Red Sky at Night, page 24
At ten that evening he used Bean’s office phone to call the sheriff’s department again, but Jennifer Bell had gone home for the day. She’d left no messages for anyone named Thorn. He slapped the phone down, then raked the thing off the desk onto the floor.
Afterward, he took the elevator up to Bean’s darkened apartment and stationed himself beside one of the windows. While he waited, the anger grew, its heat radiating up into Thorn’s chest, down into his deadened legs, a glow of warmth that seemed to give some small nourishment to the cold empty spaces below his waist. As though he could heal himself with this anger, regenerate the nerves and fibers that relayed the electronic pulses from brain to toes. As if anger alone could do it, anger becoming rage, rage becoming fury, fury becoming miraculous cure.
It felt like he was breathing in darkness and exhaling fire. Little by little filling the room with the heat of his impotence and frustration, packing it tight, pumping more and more pressure into the room until soon he would reach the critical moment when the door would explode, the walls blow away.
Out the window where he sat a heavy wash of stars was visible above the electric haze of Key West. For the next hour he stared at the Big Dipper, forcing himself to muse about the unknowable distances between those bright dots, trying to picture the immense journey starlight made to the earth—all the old reliable metaphysical gymnastics he’d used since childhood to put his trivial affairs in perspective. Against the night sky his worries never seemed so goddamn important.
But on that night it wasn’t working. Not even close.
If he’d had a Higher Power, it was the perfect moment to beseech him. Make a deal, maybe swap his soul for the use of his legs. But Thorn was no foxhole convert. He’d laid no religious groundwork and was not tempted to mouth the name of the one or two gods he was acquainted with to see if the dark air shuddered and answered back. If those stars didn’t do the trick, nothing would. Religion was all self-hypnosis anyway. Placebo effect. What you trusted deeply enough might get you through. And what Thorn had always relied on even more than the stars, more than the healing power of an easterly breeze off the Atlantic or perfect days of fishing or tying flies or any other of the constellation of natural pleasures, what had gotten him up one shit creek after another was the white knot of gristle at his stubborn core.
Whatever it cost, he was going to finish his pursuit, find out who struck him down and why, then he would find Monica no matter where she’d fled, and plead with her to forgive him for his stupid show of pride. He would tell her the truth, that he had pushed her away because his feelings for her frightened him to his core. But he loved her, and wanted to marry her and live with her till the end. And she would demand to know why he was frightened, and then Thorn would have to tell her the truth. That somewhere in the last few weeks he had finally admitted to himself that Monica was the only woman he’d ever loved who needed him less than he needed her.
That’s where he was just after midnight, feeling a soul-splitting wail taking shape inside him, when a crack of light widened at the door, and Bean came thumping through the darkness, hit the switch, saw Thorn and nearly toppled over.
“Jesus God, you scared the red-hot devil out of me.”
Bean circled the room, turning on the rest of the lights. His pants were torn and his prosthetics looked badly mangled. He tottered on them as unsteadily as a tightrope walker in a hard wind.
Without another word, Bean stalked into his bedroom and shut the door. He was gone five minutes and when he returned he wore a pair of faded designer jeans and a white silk T-shirt that clung to his tightly muscled body. His hair was wet and raked back off his face and his eyes were fired up. As he headed for the kitchen, Thorn saw his gait was back to its normal stiffness.
“Join me in a drink, Thorn? I’m breaking out the Cristal.”
“What is it, Bean? You make some progress with your wonder drug?”
He halted and turned around slowly. A smile crawled across his face.
“Well, well. You’ve been investigating again, haven’t you? You just can’t seem to stop doing that.”
“Call me crazy.” Thorn rolled forward, left the Big Dipper to empty itself. “But whenever someone knocks me on the head and paralyzes me, I just get this itch to find out why.”
Bean’s smile soured and the glitter in his eyes sharpened.
“And you think I had something to do with your injury?”
“Of course you did.”
“I see,” he said. Then he smiled. “Well, all the more reason for that drink.”
He opened the champagne, presented Thorn a glass, foamed it to the brim. Thorn held the glass by its fragile stem, staring into Bean’s eyes. Bean nodded and clinked his glass against Thorn’s and went back to the couch and sat.
“Tell me something, old buddy.”
“No,” Thorn said. “You’re going to tell me something. A lot of things.”
Bean smiled again, all pleasantness and good cheer.
“Ah yes, one of our old familiar standoffs.”
Thorn had a bite of the fizzy wine, then in a swift unthinking motion he tipped up the drink and swallowed it. Bean got up and refilled his glass and topped off his own.
“Okay, then how about a truth swap? Tit for tat.” Bean turned to Thorn and scratched a finger against the raspy bristles on his chin. “And since I’m the host and providing the refreshments, it seems only right I begin. Because there’s something I’ve always wanted to know, Thorn. That’s been eating at me for almost thirty years.”
“Name it.”
“Why didn’t you go to the war? Vietnam.”
“I wasn’t drafted.”
