my education as we had planned. I feel guilty, but she insists that I not sacrifice myself to care for her. She would be very angry with me if I go back before I . . . accomplish my mission."
"She sounds like a remarkable person."
        Jill realized with a start that, in ten minutes, Richard had discovered more about whom she was than Mic ever had.
"Richard, why do you never speak of Somalia?" she asked.
        "Because I don't have any stories to tell." He said it softly and without a hint of emotion, but she knew at once that her question had been too personal.
They tried too hard to restart the conversation afterwards, and that never works.

        Traverse City
        Lightfoot was well into the first stanza of his tribute to the builders of the Canadian Pacific railroad when the maitre d' showed them through the crowded club to their table. Richard noticed a few in the crowd as young as Jill, and thought that they could not have heard the song when first released.
"You are right. I recognize that voice," said Jill as Richard helped her to her seat.
21.
       They listened silently through profound and poignant ballads about the singer's homeland and its diverse people, the French and British Canadians, the Native Americans, and the Irish who had come to build the railroads. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, mournfully repetitive, but perfectly fitted to the tragedy of an ore carrier lost to a Great Lakes storm, took them to intermission by which time they had recovered their ability to converse comfortably. Mostly they spoke about the meaning of the lyrics.
"Thank you for bringing me, Richard," she said. "I am so enjoying myself."
Her remark pleased him, but he cautioned himself not to make too much of it.
"I'm glad," he said.
        Lightfoot came back on stage, experimented with a few chords, adjusting the strings, and then began one of his first hits, Early Morning Rain. He abruptly stopped playing just as he was about to start the vocal, and then leaned to the microphone.
        "Maybe I'll be more in the mood for that later," he said, making a minor adjustment to one of the strings. Satisfied, he began the opening arpeggio of That's What You Get For Loving Me, at the end of which he slipped directly into Ribbon of Darkness.
         "I love what he did there," said Richard. "Turnabout or maybe reaping what you sow." He gave her a crooked grin. "Sorry about the running commentary. I've been doing it all evening, haven't I?"
        "Do not apologize for enthusiasm. There is so little wonder in the world for most people."

        The concert ran long as Lightfoot made sure that the audience got its money's worth. They walked down the street to Richard's car side by side, but not close, Richard with his hands in his pockets and Jill with arms folded against the cool night air.
"Thanks for coming with me," he said.
"The music was wonderful."
"Maybe we can . . . do something like this again."
"Maybe," she said tentatively.
22.
       On the drive back Jill found herself studying Richard's profile file in the light of oncoming cars. The relationship between Mic and Richard puzzled her. Then again, her own actions puzzled her because they were totally at odds with the image she had of herself. Why had she asked a virtual stranger to help her? Was it because she was more scared than she wanted to admit? Her face burned as she thought again about the implications of accepting the invitation tonight. Suddenly she felt guilty and foolish.
        "Jill," he said without taking his eyes from the road. "I'd love to see you again sometime, but . . . well, given the circumstances, I'll understand if you don't think that's a good idea."
        She nodded without answering, and his heart sank.
        Gradually the conversation resumed, each trying to steer safely toward neutral topics, but time did not pass as quickly as it had earlier in the evening. Finally Richard pulled to the curb at her apartment. He got out and walked her to the door.
"It's nearly two," he said inanely when they got to the stoop.
"Thanks for the evening," she said.
"My pleasure," he replied before turning to go.
        She couldn't let him leave without an attempt to explain herself. "Richard, I should not have asked you to talk with Mic. I hope it does not cause trouble between you. I . . . I just was not thinking."
"Hey, it's okay. It's over," he assured her. And he thought it was.
Richard was halfway to the car when she spoke again. "Call me."
He nodded, and then got into his car.

