Vasquez resisted a sarcastic remark about the breadth of his knowledge; instead, she said, “Yeah. That’s Zeus and his crew at the top of the mountain. I’m not sure who those guys are climbing it . . .”
“Titans,” Buchanan said. “They were monsters who came before the gods, these kind of primal forces. Zeus defeated them, imprisoned them in the underworld. I used to know all their names: when I was a kid, I was really into myths and legends, heroes, all that shit.” He studied the toys positioned up the mountain’s sides. They were larger than the figures at its crown, overmuscled, one with an extra pair of arms, another with a snake’s head, a third with a single, glaring eye. Buchanan shook his head. “I can’t remember any of their names, now. Except for this guy,” he pointed at a figurine near the summit. “I’m pretty sure he’s Kronos.”
“Kronos?” The figure was approximately that of a man, although its arms, its legs, were slightly too long, its hands and feet oversized. Its head was surrounded by a corona of gray hair that descended into a jagged beard. The toy’s mouth had been sculpted with its mouth gaping, its eyes round, idiot. Vasquez smelled spoiled meat, felt the cardboard slipping from her grasp.
“Whoa.” Buchanan caught the box, replaced it on the shelf.
“Sorry,” Vasquez said. Mr. White had ignored her, strolling across the round chamber to the foot of the stairs, which he had climbed quickly.
“I don’t think that’s really Sam’s speed, anyway. Come on,” Buchanan said, moving down the aisle.
When they had stopped in front of a stack of remote-controlled cars, Vasquez said, “So who was Kronos?” Her voice was steady.
“What?” Buchanan said. “Oh—Kronos? He was Zeus’s father. Ate all his kids because he’d heard that one of them was going to replace him.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Somehow, Zeus avoided becoming dinner and overthrew the old man.”
“Did he—did Zeus kill him?”
“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure Kronos wound up with the rest of the Titans, underground.”
“Underground? I thought you said they were in the underworld.”
“Same diff,” Buchanan said. “That’s where those guys thought the underworld was, someplace deep underground. You got to it through caves.”
“Oh.”
In the end, Buchanan decided on a large wooden castle that came with a host of knights, some on horseback, some on foot; a trio of princesses; a unicorn; and a dragon. The entire set cost two hundred and sixty euros, which struck Vasquez as wildly overpriced, but which Buchanan paid without a murmur of protest—the extravagance of the present, she understood, being the point. Buchanan refused the cashier’s offer to gift-wrap the box, and they left the store with him carrying it under his arm.
Once on the sidewalk, Vasquez said, “Not to be a bitch, but what are you planning to do with that?”
Buchanan shrugged. “I’ll think of something. Maybe the front desk’ll hold it.”
Vasquez said nothing. Although the sky still glowed blue, the light had begun to drain out of the spaces among the buildings, replaced by a darkness that was almost granular. The air was warm, soupy. As they stopped at the corner, Vasquez said, “You know, we never asked Plowman about Lavalle or Maxwell.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Just—I wish we had. He had an answer for everything else; I wouldn’t have minded hearing him explain that.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Buchanan said.
“We’re the last ones alive—”
“Plowman’s living. So’s Mr. White.”
“Whatever—you know what I mean. Christ, even Just-Call-Me-Bill is dead. What the fuck’s up with that?”
In front of them, traffic stopped. The walk signal lighted its green man. They joined the surge across the street. “It’s a war, Vasquez,” Buchanan said. “People die in them.”
“Is that what you really believe?”
“It is.”
“What about your freak-out before, at the tower?”
“That’s exactly what it was—me freaking out.”
“Okay,” Vasquez said after a moment, “okay. Maybe Bill’s death was an accident—maybe Maxwell, too. What about Lavalle? What about Ruiz? You telling me it’s normal two guys from the same detail try to off themselves?”
“I don’t know.” Buchanan shook his head. “You know the army isn’t big on mental-health care. And let’s face it; that was some pretty fucked-up shit went on in the Closet. Not much of a surprise if Lavalle and Ruiz couldn’t handle it, is it?”
Vasquez waited another block before asking, “How do you deal with it—the Closet?”
Buchanan took one more block after that to answer: “I don’t think about it.”
“You don’t?”
“I’m not saying the thought of what we did over there never crosses my mind, but as a rule, I focus on the here and now.”
“What about the times the thought does cross your mind?”
“I tell myself it was a different place with different rules. You know what I’m talking about. You had to be there; if you weren’t, then shut the fuck up. Maybe what we did went over the line, but that’s for us to say, not some panel of officers don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground, and damn sure not some reporter never been closer to war than a goddamn showing of Platoon.” Buchanan glared. “You hear me?”
“Yeah.” How many times had she used the same arguments, or close enough, with her father? He had remained unconvinced. So only the criminals are fit to judge the crime? he had said. What a novel approach to justice. She said, “You know what I hate, though? It isn’t that people look at me funny—Oh, it’s her—it isn’t even the few who run up to me in the supermarket and tell me what a disgrace I am. It’s like you said: they weren’t there, so fuck ’em. What gets me are the ones who come up to you and tell you, ‘Good job, you fixed them Ay-rabs right,’ the crackers who wouldn’t have anything to do with someone like me, otherwise.”
“Even crackers can be right, sometimes,” Buchanan said.
—
VII
Mr. White’s room was on the sixth floor, at the end of a short corridor that lay around a sharp left turn. The door to the junior suite appeared unremarkable, but it was difficult to be sure, since both the bulbs in the wall sconces on either side of the corridor were out. Vasquez searched for a light switch and, when she could not find one, said, “Either they’re blown, or the switch is inside his room.”
Buchanan, who had been unsuccessful in convincing the woman at the front desk to watch his son’s present, was busy fitting it beneath one of the chairs to the right of the elevator door.
“Did you hear me?” Vasquez asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“I don’t like it. Our visibility’s fucked. He opens the door, the light’s behind him, in our faces. He turns on the hall lights, and we’re blind.”
“For, like, a second.”
“That’s more than enough time for Mr. White to do something.”