The Fearsome Particles Part 16

Another time maybe I would've explained about my sense of humour, but I could tell he wasn't in a receptive mood. And there was a security guard eyeing us from the front of the restaurant. I nodded for Hockey Sweater Guy to look. "Probably we should do this later," I said. "Maybe I'll see you."

His eyes were like pins and he punched my shoulder one last time as he left. "Count on it, f.u.c.khead."

In the casino, by the slot machines, I felt jazzy. It was partly the light. It was like being sunk in champagne bubbles; all these scattered rays reflected off a zillion s.h.i.+ny surfaces kept fizzing into my eyes. But mostly it was the sound, shus.h.i.+ng and howling around me like I was deep in an electronic jungle, the air filled with the cries of techno toucans, battery-powered acajous, and mechanized screech monkeys. I found an ATM ATM, pulled money out of it, and sat down at a slot machine next to a fake waterfall. I almost felt happy. Then I started feeding the bills into the machine's mouth and let the numbness of losing begin.

Gradually the sound faded away, and what I thought of first was the cold. I remembered how it seemed crazy to me that a desert world could be so wintry. When Legg had woken me early that morning and I'd tumbled outside, what had struck me, besides the embarra.s.sment of keeping the military waiting, was the slap of ice in the air, the pills of frost on the canvas that covered the trucks, the clouds the men breathed.

Despite the cold, the dust still kicked up off the truck tires. It blew into the cabs through the s.p.a.ces between the window frames and gla.s.s, and up through the vents that sucked and heated the air from outside so that as I bounced on the vinyl seat, I had to pull my unders.h.i.+rt up and over my nose to breathe. The rifleman sitting in the seat beside me turned his head and hacked into the crook of his arm. "Jesus, eh? Like to know whose bent idea this was." I just grimaced and rolled my eyes, and he went back to looking out the window.

Every stop at every building and well until the end was a torture of nerves, an opportunity for delay; the kite fighters could be gone by the time we arrived. Why did I have to suggest treating five wells? Why not four, or three? Why twelve water deliveries? Why any deliveries at all? None of it mattered anyway, it was all just camouflage. There was only one stop that counted.

As we approached the final well, I glimpsed the kites through the gaps between buildings and felt a surge of relief. I wondered whether Legg, in the truck behind, had seen them too. Even if he hadn't, I figured he'd know we were getting close to the kite field from the landmarks we pa.s.sed an empty lot turned into a graveyard for rusted orange and white minivans; one solid building topped with a satellite dish painted black, red, and green for the restored Afghan flag; a bombed-out mosque, nothing standing but its gold minaret. If he was really doing his job, though, he wouldn't be thinking about the kites at all: the D&S guys had been briefed on Operation Slaked Thirst along with everybody else, but they'd had their own briefing too, about Mullah Takhar Dashti, who'd been released from ISAF ISAF custody and was already whipping up animosities against foreign forces in the country. So Legg would've been keeping his eyes on alleys and doorways; he wouldn't even have been looking at the sky. custody and was already whipping up animosities against foreign forces in the country. So Legg would've been keeping his eyes on alleys and doorways; he wouldn't even have been looking at the sky.

At the slot machine, I pulled the lever until my arm burned; after that I just pushed the b.u.t.ton. And I thought about the moment we arrived: Our three trucks pulled up to the edge of the trampled field, and as we climbed down onto the scrub gra.s.s and dirt, thirty or forty turbaned men wrapped in patou blankets watched us while the small boys at their feet, or clinging to their necks, cheered on the gudiparan gudiparan. I wanted to see the kites with burning strings, and the look on Legg's face when he saw them too, but Nila the language a.s.sistant had to show me the hotel that wasn't there.

I went to the well and faked testing the water, held my breath against the chlorine sting, and poured half a pound of calcium hypochlorite tablets from the bag. Then they called me to the edge of the field, to see the man with the scar-tissue hand, and I left the kit and the bag at the side of the well, rounded the platform of bricks, and rushed over.

It was amazing, the waxy hand, and the look on Legg's face too his awe at the tangible proof, that you could live a lifetime of "whatever."

Then the gudiparan gudiparan fighter came over. fighter came over.

"What's this f.u.c.ker want?"

"We're done. We should get going."

But we didn't leave. Because of me. We could've done what Jayne said and gotten out of there. But I had to care about something, I had this thing I had to make happen.

"I think Legg wants to try."

His face always comes back to me, the way his eyes opened up as he looked over at Jayne. This was the one thing he couldn't help but want.

"That mother's gonna scar up!"

"Gate duty. Count on it."

Except Legg wasn't satisfied; he wanted me to try. He pulled the kite against the wind, held the gla.s.s-covered string, made me reach out my hand.