Mugged
        Tired, but more at ease than he had been in a long time, he searched for the lock with his key. Suddenly he was slammed face-first into the wall. Stunned, he rolled to the side, but before he could recover a forearm across his throat pinned him to the wall. He saw only the dark silhouette, but instinct told him that either a knife or gun pointed at his abdomen. Ragged alcohol-laced breath hit his face. The guy may have been drunk but he was as strong as an ox.
23.
       "Man, I don't have much money," he choked out. "What I got ain't worth getting hurt over. I can't see a thing in this dark, so just take the money and throw my wallet in the yard so I don't have to do all the paperwork to get my license and stuff."
The forearm jammed harder, cutting off his wind.
        Richard reacted instinctively, twisting just enough to partially block the knee he sensed coming up toward his groin. Simultaneously he grabbed the wrist and twisted down and to the left, pulling hard. As his assailant lost his balance and fell forward, Richard threw an elbow, connecting solidly with the man's temple. He heard the dull thud of a head hitting the brick wall. The man became dead weight, slumping to the floor.
        Gasping for air, Richard coughed and rubbed his aching Adam's apple. Pulse pounded in his ears. He bent double and threw up in the grass. Then he opened the door and flipped on the light to see the man who had attacked him.
"What?" he said.
He scanned the street. Mic's car was parked just down the block.

        Using a fireman's carry and his own car, Richard managed to get Mic back to his apartment where the door was unlocked. Struggling under the weight, he flipped on the light, and went straight to the couch and dumped Mic on it. Instead of leaving, he went to the kitchen and took a beer from the fridge. He got back just as Mic was coming around.
         Mic groaned, moved his hand to his head, and then sat up unsteadily. "What the hell did you hit me with?"
"My elbow. I could have killed you."
"I should have killed you. You can't mess with my girl and get away with it."
"She's not yours, Mic. You blew it."
        Mic sat straighter and ran a hand over the goose egg on the side of his head. "Damn! Good shot, Ricky. You got lucky though because I was careless. "His face lost all expression.
"You want your little split-tail, it's gonna take more than a sucker punch."
24.
"I don't think it's up to you, or me either for that matter."
"She's not going to get away with it."
"Leave her alone, Mic," Richard said evenly.
"Or what? You'll talk to me again?"
"I'll do whatever I have to do."
        Mic laughed. "I was with you in the Mog. Remember? I seen your action. Let me give you something to sleep on tonight, buddy," he said with a nasty smile. "I'm gonna give her what she's been asking for, and you stay out of my way."
"You're gonna leave her alone."
        "You're fighting a losing battle, Ricky. She don't want you. She wants me. I know what she likes."
"Shut up!"
        "No, you gotta hear this. You should see her when she's really into it. She likes me to do it to her while I got my hands on her throat---you know---and kinda---squeeze until her eye's roll back in her head. She loves that, man. She's addicted to---"
        The bottle caught Mic's head before Richard realized he had swung. Shards skittered across the tile floor. How he got there he couldn't remember, but Richard found himself astraddle Mic with broken bottle up under Mic's chin.
        They held their positions silently for a long moment as each tried to come to grips with what had just happened. Blood trickled into Mic's left eye from a new abrasion on his forehead. He blinked it away.
"Who you kidding, Ricky," he said calmly.
Richard trembled, dangerously close to slashing the man's throat.
"Can you do it, Ricky? It's a real rush. I discovered that when I was just a kid."
        Richard dug the glass into Mic's throat, but the big man didn't flinch. Instead, he giggled.
        "You know what I'm gonna do? Picture the look on her face when she realizes that this time it ain't play. That I'm really doing it."
25.
       Richard remembered hitting him, but couldn't remember how many times. He got up and staggered from the apartment, not because of what he had done, but because of what he was tempted to do. It wasn't in him to finish it the only way Mic would let there be a finish. He could see no way out of what had happened.

