The Lucky One (11 page)

“You mean the cute one with the German shepherd? I figured that’s what he was doing. How is he? Tell me that it’s always been his dream to clean cages.”

“You saw him?”

“Of course.”

“How did you know he was applying for the job?”

“Why else would you want to talk to me?”

Beth shook her head. Nana was always a step ahead of her. “Anyway, I think you should talk to him. I don’t quite know what to make of him.”

“Does his hair have anything to do with it?”

“What?”

“His hair. It kind of makes him look like Tarzan, don’t you think?”

“I really didn’t notice.”

“Sure you did, sweetie. You can’t lie to me. What’s the problem?”

Quickly, Beth gave her a rundown of the interview. When she was finished, Nana sat in silence.

“He walked from Colorado?”

“That’s what he says.”

“And you believe him?”

“That part?” She hesitated. “Yeah, I think he’s telling the truth about that.”

“That’s a long walk.”

“I know.”

“How many miles is that?”

“I don’t know. A lot.”

“That’s kind of strange, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” she said. “And there’s something else, too.”

“What?”

“He was a marine.”

Nana sighed. “Why don’t you wait here. I’ll go talk to him.”

For the next ten minutes, Beth watched them from behind the living room window curtains. Nana hadn’t stayed in the office to conduct the interview; instead, she’d led them to the wooden bench in the shade of the magnolia tree. Zeus was dozing at their feet, his ear flicking every now and then, shooing away the occasional fly. Beth couldn’t make out what either of them was saying, but occasionally she saw Nana frown, which seemed to suggest the interview wasn’t going well. In the end, Logan Thibault and Zeus walked back up the gravel drive toward the main road, while Nana watched them with a concerned expression on her face.

Beth thought Nana would make her way back to the house, but instead she began walking toward the office. It was then that Beth noticed a blue Volvo station wagon rolling up the drive.

The cocker spaniel. She’d completely forgotten about the pickup, but it seemed obvious that Nana was going to handle it. Beth used the time to cool herself with a cold washcloth and drink another glass of ice water.

From the kitchen, she heard the front door squeak open as Nana came back inside.

“How’d it go?”

“It went fine.”

“What did you think?”

“It was . . . interesting. He’s intelligent and polite, but you’re right. He’s definitely hiding something.”

“So where does that leave us? Should I put another ad in the paper?”

“Let’s see how he works out first.”

Beth wasn’t sure she had heard Nana right. “Are you saying you’re going to hire him?”

“No, I’m saying I did hire him. He starts Wednesday at eight.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“I trust him.” She gave a sad smile, as if she knew exactly what Beth was thinking. “Even if he was a marine.”

8

Thibault

T
hibault didn’t want to return to Iraq, but once more, in February 2005, the First, Fifth was called up. This time, the regiment was sent to Ramadi, the capital of Al Anbar province and the southwest point of what was commonly referred to as “the triangle of death.” Thibault was there for seven months.

Car bombs and IEDs—improvised explosive devices—were common. Simple devices but scary: usually a mortar shell with a fuse triggered by a cellular phone call. Still, the first time Thibault was riding in a Humvee that hit one, he knew the news could have been worse.

“I’m glad I heard the bomb,” Victor had said afterward. By then, Victor and Thibault nearly always patrolled together. “It means I’m still alive.”

“You and me both,” Thibault had answered.

“But I’d rather not hit one again.”

“You and me both.”

But bombs weren’t easy to avoid. On patrol the following day, they hit another one. A week after that, their Humvee was struck by a car bomb—but Thibault and Victor weren’t unusual in that regard. Humvees were hit by one or the other on almost every patrol. Most of the marines in the platoon could honestly claim that they’d survived two or three bombs before they went back to Pendleton. A couple had survived four or five. Their sergeant had survived six. It was just that kind of place, and nearly everyone had heard the story of Tony Stevens, a marine from the Twenty-fourth MEU—Marine Expeditionary Unit—who’d survived nine bombs. One of the major newspapers had written an article about him entitled “The Luckiest Marine.” His was a record no one wanted to break.

