Wexler really had changed. Standing there with his friend, Achilles felt very lonely, lonely for Ines. He understood Ines. He didn’t understand Wexler and being born again. He didn’t understand the new Wexler. Achilles didn’t even understand himself when he was with Wexler. He wanted to shout. He wanted to shake Wexler, shock him out of his calm. They needed necessary fun, to go to the strip club, or pick up some hookers, or shoot at somebody. It felt unearned, unjust, unfair that Wexler, always the most excitable of them, should have the gravity, tranquility, and certainty that had for so long eluded Achilles. Wexler was at home in his skin, as was Ines, but Ines centered Achilles while Wexler’s right-steady rudder confused him, made him feel abandoned, as if Wexler had set sail on a ship now vanishing over the horizon. Wages had a baby. Janice was married. She still called every couple of months, and he still ignored her calls. He spoke to his mom, at least briefly, every two to three weeks. She was still planning that trip. And his brother was living his own life, and his father was gone. Maybe everyone had moved on except him.
The clerk took one look at Achilles’s license, praised his foresight, and promised him a nice room, one with the ice and vending machines nearby but not close enough to be a disturbance. The small room had a kitchenette, a shower with a tub, and two double beds. Western was the theme: orange cowboy hats woven into the brown carpet, paintings of horses gracing the walls, the curtain-rod metal molded to resemble knotted rope, and beyond the drapes, the balcony offered a clear view of the parking lot and highway. After sunset, the soda machine glow suffused the room like red illume, the lights they used on night missions, not that he planned to sleep in the room. Satisfied that he had made adequate preparations for Ines’s arrival, he returned to Wexler’s house, where he had the use of a bedroom but usually dozed off on the couch, undisturbed by Wexler on the loveseat, curled up like a cat and snoring like a dog.
“Connie, Connie, Did you hear that?” Wexler whispered every morning around zero-ass-thirty back when they were on rotation. Achilles scrambled for his gear the first few times it happened, holding his breath, his ears out for things going bump in the night, but eventually he suspected that Wexler heard nothing, that he was only recruiting a partner for late-night conversations, and Achilles’s cot, unfortunately, was closest. Achilles imagined him tiptoeing through the tent, whispering in everyone’s ears until someone awoke, so he started ignoring him, and soon enough it was Troy and Wexler up talking through the night, sometimes getting silly and switching peoples’ boots or uniforms or underwear, though never in the field, of course.
So when Wexler woke him at zero-dark-thirty the night he’d gone to the Bricks, Achilles mumbled, “Go back to sleep, maybe Troy’s up,” reminding himself not to be alarmed in the morning when he couldn’t find his mess kit, or lucky charm, or boots.
“Connie, Connie,” Wexler insisted, whispering that he needed to talk, explaining that he hadn’t actually seen Troy, nor had Troy run from him. He’d received a call from the morgue after some poor guy showed up with Troy’s ID in his pocket. “It wasn’t him, but it got me worried.”
Wexler sat on the arm of the sofa, his silhouette barely visible. In Goddamnistan, people routinely disappeared. When Wexler went into the minefield, Achilles’s first impulse was to drive on, to claim he had no idea what happened. He’d felt weighted by resentment, but now felt somewhat justified. “I was wondering how he outran you.”
Wexler gestured at his leg and neck.
“I guess I meant why,” said Achilles. “Is that why all the drug talk when I got here? What else do I need to know?”
Wexler shrugged. “I was scared, man. I didn’t want you to feel that same sick feeling, Connie. It was like we were back there again. The whole drive to the morgue I was losing my shit. That same fucking night I started having crazy dreams again. Men were shooting dead fish. Into their veins.”
Achilles patted Wexler’s trembling shoulders, a gesture that said I understand, which he couldn’t bring himself to say, but nonetheless was true.
CHAPTER 15
ACHILLES WAS AT THE GRADY HOSPITAL MORGUE WHEN IT OPENED, SHOWING a photo to the attendant, a kid who looked to be barely out of high school. Marcus, according to the nametag, carried a cigarette behind one ear and a pencil behind the other. Marcus vaguely remembered Wexler, or rather a slim guy who resembled Prince. He showed Achilles a picture of the body Wexler had viewed. Found beside the Bricks, the man was much older than Troy.
Marcus studied Troy’s photo again, thoughtfully, his eyes moving between Achilles and the picture.
“How long have you been a diener?”
“They don’t say that anymore.” Marcus looked at Achilles. “You say this is your brother?”
Achilles nodded. “Yes.”
Marcus held the photo up so Achilles could see it. “By blood?”
“Adopted.”
Marcus appeared to weigh the probability of that being true. His tone apologetic, he said, “We have two more from that area. No, four. Two more just came down. You done this before?”
“Two tours in Afghanistan.”
Marcus jerked his head toward the door, motioning for Achilles to follow.
Some morgues had gurneys parked in large walk-in coolers. Others, like New Orleans, had the silver wall of drawers. Grady had both: on the right were the drawers, and on the left were two large walk-in coolers, the kind usually found in restaurant kitchens. A long metal grate ran down the middle of the tile floor. The tiles were the reddish-brown terra cotta that hid dirt and blood. For all the fluorescent lights overhead and absence of shadow, it still felt too dark. It was remarkably clean and shiny, all the steel reminding him of his middle school cafeteria. He’d been in eighth when Troy was in sixth, and so hadn’t let Troy sit with him.
Referring to the clipboard, Marcus led him to the drawers. Well-oiled, the action was fluid and silent, and the drawers slid out smoothly as if designed for comfort. Achilles scanned quickly, looking first for skin tone — not too dark to account for the sun or too light to account for an addict’s nocturnia — then glancing at the face and moving on.
Two men were too old, one too young. They were all fresh. None had an autopsy suture. Marcus was considerate. He lifted the sheet enough to reveal the face and then looked down or at the body, anywhere but at Achilles. After each body that wasn’t Troy, Achilles tried his usual ploy to buoy his mood, telling himself that he was lucky, that they’d won again. But each one left him breathless, fatigued. He felt lethargic, as if he was breathing underwater, as if oxygen was a salty viscous fluid he had to work to keep down, heavy in his lungs, and the more he inhaled, the lower he sank. Achilles was thankful that Marcus didn’t offer him water or a chair, or acknowledge the chemicals.
In the walk-in, eight gurneys were lined up, dusky feet sticking out, and in the corner, one gurney with a smaller body. Marcus showed him one, a handsome teenager with auburn skin, deep-set eyes, broad lips, and one neat hole in the chest. He said, “The rest are all identified. Shoot-out. Family’s on the way down. These three here are brothers, sixteen, seventeen, and twelve.
Achilles pointed to the smaller body in the corner.
“He’s not related. That’s a kid who’s been unclaimed for a while. Smoke inhalation in an abandoned house. He goes to Potter’s Field next week.” His breath hung in the chilled air.
“How does someone claim him?”
“ID and paperwork. Sometimes a church will sponsor a funeral for an unidentified kid. Sad thing is no one reported him missing.”