The Devil's Punchbowl (58 page)

 

She hugs herself against the chill. “I’d better go in.”

 

“Thanks for letting Carl stay with you.”

 

“I know there’s danger. I’m not going to compromise my safety just to make some kind of point.”

 

I’m glad she’s thinking clearly on this issue, at least. Last night she seemed perfectly willing to do just that.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come see Annie,” she says. “I just don’t want to confuse her right now.”

 

“No, you’re right. If this is how you feel, it’s better that way.”

 

“I know she’s glad to be home.”

 

“She is. Good night.”

 

Caitlin waves, then slips inside her door.

 

 

I find Kelly splayed out on the couch in my den, the Styrofoam cup in his lap, his eyes nearly closed. The television’s playing an old Sydney Pollack film,
Three Days of the Condor,
very low.

 

“Hey?” I say. “You okay?”

 

Kelly’s head slides forward in what might be a nod. I’m about to
turn and go upstairs when he says, “That didn’t take long. I guess it didn’t go so good, huh?”

 

“Understatement of the millennium.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. She’s just young. Still got a few illusions left. Give her time.”

 

I know he’s right, but I hate to think I’m waiting for Caitlin to become as jaded as Kelly and I about human nature and the legal process. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe we should just go public with the whole stinking mess.”

 

“No way. Then Po skates for sure. I just wish we’d wasted Sands before we knew the bigger picture. Then we could say. ‘Uh-oh,’ and go about our business.” Kelly laughs softly, but for once his dark sense of humor strikes a dissonant note.

 

I walk deeper into the den and look down at him. “You say that so easily. Like killing Sands would be no big deal. But last night you wouldn’t even kill that dying dog.”

 

Kelly’s red eyes open momentarily, but he doesn’t look up. “I told you…we had to leave that place like we found it.”

 

“There was more to it than that. Were you testing me or something?”

 

His chest rises as he takes a long breath. Then he sighs heavily, the sound almost like a snore. “You got it done, man. Just let it go.”

 

“I want to know.”

 

He scowls, then sips from his cup, swallows audibly. “When I went into Delta training, I was ready. Ninety-seven percent of the volunteers wash out, and they come from elite units to begin with. Then there’s the mental shit they put you through. I got through that just fine. But later on, after I was in, they put me in a rotation called dog lab.”

 

One eye opens and seeks me out, trying to see if I’ve heard of this. I shrug.

 

“The idea,” he says, “is to prepare you to handle the kinds of wounds you might encounter in the field. I mean, we didn’t have medics along on our ops. We were our own medics.”

 

“So what was dog lab?”

 

“Well…it’s pretty simple. The army takes some stray dogs and shoots them—or ‘inflicts missile wound trauma’—usually with the kinds of rounds you’re likely to be hit by in the field. AK-47s, shit
like that. Then they give you the wounded dogs. You have your medical kit. You’re supposed to stabilize the dog, then nurse it back to health. Every guy gets his own dog. They’re in shock when you get them, of course, like that dog last night. Bleeding out fast, panicked eyes, howling in pain. You start an IV, do everything you’d do for a human being. And that’s when you realize that textbook training doesn’t mean shit. In the field, it’s different. So all you do for a week, ten days, is try to save your dog. You live with it, and with the other guys and their dogs. The guys bond with the animals in weird ways. They name them, and they get territorial about their dog’s space, or other people touching their dog. Some die, of course. But most of them make it—the ones that survive the initial shootings.”

 

Kelly takes another noisy sip from his cup.

 

“My dog got septicemia,” he says. “I had him on antibiotics, but not the right kind, I guess. He was dying steadily, and the other guys were riding me about it. I wanted to load him into a jeep and drive off-base to a fucking veterinarian. But you couldn’t do that. So when it got really bad, I took a syrette of morphine and put him down. The officer in charge of us went batshit, of course. I flunked dog lab. But I’d done so well on the hard-core stuff, they weren’t about to wash me out for that.”

 

“So last night—”

 

“Last night, when I leaned over that pit bull, I was back in dog lab. Canine PTSD. Isn’t that a riot? I’ve killed human beings without batting an eye, but I go to pieces over a fucking mutt.”