Thibault broke it. By the time he left Ramadi, he’d survived eleven explosions. But there was the one explosion he’d missed that continued to haunt him.

It would have been explosion number eight. Victor was with him. Same old story with a much worse ending. They were in a convoy of four Humvees, patrolling one of the city’s major thoroughfares. An RPG struck the Humvee in front, with fortunately little damage, but enough to bring the convoy to a temporary halt. Rusted and decaying cars lined both sides of the road. Shots broke out. Thibault jumped from the second Humvee in the convoy line to get a better line of sight. Victor followed him. They reached cover and readied their weapons. Twenty seconds later, a car bomb went off, knocking them clear and destroying the Humvee they’d been in only moments before. Three marines were killed; Victor was knocked unconscious. Thibault hauled him back to the convoy, and after collecting the dead, the convoy returned to the safe zone.

It was around that time that Thibault began to hear whispers. He noticed that the other marines in his platoon began to act differently around him, as if they believed Thibault were somehow immune to the rules of war. That others might die, but he would not. Worse than that, his fellow marines seemed to suspect that while Thibault was especially lucky, those who patrolled with him were especially unlucky. It wasn’t always overt, but he couldn’t deny the change in his platoon members’ attitude toward him. He was in Ramadi for two more months after those three marines died. The last few bombs he survived only intensified the whispers. Other marines began to avoid him. Only Victor seemed to treat him the same. Toward the end of their tour in Ramadi, while on duty guarding a gas station, he noticed Victor’s hands shaking as he lit a cigarette. Above them, the night sky glittered with stars.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m ready to go home,” Victor said. “I’ve done my part.”

“You’re not going to reup next year?”

He took a long drag from his cigarette. “My mother wants me home, and my brother has offered me a job. In roofing. Do you think I can build roofs?”

“Yeah, I think you can. You’ll be a great roofer.”

“My girl, Maria, is waiting for me. I’ve known her since I was fourteen.”

“I know. You’ve told me about her.”

“I’m going to marry her.”

“You told me that, too.”

“I want you to come to the wedding.”

In the glow of Victor’s cigarette, he saw the ghost of a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Victor took a long drag and they stood in silence, considering a future that seemed impossibly distant. “What about you?” Victor said, his words coming out with a puff of smoke. “You going to reup?”

Thibault shook his head. “No. I’m done.”

“What are you going to do when you get out?”

“I don’t know. Do nothing for a while, maybe go fishing in Minnesota. Someplace cool and green, where I can just sit in a boat and relax.”

Victor sighed. “That sounds nice.”

“You want to come?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll call you when I plan the trip,” Thibault promised.

He could hear the smile in Victor’s voice. “I’ll be there.” Victor cleared his throat. “Do you want to know something?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

“Do you remember the firefight? The one where Jackson and the others died when the Humvee blew up?”

Thibault picked up a small pebble and tossed it into the darkness. “Yeah.”

“You saved my life.”

“No, I didn’t. I just hauled you back.”

“Thibault,
I followed you.
When you jumped from the Humvee. I was going to stay, but when I saw you go, I knew I had no choice.”

“What are you talking ab—?”

“The picture,” Victor interrupted. “I know you carry it with you. I followed your luck and it saved me.”

At first, Thibault didn’t understand, but when he finally figured out what Victor was saying, he shook his head in disbelief. “It’s just a picture, Victor.”

“It’s luck,” Victor insisted, bringing his face close to Thibault’s. “And you’re the lucky one. And when you are finished with your tour, I think you should go find this woman in the picture. Your story with her is not finished.”

“No—”

“It saved me.”

“It didn’t save the others. Too many others.”

Everyone knew that the First, Fifth had suffered more casualties in Iraq than any other regiment in the Marine Corps.

“Because it protects you. And when I jumped from the Humvee, I believed it would save me, too, in the same way you believe it will always save you.”

“No, I don’t,” Thibault began.

“Then why, my friend, do you still carry it with you?”

It was Friday, his third day working at the kennel, and though Thibault had shed most traces of his former life, he was always aware of the photograph in his pocket. Just as he always thought about everything Victor had said to him that day.