"Come on, a.s.shole! Don't be a p.u.s.s.y!"

In the casino, at my slot machine by the waterfall, something momentous was taking shape, the reward for hours of work. Whooping sirens, clanging bells, and clattering coins I could hear it all around me, the inescapable clamour of winning. But if there were flas.h.i.+ng lights I didn't see them; my fragmented memory was feeding me the visuals.

I reached out for the string Legg held, with the anxious gudiparan gudiparan fighter watching. I closed my hand around it as Legg let go, and I felt the gla.s.s shards cut. And because it hurt, I flinched, and that was all it took. The wind lifted the prized kite away before the fighter, or Legg, could grab it. fighter watching. I closed my hand around it as Legg let go, and I felt the gla.s.s shards cut. And because it hurt, I flinched, and that was all it took. The wind lifted the prized kite away before the fighter, or Legg, could grab it.

Both of them scrambled after the string while I stood dumb and the spectators shook contemptuous fists. Then something made their expressions change and their faces turn, and I followed their stares.

The sirens whooped, the coins poured down. I was a winner! Big winner here!

On the far side of the well, there was a man, kneeling. I caught a glimpse of his face and I began to run across the dirt and sand. It wasn't until I rounded the well that I saw.

A little boy. Two years old, or three, his head in his father's hands. A little boy with fat cheeks who'd wandered to the well, who'd seen the tablets that looked like mints. He'd wanted just one, and he didn't care about the smell; in Balakhet, even strange candy was precious. So just one, into his small mouth. And the tissues of a kid's throat swell so fast.

But the coins didn't stop coming. And the bells wouldn't stop ringing. Because here was a jackpot winner!

I could see the father, his face broken in two, making a sound I couldn't hear. And because I couldn't stop the images, and I couldn't turn away, I saw his dark eyes open, and the recognition in his face of who and what I was. I saw him set his little boy down and rise up, to take the neck of his son's killer in his hands.

And then, from somewhere hidden, almost quicker than I could see, came Legg, not knowing why I was being strangled by the Pashtun, only that I needed help. He exploded into view and brought the man down, before anyone could stop him or explain.

One other thing I remembered seeing it was slid toward me across a table was the press release the military issued two days after the "off-camp event." I think they meant it as a comfort to me, that's the only thing I can figure. All it said was that Corporal Marc Sebastien Leggado, rifleman, had been shot in the midst of an Afghani riot, and investigations were still underway. There was no mention made of the little boy I had killed, or that I had been there at all.

At the casino, I was taken under the wing of a jolly woman with chestnut hair and a casino name badge, who would not let me leave the coins where they were.

"You're the day's big jackpot winner!" she exclaimed. "You are a very lucky man! very lucky man!"

She hoisted a walkie-talkie to her mouth and pressed the talk b.u.t.ton. "Ha.s.san? Yah, gonna need some help at number fourteen-ought-three. It's a nice one."

At the cas.h.i.+er's counter she stood at my side, sc.r.a.ping the tip of her finger with a thumbnail, as the teller counted out my winnings. "Glad to see a young person win for a change," she said, seeming genuinely pleased. "So often it's some blue-haired, nicotine-stained old biddy who wouldn't know what to do with the money if it bit her. 'Cept smoke it. Oh, there you go!"

The teller had pushed a stack of bills toward the window. "Eighteen thousand, four hundred and twenty-six dollars."

"I don't want it," I said.

The chestnut-haired woman, whose name badge said Jo-Anne, put a firm hand on my arm and looked straight into my eyes. "It's the shock," she said. "It's a wild thing, winning at the slots. Almost crazy. You think you haven't earned this money. You don't deserve it. Maybe there's some mistake." She looked at me like she was trying to go deeper with her eyes. "It's a natural reaction, hon. But I saw you you were at that machine a long time. Since before I came on s.h.i.+ft. So you darn well earned it."

"Sir?" The teller was trying to get my attention.

Jo-Anne looked down. "Oh, you have to sign the receipt."

"I don't want the money."

"No, but you have to sign the receipt." She patted the piece of paper being pushed under the gla.s.s. "That shows we fulfilled our obligations. Everything has to be clean and legal. You don't want us to get in trouble." She pointed a silver fingernail at the line. "Right here, dear."

I took the pen being slid under the gla.s.s and signed the paper.

"Now," said Jo-Anne, "since you've signed that paper, you have to take the money."

Why couldn't they hear me? "I don't want want it." it."

"Understood, hon. However, the law states that once you sign that paper, that's your money. And we have a responsibility as a respected gaming establishment to protect you and your money as long as you're on the casino premises. So we can't leave this lying around." She took the stack of bills off the counter and slapped them into my right hand. "There you go, young sir. Your hard-earned winnings." She patted me on the shoulder and winked. "Go and buy your mother something nice."

