Edge of Valor (25 page)

“Commander!” The rap was insistent.

Ingram ripped open the curtain to find Sergeant Harper. “What?” he said sharply.

Harper blinked, then said, “Things are popping out there. Mr. Blinde and Mr. Radcliff recommend we take off now.”

“What's going on?”

“We hear mechanized stuff near the beach at the west end of the runway. I figure they'll dump artillery in here and then send in tanks.”

“Okay. Get your men to lift this man on a litter and put him aboard. And make sure you take this.” He pointed to the crate and boxes on the top bunk.

“Can do, Commander. And there's one more thing.”

Ingram looked down at Boring. “Yes?”

Harper leaned out and whistled up his men. Then he came back in. “We got word a Russian Jeep pulled up to the tower under a white flag. It carries a Russian officer. Sounds like a Russian navy commander. And he's asking for you.”

“What? For me directly?”

“He asked for Todd Ingram.”

Chapter Seventeen

21 August 1945

1627 South Alma Street, San Pedro, California

A
screech split the darkness. Helen bolted upright, her heart pounding. After a moment she realized it was only Fred, her lanky gray tabby cat, harassing Bubbles, her obese ten-year-old Russian Blue longhair. It was a game they played. Fred would roll on his back and try to wrap his arms around Bubbles' neck. Bubbles would spurn Fred's advances with a growl, a screech, and a swat of her paw. Fred loved it and did it again and again until Bubbles tired of it and simply ignored him. Bubbles had been a present from Laura West, who had unwillingly inherited the twenty-pound cat from Henry Shackleton, a down-on-his-luck French horn player who moved away to take a job with the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra.

Helen reached for the clock: 10:15. She'd been asleep for only an hour. Jerry stirred in his crib. Then he smacked his lips and cooed for a moment.
All right. Sleep tight, my love
. With a sigh, she whipped back the covers, stepped into her slippers, and grabbed her robe. Moonlight spilled into the living room, but the bedroom was dark. As she fumbled for the wall switch something whipped against her ankle.

“What?” She spun, disoriented. The room felt wrong. Nothing was where it should be. She pitched through the door to the living room and fell on the hardwood floor. “Damn it!” The furry thing rubbed against her ankle again: Fred. Then he strolled up to her face. They touched noses. Helen reached out and petted him. “I love you, too, you little schmuck.” Fred had the temerity to purr.

Helen sat up and took stock.
Nothing broken
.

Bubbles lay under the piano bench, brilliantly lit by moonlight as if by a single spotlight in an opera house. She blinked and rolled onto her back, barely visible feet protruding from her corpulent body.

“It's wartime, Bubbles. How can you be so fat?” Helen braced herself to rise.

Bubbles blinked and purred. Then she rolled upright, worked herself to her feet, and waddled toward her feeding dish, her ample tummy swaying from side to side as she disappeared into the darkness. “Don't eat too much,” Helen called after her.

Bubbles looked back, but all Helen could see were two large orange-yellow eyes.

Bam!
She threw herself against the living room wall. Those yellow eyes tracked her, watching every move, every twitch, as Helen felt her way toward the bedroom. She found only empty space. “Noooo.”

Suddenly Eddie Bergen leered at her, his face a twisted grimace as he crawled from the turret of his burning tank. But the fire was too much. Eddie screamed, and his face turned to wax dripping off a blackened skull. Eddie writhed horribly and sank back into the M-4. The tank lurched and bounced as ammunition cooked off inside.

Then Eddie was under his bed, sucking his thumb. The doctor and honor guard had to lure him out with comic books so they could give him a medal.

Helen crawled into the bedroom on hands and knees. But she couldn't get up; wouldn't get up. Her mind whirled. There he was, standing before her, wearing his white seersucker suit. Lieutenant Tuga, a cigarette carelessly clasped between a thumb and forefinger. Desperately, she ran a hand over faded burn marks, her arms, her feet; miraculously, the ones on her face had almost disappeared.

The memories had been harder and harder to suppress. The Kempetai, the Japanese Gestapo: Tuga and Watanabe on Marinduque Island. Watanabe looking over Tuga's shoulder, their expressions detached, uncaring. Tuga pushed the glowing cigarette against her skin. It sizzled; the pain incredible.

Sometimes Tuga would blow on the cigarette butt, making it hotter before pushing it into her skin again.

She screamed.

The baby screamed.

It burned everywhere: the palms of her hands, her breasts, the balls of her feet; everywhere nerves were concentrated.

Little Jerry was screeching. His wailing told her that he was terrified. Helen came back to herself at last. She rose, picked him up, and held him close. “I'm sorry, baby. My fault. Go back to sleep.”