 

“I’d say that’s a good sign.”

 

Kelly shakes his head with sudden vehemence. “It ain’t that simple, boss. Loving dogs doesn’t make you a humanitarian.
Hitler
loved dogs. He had a dog named Blondi. He loved Blondi, but he still murdered millions of people. He offed the retards and the handicapped people too.
Homo sapiens
is one fucked-up species, Penn. Sometimes I wish I was still like Caitlin.”

 

I lean over and squeeze his knee. “Don’t think about it. Just go get in the bed.”

 

“I’m good right here.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“I’m good.”

 

As I climb the stairs, my cell phone buzzes to announce a text
message. When I check it, I’m surprised to see it’s from Caitlin. It reads: I THINK YOU’RE MAKING THE RIGHT DECISION FOR ANNIE, WHETHER IT’S RIGHT FOR YOU AND ME OR NOT. I LOVE YOU.

 

Halfway up the stairs, I stop and key in my reply: I LOVE YOU, TOO. I HOPE I SEE YOU TOMORROW.

 

Then I walk up the steps and collapse onto my bed.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER
45

 

 

Caitlin stands in her kitchen, reading Penn’s text message and blinking back tears. In all her time with him, she’s never lied like that, not even by omission. But the deepest hurt is from shock at her own lack of feeling. She’s waited a year and a half for him to make the decision he made today, but tonight, hearing the words, she felt…betrayed. It made no sense, but that was what she felt.

 

Wiping the corners of her eyes, she reaches back and switches off the gas burner. She’d started making tea, but the last thing she wants is to lie in bed for an hour thinking about what just happened. She walks down the hall to the stairs and stops suddenly, startled by the sight of a man sitting on the floor of her living room. Carl Sims looks up from a copy of
Shotgun News
with a friendly smile. There’s a pistol on the floor by his knee, and his sniper rifle leans against the wall beside his shoulder.

 

“Everything okay?” he asks. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“It’s all right. I just forgot. Where were you when I came in?”

 

“Well, I was out there when you were talking to Mayor Cage. I mean, I wasn’t close enough to listen or anything. I was just covering you guys. You know.”

 

“Thank you, Carl. I’m sorry I don’t have a TV down here for you.”

 

“That’s okay. I’m fine for the night. I’ve got this magazine, and I got one of Mr. Cage’s novels to read if I get tired of the
News.
Major
McDavitt keeps telling me I ought to read one, so I’ll probably give it a try tonight. They any good?”

 

Caitlin walks to the foot of the stairs and stops. “I think so. The first three, especially.”

 

“The major told me you might be in one or two of them. Kind of disguised, like.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe parts of me.”

 

Carl smiles knowingly.

 

“You like Penn, don’t you, Carl?”

 

Sims sticks out his lower lip as though pondering the question. “I do, yeah.”

 

“Why, do you think?”

 

“Same as the major, I guess. He’s somebody who does the right thing, if there’s any way to do it.”

 

“Isn’t that what you do?”

 

“Well…I try to. But seeing what’s right, and doin’ it—that’s two different things.”

 

“What about what we’ve been going through this past week?”

 

The sniper shrugs. “Life gets complicated. That’s a fact. But I know this. Taking an enemy from the front ain’t always the best way. I figure Mr. Cage knows what he’s doing—even if he don’t know he knows it himself yet. You know what I’m saying?”

 

Caitlin is surprised to hear herself laugh. “Actually, I think I do. I’m not sure I agree with you in this case. But I understand.”

 

Carl watches her for a few moments, then suddenly looks down, like a boy caught staring. “I didn’t mean to keep you down here.”

 

“No, it’s all right. I appreciate hearing what you have to say.”

 

He looks back up at her. “You know what I think? I think you two gonna be all right. Sometimes it just takes a while.”

 

“How old are you, Carl?”

 

“Twenty-six.”

 

“You look thirty. And you sound like you’re sixty.”

 

He laughs warmly. “I’m just quoting what my daddy’s said to me.”

 

“Well…let’s hope he’s right.”

 

“Oh, he usually is. Good night, Mrs. Cage—oops, my bad.”

 

Caitlin smiles and shakes her finger at him. “I
know
that was on purpose.”

 

The deputy laughs and looks back at his newspaper.

 

“Call me if you need anything, Carl.”

 

“Same to you. I’m the one guarding you, remember?”

 

She smiles.

 

Caitlin ascends the long staircase, wondering why Penn’s words didn’t resonate in her as they would have only a week ago. She walks into her bedroom and opens the dresser, wishing she’d packed more clothes for the trip. As she takes off her sweater and bra and slips on a T-shirt, her thoughts go back to her conversation with Pastor Simpson in the afternoon. Tying back her hair with an elastic band, she hears a noise from downstairs. Thinking it might be Carl knocking on the wall for attention, she goes to the door and sticks her head out.

 

A rush of movement from the right makes her jerk left, then a black hood descends over her head. As she shouts for Carl, someone yanks a drawstring tight, cutting off her air. Lashing out with both hands, she tries to break free, but a needle-sharp sting like a wasp’s pierces her neck below the jaw. Within seconds her limbs stop obeying her brain. She tries to yell Carl’s name, then screams for Penn, but all that emerges from her mouth is the blubbering of someone being shoved underwater.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER
46

 

 

Walt Garrity stands between the Devil’s Punchbowl and a row of blinking slot machines, sipping a Maker’s Mark and trying to avoid Nancy. Since making his play with Sands earlier, he’s felt a nice buzz, and the whiskey only makes it better. He’s also realized that the case isn’t the only thing on his mind. The image of the Chinese beauty descending the escalator will not leave him. He’s been half-consciously searching for her all night. The search hasn’t been easy, because Nancy seems to be noticing his absences more now. In fact, she ought to be running out of chips about now, and he’s going to have to put in a little time with her at the craps table.

 

Setting his empty glass on a table outside the bar, he heads for the main escalator that leads to the grand salon. Just as he reaches for the moving handrail, a hidden door used by the staff opens in the wall to his left, and the Chinese beauty steps out, wearing what looks like a silk kimono. She’s not looking at Walt, but she’s less than ten yards away and doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.

 

He moves to his left, gently intercepting her, and says, “Excuse me, ma’am. Could I talk to you for a minute?”

 

“You want talk?” she asks in musical voice. “My English not good.”

 

Her ingenuousness melts something in Walt. “That’s all right. I’ll keep it simple. I really just want to sit with you for a couple of minutes.”

 

“Sit?”

 

“In the bar maybe? The Devil’s Punchbowl?”

 

She crinkles her nose. “Food not so good there. I no like.”

 

“We don’t have to eat anything.”

 

She looks mildly anxious, as if she has somewhere else to be.

 

“Am I holding you up?”

 

“With someone else tonight. You understand?”

 

“You’re with someone else? You have a date?”

 

“Date, yes.” The girl smiles and nods, and Walt’s heart sinks.

 

She nods considerately, then moves to go. But after walking a few feet, she turns and glides back to him. “No date tomorrow,” she says softly, her eyes shining. “You come back tomorrow, I be your date.”

 

Something kicks in Walt’s chest, and it can only be his heart. He’d hardly dared hope that this woman could be had by a simple business transaction. But here she stands, waiting for his answer.

 

“You come tomorrow?” she asks. “Or I make another date?”

 

Walt swallows, trying to get his mind around the reality of what’s being offered.

 

“You no be sorry,” the girl whispers. “Me number one girl. Make you come many time. You feel twenty again. You like?”

 

Walt gulps as he did as an eighteen-year-old in Tokyo when the first streetwalker climbed onto his leg and offered him something he’d never heard of. Prostitution had been legal in Japan then, but it certainly wasn’t in Texas, and he’d almost popped the moment her warm flesh settled against the leg of his uniform.

 

“Tomorrow,” he says finally. “I’ll be your date tomorrow.”

 

The girl extends her graceful hand and traces one fingernail along his chest. “I like you. What I call you?”