I walked in the direction I was pointed, across the casino floor, between the rows of slots, past the crowded restaurants and T-s.h.i.+rt shops, carrying the money like a rock I meant to hurl through plate gla.s.s. It was dark when I made it outside but that didn't surprise me; my legs felt heavy with blood from sitting, and my head was fuzzy from not having eaten since lunch. I stood at the entrance under a blanket of bulbs, as people came and went around me, and I tried to think of what to do.

"Car, sir?"

A black limousine had pulled up to the curb in front of me, and a uniformed driver held open the door. I shook my head and began walking to the parking lot, and as I did the driver called after me, "You might want to put that away."

I considered going to the edge of the Falls and dumping the money over the railing; there was a pleasant symmetry in the idea of water sucking away whatever prosperity I had. For a while I thought about releasing the money, bill by bill, into the evening breeze. But halfway to where I'd parked my dad's car, I knew what I was going to do.

At the quiet edge of the lot, Hockey Sweater Guy was leaning against a fence with his friends. They were nudging each other like boats tied to a pier. As I tacked a diagonal course through the parallels of cars, I sensed them becoming aware of me, and by the time I left the last pool of light, they were moving.

Their jabbering sounded like carny noise as they rolled closer, along the fence; ahead I could see the outline of Dad's GS GS 450. There was a chance I could have made it inside and locked the door before they reached me, and if that's what I'd intended I would have felt for my keys. Instead, when there was just the s.p.a.ce of an open lane between me and the car, I stopped and turned toward them. 450. There was a chance I could have made it inside and locked the door before they reached me, and if that's what I'd intended I would have felt for my keys. Instead, when there was just the s.p.a.ce of an open lane between me and the car, I stopped and turned toward them.

"Hey, f.u.c.khead," Hockey Sweater Guy called. "That's right, motherf.u.c.ker. You and me, we got unfinished business." He laughed in a jagged way that made the others join in. "I told my boys about you, man. All about you, motherf.u.c.ker. How you were f.u.c.kin' with me? 'member that? 'member that? Yeah, you do, a.s.shole. Now we're gonna teach you respect."

I felt no urge to run as they bullied toward me. When they were two car lengths away and one of them pointed to my hand, what I did was tighten my grip.

"Ooo-hoo, what's that?" Hockey Sweater Guy crouched as he came, the fingers of his hands reaching out like he was approaching a toddler with a sh.e.l.l on the beach. "What's that you got, motherf.u.c.ker? You been holding out on me?" I waited as he came in low with a grin, waited still as he rose with a fist. I heard him say one more word "Jackpot" and then he came down on me like a wave.

As I lay on the pavement, while they pummelled and stomped, I put everything I had into my hand. I made them use their heavy boots to crush the knuckles and fingers, made them use the sharp edges of their heels. Because this time, I told myself, I wasn't going to flinch. I wasn't going to let myself care.

THREE.

1.

"That's a stop sign coming up, Bish. Right there, straight ahead."

Bishop, behind the wheel, was lost somewhere deep. Already this morning, since picking up Gerald at the house, he'd missed a crucial left turn, overestimated to a fair degree the duration of two yellow lights, and failed to make his Lincoln Town Car straddle or evade any number of potholes. Even the Lincoln's bathwater ride could no longer keep Gerald from tensing up at the sight of the slightest depression in the road ahead. But right now he'd have traded for a good-sized pothole and been thankful for it.

"See the sign? Coming up in two secs."

Gerald had been put in the position of getting a lift from Bishop because Kyle had called late the night before saying he was tired and didn't think he should drive home. And Gerald, resisting the powerful urge to quiz his son on where the h.e.l.l he was and what the h.e.l.l he was doing, told him that sounded wise. Then this morning Vicki had driven off without a word before he woke up. Now, having missed the first exit off the highway, he and Bishop were being forced to double back through regions of industrial parkland Gerald had never seen before. It was all G.o.dforsaken, treeless, and drained of any breath of life, a lot like the affordably leased acreage Spent Materials called home. There was only one benefit to industrial parkland that Gerald could see as he pressed back, rigid, into his glove-leather seat, and that was the complete absence of foliage that might obscure the presence of cars travelling along perpendicular roadways one was about to cross without stopping about to cross without stopping "Son of a b.i.t.c.h." He tried to relax his fists and let his breath out slowly, but it got held up somehow and came out in a gust.

"Sorry, Gerald, what?"

"Missed the stop sign back there, Bish."

"Did I?" Bishop examined his rear-view to see if he could spot the sign to which Gerald referred. "Oh yes."

"You're having a bit of trouble concentrating."

"Am I?"

