John Gilstrap - Damage Control

Tristan scowled, not sure that he’d actually heard the words. “You mean, even if you die.”

Scorpion nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. I’m the first to admit that I’ve got a weird squint on the world, but the way I see it, the business of living is all about the living. Too many people devote their lives to not dying, even though none of us gets out of this experience alive. To me, that’s just squandering limited days on the planet.”

The words clanged Tristan’s bullshit bell. He wanted to ask how Scorpion could get so used to killing people, but he didn’t know how to phrase it so it wouldn’t sound like an accusation.

After a pause, Scorpion said, “Now, can I ask you a question?”

Tristan shrugged. “Sure.”

“Why did Bill Georgen and Bobby Cantrell back out of this trip at the last minute?”

The specificity of the question startled him. “How do you know about Bill and Bobby?”

“You don’t do what I do without a lot of research,” Scorpion said.

“I don’t know,” Tristan said. “But it happened pretty quickly. I didn’t know they weren’t coming until just before we left. Lucky bastards.”

“From what you could tell, were they looking forward to the trip?”

Something tugged at the back of Tristan’s brain. “Why are you asking this?”

“For exactly the reason you think I am,” Scorpion said.

“You think they had something to do with this?”

“Not them, necessarily. But maybe their parents.”

Tristan knew that the very thought of such a thing should offend him. So, why didn’t it?

When it became obvious that Scorpion was actually waiting for an answer, Tristan hedged, “I can’t say for certain. We weren’t exactly close.”

“What did the chaperones tell you about them not coming?”

Tristan shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just that they wouldn’t be.”

“Surely someone must have asked.”

“I guess I did, but Mrs. Charlton just said there was a change in plans. She seemed kind of pissed about it, actually. Something about having to change the numbers on a bunch of reservations. It didn’t seem all the important to me, but Mrs. Charlton is kind of a control freak. I mean, was.” Man, oh man, he was going to need some serious shrink time when all this was over.

Tristan changed the subject. “So, am I right that the plan is to steal an airplane and sneak back into the United States?”

“Um, no. Not exactly. There’s no way for us to just fly across the border. The United States doesn’t like airborne invasions. Especially these days. We have to pick up a passenger first, and then she’s going to smuggle us across the border.”

The pieces didn’t fit in his head. “Aren’t we still wanted for murder? What happens when we get back?”

Scorpion did a bobblehead thing with his neck. “That’s where it gets complicated,” he said. “This passenger we’re picking up has information that will clear your name. Actually, she’ll have information that will bring all these bastards to justice.”

“What about your name?” Tristan asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You said that this lady will clear my name. What about yours?”

“Mine, too,” he said, but there was a sparkle that spoke of an inside joke.

“How long?” