(2008) Down Where My Love Lives (45 page)

With the pacifier lying on my left, Maggie asleep behind, Papa's Model 12 not too far away, uncertainty all around, our conversation swirling about inside me like smoke fumes, I sat in the middle and tried to make sense of it all.

When morning came, I still had not.

I stepped off the porch steps and walked around the side to the faucet beneath our bedroom window. The faucet had been running all night through a slow-leaking soaker hose that stretched through Maggie's vegetable garden. She had wrapped it around the base of a dozen or more tomato plants.

The window above gave me a clear view of Maggie stretched across the bed, tacked down at each corner. I smiled and tapped on the window. She didn't even budge. I tapped louder. She pulled a pillow over her head and waved me off. Blue rolled over and stuck all four paws in the air. I tapped a third time, and she threw a pillow at the window.

Laughing to myself, I reached down, turned off the dripping faucet, and froze. I studied the dirt path that ran between the house and the azalea bushes, and the closer I looked, the more unsettled I became. Footprints, lots of them, made by a barefooted person, covered the footpath.

As I followed them, I walked back and forth several times, finally coming to a stop beneath our window. Based on the length and depth of imprint, they were too big to be Maggie's and-I placed my bare foot inside the outline-too wide to be mine. I knelt, crawled around, and looked more closely. They couldn't be Amos's, because these had a defined arch and Amos was flat-footed. Maggie had been back here yesterday afternoon to turn on the faucet, but these prints covered hers.

All this told me two things: I didn't know what Peeping Tom had made these prints, and they had been made sometime between yesterday afternoon and this morning. I looked over to the porch where Amos and I had talked, just ten feet away, and felt cold.

THE PHONE RANG AND BROUGHT ME OFF MY KNEES. I poked my head above the azalea tops and listened. It rang a second time. Chances were good that a phone call this early had to be Caglestock. He rarely slept-one of the self-inflicted disciplines of managing Bryce's millions. "Hello?"

"Dylan, it's John." He sounded as if he'd been up awhile, and based on the speed with which he spoke, as if he'd already consumed a pot of coffee.

"Morning to you. How're things?"

"Good. Thanks for getting us those documents." Caglestock paused. "Hey, Dylan, how much do you know of Bryce's past? I mean, how much do you really know?"

I considered his question. "Ummm, only what you and he have told me. Really, just the highlights. Bryce plays his cards pretty close to his chest."

John stalled. "Help me with that one."

"He only tells you what he wants you to know, or doesn't bother you with what he thinks you might not be interested in."

"That's my experience too. Which got me to thinking. We've done some digging, asked a few questions, and I wondered if you could come have lunch with us. Can you do that?"

"Sure. When?"

"Today." His tone had changed.

"Everything all right, John?"

"Don't know, but it'd be good if you were here. Still no word from Bryce."

I hung up the phone to the sound of Blue licking my toes and Maggie walking down the hall, covered in sleep. Her weight made the boards creak, and her calloused heels scuffed the bare floors. She walked up and leaned against me-sign language for "Good morning. Love you. I need a hug." Her hair was sticking in fifty different directions and floating on static electricity. If I hadn't known her, she might have scared me.

I hugged her, thought how warm she was, how soft her breasts felt and yet how firm her back had become, and finally, how perfectly she fit in the space between my shoulders.

"Who was that?" she mumbled.

"Caglestock. Wants me to have lunch with him."

She nodded, pulled the OJ from the fridge, and drank straight out of the jug. Then she pulled the bread out of the hamper, made two PB&Js, began eating one, and simultaneously started scrambling some eggs. While spreading cheese over the eggs, she ate the other sandwich. Every few seconds she'd take another swig from the OJ jug.

I leaned against the counter, hovering over my coffee mug and watching. Maggs wasn't entirely awake yet, but in the last week or so, her appetite had become voracious. If something was edible and wasn't nailed down, she'd eat it.

When the eggs were fluffy, hot, and steaming, she ate them-directly off the skillet. She stood over the sink, scooped up a forkful, and blew across it. Not waiting long enough for it to cool off, she bit down, then stood with her mouth open trying to blow out the hot air. When she bit into a bite that was still too hot, she'd dance around a little like someone who'd swallowed a jalapeno.

Her short cotton nightgown fell an inch or so below the fold where her thighs met her bottom. Her long legs had begun to tan in the sun, and every day I marveled at the transformation. Her dance continued for several minutes while she polished off the eggs. After she'd cleaned the skillet, she peeled a banana and ate it in three bites. She washed that down with another swig and then stood holding the fridge door open.

She shook her head. "I need to get to the grocery store. There's nothing to eat here."

I raised an eyebrow and blew steam off my cup. "Tell me about it."

Eyeing the newspaper on the table, she pulled out ajar of pickles, sat down, and began reading the front page and fingering pickles into her mouth. She ate like a chain-smoker.

I tried not to laugh. "Honey, you want me to get you something to dip those in?"

She was reading the headlines and didn't pay me much attention. She shook her head, shoved another pickle into her mouth, and didn't look up. "No thanks."

I shook my head, kissed her on the cheek, and walked to the shower.

When I got out, I heard two women giggling and talking. The hyena laugh mixed with the muted snicker told me all I needed to know. I poked my head around the corner and saw Maggs and Amanda arm in arm, tears streaming down their faces, sitting on the floor of the den with a pint of Haagen- Dazs between them. Each was armed with a spoon and a handful of Kleenex.

"You girls okay?"

Amanda worked her spoon into the hard frozen ice cream and spoke over her shoulder. "Hey, Professor."

Despite the many changes in our lives and the multiple times I'd told her otherwise, Amanda just couldn't get past calling me Professor. By now, it had become a term of endearment.

"Hey, Amanda. How're things?"