He was walking a mastiff on a shady trail, out of sight of the office but still on the property. The dog was enormous, at least the size of a Great Dane, and had a tendency to lick Thibault’s hand every ten seconds. Friendly.

He’d already mastered the simple routines of the job: feeding and exercising the dogs, cleaning the cages, scheduling appointments. Not hard. He was fairly certain that Nana was considering allowing him to help train the dogs as well. The day before, she’d asked him to watch her work with one of the dogs, and it reminded him of his work with Zeus: clear, short, simple commands, visual cues, firm guidance with the leash, and plenty of praise. When she finished, she told him to walk beside her as she brought the dog back to the kennel.

“Do you think you could handle something like that?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She peeked over her shoulder at Zeus, who was trailing behind them. “Is it the same way you trained Zeus?”

“Pretty much.”

When Nana had interviewed him, Thibault had made two requests. First, he asked that he be allowed to bring Zeus to work with him. Thibault had explained that after spending nearly all their time together, Zeus wouldn’t react well to long daily separations. Thankfully, Nana had understood. “I worked with shepherds for a long time, so I know what you’re talking about,” she’d said. “As long as he doesn’t become a bother, it’s fine with me.”

Zeus wasn’t a bother. Thibault learned early on not to bring Zeus into the kennels when he was feeding or cleaning, since Zeus’s presence made some of the other dogs nervous. But other than that, he fit right in. Zeus followed along as Thibault exercised the dogs or cleaned the training yard, and he lay on the porch near the doorway when Thibault was doing paperwork. When clients came in, Zeus always went on alert, as he’d been trained to do. It was enough to make most clients stop in their tracks, but a quick, “It’s okay,” was enough to keep him still.

Thibault’s second request to Nana was that he be allowed to start work on Wednesday so he’d have time to get settled. She’d agreed to that as well. On Sunday, on the way home after leaving the kennel, he’d picked up a newspaper and searched the classifieds for a place to rent. It wasn’t hard to pare the list; there were only four homes listed, and he was immediately able to eliminate two of the larger ones since he didn’t need that much room.

Ironically, the remaining two choices were on opposite ends of town. The first house he found was in an older subdivision just off the downtown area and within sight of the South River. Good condition. Nice neighborhood. But not for him. Houses were sandwiched too close together. The second house, though, would work out fine. It was located at the end of a dirt road about two miles from work, on a rural lot that bordered the national forest. Conveniently, he could cut through the forest to get to the kennel. It didn’t shorten his commute much, but it would allow Zeus to roam. The place was one-story, southern rustic, and at least a hundred years old, but kept in relatively good repair. After rubbing the dirt from the windows, he peeked inside. It needed some work, but not the kind that would prevent him from moving in. The kitchen was definitely old-school, and there was a wood-burning stove in the corner, one that probably provided the house’s only heat. The wide-plank pine flooring was scuffed and stained, and the cabinets had probably been around since the place was built, but these things seemed to add to the house’s character rather than detract from it. Even better, it seemed to be furnished with the basics: couch and end tables, lamps, even a bed.

Thibault called the number on the sign, and a couple of hours later, he heard the owner drive up. They made the requisite small talk, and it turned out the guy had spent twenty years in the army, the last seven at Fort Bragg. The place had belonged to his father, he’d explained, who’d passed away two months earlier. That was good, Thibault knew; homes were like cars in that if they weren’t used regularly, they began to decay at an accelerating rate. It meant this one was probably still okay. The deposit and rent seemed a bit high to him, but Thibault needed a place quickly. He paid two months’ rent and the deposit in advance. The expression on the guy’s face told him that the last thing he’d expected was to receive that much cash.

Thibault slept at the house Monday night, spreading his sleeping bag on top of the mattress; on Tuesday, he trekked into town to order a new mattress from a place that agreed to deliver it that evening, then picked up supplies as well. When he returned, his backpack was filled with sheets and towels and cleaning supplies. It took another two trips to town to stock the refrigerator and get some plates, glasses, and utensils, along with a fifty-pound bag of food for Zeus. By the end of the day, he wished for the first time since he’d left Colorado that he had a car. But he was settled in, and that was enough. He was ready to go to work.