        Driving in the Dark
        Before he had even driven away, Richard had rationalized Mic's behavior as nothing more than drunken ranting, but he knew better. It hadn't been drunken behavior. It had been insane. He even wondered if maybe he was insane. The difference between the crazies and normal people is that the normal ones always try to return to normality. Crazies are at home with crazy. It's where they function.
        He drove southeast of town, his thoughts a jagged tumble of frustration, self-doubt, and dread. He wrestled with Mic's perverse remarks about Jill longer than he should have, wondering if he didn't believe it because it was ridiculous, or simply because he didn't want to believe it.
No. If I know anything about her, I know she's not like that.
        Another thing bothered him. Since Somalia the very thought of violence sickened him, yet he had been on the verge of slashing Mic's throat.
What came next wasn't a memory. He heard it, smelled it.
        The squad walked slowly, keeping five-meter intervals to minimize damage from a burst of fire or a grenade. After a fruitless search for hiding gunmen they returned to the square to provide security for the overwhelmed medics. Richard saw Mic prod a dead civilian with his M-16. The flash suppresser slid down the front of her bloodstained dress. At the sound of ripping fabric he stepped over and shouldered Mic away. They glared at each other across the body. Then Mic shrugged and threw him a what-the-hell smile. "Hey, she's just dead meat."
"We all said stuff like that," Richard mumbled.
        It was true. Coarse talk and insensitive attitude was the armor they all wore against the awfulness. They all developed emotional calluses. But Mic had been different from the start.
26.
       Richard and Kevin went to find Mic after a firefight, and found him sitting in a doorway smoking. The unmistakable odor drew Richard to look inside. In the dim light he made out a dead girl, on her side, hands and bare feet trussed together at the small of her back by an electric cord now buried in the flesh of her neck.
"How could anyone do that?" he asked hoarsely.
"Militia execution," offered Mic off-handedly as he flicked his cigarette toward the body.
        Could the Somali girl be the "rush" Mic had talked about earlier in the evening. He decided that it couldn't be because he talked about being a kid when he discovered the thrill of it.
        Richard drove on aimlessly realizing that another fight was a forgone conclusion, and this time he probably wouldn't come out of it as well as he had tonight. That bothered him less than what Mic had said about Jill. It was fantasy. It had to be. But that he had such a fantasy coupled with what Richard already knew about him was terrifying.
        Flashing lights in the rearview brought him back to the present. He had been driving on autopilot, and wondered if he had been wandering.
        He pulled over. A moment later he glimpsed a thin uniformed man approaching in the rearview mirror. The beam of a flashlight found the mirror, blinding him. Richard rolled down the window and placed both hands atop the steering wheel so as to be plainly visible to the approaching officer.
"Richard. What are you doing out here this time of night?"
        The voice and Sam Elliot mustache concealing the man's upper lip were familiar. He had been Richard's mentor during his summer practicum.
"Just driving and thinking, JR."
"Thinking, huh? You smell like a damned brewery."
"Got a Breathalyzer handy?"
JR studied him closely for a moment. "I might give you a pass, I guess."
"I haven't been drinking. Well, I did have a beer. One."
JR noticed the scrape on Richard's forehead. "You sure everything's okay?"
"Yeah," he said, and then changed his mind. "No, not really. Got time to talk after work?"

27.
"No. But if you lock up you can ride around with me for awhile."
"So talk to me," said JR as soon as they were underway.
"I need some information on the guy who put this knot on my head."
        JR stared straight ahead and nodded solemnly. "You're not with the department anymore, Richard."
        "I wouldn't ask if it weren't important." When there was no answer he hurried on. "He's a scary guy, JR. I need to know how scared I should be. He indirectly threatened a girl I know. If there's something in his past that would indicate how likely he is to carry through I need to know."
"Don't you think that might be a matter for law enforcement?"
        "As far as I know he hasn't done anything illegal here. Look, I've got to make sure nothing happens to her. That's the bottom line. I really need this, JR."
"Just what am I supposed to do while bending the law for you?"
        "I need to find out where a guy named William McCulloch Boyd was around 1987 and 1988, and I need to know if there were serious crimes committed wherever that was during that time."
"Define ‘serious?'"
        "Sexual assault, abduction, maybe a disappearance . . . " Richard omitted "murder." If JR did what he asked he was sure to pass along any homicides."
"Don't they teach you anything up at the college? That's all public record."
"I need it quick, JR."
        28.
"You're not feeding me a line, are you? I mean, this isn't an assignment for one of your classes or something, is it?"
"I wish."
       "Let me think on it. I'll get back to you this afternoon." He grimaced. "Look, don't go getting yourself in trouble, Richard---not if you want a job in law enforcement."
"I don't intend to. But I gotta know what I'm into here. And this girl needs my help"
"Just use some sense, Richard."

