“I should’ve killed you thirty-eight years ago.”
Captain Jack O. Smith stood over Ben. He struggled to his feet.
“How?” Ben said to Junior.
Junior nodded to the captain. “Show him.”
Captain Smith pushed Ben toward a closed door by the kitchen. “Open it.”
Ben turned the knob and pushed on the door. It swung open, into a dark room. Junior moved by him and lit a kerosene lamp. He was standing next to a bed; he held the lamp up over the bed. And Ben saw him.
Major Charles Woodrow Walker.
His form under the blanket was frail, his face gaunt, and his blond hair thin. His eyes were closed. His body made no movement, as if he were “Paralyzed,” Junior said. “What McCoy did to him.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“After we took the woman and got the major released,” the captain said, “we went down to Mexico. The major sent us back up here, said he’d be here in a month. Two months later, he ain’t back, so me and Junior drive down to Mexico. Locals was still talking about the black helicopters and finding the big blond man on the beach. Said he was taken to the hospital. That’s where we found him, like this. They put three bullets in him, one in the neck, cut his spinal cord. Been in that bed for ten years.”
The major’s eyes flickered opened, found their focus, and looked at each of his visitors, finally coming to rest on Ben. After the recognition came into his eyes, Ben thought the major’s mouth moved. Junior leaned over the bed.
“He wants to say something to you.”
Ben stepped to the bed. The skin on the major’s face sagged now and the fullness was gone. But his blue eyes could still look into a man’s soul. He tried to say something. Ben leaned over and put his ear by the major’s mouth. The major’s words came out in a whisper and with great effort.
“Junior showed me… picture… magazine… Elizabeth… the girl… blonde… mine… she belongs… to me… I will own… her life… as I’ve
… owned yours… and her… mother’s.”
“You raped Elizabeth.”
A thin smile. “Same as… those Viet gals… Difference is… I didn’t put a bullet… in her brain after…”
And now Ben understood. The major was his connection to Gracie and hers to him. He couldn’t save the china doll. Thirty-eight years later, God was giving him a second chance.
Ben stood tall.
“You’ve owned my life, Major, that’s a fact, and maybe Elizabeth’s, too. But you won’t own Gracie’s. I guarangoddamntee it.”
The major’s blue eyes flashed dark. They moved off Ben and onto the captain. Ben turned to face him. The captain advanced on Ben with the Bowie knife.
John moved around behind the cabin, hugging the exterior wall, looking both ways, his heart pounding hard enough to hear. He came to a window. He peeked in.
He pulled back quickly.
Inside, Ben was standing next to a bed; an old pale man was lying in it. Next to Ben was a young blond man holding a gun; across the room from Ben was a big man with a tattoo. The two men from the soccer game. The men who took Gracie. The big man was holding a big knife.
Little Johnny Brice’s hands were shaking. The urge to turn tail and run was building when he heard the big man say: “I’m gonna gut you just like the VC gutted your buddy Dalton.”
John touched his father’s dog tags hanging around his neck, and it was at that moment, he would realize later, that Little Johnny Brice finally found his manhood on a mountain in Idaho. His mind and body calmed. All fear left him. He was no longer afraid: not of failing, not of the bullies, not of dying. There was manly in his genes, and he had found it, or it had found him.
John raised his arms, holding the gun with both hands like Ben had showed him, then stepped in front of the window and fired. The glass shattered. John pulled the trigger as fast as he could until everything went dark.
Jacko felt a bullet impact his shoulder. Next thing he knew, Brice leg-whipped him at the ankles, knocking his feet out from under him. Jacko hit the wood floor hard. Before he could react, Brice kicked him in the mouth, bringing blood. But Jacko always liked the taste of his own blood.
Still, he didn’t remember Brice being this good.
But he wasn’t good enough. Jacko rolled with the kick and come up quickly, the Bowie in his hand.
Damn, this brought back some good memories!
He moved toward Brice, excited at the thought of disemboweling the unarmed traitor he had cornered. He glanced over at the major. His eyes were alive and he was smiling.
This is my destiny!
When he looked back at Brice, he saw the major’s bedpan flying through the air at his face. And Jacko thought, Fuck, hope to hell Junior emptied it! He hadn’t. Jacko blocked the bedpan with his arms-urine and shit splattered on the floor and on him-only to realize too late that it was a fake, that Brice’s boot was coming at him hard and he couldn’t block it. The heel of the boot caught Jacko right in the center of his chest and drove his two hundred sixty-five pounds back hard against the opposite cabin wall. Shit! Jacko was surprised at the severity of the pain that suddenly grabbed at his chest. He had been kicked and punched in the chest many times and had never experienced such pain. Shit! He figured it would go away, but it didn’t. Instead it got worse and shot down his left arm; his right hand released the knife and grabbed at his chest. Shit! And at that moment he understood: he was having a goddamned heart attack! What a time to have a fucking heart attack! And he realized the truth: Ben Brice wasn’t his destiny; he was Ben Brice’s destiny.
He dropped to his knees, sucking hard for air. He looked up at Brice and wanted to say fuck you, but he didn’t have the breath to get the words out. He took one last glance at the major; his eyes were wide, not believing what he was seeing. Jacko’s head felt light and he was suddenly dizzy. The light dimmed. For the first time in his life, Jacko didn’t have any strength, not even enough to hold himself up. He fell face down onto the wood floor. His eyes made out a boot just inches away. And he heard Ben Brice’s voice.
“Who says old soldiers never die?”
And his last thought before all life drained out of him on the floor in a cabin in northern Idaho and Captain Jack Odell Smith from Henryetta, Oklahoma, met his Maker was:
Oh, that’s real fucking funny.
Outside, John struggled to get up. He winced. He felt like someone had hit him in the head with a frying pan. He rolled over to get to his feet and- Cripes! — came face to face with another man lying beside him, his vacant eyes wide open. John was struck by the pure ugliness of the man’s face-and the ax embedded in his head.
“You okay?”
John looked up to see Agent O’Brien.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Where’s the colonel?”
“Inside… shit! ”
John pushed himself up and stumbled into the cabin and into the bedroom; Agent O’Brien was right behind him. The big man was lying face down on the floor. Ben was bent over him, hands on his knees.
“Ben, you okay?”
Ben straightened up slowly, like it hurt.
“Yeah. You boys hurt?”
“No,” John said. He gestured at the bed. “Who’s that?”
“Major Charles Woodrow Walker,” Ben said.
“I thought he was dead.”
“He will be.”
Ben turned to Agent O’Brien: “How many did you get?”
“Two.”
Ben nodded. “It’s just Junior now.”
“Blond guy?”
“Yeah.”
“He took off in a white truck,” Agent O’Brien said. “I put four rounds in it, guess I missed him.”
“He said we’ll never find her.”
“You go after him,” O’Brien said. “I’ll look for your girl.”