The Lucky One

"Yes," she said. "And there's something else, too."

"What?"

"He was a marine."

Nana sighed. "Why don't you wait here. I'll go talk to him."

For the next ten minutes, Beth watched them from behind the living room window curtains. Nana hadn't stayed in the office to conduct the interview; instead, she'd led them to the wooden bench in the shade of the magnolia tree. Zeus was dozing at their feet, his ear flicking every now and then, shooing away the occasional fly. Beth couldn't make out what either of them was saying, but occasionally she saw Nana frown, which seemed to suggest the interview wasn't going well. In the end, Logan Thibault and Zeus walked back up the gravel drive toward the main road, while Nana watched them with a concerned expression on her face.

Beth thought Nana would make her way back to the house, but instead she began walking toward the office. It was then that Beth noticed a blue Volvo station wagon rolling up the drive.

The cocker spaniel. She'd completely forgotten about the pickup, but it seemed obvious that Nana was going to handle it. Beth used the time to cool herself with a cold washcloth and drink another glass of ice water.

From the kitchen, she heard the front door squeak open as Nana came back inside.

"How'd it go?"

"It went fine."

"What did you think?"

"It Was… interesting. He's intelligent and polite, but you're right. He's definitely hiding something."

"So where does that leave us? Should I put another ad in the fan paper:

"Let's see how he works out first."

Beth wasn't sure she had heard Nana right. "Are you saying you're going to hire him?"

"No, I'm saying I did hire him. He starts Wednesday at eight."

"Why'd you do that?"

"I trust him." She gave a sad smile, as if she knew exactly what Beth was thinking. "Even if he was a marine."

Chapter 8

Thibault

Thibault didn't want to return to Iraq, but once more, in February 2005, the First, Fifth was called up. This time, the regiment was sent to Ramadi, the capital of Al Anbar province and the southwest point of what was commonly referred to as "the triangle of death." Thibault was there for seven months.

Car bombs and IEDs-improvised explosive devices-were common. Simple devices but scary: usually a mortar shell with a fuse triggered by a cellular phone call. Still, the first time Thibault was riding in a Humvee that hit one, he knew the news could have been worse.

"I'm glad I heard the bomb," Victor had said afterward. By then, Victor and Thibault nearly always patrolled together. "It means I'm still alive."

"You and me both," Thibault had answered. But I'd rather not hit one again."

"You and me both."

But bombs weren't easy to avoid. On patrol the following day, hit another one. A week after that, their Humvee was struck by a car bomb-but Thibault and Victor weren't unusual in that regard. Humvees were hit by one or the other on almost every Patrol. Most of the marines in the platoon could honestly claim that they'd survived two or three bombs before they went back to Pendleton. A couple had survived four or five. Their sergeant had survived six. It was just that kind of place, and nearly everyone had heard the story of Tony Stevens, a marine from the Twenty-fourth MED-Marine Expeditionary Unit-who'd survived nine bombs. One of the major newspapers had written an article about him entitled "The Luckiest Marine." His was a record no one wanted to break.

Thibault broke it. By the time he left Ramadi, he'd survived eleven explosions. But there was the one explosion he'd missed that continued to haunt him.

It would have been explosion number eight. Victor was with him. Same old story with a much worse ending. They were in a convoy of four Humvees, patrolling one of the city's major thoroughfares. An RPG struck the Humvee in front, with fortunately little damage, but enough to bring the convoy to a temporary halt. Rusted and decaying cars lined both sides of the road. Shots broke out. Thibault jumped from the second Humvee in the convoy line to get a better line of sight. Victor followed him. They reached cover and readied their weapons. Twenty seconds later, a car bomb went off, knocking them clear and destroying the Humvee they'd been in only moments before. Three marines were killed; Victor was knocked unconscious. Thibault hauled him back to the convoy, and aftet collecting the dead, the convoy returned to the safe zone.

It was around that time that Thibault began to hear whispers. He noticed that the othet marines in his platoon began to act differently around him, as if they believed Thibault were somehow immune to the rules of war. That others might die, but he would not. Worse than that, his fellow marines seemed to suspect that while Thibault was especially lucky, those who patrolled with him were especially unlucky. It wasn't always overt, but he couldn't deny the change in his platoon members' attitude toward him. He was in Ramadi for two more months after those three marines died. The last few bombs he survived only intensified the whispers. Other marines began to avoid him. Only Victor seemed to treat him the same. Toward the end of their tour in Ramadi, while on duty guarding a gas station, he noticed Victor's hands shaking as he lit a cigarette. Above them, the night sky glittered with stars. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm ready to go home," Victor said. "I've done my part."

"You're not going to reup next year?"

He took a long drag from his cigarette. "My mother wants me home, and my brother has offered me a job. In roofing. Do you think I can build roofs?"

"Yeah, I think you can. You'll be a great roofer."

"My girl, Maria, is waiting for me. I've known her since I was fourteen."

"I know. You've told me about her."

"I'm going to marry her."

"You told me that, too."

"I want you to come to the wedding."

In the glow of Victor's cigarette, he saw the ghost of a smile. "I wouldn't miss it."

Victor took a long drag and they stood in silence, considering a future that seemed impossibly distant. "What about you?" Victor said, his words coming out with a puff" of smoke. "You going to reup?"

Thibault shook his head. "No. I'm done."

"What are you going to do when you get out?"

"I don't know. Do nothing for a while, maybe go fishing in Minnesota. Someplace cool and green, where I can just sit in a boat and relax."

Victor sighed. "That sounds nice."

"You want to come?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll call you when I plan the trip," Thibault promised.

He could hear the smile in Victor's voice. "I'll be there." Victor cleared his throat. "Do you want to know something?"

"Only if you want to tell me."

"Do you remember the firefight? The one where Jackson and the others died when the Humvee blew up?" Thibault picked up a small pebble and tossed it into the dark-ness. "Yeah."

"You saved my life.

"No, I didn't. I just hauled you back." 'Thibault, I followed you. When you jumped from the Humvee. I was going to stay, but when I saw you go, I knew I had no choice."

"What are you talking ab-?"

"The picture," Victor interrupted. "I know you carry it with you. I followed your luck and it saved me."

At first, Thibault didn't understand, but when he finally figured out what Victor was saying, he shook his head in disbelief. "It's just a picture, Victor."

"It's luck," Victor insisted, bringing his face close to Thibault's. "And you're the lucky one. And when you are finished with your tour, I think you should go find this woman in the picture. Your story with her is not finished."

"No-"

"It saved me."

"It didn't save the others. Too many others."

Everyone knew that the First, Fifth had suffered more casualties in Iraq than any other regiment in the Marine Corps.

"Because it protects you. And when I jumped from the Humvee, I believed it would save me, too, in the same way you believe it will always save you."