May 9, 5:03 AM

        The phone woke Richard from a fitful sleep. He glanced at the clock before answering. He had only been sleeping for three hours.
"Yeah?" he said hoarsely.
"Richard, this is JR. Got something to write on?"
        Richard grabbed some junk mail, found a large envelope with a blank back, took a pen from the table, and came back to the phone. "Go ahead."
"Your guy's got a record all right. He got probation for breaking and entering when he was eighteen."
"That's it?"
        "Barry County, Missouri is where I got that. During the period you asked about---January of '87 to December off '90 there were six homicides and three missing persons reports and a mess of assaults, too many to count. Two of the missing turned out to be runaways, both later reunited with their families, and there was an eight-year-old boy whose body was eventually found in Table Rock Lake."
29.
"Drowning?"
        "Probably. No other notation. Now five of your homicides resulted in arrest and conviction, but the other's a cold case. A girl disappeared from a high school dance. Body was found the next day . . . apparent sexual assault. No arrest."
"Got a name?"
"Carly Marissa Williams."
"I wonder if he knew her."
        "Richard, I know you think this guy is good for something like that, but don't let your imagination run away with you. Even country people don't know everyone else in the county."
"JR, thanks for getting this stuff for me."
"If you want my advice, I say cut loose from this situation as quick as you can."
"I intend to."
But Richard had a feeling that it wasn't up to him to do the cutting.

As soon as he was through with JR he called Jill.
"Yes," she said uncertainly when he identified himself.
        "You said to call, so . . . I was wondering if you'd like to . . . maybe have a sandwich or something."
"I'm sorry. I cannot today."
"Tomorrow then? Or am I just being a pest?"
        "Actually, this should not take the whole day. Can you meet me at the library . . . at say, three-thirty this afternoon?"
"Sure. Is Yesterday's okay?"
"Let's go somewhere more reasonable. Fast food is fine."
It wouldn't provide the privacy for what he needed to tell her, but it would have to do.
"See you at three-thirty then."
30.
"Okay."
        He spent the rest of the day trying to formulate what he was going to say, deciding immediately that he couldn't tell all of it, very little in fact. Alluding even indirectly to erotic asphyxia would embarrass her at best. At the worst there was no telling what she might think.
        He talked about strangling you, he imagined himself saying. That might make her think that I'm the real threat. Unless he's already done something to make her believe it, she might think I'm crazy.
        By three he was still at a loss. Worse, he himself didn't know what to believe. He could not construct a single certainty from all the bits and pieces---all the words and worries. It was still all supposition and speculation---except his fear for her. Something bad was going to happen to her unless he stopped it. Still he had no idea of what to tell her or even how to begin.

        A Failure to Communicate
         He split his attention between the conversation and the correct way to frame what he wanted to say. What he was going to suggest was bound to seem implausible if not completely preposterous.
"What's wrong, Richard?" she asked, as they pulled into the lot at McDonalds.
"Nothing," he said, turning her a weak smile.
Her eyes flitted to his forehead. "What happened to you?" she asked.
        "Oh, this? Mic was waiting at my apartment . . . last night . . .after I . . . after we got back and---"
"And you decided to settle things like men?"
"No, that's not what happened. He was drunk and jumped me. All I did was defend myself."
"Winner gets the girl, right?"
He realized that now she would reject out of hand anything he had to say about Mic.
31.
"Maybe he thinks like that. I don't."
        Jill shook her head impatiently, dismissing his denial of responsibility. "Why did you let this happen?" she asked irritably. "No. This is my fault. I should not have involved you."
"Nonsense. This is no more your fault than mine."
"I will talk to him," she said. "As I should have at the beginning."
"No! You can't do that. He's dangerous. You have to be really careful around him."
"I do not intend to be around him, and I . . ." She broke off without finishing. She blinked a few times without letting her eyes stray from his.
"I wish to leave now," she said.
"Jill, I---"
"Please take me home."
        In the silence on the way back across town, Richard ran through it all again, trying to see if he had misinterpreted what had happened the night before. Maybe he wasn't as drunk as I thought. Maybe he orchestrated the fight knowing how she would react when she found out. He shook his head, rejecting the idea.
   Jill mistook his action for exasperation. "It surprises you that I am angry?" she asked sharply.
"Not at all," he mumbled. "I think I know how you feel."
"Really?" she asked sarcastically.
        "You're upset because you didn't cause this and you have no control over it. You asked me for help, and I complicated things. It's not my fault, Jill. But I guess there's no way you could know that."
"I do not know what to think," she said. "But I do not like this."
When he stopped across from her apartment, she opened the door.
        32.
"Wait," he said. "There's something you should know. I'm afraid that he might do something to you."
"You are trying to frighten me."
"Why would I do that?"
"Maybe you want me to . . . to think I need a protector."
        "If you believe that then get away from both of us. Transfer to a different school, or go back to France even."
"You are serious?"
"It might be best."
Only the sound of the heater fan filled the silence as she searched his face. "You do not have the right to interfere in my life," she said evenly.
"I know," he said miserably.
"Something else happened?"
"He made some threats."
        "What did he say?" she demanded. "I do not want your interpretation. I want his exact words."
"He said he'd make you sorry for what you did to him."
        "All I did was quit seeing him," she said as she opened the door. "You said that he was drunk, so it was probably nothing."
Before he could respond, she closed the door.

