Time to Hunt Part 39

Why, all those years ago, did Soloratov use an Ml rifle, a much less accurate semiauto? It appeared to be one of those mysteries that had no solution. Or, even worse, the answer was mundane, stupid, boring: he couldn't get a bolt gun, so he settled for the most accurate American rifle available, an M1D Sniper. Yes, that made perfect sense but...

...but if he could get an M1D, he could get a Model 70T or a Remington 700!

It don't make no G.o.dd.a.m.n sense!

It doesn't have to make sense, he told himself. Not everything does. Some things just can't be explained; they happen in a certain way because that's the way of the world.

Bob looked at the bottle again, his fingers stole to the cap and the plastic seal that kept the amber fluid and its multiple mercies from his lips, and yearned to crack it and drink. But he didn't.

Won't never touch my lips again, he remembered telling someone.

Liar. Lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Talking big, not living up to it.

He tried to lose himself in what was on the tube. The news, some talking head from Russia. Oh, yeah, it sounded familiar. Big elections coming up, everybody all scared because some joker who represented the old ways was in the lead and would carry the day, and the Cold War would start up all over again. The guy was this Evgeny Pas.h.i.+n, handsome big guy, powerful presence. Bob looked at him.

Thought we won that war, he said to himself.

Thought that was one we did okay in, and now here's this guy and he's going to take over and restore Russia and all the missiles go back into the silos and it's the same old crock of s.h.i.+t.

Man, there was no good news anywhere, was there?

He was feeling powerfully maudlin. He yearned for his old life: his wife, his lay-up barn, the sick animals he was so good at caring for, his perfect baby daughter, enough money. Man, had it knocked.

It all was taken away from him.

He turned the TV off and the room was quiet. But only for a moment. A couple of units down, somebody was yelling at somebody. Somewhere outside, a kid was crying. Other TVs vibrated through the walls. Traffic hummed along. Looking out the window he saw the buzz of neon, blurry and mashed together, from fast food joints and bars and liquor stores across the way.

Man, I hate to be alone anymore, he thought.

That's why Solaratov will get me. He likes likes being alone. I being alone. I lived lived alone for years, I alone for years, I fought fought alone. But I lost whatever edge I had alone. But I lost whatever edge I had.

I want my family. I want my daughter.

The lyrics of some old rock and roll song sounded in his ears, moist, rich, poignant.

Black is black, he heard the music, I want my baby back I want my baby back.

Yeah, well, you ain't going to get her back. You're just going to sit here until that f.u.c.king Russian hunts you down and blows you away.

Ceiling, discolored. Cobwebs, mildew, the sound of other people's grief over the traffic and me stuck by myself with no G.o.dd.a.m.n way in h.e.l.l to figure out what I got to figure out.

You think everything is about you and that blinds you to the world, his wife had told him.

Yeah, as if she would know. She really never did get him, he thought bitterly.

His hand involuntarily cranked on the bottle top and he heard it crack as the seal broke. He opened the bottle, looked down into the open muzzle. He knew a form of doom lay behind that muzzle. It was like looking down the barrel of a loaded rifle, the incredible temptation it had to some weak and deranged people, because to look down it was to look straight into death's own eye. So it was with the bottle for an ex-drunk. Look into it, take what it has to offer and you are gone. You are history.

He yearned for the strength to throw it out but knew he didn't have it. He raised the bottle to his lips, wise with the knowledge that he was about to die, and brought the bottle- You think everything is about you.

Bob stopped. He considered something so fundamental he'd not seen it before, but suddenly it seemed as big as a mountain: his a.s.sumption that Solaratov came to Vietnam to kill him and had returned to Idaho to kill him.

But suppose it wasn't about him?

What could it be about, then?

He tried to think.

The sniper had a semiauto.

He could fire twice, fast.

He had to take them both to make sure of hitting one.

But suppose I wasn't the one he had to hit.

Well, who else was there?

Only Donny.

Could it be about ... Donny?

CHAPTER T THIRTY-FIVE.

He awoke early, without a hangover, because he had not been drunk. He looked at his watch and saw that it was eight here, which meant it was eleven in the East.

