I Am God (5 page)

They were separated and tied to two trunks almost at opposite ends of the clearing, with a line of trees between them. No sooner did he feel the ropes on his wrists than a gag was stretched over his mouth.

The same fate befell his buddy, whose show of resistance was rewarded with a blow with a rifle butt in the small of his back.

The man in the red headband approached with his usual sly air.

‘You people who use napalm so easily ought to know what effect it has. My people have known it for some time now …’

He indicated a vague point in the sky in front of him.

‘The planes will be coming from that direction, American soldier.’

He put the dogtags back around their necks. Then he turned his back on them and left, followed by his men. They were alone now, looking at each other from a distance. Then, from that point beyond the trees, in the sky in front of them, came the noise of an engine. The Cessna L-19 Bird Dog appeared as if by magic over the rim of the vegetation. It was on a reconnaissance mission and was flying low. It had almost passed them when suddenly the pilot made a turn, bringing the plane even lower. So low that they could clearly see the figures of the two men inside the cockpit. Soon afterwards the aircraft returned to the sky from which it had come. Time passed in silence. Then a whirr, and a pair of Phantoms arrived at a speed that in their fear they saw as a series of still images. With them came a roar like thunder. Only after that, by some strange quirk, the lightning flash. He saw that light grow and grow and become a line of fire that advanced on them, like some kind of dance, devouring everything in its path until it reached them and hit …

‘… my buddy full on, Ben. He was incinerated. I was a bit farther away, so I was just hit by a wave of heat that reduced me to this state. I don’t know how I survived. And I don’t know how long I was there before the rescue team arrived. My memories are very confused. I know I woke up in a hospital, covered in bandages and with needles stuck in my veins. And I think most men would take a lifetime to feel the pain I felt in those few months.’

The boy paused. Ben understood that it was to let him
absorb what he had just told him. Or to prepare him for what he said next.

‘The Vietcong used us as human shields. And the men on the reconnaissance plane saw us. They knew we were there. And they attacked all the same.’

Ben looked at the tips of his shoes. Anything he said would have been pointless.

He decided to go back to the present, and the suspicion nagging at him. ‘What are you planning to do now?’

Little Boss shrugged nonchalantly. ‘All I need is
somewhere
to use as a base for a few hours. There’s a couple of people I have to see. Then I’ll come fetch Waltz and leave.’

The cat, as indifferent as all cats, got up from its owner’s knees and arranged its three legs in a more comfortable position on the bed.

Ben moved the chair away from the wall and let it drop to the floor. ‘I get the feeling you’re going to get in trouble.’

The boy shook his head, hiding behind his non-smile. ‘I can’t get in trouble.’

He took off his cotton gloves and held his hands out to Ben. They were covered in scars.

‘See? No fingerprints. Wiped out. Whatever I touch, I don’t leave any trace.’

He seemed to think for a moment, as if he’d finally found the right name for himself.

‘I don’t exist any more. I’m a ghost.’

He looked at him with eyes that asked a lot even though they were ready to concede little.

‘Ben, give me your word you won’t tell anyone I was here.’

‘Not even—?’

He interrupted him curtly, before he’d even had time to finish the sentence. ‘I said nobody. Ever.’

‘Or else?’

A moment’s silence. Then from his tortured mouth there emerged words as cold as those of the dead.

‘I’ll kill you.’

Ben Shepard realized that the world didn’t exist any more for the young man. A shiver went down his spine. Little Boss had left to fight a war against other men he had been ordered to hate and kill. After what had happened, the roles had been reversed.

He had come home, and now
he
was the enemy.

He was sitting in the dark, waiting.

He had been waiting so long for this moment and now that it had come, he didn’t feel any nervousness, any sense of hurry. It seemed to him that his presence in this place was totally normal, planned, thought through.

Resting on his knees was a Colt M1911, the army’s regulation weapon. Good old Jeff Anderson, who might have lost his legs but hadn’t lost his talent for pulling strings, had got him that pistol, without asking any questions. And, perhaps for the first time in his life, he hadn’t asked him for anything in return. He had kept it in his bag, wrapped in a cloth, throughout the journey.

The only light thing he had with him.

The room he was in was a living room with a couch and two armchairs in the middle, arranged in a horseshoe around a TV set against the wall. Clearly a place where one man lived on his own. A few mediocre paintings on the walls, a carpet that didn’t look very clean, dirty plates in the sink. And the smell of cigarettes.

In front of him, on the right, the door to the kitchen. On the left, another door leading to a little lobby and then the door out to the garden. Behind him, hidden by part of the wall, the stairs that led to the upper floor. When he had
arrived and realized that the house was empty, he had forced the back door and quickly searched the interior.

As he did so, he had the voice of the drill sergeant at Fort Polk in his ears.

Before
anything
else,
reconnoitre
the
area.

After familiarizing himself with the layout of the rooms, he had chosen to wait in the living room because from there he could keep an eye on both the main door and the back door.

Choose
a
strategic
position.

He had sat down on the couch and released the safety catch on his gun. The click sounded as dry as his throat.