"Good," she said, stuffing a spoonful into her mouth.

Maggs swallowed and pointed a loaded spoon at me. "You and Mr. Clean better get ready, 'cause dirty diapers don't change themselves."

I dressed, lifted our bedroom window, and, looking over my shoulder, quickly and quietly slid the long-barreled shotgun out and leaned it against the house. Blue looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

Then I kissed Maggs, who'd decided to stay and talk children with Amanda, and waved to them both as I slipped out the back door. They had finished off the ice cream and were now standing in the nursery talking about window treatments. I walked around the house, grabbed the shotgun, slid it along the floorboard behind the backseat of my van, and idled out of the drive.

The air had turned hot, reminding me of things I missed. I turned off the AC, rolled down the windows, sped up, and remembered things I loved. The scanner sat beside me on the seat, crackling with numbers and codes that I was slowly learning to translate.

With sweat soaking through the back of my shirt, I drove the long way to town. It was Monday, Pastor John's day off, but when I drove by the church, his Cadillac was parked by itself around back. I looked in my rearview, saw nothing, and kept driving. A few more back roads and I drove by Bryce's locked gate. The chain and lock were still shiny with that just-off-theshelf look. In the last year, confederate jasmine had grown across the gate and was now thick with fresh green leaves. It blocked any sight beyond the gate.

I drove by, felt the tug, and realized how much I missed seeing Bryce. I missed his deep, resonating brogue, his unshaven face, his reddish hair, his fat, burly chest, and our one-sided conversations that I seldom made sense of. I missed the sound of his pipes, his emerald green eyes, the taste of a cold beer shared in a Styrofoam cup. And, I'll admit, I even missed the comical look of him in a kilt or next to nothing at all.

Bryce was his own person, and to his credit, he didn't care what the world thought. There were times when I admired him for that. I didn't have time to stop then, but I told myself I would on the way back.

Lorraine met me at the door and led me to the conference room, where Caglestock introduced me to a man decked out in military dress and covered in medals.

"Dylan, this is Colonel Max Bates. He works in the Pentagon."

Colonel Bates wore a beret and a face that told me he'd seen more than his share of barrels pointed in his direction. He was in his midfifties and erect with a lifetime of military discipline. It seemed hardwired into his DNA.

The colonel extended his hand and nodded. "Dr. Styles, good to meet you. John's told me about your friendship with Sergeant McGregor."

I shook his hand. "Yes, sir, Bryce is ... well, he's someone I consider a friend, as much as Bryce is friends with anybody."

While we ate, Caglestock retold Colonel Bates of my friendship and working relationship with Bryce-how I handled his funds, how Bryce had given me power of attorney over most of his affairs, and how I tried to check in on him regularly.

The colonel listened, ate, and seemed to make mental notes. When Lorraine delivered a plate of chocolate chip cookies, Caglestock turned the conservation over to Colonel Bates, saying, "Max, I think it'd be helpful if you'd tell Dylan, tell us both, what you know about Bryce."

Colonel Bates swallowed, sat back, and thought for a moment. Finally he spoke. "Much of Sergeant McGregor's record is confidential. Top secret. Not even I, as his commanding officer, have enough clearance to read it, but since I saw most of it personally . . ." He shrugged and then shook his head. "When it comes to the psychological exams and reports, I won't have much for you." He picked a strawberry off the side of the cookie plate and ate it.

"Bryce Kai McGregor joined the Marines in 1970 for reasons I never did understand. Back then, he looked a lot like you. Clean-cut, full of life, innocent to an extent." Bates swiveled in his seat. "Maybe he was trying to earn his inheritance-I've seen it before. Rich kids wrestling with how to handle Daddy's money. We put him through the ropes, trying to get rid of him before he got himself killed, and he proved us wrong. The harder we made it, the better he did. It was like the kid had never been tested and had been waiting his whole life to be discovered. We laid him out at the range on the thousand-yard targets, and he dropped a few jaws. The kid could shoot like nothing I'd seen before or since. Boy had a gift." He paused, scratched his nose, and said, "And sometimes I wished I'd never discovered it."

He swiveled again. "Fast-forward a few years. Bryce, or Scotty, as he became known, was leading an elite team of specialists. Kind of like the Green Berets or Rangers, but more like what we now call the Delta Force. We didn't really give them a name, but we sent them any- and everywhere. Before Vietnam got so ugly, they'd been on missions all over the globe. And just as he did in training, the worse the conditions and the more impossible the mission, the more Bryce excelled. Fast-forward again to Vietnam, 1975, right at the end."

He paused again and chose his words carefully. "We had inserted Bryce and his team of eight in a place from which they were not expected to return. We told them that, we explained to them the value of the target, and we gave them the choice. They voted-unanimous. They were just like that." Bates teared up and shook it off. "For several reasons we lost radio contact. At the rendezvous, Bryce and his team never showed."

"Do you know what happened?"

He nodded. "I do-but that information is found in that part of the file I can't talk about." He folded his hands. "This is what I can tell you. Five months later, some three months after the U.S. had pulled out of Vietnam, I got a phone call. Three minutes later, I went straight to the top, we sent in two planes, extracted him, and brought the boy home-alone."

Bates took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. "I wished to God I'd never sent that kid in there. Of all of them, I should've . . . I knew he'd never leave a man behind. No matter the orders." He sat back, refolded his handkerchief, and stared out the window. "If you read the whitewashed version of his record, you'll find a highly decorated veteran who was and is missed by his country. If you read the version you can't read, you'll find a one-man killing machine, who's killed God only knows how many people, and who, in the end, saw and had to do things that few men in history have ever been asked to do."

Silence spread across the room as the picture of Bryce, passed out on his lawn chair before a John Wayne movie, flashed before me.