May 9, 10:05 P.M.

        Richard took a second can of beer to the living room, dropped into the recliner, tried to get into the movie, hoping that it, some aspirin, and a touch of alcohol would dampen his unease enough for sleep. He stared at the screen, trying unsuccessfully to tune out the insistent replay of his fumbling incompetence. Jill had reached a perfectly logical conclusion: he had exaggerated Mic's threat in order to make her think she needed him for protection. Mic saw his intervention only as a challenge to his manhood. He had driven Jill away and provoked Mic to violence.

        34.
        She made him angry, and I increased his anger. I've got to make her understand that this is a lot more serious than she thinks. But how can I do that? She's probably more afraid of me than of him.

        In the movie both men and women wore hats when out of doors, which dated it more precisely than its black and white cinematography. That was all Richard grasped about the film. He had no clue as to the plot, and only snippets of dialog penetrated his preoccupation, none of them sticking.

        It was late afternoon when they rolled into the village where the convoy was last seen. From the ramshackle cluster of dusty tin roofed huts a mob of murmuring human scarecrows approached, a tide of brown and black faces. They clustered pleadingly around the UN flag hanging limply from the lead vehicle. He felt sick to his stomach. There was not a healthy looking person among them. In mute petition a mother held up her barely moving baby, its stomach distended in starvation.

        They gave out what few rations they had, and watched in horror as the people fought each other for each bit of food. None of them got enough to do any good.

        Captain Holt had the interpreters tell the villagers that the Marines were there to track down the criminals who had stolen their relief rations. The people were angry with the thieves, but refused to give information. One day the foreigners would leave, but not the warlords.

        Holt decided to search back toward Mogadishu where it was believed this particular warlord was holed up in the northwest section of the city. Late that afternoon sniper fire forced them to hunker down behind a packed dirt wall and call for aid. Relief was not immediately available so the Captain decided to find a defensible position and stay the night. They commandeered a masonry building occupied by a once wealthy shopkeeper. The family was confined in an upstairs room, and the marines bivouacked on the lower floor. Watches were posted in the walled courtyard. Richard's watch wasn't until early morning, so he bedded down on the floor and tried to ignore the sporadic small arms fire coming from somewhere south in the city.

        He awoke to muffled alien voices and a strange keening sound that rose and fell in uneven rhythm. Indecipherable words came from somewhere near, followed by harsh laughter. Seeking the source, he followed the sound through the darkened adjoining room to a door at the back. When he opened it, light from a large incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling spotlighted a terrified girl held in a wooden chair by one of the Somali guides. His large hand completely covered the lower half of her face. Beads of sweat glistened on her smooth forehead. Mic knelt in front of her, smiling past the cigarette he held before her eyes.

        Richard awoke with whisps of the nightmare lingering like a lifting fog. The phone was ringing.
It was Jill.
35.
"Richard?"
He noted that it was a little after eleven-thirty. "Yeah. Is something wrong?"

        "No . . . I mean, yes. It's . . . I called to apologize for everything. I know it's late, but . . . I was the one who asked you to get involved, and when the fight happened I blamed you. It was unfair."

"It's okay. I understand why you were upset, but---"
"Please do not start with Mic again, Richard. I do not wish to speak of that."
        He couldn't let it go at that. The dream had shaken him. If she gave him a chance he had to try again.
"Fair enough. Can I see you again?"
There was silence for a long moment. "Give me time, Richard."
"What I had in mind can't wait."
"It will have to," she said tersely.

