“Corporal O’Malley,” a familiar voice called through the door. “I’ve got some good news for you. They just hauled your Jeep in from the wash-out.”
“Fantastic.” Andrew opened the door. “How does it look?”
O’Malley laughed. It was all of the answer Andrew needed.
After dressing and trying to comb down the wild, askew mess of his hair, Andrew tromped down to the compound’s parking lot. At the back, a small outbuilding stood, featureless cinderblock walls painted a non-descript shade of tan with a flat roof, no windows and a large, rollaway door—the compound’s garage.
Inside, Andrew stood with his hands shoved deep in the hip pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched against a damp morning chill, and watched as soldiers unhooked his Jeep from the tow straps securing it to a Humvee. The thick smell of diesel exhaust hung in the air.
The entire exterior of the Wells company truck was caked in mud, so thick it was impossible to see even a hint of the paint beneath. As he drew near, one of the soldiers wrestled the hood open on the Jeep, and Andrew grimaced to look inside. The engine compartment looked like it had been hosed down in sludge, with twigs, dried leaves and pine cones tossed in for texture and variety.
“Shit,” he said. So much for driving out of here once the roads are cleared.
He hadn’t thought much about the creature he’d seen in the road that night, the thing he’d hit—and had since just about convinced himself that he’d imagined—but curious now, he studied the underside of the hood, then the top, looking for any tell-tale damage from the impact. The roll down the hillside had caused too much to discern one dent from another, however.
“Shit,” he said again, opening the passenger side door, then dancing back as brown water slopped out, splashing in a sudden puddle around his feet.
The Jeep’s interior was hidden beneath a shroud of mud, enveloped in a sour, swampy odor. The airbag, now deflated, hung from the steering wheel, heavy and waterlogged. He hadn’t secured his tablet computer when he’d left his last surveying site, and winced to see it on the floorboard, camouflaged—and undoubtedly ruined—beneath a veil of mud.
“Shit.”
His area maps were unrecognizable, having disintegrated in the water. Like strips and scraps of paper mache, they lay strewn about and stuck haphazardly to the dashboard, upholstery, floor mats and windows. Sticks, leaves, pine needles and pebbles carpeted the seats and flat surfaces.
He reached for the glove compartment, tugged it open. Another impromptu flood splashed out. Grimacing as he reached inside, touching the slimy, muddy ooze left behind, he fished out his soggy wallet. As he held it out, pinched between his forefinger and thumb, and watched it drip onto the top of his boot, he frowned. “Shit.”
“You’ve got water in your crank case,” the soldier who’d popped the hood said. While Andrew had been rooting through the cab with disgust, he’d been tinkering around in the engine compartment, tugging here and there, prodding at this and that, pulling dipsticks out for inspection.
Only it turned out to be a she, not a he, as evidenced by her voice as she said this, and surprised, Andrew turned around.
“Uh, hey,” he said by way of clumsy greeting. “Santoro, right?”
The corner of her mouth hooked slightly. “Santoro. Right.”
She looked different now in broad daylight and when not soaking wet. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a tight, prim bun secured at the nape of her neck. Her skin was a light olive tone, warm and golden, her eyes dark brown and round. He’d forgotten how short she was, how diminutive and slight.
“You know cars?” he asked.
“I’d better.” She returned her attention to the waterlogged ruins of his Jeep. “I’m a nine-H-one. A track vehicle repairer.” Because this was Greek to him—and apparently obvious in his face—she added slowly, as if addressing a moron, “I’m a mechanic.”
Other soldiers within earshot laughed at this.
“I saw water on both your oil and transmission fluid dipsticks.” Santoro leaned over the engine compartment momentarily, then turned, cradling one in her hand to show him. “We can’t even think about starting this thing until we change out the oil and filter. And there’s no way I’ve got anything that can fit this here at the base. Not to mention we’ll need to get up under there, take out your oil pan and try to clear the silt from it, too. The way your truck was laying in that ditch, you’re probably looking at water in your gas tank, too, plus past the seals on your crank case, CV joints and axles.”
“Is there anything you can do?” Andrew asked.
Santoro dusted off her hands then tucked them in her back pockets. “I can recommend a good scrap yard if you’re ever up Long Island way.”
The other soldiers all laughed again.
“Thanks,” Andrew muttered, scowling as he turned and stomped away. The headache the tequila had brought on had abruptly intensified.
“Hey, Romeo,” he heard Suzette call as he walked back toward the barracks. He looked up and found her strolling along the outermost edge of the landscaped grounds, where the lawn met the forest. Alice was with her, or more accurately, a fair pace ahead of her, eyes pinned on the ground, seemingly oblivious to anyone or anything around her.
Andrew mentally calculated the likelihood that he could simply take off running, duck back into the barracks and avoid what was sure to be a post-coital confrontation. It had been his admittedly limited experience in life to date that women—even when they’d been the instigators of a sexual encounter—did not like to feel like they’d been ditched in the aftermath. “Oh, uh, hey, Suzette,” he said, raising his hand in a half-hearted wave as he tried not to cringe. “You’re up early.”
“Her choice, not mine,” Suzette said, nodding to indicate Alice. “We do this every morning.”
“Hi, Alice,” Andrew said as she walked past. Without even glancing up or grunting in reply, she continued trudging along.
“She’s counting,” Suzette said helpfully.
“Counting what?”
“The number of steps she takes. It’s another one of her fixations. Right now, she’s counting how many are in the circumference of the yard. She knows exactly how many there are to get from her room in the apartment to just about anywhere on the compound.” She came to a stop within three feet of him. “What’s that?”
He followed her gaze with his own. “My wallet. What’s left of it, anyway. They pulled my truck out of the gulley this morning.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s a mess. There’s mud everywhere. They don’t think it will even turn over, never mind be drivable again.”
“That’s terrible.”
On his way from the barracks to the garage, Andrew had asked Corporal O’Malley about the roads. “Any luck getting them cleared out?”
O’Malley had chuffed. “We haven’t even started yet. Not really. We’ve got one Bobcat front-end loader and a bunch of guys with shovels and picks. You do the math.”
Terrific, Andrew had thought.
“It sounds like I’m going to be here awhile,” he told Suzette.
“That’s great.” A hint of a smile tugged the corner of her mouth up, then she affected a feigned look of pity. “I mean, that’s terrible.”
He laughed despite himself. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you, too, by the way, for the note.”
“Oh.” He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “That. I just… I tried to wake you up, but…”
“I thought it was cute. Kind of charming.” As she walked again, passing him, she added, “I’m making meatloaf tonight.” A coy glance over her shoulder. “Grandma Ada Jean’s recipe.”