“There was a lottery, Thorn. It was based on birthdays, and yours was in the top fifty. I know, because the second after I looked at my number, I looked at yours. They called everybody in the top hundred numbers. What do you think happened to you? Did they lose your name? Couldn’t find your address?”
“I don’t know. I was never called.”
Bean stared down at his drink.
“Did you realize that back then my father was on the Monroe County draft board?”
“No.”
“I’ve always been deeply curious about that.” Bean had a careful sip and set his glass down on the wicker side table. “I wonder if perhaps he might have swayed things to your advantage somehow, playing favorites. Because, you see, my lottery number was higher than yours. I was in the nineties. But I was called and you weren’t. I went and you didn’t. What do you think, Thorn? Is it possible my father gave you a pass but didn’t give his own son one?”
“I never got a notice, Bean. I would’ve gone if I’d gotten one. It wasn’t anything I cared about one way or the other, but I would’ve gone.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Because you’re a good citizen. Because you always do your duty. Yes, isn’t that nice? Isn’t that all morally admirable and noble.”
Thorn drank down half his second glass and set it on the window sill.
“Why does it matter, Bean? It’s gone, it’s over. What difference does it make now?”
“What difference does it make? Oh, that’s good. That’s just like you, Thorn. Immanently practical. Get on with it. Do what’s in front of you, forget the past. Yes, yes, that’s very enlightened, a very wise way to live, I’m sure.”
“This isn’t about you and me, Bean. This is about you and your father.”
Bean lifted his eyes, fastened them on Thorn.
“What about my father?”
“You should ask him what happened on the draft board, hear what he has to say.”
“Oh, it’s all so simple, isn’t it? The world according to Thorn. An uncomplicated place. Just ask and hear the answer. Oh, yes, so easy. Well, listen to me, Thorn. You think you can drop out of the world and go about your merry business and it has no effect on anyone. Well, I’ll tell you what, that’s not how the universe works. When you drop out, someone else has to take your place. And in the case of Vietnam, that someone was me, Thorn, me. You stayed home, played with your navel, and I went to war. I lost my legs. I live with that every fucking day. The torment.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“You got a pass, Thorn. I didn’t. So what do you think? Is it your fault? In the larger scheme of things?”
Bean stared into his eyes for a long moment, then let his gaze drift back to the photos on the wall.
“So is it my turn yet?”
“Of course,” Bean said. “Fire at will.”
“How many people have you murdered already?”
He flinched but recovered quickly. He turned his head and peered again at Thorn.
“I suppose you’re referring to my experiments?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I don’t want to quibble over semantics,” he said. “But there’s a considerable difference, legally, ethically, in every way I can think of, between murder and assisted suicide. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“So that’s how you work it out, is it? You find vets who’re so desperate, they’ve stopped caring if they live or die, they’re happy to let you exploit them. That makes it okay to kill them.”
Bean’s smile withered. A dark crease appeared in his forehead. When he spoke, his voice was as dull and rigid as iron.
“To answer your question, Thorn, yes, unfortunately we’ve lost some volunteers, but all of them were fully aware of the risks of the experiment and each of them accepted those risks willingly. I even have signed documents, witnessed and notarized, if that matters to you. They all knew exactly what the dangers were and they all clamored for the chance to be next.”
“And Greta Masterson? Did she clamor?”
Bean chuckled and had another sip of champagne and studied Thorn above the rim of his glass.
“You’ve been a busy little do-bee, haven’t you? Sticking your nose into every crevice you could find.”
“Is Greta dead?”
“Oh, quite the contrary. Greta Masterson is in excellent health, doing very fine indeed. In fact, Greta is the cause for our celebration tonight. Because as you correctly surmised, the drug is working. Her pain has been totally and completely neutralized. She’s clear-headed, blood pressure normal, heart rate at 62. She’s sleeping under a nurse’s care right now and doing fine. Just fine.”
“Pepper is her nurse?”
“That’s right. Pepper Tremaine.”
“Where are they?”
“Now, that I can’t tell you. It might create something of a problem if you were inclined to contact the police or something of that sort.”
“You’re going to take me to see her, Bean.”
A sputter of laughter broke from his lips.
“I am! And why the hell would I do that?”
“Because I’m the one you want to prove this to.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Bean wiped his hands on his pants legs and sat back against the couch. He swallowed, drew in a long breath through his nose. As close to fidgeting as this controlled man would allow.
Thorn said, “You’re dying to let the world know what you’ve discovered. But you can’t do that yet. You need more time to get everything all in place, make sure you can stand up to the public scrutiny. But the yearning is still there. You want to go up on the rooftop and scream the news. But I’m the best you’ve got, Bean. I’m the one you want to impress, anyway. Next to your dad, I’m the one who counts the most.”
“You arrogant asshole. Fuck you, Thorn.”
“Come on, Bean. Admit it. You’re dying to show me what you’ve done. How smart you are. Rub my face in your triumph.”
Bean finished off his glass and poured another. He held up the bottle to Thorn but Thorn waved it off.
“You and me alone, is that what you’re saying?”
“Just the two of us, yes.”
“You think I’m half-witted, Thorn? What’s to keep you from calling the police, the DEA, having them follow us? Why should I trust you?”