        "Don't hang up," he said quickly. "I was talking about the weather. It's really beautiful right now . . . way warmer than usual for this time of year. I was thinking we could go out to the point . . . maybe have a picnic tomorrow."

When she didn't respond, he hurried on. "In a week there could be snow on the ground."
        Her long silence made him think he had lost her. "I owe you that much, but no more talk about Mic."
"You don't owe me anything."
She didn't respond for a moment.

        "He called tonight," she said. "He apologized for . . . ‘hanging on.' I think those were his words. He accepts the situation now."

36.
"That's good," he said without conviction.
"It bothers me that you are no longer friends. I didn't mean to do that."
"You didn't do anything."
Again there was a pause before she responded. "What time is our picnic?"
"I'll pick you up at one o'clock, okay?"
"That will be fine."

        After she hung up he sat in silence trying to come to fathom what had happened. He was gratified that she agreed to see him again so soon, although he suspected that this too came from a mistaken impression that she owed him something. The stunner was that she had taken Mic's apology at face value.

She doesn't know him at all! He realized.
        He looked out into the empty night, seeing a montage of unsettling images: The woman at Tonto's wincing as Mic gripped her nape, refusing to let her flee his humiliation. A flash suppresser forcing open a bloody blouse to reveal small brown breasts. A tiny garroted woman's pinkish soles and palms gathered like an obscene bouquet at the small of her bare back. Fright-widened dark eyes reflecting the red glow of a cigarette. And all the while, that smile.

        How had he let the man into his life? Jill was the reason of course. Without even trying she had set a hook into him. He was obsessed with her, and now almost scared to death for her. It occurred to him that he might be crazy.

"I might be," he mumbled aloud. "But he's dangerous and crazy."

        But what evidence was there? He had only a drunken threat made in the heat of anger---during a fight, and a vague comment about something he did as a kid. Mic enjoyed abusing the dead and humiliating the living, but how far would he would he go?

        Mic had threatened to strangle Jill. That was bottom line. Richard wondered what his own bottom line was. How far would he go to protect her?

"As far as it takes," he muttered as he took out his wallet.

        37.
The folded post-it note he'd put there a year and a half ago when he left the Corps was blurred, but still legible. He punched in the number. A groggy voice answered with mild oath.

        "Kevin, this is Richard," he said without preamble. "Remember your definition of a friend?"
"That three a.m. thing? My own words coming back to haunt me?"
"I need to talk."
"So talk."
"Face-to-face. How soon can you get to South Bend?"
"If you're in Cartier, about as soon as you can. Are you in trouble?"
"Not yet."
"Then why not save us both the trip?"
"Some things don't work on the phone."

        A semi barreled past with its wheels on the centerline, its blast of turbulence rocking the Cougar threateningly, but it barely registered as he continued to wrestle with just how he could convince her that she was in real danger.

I can't even tell her that I know it for sure.

        But he did. It was like walking point. You just knew sometimes. A movement could be just wind-blown trash or a rat scurrying for cover, but somehow you know that something's wrong---and you act before it's too late. But he couldn't tell her that because things like that didn't make sense in her world. He plowed on through the night on autopilot, rehashing it, searching for something that would work.

       Just lay it all out. Tell her everything you've seen him do. Then maybe she'll at least be careful enough not to let him get her alone. But you haven't seen him "do" much of anything. All you've got is gut feelings. Push too hard and she won't let you stay close enough to protect her.

His despair was palpable.
Why should she believe you? What you're suggesting doesn't happen in the real world.

38.
       Richard realized that the conclusion he had drawn about Mic was a Gestalt thing, his picture, greater than the sum of its parts. It wasn't difficult for him to believe---not in the middle of the night, alone with his memories and fears. Yet, why should she believe him?

South Bend, May 11, 3:15 A.M.

        The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke, burned grease, and Lysol. Kevin took up the entire side of a corner booth. He had put on weight. Richard estimated him at two eighty. Despite the hour, his blue eyes sparkled through thick wire-framed glasses as a bemused smile crinkled his freckled face. Chronic bed head had won the battle for control of his hurriedly combed reddish blonde hair.