He picked up the phone, then called Henderson Hall, United States Marine Corps Headquarters, Arlington, Virginia. He asked to be connected to the Command Sergeant Major of the Corps, got an office and a young buck sergeant, and eventually got through to the great man himself, with whom he'd served a tour in Vietnam in sixty-five and run into a few odd, friendly times over the years.

"Bob Lee, you son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Howdy, Vern. They ain't kicked you out yet?"

"Tried many a time. It's them pictures I got of a general and his goat."

"Those'll git a man a long way."

"In Was.h.i.+ngton, they'll git you all the way."

The two old sergeants laughed.

"So anyhow, Bob Lee, what you got cooking? You ain't written a book yet?"

"Not yet. Maybe one of these years. Look, I need a favor. You're the only man that could do it."

"So? Name it."

"I'm flying to DC this afternoon. I need to look at some paperwork. It would be the service jacket of my spotter, a kid that got killed in May 1972."

"What was his name?"

"Fenn, Donny. Lance corporal, formerly corporal. I have to see what happened to him over his career."

"What for? What're you looking for?"

"h.e.l.l, I don't know. I got something to check out involving him. What it is, I don't know. It's come up, though."

"Didn't you end up marrying his widow?"

"I did, yeah. A terrific lady. We're sort of on the outs now."

"Well, I hope you get it straightened out. This may take me a day or so. Or maybe not. I can probably get it, if not from here, from our archives, out in Virginia."

"Real fine, Sergeant Major. I appreciate it much."

"You call me when you get in."

"I will."

Bob hung up, hesitated, thought about the booze he did not drink and then dialed the Boise General Hospital and eventually was connected to his wife's room.

"Hi," he said. "It's me. How are you? Did I wake you?"

"No, no. I'm fine. Sally took Nikki to school. There's n.o.body around. How are you?"

"Oh, fine. I wish you'd reconsider."

"I can't."

He was silent for a while.

"All right," he finally said, "just think about it."

"All right."

"Now I have something else to ask."

"What?"

"I need your help. This last little thing. Just a question or two. Something you would know that I don't."

"What?"

"It's about Donny."

"Oh, G.o.d, Bob."

"I think this may have something to do with Donny. I'm not sure, it's just a possibility. I have to check it out."

"Please. You know how I hate to go back there. I'm over that now. It took a long time."

"It's a nothing question. A Marine question, that's all."

"Bob."

"Please."

She sighed and said nothing.

"Why was he sent to Vietnam? He had less than thirteen months to serve. But he had just lost his rating. He was a full corporal and he showed up in 'Nam just a lance corporal. So he had to be sent there for punitive reasons. They did that in those days."

"It was was punitive." punitive."

"I thought it was. But that doesn't sound like Donny."

"I only caught bits and pieces of it. I was only there at the end. It was some crisis. They wanted him to spy on some other Marines who they thought were slipping information to the peace marchers. There was this big screwup at a demonstration, a girl got killed, it was a mess. He was ordered to spy on these other boys and he got to know them, but in the end, he wouldn't. He refused. They told him they'd s.h.i.+p him to Vietnam, and he said, Go ahead, s.h.i.+p me to Vietnam. So they did. Then he met you, became a hero and got killed on his last day. You didn't know that?"

"I knew there was something. I just didn't know what."

"Is that a help?"

"Yes, it is. Do you know who sent him?"

"No. Or if I did, I forgot. It was so long ago."

"Okay. I'm going back to DC."

"What? Bob-"

"I'll only be gone a few days. I'm flying out there. I've got to find out what happened to Donny. You listen to Sally; you be careful. I'll call you in a few days."

"Oh, Bob-"

"I've got some money, some cash. Don't worry."

"Don't get in trouble."

"I'm not getting in any trouble. I promise. I'll call you soon."

There it was: WES PAC.

He remembered the first time he had seen it, that magic, frightening phrase, when the orders came through for that first tour in 1965: WES PAC. Western Pacific, which was Marine for Vietnam. He remembered sitting outside the company office at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, and thinking, Oh, brother, I am in the s.h.i.+t.

"That's it," said the sergeant major's aide.