Check
the
condition
of
your
weapons.

And while he was waiting, his thoughts had returned to Ben.

He could still see his expression when he had threatened him. No trace of fear, only disappointment. He had tried in vain to wipe out the effect of those few words by changing the subject, asking what he actually would have liked to ask from the start.

‘How’s Karen?’

‘Fine. She had the kid. She wrote you about it. Why didn’t you get in touch with her?’ Ben had paused, and then lowered his voice. ‘When they told her you were dead, she cried all the tears she had in her.’

There was a hint of reproach in the words and in the tone of voice.

He had got quickly to his feet, pointing at himself with both hands. ‘Do you see me, Ben? You see these scars on my face? They’re all over my body.’

‘She loved you,’ Ben had said, then immediately corrected himself. ‘She loves you.’

He had shaken his head, as if to brush away a troublesome
thought. ‘She loves a man who doesn’t exist any more.’

‘I’m sure she—’

He had stopped him with a gesture of his hand. ‘Nothing’s sure in this world. The few things that are, are all bad.’

He had turned to the window, so that Ben couldn’t see his face. But above all so as not to see Ben’s face.

‘Oh yes, I know what’d happen if I went to see her. She’d throw her arms around me. But for how long?’

He turned again towards Ben. If his first instinct had been to hide, now he knew he had to look reality in the face – and make sure reality looked him in the face.

‘Even if all the other problems between us were solved, her father and all the rest, how long would it last? I’ve been asking myself that over and over since the first time they let me look at myself in a mirror and I saw what I’d become.’

Ben had seen tears welling in his eyes. Diamonds of little price, the only ones he could afford on a soldier’s pay. And he realized Little Boss must already have repeated these words in his head hundreds of times.

‘Can you imagine what it would be like for her to wake up in the morning and the first thing she sees is my face? How long would it last, Ben? How long?’

He hadn’t waited for a reply. Not because he didn’t want to know it, but because he already knew it.

They both knew it.

He had changed the subject again. ‘Do you know why I volunteered for Vietnam?’

‘No. I never figured that out.’

He had sat down again on the bed and stroked Waltz. Then he had told him everything that had happened. Ben had listened in silence. As he spoke, Ben had looked him in the face, letting his eyes move over his tortured skin.

When he had finished, Ben had covered his face with his hands, and his voice had filtered through the bars of his fingers. ‘But don’t you think Karen—’

Little Boss had stood up again quickly and approached the chair where his old employer was sitting. As if to emphasize his words.

‘I thought I made myself clear. She doesn’t know I’m alive and she mustn’t know.’

At that point Ben had stood up and in silence had hugged him again, more tightly this time. But Little Boss hadn’t been able to return the embrace, just stood there with his arms down by his sides.

‘There are things that nobody ought to feel in life, son,’ Ben had said, finally letting go of him. ‘I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. For you, for Karen, for the child. But as far as I’m concerned, I never saw you.’

He had left, and Ben had stood by the door, watching him go. He hadn’t asked him where he was going or what he was going to do. But in his eyes there was the bitter conviction that he would know soon enough. And the knowledge that he was his accomplice.

At that moment, there were only two things certain, for both of them.

The first was that Ben wouldn’t betray him.

The second was that they would never see each other again.

He had crossed the town on foot towards his destination: the house at the end of Mechanic Street. He preferred to walk a few miles rather than borrow a car from Ben. He wanted to avoid involving him in this nasty business any more than he had to. And he hadn’t the slightest intention of getting caught trying to steal a car.

As he walked, Chillicothe had unravelled around him,
motionless and as unaware of him as it always had been. It was only an ordinary town, where he’d had to make do with a shred of hope when many young men had moved unconcernedly, surrounded by things they could be sure of.

He had walked down many streets, avoiding people, dodging lights, and every step had been a thought and every thought …

The sound of a car coming along the street jolted him out of his momentary distraction. He got up from the couch and went to the window. He moved aside a dusty curtain and looked out. A Plymouth Barracuda had parked, the front of it facing the shutter of the garage. The headlights died on the concrete, and Duane Westlake and Will Farland got out of the car.

They were both in uniform.

The sheriff was a little paunchier than the last time he’d seen him. Too much food and too much beer, maybe. Maybe even more full of shit than before. The deputy was just as thin and lanky and repulsive as he remembered him.

The two men walked to the front door.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

He had assumed he would have to pay two visits tonight. Now chance was offering him, on a silver platter, the possibility of avoiding one. And of making sure they both knew …

The door opened, and before light filled the room he was able to see the silhouettes of the two men framed in the rectangle of light cast on the floor from outside.

He moved towards the stairs and for a few moments leaned against the wall listening to their voices.

Westlake: ‘What did you do with those boys we picked up? Who are they?’

Farland: ‘Four vagrants. Usual type. Long hair and guitars. No priors, as far as we know, but we’re running checks. Meantime, they can spend tonight in the cooler.’

Pause.

Farland again: ‘I told Rabowsky to put them in a cell with some hard guy, if you know what I mean.’