        A weary waitress refilled his cup, and poured coffee for Richard. Richard grimaced as the hot, bitter liquid bit his tongue.
        "Okay, Richard," said Kevin as soon as the waitress left. "What kind of mess you got yourself into?"
"Remember Mic Boyd?"
"Willie Boy? Sure."

        "He turned up at Pere Marquette one day acting like a long lost friend. I kind of let a relationship develop . . . I guess I didn't know how to end it without antagonizing him."

"So, antagonize the prick and get rid of him."
"It's not that simple anymore. I cold cocked him the other night."
        Kevin held him in an unblinking gaze, a slight smile on his lips. "Good," he finally said. "Good, but not smart. Why did you do it?"
"Let's talk about him first."
"So talk."
"Remember when we went looking for him after that firefight?"
Kevin nodded.
39.
"Could he have killed that woman?"

        "The one we found dead in the hooch?" His eyes narrowed. "He might be good for it if that's what you want to hear. The question is: Why do you want to hear it?"

        The reaction dismayed him. If Kevin doubted him then what chance did he have of convincing Jill?
"Remember the way he acted when we found him that day?"
"You really think he did that?"
"Tell me it's impossible."

        "No. It's possible," said Kevin. "I get it. You're afraid he'll come back at you with something more in mind than just beating the hell out of you."

"I'm not afraid for myself. There's a girl involved, and I'm worried about her."
        "Okay, so what do you---I get it. I've just confirmed your opinion." His eyes narrowed again. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Richard shrugged. "I've been . . . having trouble since I got back."
"Flashbacks?"

        "More like vivid memories and bad dreams," said Richard dismissively. "That's not what I'm talking about. I've been kind of having trouble getting interested in things---except for the girl. You might say I'm obsessed with her."

Kevin nodded.

        "I'm not delusional. I guess that's the reason I came---you know to see that what I remember of him isn't . . . you know, like completely crazy."

        "What you remember isn't crazy, Richard. But stuff happened to you over there." Kevin thought for a minute. "What else have you done besides have a fight with him?"
"Nothing. The girl---"
"She got a name?"
        40.
        "Jill. She was going with him---broke it off, but he wouldn't leave her alone. I kind of got involved on her behalf."
Kevin shook his head. "And you expected him to take that without blowing up?"
"Looking back at it? No. And I don't expect him to leave either of us alone now either."

"And you want confirmation that he's worth worrying about."
"Do you think I'm blowing it out of proportion?"
"I think you're right to worry. Put it that way."

        Afterwards they caught up. Richard told him about working on a degree in law enforcement and Kevin explained the struggle of independent trucking. Richard apologized when he found out that he had to pick up a load at seven before making a swing through the southwest, but it gave him an idea. It took a bit of exaggeration as to the depth of his relationship with Jill and assurance that Richard had no intention of taking the law into his own hands, but Kevin finally agreed to do what he asked.

As they walked out into the crisp air, Richard zipped up his jacket.
"Be nice to see you when I get back," said Kevin. "Think you could come down?"
"Maybe in a week or two I'll get in touch."
"Bring your lady down."
"I'll see if I can talk her into it," he said.
Kevin frowned. "Richard, be careful around him."
"I intend to."

        On the way back to Cartier, Richard remembered the night that should have told him all that he ever needed to know about Mic. He didn't want to go there, but like probing a sore spot on his gums, he was compelled to.

        She sat straining in the chair, whimpering into the large black hand clamped over her mouth. He had stood there, trying to comprehend the situation. Captain Holt rushed past, swinging his M-16 like a bat. Mic went tumbling. Richard looked back at the girl. Her eyes locked onto his as if she blamed him for not stopping it.

        The next day Mic boasted about his interrogation. "Just holding the cigarette close to the nail hurts like hell, but it doesn't leave a mark. No matter what she says or what anyone knows there isn't any proof."

        Mic wasn't as smart as he thought, but he was lucky. Holt ate a sniper's bullet during a brief skirmish with an unidentified group of militiamen. With his death any possibility that Mic would be held to account for his torture died.

"Something else I can't tell her," he muttered as he gloomily assessed the prospects of his plan.

        Clearly he needed a fallback, and because he could think of no more persuasive argument than that which he had already rehearsed, he spent the rest of the trip back thinking more about plan B than plan A.

Hosting by Web.com