“You know who I am, Bean. You more than anybody. If I say this is between you and me alone, then that’s what it is.”
Bean’s eyes relaxed, a sly smile rose to the surface of his lips.
On some rare angling expeditions, there was a moment right after a powerful fish smacked the bait, a second or two into the first sizzling run, when Thorn could tell with utter certainty that the hook was set deep and true and all the knots would hold and the line was strong enough. Most fishing was filled with uncertainty. Even after a long fight, with the fish floundering helplessly at the boat, the angler reaching down with the net or a hand, there was always a tremor of anxiety that the fish would at that last possible second explode, shake the hook, snap the frayed line, run free. That uncertainty, the fragile, flitting link between hunter and prey, was one of the agonizing pleasures of fishing.
But with those deeply hooked catches there was something almost sad and tragic about the act, too effortless, an unseemly conquest. He cranked the reel, brought the fish close, scooped him up. A mechanical exercise. And that’s how it felt with Bean. So easy. Appealing to his vanity. Watching him gulp down the morsel, the hook cutting deep into his gullet. A man so starved for any trifle of praise, he was willing to risk his kingdom for a handful of fool’s gold.
Bean sat forward on the couch, the smile maturing into a self-satisfied smirk.
“All right. I’ll tell you what, old friend. I’ll carry you out there. I’ll let you see the results of my labors, let you draw your own conclusions. You deserve that much, all the trouble you’ve gone to investigating me so diligently. I suppose I should be honored, really, you spending your valuable time looking into my affairs.
“Tomorrow morning, first thing. How’s that? And afterward, if you think I should be punished, if you think I should serve the rest of my life in jail, face the electric chair, then okay, do what you have to do. But before you decide, you need to talk to Greta. You need to hear from her how she felt a day ago, what her pain was like, and you need to hear how she feels now, and then you’ll have to ask yourself if the man who found the cure for her pain and the pain of millions of others should be punished for the methods he used in reaching that goal.”
“Why don’t we go right now?”
“Oh, no, she needs her rest. And I need mine. It’s been a long and difficult day.”
“You had those dolphins killed, didn’t you? Echeverria is working for you, and he killed them.”
“My, my, such an impressive demonstration of ratiocination. If I ever need to hire a private eye, I’ll certainly know where to go.”
Thorn rolled his wheelchair across the room, picked up the bottle of champagne, and rolled back to his place by the window. He poured himself another glass and gulped half of it down.
“Tell me something, Thorn. Are you familiar with the smell of burning shit?”
Thorn looked over at him.
“I haven’t smelled any lately.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t have. Because, you see, the smell of shit burning in diesel oil, that’s the smell of Vietnam. The smell of that particular holocaust. Those were our latrines, you see, fifty-gallon drums partially filled with fuel oil. Set ablaze every morning to purify them, the fire tended by some unlucky grunt. But then, you’re not interested in war stories, are you? That’s not what you’re after.”
“If it explains anything, I’m listening.”
Bean scowled. He finished the champagne in his glass and settled back into the couch and stared across at one of the photographs on the wall. Thorn and he were racing on a white strand of beach up in the panhandle. Their feet splashed through the sheen of an incoming tide and a shower of sparkles flashed at their ankles. Bean was leading the race, pumping his elbows, his mouth set, neck straining. Thorn was trying hard too, his hair was long and streamed back. One of them was always winning, the other always losing. And Doc Wilson was the official record keeper, peering at them through the viewfinder of that old Kodak. Thorn’s memory told him that Bean had won far more than his share of those contests, but it was clear now that those were not the triumphs Bean had longed for, and winning those races had done nothing to satisfy the hunger that burned in his eyes back then and was burning even now.
Thorn had heard others’ war stories in midnight bars. Men his age who had scarred some vital muscle that would never heal. Men who were still lost in nightmare jungles on the other side of the planet, unable to distinguish friend from foe, savior from killer. Men who still heard shards of lead whizzing by their faces like insane bees. He’d listened to their stories, watched their eyes turn inward as the room where they sat dissolved around them and re-formed dense with vines and thickets and the steady drizzle of equatorial rain.
And all the war stories he’d heard sounded the same. The Ancient Mariner determined to tell his tale to any stranger he could snag. Stories recited with mechanical precision, as if it were some school assignment the old soldier had composed long ago and committed to memory and now was retrieving, phrase by well-honed phrase. They always had the feel of narratives told too easily and too often, so that long before that night’s telling they’d lost their hold on the teller, lost their power to mend the wounds they described.
But Bean’s story was nothing like those.
It was clear that his had never been recounted before. Rendered in ungainly sentences and halting cadence, the story had been lying dormant for thirty years in the sludge of memory, and now, as he drew it to light in all its squalor, he seemed surprised by how raw and unpolished it sounded aloud. The crude power of catharsis. But he slogged ahead anyway, his eyes feasting on Thorn, as though this crippled man who sat across from him, this man who was Bean’s oldest friend and most despised enemy, was precisely the audience he’d been waiting for all these years.