Wet. He'd wet his diaper. Scared stiff. She clicked on the light and busied herself changing him and putting everything right. After some cuddling and tickling Jerry was cooing again. She wrapped him in a blanket, clicked off the light, and held him close.

In the darkness she saw Eddie Bergen in the doorway. Quickly she clicked on the light. Nothing. The baby slept on, and she held him tightly. As close as she could to her heart.

Emma Peabody awoke with a belch. The damned alarm clock was ripping into a peaceful world with the 7:30 imperative. Time to get up and go next door to take care of Jerry. Again she belched. Too much beer last night—it stayed with her. She made her own in the basement, and this new batch was particularly good—a dark lager with an unpronounceable Bavarian name.

Sunlight streamed into the window. Emma rose and stretched. Damn, that
was
a good batch. Maybe she'd have another sip or two this afternoon. But for now, it was up and off to work. She slipped on a housecoat, washed her face, and walked into the kitchen and started the coffee. There was a smile on her face as she looked forward to the best time of the day. Playing with Jerry was more a joy than a job. He was crawling like a gorilla now, getting into cupboards and redistributing pots and pans with enthusiastic clamor.

Emma Peabody looked up to the picture of her late husband, Leo. They were unable to have children but they had everything else, especially love. Leo worked as an engineer for the Southern Pacific, Emma for the phone company. Then both retired and Leo happily went to work in their basement, setting up a brewery, building a photography laboratory, and starting a shortwave station.

But a heart attack stopped it all. At a young sixty-four Leo was gone, leaving Emma with no children, only the house and the basement.

Having the Ingrams living next door had given Emma back her life. They became great friends, and Helen actually paid Emma Peabody to babysit. To mother a child. To watch him laugh and throw things around and grow up—something denied to her by a quirk of nature.

She stepped into her house slippers and walked out the back door. Soon, she was through the fence and on Helen's back porch. She knocked. “Hello?” She flipped open her pocket watch. It was Leo's, a retirement gift from the Southern Pacific Railroad in appreciation of thirty-six years of service, thirty-two of them as an engineer. The watch was a genuine Bulova pocket timepiece featuring a twenty-one-jewel movement with a gold case and long gold chain. Accurate to within one one-hundredth of a second each day. It had seemed ironic. Leo didn't need such precision after he stopped driving the monstrous 4–8-8–2 cab-forward engines for the SP. The watch read 7:42. Emma rapped again. “Better get a move on darlin'. You're gonna be late.”

Nothing.

This doesn't feel good
. Emma Peabody reached into her pocket and pulled out the house key Helen had given her for emergencies. She rapped again, loudly. “Helen!! You there? Yoo-hoo!”

She put her ear to the door. A baby cried.
That's it
.

Emma shoved the key into the lock and turned it. The crying was loud, and she was overwhelmed by the odor of cat pee. Helen hadn't let Fred and
Bubbles out. She quickly walked through the kitchen. Everything cold. No coffee. No breakfast. Emma dashed into Helen's bedroom.

The baby crawled on the floor toward her, screaming. Emma scooped him up. “Jerry! What's wrong?”

Helen's bed was empty, unmade. Jerry's bottom was wet, and the screaming was a sure sign he was hungry. She lay him on his changing table and began to unpin the diaper as he writhed, his little fists wiggling in space.

A low moan, a squeak.

Emma picked up the baby, stooped, and peeked under the bed. Her heart skipped a beat. “Darlin' what are you doing?”

Helen was squeezed against the wall. She blinked.

“Dear girl, come on out of there.”

Helen focused. She gave a thin smile. “Hi, Emma. I had a bad night.” Her grin was almost sheepish.

“Well, get out of there and tell me about it.”

Helen wiggled out and said, “Give me a minute.”

“Take all the time you want.”

Helen sat on the bed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Then she looked at the clock. “My God!”

“Don't worry about it, dear.”

“I have to.” She stood.

“Where you going?”

“Shower and to work.”

Emma cradled little Jerry. “If you must. But I think you should see somebody.”

Helen wasn't listening as she turned on the faucets.

Emma made coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs while Helen showered and dressed. Then, gulping her breakfast at the same time, Helen described what had happened last night.

“So you're okay, now?” asked Emma.

“Much better. The shower was therapeutic, as was the breakfast. Thank you.” She patted her tummy and stood, gathering her things.

Emma sipped coffee. “You're lucky, you know.”

“Yes?” Checking a small mirror, Helen adjusted her cap.

“You have a hospital and staff full of doctors who can help.”