“That doesn’t make any sense. He was there when Alphabet got shot. Right there. Even if he was in on it, someone else pulled the trigger.”
The captain rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He’d regained whatever cerebral authority sustained him. “Doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger. We’re after big fish, because we’re almost done here. Let me repeat that: America. Is. Almost. Done. Here. Spec ops says Haitham is the big fish. You know better than them?”
“Spec ops isn’t stationed there. I’m stationed there. I’m the landowner. And Haitham is not the Cleric. Hell, he wants to go to Camp Bucca.”
“Then bring him in. He’s not a ghost. Go kick down some doors.” He shrugged. “Wish I could join you.”
I was too confused to respond. There’s no way Haitham is the Cleric, I thought. Then I thought about his ghoulish tendency to arrive just before tragedy, and his gift for disappearing just after tragedy, and decided maybe there was a way. Maybe this was why he’d shown up the other morning, filling my brain with a crazy Shakespearean tale from the past.
I thanked the intel captain and rose, turning a half step and considering. Since the firefight, I hadn’t thought much about the kill team or First Cav. And despite his throbbing, insatiable douchebaggery, he was probably the right man to ask about that.
“Something on your mind?” he asked.
I closed my eyes. Shaba and Rana seemed like fragments from a morning dream floating away. I thumbed the Hawaiian bracelet on my wrist. The past doesn’t matter the way the present does, I decided. Not right now, at least.
“Nope,” I said. “All good.” Then I walked out, flipping off the black-and-white photograph of Haitham, a man who’d lied about the kill team, and lied about Chambers, and helped kill one of my soldiers.
I decided to shower, stopping first at the base exchange for shampoo and a bar of soap. It was a hot walk, the afternoon sun banking low, miles of military might spread across rolling dust lands. At a water station in front of a graveyard of Saddam-era tanks, I stopped and watched a pair of air force females run by in shorts and tees. They looked up as they passed. My eyes dropped to the ground like loose change.
I drank a bottled water and kept moving. The tank graveyard simmered behind me, the skeletons and bones of vehicles long ago destroyed, long ago scavenged for parts, serving no purpose now but to sit in the sun and melt.
The base’s shopping center was located in the core of Camp Independence, in a dry gulch. Big-screen televisions blared from shops’ front windows. Signs displayed pictures of new trucks, and instructions on how to ship vehicles home, tax-free. Vendors hawked local antiques and pirated DVDs with fervor. If I hadn’t been concentrating so much on the people bumping my back and scanning the crowd for suicide vests, I’d have appreciated the surreality of it all.
HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY! The base exchange greeted me with a scrolling digital sign, above automatic doors that ushered me into chilled aisles of surplus goods. I found soap and shampoo quickly, but lingered in the refrigerated section, grabbing a Coke and sticking my head between two bags of frozen green peas.
The peas kept an emerging headache at bay, so I stood like that for ten minutes, shopping items at my feet, rifle slung, leg twitching from the crowd outside. I put the bags back only when the stares of strangers mattered more than the relief. Then I added a bottle of painkillers to my haul, paid, and left.
After a long, hot shower, I massaged my feet and collarbone and put the uniform back on. I’d thought about things in the stall and knew what I needed to do next. In one part of my life, at least, I wanted clarity.
• • •
I got lucky. She was online and responded quickly to the Skype invitation. I set up my webcam and headset and waited for her to come to life on the screen. I’d chosen a corner stall, away from prying ears and curious eyes. I sat up tall, shoulders back, and took a deep breath, smiling for the camera.
The feed was grainy. She wore a pair of thin, rimless glasses and had her hair up in a ponytail, though a few loose brown strands swept across her forehead. She wore a long-sleeved shirt I recognized and a pair of conch earrings shaped like moons that I didn’t. I studied the apartment wall behind her, looking for clues, but it was blank and empty.
“Shaku maku, Marissa,” I said. “How goes it?”
“Jackson,” she said. “What time is it there?”
“Almost dinnertime. Pretty early there?”
“Yeah,” she said, somewhere between sass and insolence. I’d always adored her temper, except when it was directed my way. “Got up for a run.”
“It’s nice to look at you,” I said, because it was. I wanted her to smile, but instead she blinked twice and frowned.
“You look thin,” she said. Her voice was raspier than usual. I wondered if she was smoking again. “Your face, especially. You eating? You and your bird belly.”
“If I wanted to be mothered…” I began, trailing off. That last word reminded me of the shot-up civilians, and the dead driver’s mom on the side of the road, but I didn’t know how to begin to tell Marissa about that. I wanted to tell her about the firefight, too, and the medal, but that all felt foul suddenly, as I realized I was just hoping to impress her. So instead I said, “I’ll be eating as soon as we’re done. Thought I’d take this rare break from war to talk to my girlfriend. That okay?”
She groaned and put her head in her hands. I watched her fingers tap her temples like little drum sticks. She’d always had such soft skin. Sometimes, on those lazy California afternoons on her front patio, I’d stroke her arms until she asked me to leave her alone so she could read. Her voice didn’t have the playful lilt to it that it had then.
“Don’t call me that, Jackson. Do not call me that. You’re the one trying to push me away. This was your idea, too, remember? To avoid becoming a cliché?”
“Push you away?” I felt red coursing through my veins and knew I should stop, but wouldn’t. “Are you retarded? You’re the one who barely answers my e-mails.”
“I just did!”
“With pointless bullshit. You’re the one pushing away. Even now, when I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone.”
That made her cry. Even though that’d probably been my intent, something about the tears sneaking down her face filled me with regret and self-disgust. I apologized for calling the things that made up her days pointless, but that just made it worse.
“What am I supposed to say?” she asked, daggers in her voice now. She wiped her eyes and held my gaze through the screen. She’d always been tougher than me, always been able to cut through my reckless parrying to get to what mattered. “I don’t say anything because everything I say is wrong. I don’t reply because I don’t know how to.”
“Well, try. I’m trying.”
“Bull,” she said. “You never communicate with anyone until you explode. I can’t read your mind. I won’t let you blame me for that. You know your mom had to tell me what happened to your soldiers? I’m so sorry for that, Jack. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t bring them up,” I said. “You’ve no right.” I shook my head and leaned back, sneering at the camera. “This was a mistake. To hell with it.” After a few moments of silence, I pointed to my bracelet. “Remember this?”
She smiled sadly, the gap in her teeth finally showing. She tugged at one of the moons in her ears. “Of course,” she said. “That week meant a lot.”
“Where’s yours?”
“It’s here. Somewhere. I wear it, just not running.”
“Sure,” I said. “Sure.”