"Yes," said Gerald. They were half a minute away from another crossroads and he was already working on the problem, scanning the horizon as he imagined water buffalo watched for moving cheetah spots amid the tall gra.s.ses. "If you don't mind me saying so, Bish, you don't seem really with us these days." Between the car and the intersection ahead, the road dipped and he could see a coffee shop elevated on the right. There was no visible driveway for the coffee shop, which de facto meant the driveway was hidden in the dip and any kind of vehicle of any shape or size a tanker truck seemed the likeliest possibility could be pulling out of the driveway at any moment. "Hey," said Gerald. "Do you feel like a coffee?"

"Feel what?"

"Feel like having a coffee, and maybe a doughnut. Boy, I could sure use one." White hair or no, it was all Gerald could do not to knock Bishop out with some kind of karate chop and take hold of the wheel.

Bishop appeared confused. "You want to stop?"

"Yes," said Gerald. "Slow down and pull in there. Slow down and, slow down and pull in see where the truck truck is coming out?" He flicked a glance at Bishop hoping to see recognition in his eyes. Bishop was looking in his side mirror. "Up there, Bishop. Up ahead!" is coming out?" He flicked a glance at Bishop hoping to see recognition in his eyes. Bishop was looking in his side mirror. "Up there, Bishop. Up ahead!"

"I see it, I see it." The car began to slow down, though not as much as Gerald would have liked, and Bishop turned the heavy Lincoln into the coffee shop drive with a NASCAR NASCAR-like drift of all four wheels, clearing the tail light and b.u.mper of the exiting pickup only by dint of its scooting out into the road. He pulled the car into a s.p.a.ce dead ahead, turned off the ignition, and sat for a moment, still. Then he turned to Gerald with a look of perplexity. "Why are we here?"

Inside, the two men smoothed their ties as they slid into a booth. They gave their orders to a tall, ap.r.o.ned waitress and, after a quiet moment, as they were stirring their cups, Gerald took delivery of a cream-filled chocolate-glazed.

"Didn't know you liked doughnuts," said Bishop.

"Vicki doesn't like me eating them." The way the doughnut sat like a dark satin cus.h.i.+on almost perfectly centred on its clean white plate gave Gerald a good feeling about the coffee shop. "But I've decided it's all right once in a while."

"Good for you." Bishop lifted his cup and took a delicate sip. His thin, aging lips pulled back tight from the heat. "Have to enjoy what we can on this earth while we're here."

"Yes indeed."

"How is Victoria?"

"Oh, fine." He picked the doughnut up off the plate and liked its weight. "More to the point, how's Susan?"

"Well, I'm afraid" he sighed heavily "she may be dying."

In the briefest moment after asking about Susan, about the time it takes to step on an antique Christmas ornament your wife has treasured for years, Gerald had given himself to the doughnut he'd bitten deep, with gusto and already begun to see what a mistake that probably was. Now he had a mouth full of glorious cakey chocolate and sweet custardy filling at the precise moment when he should have been expressing his heartfelt horror. He saw that Bishop, having shared his terrible news, was now watching Gerald eat his doughnut in the face of it. And he felt unsurpa.s.sably guilty, because the doughnut was superb.

"Bishop," he managed through his mouthful, "that awful."

"I don't actually know she's dying," his boss clarified. "But given what the doctors in Denver are saying I'm starting to think the worst."

Gerald, swallowing, thought it best to set the doughnut down. "What are they saying?"

"The worst kind of nonsense." Bishop watched two men in construction vests settle on stools at the counter. "They're talking about 'amplifying the fields of opportunity.' 'Exploring discretionary scenarios.' Which all sounds like 'Expanding our pay-cheques' to me. But it's clear enough they're mystified. They're talking, if you can believe it, about sending her to Phoenix."

"Phoenix," said Gerald.

"What the devil Phoenix has to do with anything I have no idea." He grabbed his cup by the handle and then slammed it down again. "I told them on the phone, if you people in Denver can't fix the problem what makes you think it's going to be any better in Phoenix?"

"What did they say?"

"They said Phoenix has a new clinic with new equipment."

"That sounds good," said Gerald.

"So I called the d.a.m.ned doctors in Cincinnati." Bishop had sloshed coffee onto his saucer and the laminate table around it, and Gerald slid his napkin across the table and cosied it around his boss's dish as he talked. "I said to them, 'Why the h.e.l.l did you send my wife to Denver when they've got a new clinic in b.l.o.o.d.y Phoenix?'"

"I'll bet that felt good."

"h.e.l.l, no," Bishop grumbled. "I felt like the most impotent fool. And the Cincinnati doctors said the Phoenix clinic specializes in something entirely different from the problem my wife has, and they can't understand the Denver doctors' thinking." He shook his head as if all doctors and the medical system itself had gone mad.

"What problem is it exactly? If I'm not intruding."

"Hmm?"