He heard a little laugh that sounded like the squeaking of a mouse, and had surely come from the deputy sheriff’s thin lips.

Farland again: ‘Tonight, they’ll make war, not love.’

Westlake: ‘Maybe they’ll decide to cut their hair and look for a job.’

In his hiding place, he smiled, though with a nasty taste in his mouth.

A
leopard
never
changes
its
spots.

Except these guys weren’t leopards. They were vultures, of the worst kind.

He leaned out cautiously, protected by the wall. The sheriff went and switched on the TV, threw his hat on the table and sank into an armchair.

There was the sound of a baseball commentary.

‘Christ, it’s almost over. And we’re losing. I knew that playing in California wouldn’t work out for us.’ He turned to his deputy. ‘If you want a beer, there’s some in the fridge. Get me one, too, while you’re there.’

The sheriff was the boss and he made sure his deputy knew it, even when it came to hospitality. He wondered if he’d have behaved the same way if Judge Swanson had been in the room instead of Deputy Farland.

He decided that now was the moment. He emerged from his hiding place with his gun aimed at the two men.

‘The beer can wait. Put your hands up.’

At the sound of his voice Will Farland, gave a start. And when he saw him, he went white in the face.

Westlake had turned his head abruptly. Seeing him, he was stunned for a moment. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Wrong
question,
sheriff.
Are
you
sure
you
want
to
know?

‘That doesn’t matter right now. Get up and stand in the middle of the room. And you: go stand next to him.’

While the two men moved as he had ordered them, Farland tried to slide his hand down towards his holster.

All very predictable.

He took a couple of rapid steps to the side so as to have Farland completely in his sights and shook his head. ‘Don’t even think about it. I know how to use this gun. Want to take my word for that, or would you like a demonstration?’

The sheriff had raised his hands in a gesture that was meant to be placatory. ‘Listen, friend, let’s all try to keep calm. I don’t know who you are, but let me remind you, you’re
committing
an offence just being here. Apart from that, you’re threatening two law enforcement officers with a firearm. Don’t you think your situation is serious enough already? Before you do anything else stupid, I’d advise you—’

‘Your advice ain’t worth shit, Sheriff Westlake.’

Surprised at hearing his name spoken, the sheriff frowned and tilted his head slightly to the side. ‘Do we know each other?’

‘Let’s leave the introductions till later. Now, Will, sit down on the floor.’

Farland was too surprised to be curious. He turned to his chief, not sure what to do. The voice he heard coming at him wiped out any doubts.

‘He doesn’t give the orders now, asshole. I do. If you’d rather be lying on the floor dead, I can oblige.’

The deputy bent his long legs and eased himself down, with the help of one hand laid flat on the floor.

Once he was down, their visitor pointed to him with the barrel of his gun and said to the sheriff, ‘Now, slowly and without making any sudden movements, take your handcuffs from your belt and tie his hands behind his back.’

Westlake did as he was told, going red in the face with the effort of bending. The sharp click of the handcuffs closing marked the beginning of the Deputy Sheriff captivity.

‘Now take yours and put it on your right wrist. Then turn around holding your arms behind your back.’

There was anger in the sheriff’s eyes. But there was also a gun in front of his face, so again he did as he was told, and a moment later a confident hand locked the handcuffs on his free wrist.

‘Now sit down next to him.’

The sheriff couldn’t help himself down with his hands. He bent his knees and dropped clumsily to the floor, his bulk falling heavily against Farland’s shoulder. The two of them almost ended up sprawled on the floor.

‘Who are you?’

‘Names come and go, sheriff. All that’s left is memories.’

He disappeared for a moment behind the wall that hid the stairs. When he came back he was holding in his hand a jerrycan full of gasoline. During his inspection of the house he had found it in the garage, next to a lawnmower. This trivial discovery had given him an idea, one that made him very happy.

He slipped his gun in his belt and approached the two men. Calmly, he started pouring the contents of the jerrycan over them. Their clothes were soon covered in dark stains. The oily, acrid smell of the gasoline spread through the room.

Will Farland moved aside instinctively to avoid getting the liquid on his face and accidentally headbutted the sheriff in the temple. Westlake did not even react. The pain had been
anaesthetized
by the panic that was starting to appear in his eyes.

‘What do you want? Money? I don’t have a lot in the house, but in the bank—’

‘I have money, too,’ the deputy interrupted his chief, his voice shrill with fear. ‘Almost twenty thousand dollars. You can have it all.’

What
are
two
nice
American
boys
doing
here
in
the
middle
of
all
these
paddy
fields?

As he continued pouring the liquid from the jerrycan over the two men, it pleased him to think that it wasn’t only the gasoline fumes that were bringing the tears to their eyes. He spoke in the reassuring tone he’d once been taught.

Don’t
worry,
corporal.
We’re
going
to
take
care
of
you
…

‘Yes. Maybe we can come to an arrangement.’

A flash of hope appeared on the sheriff’s face, and in his words. ‘Sure we can. Come with us to the bank tomorrow morning and take whatever you want.’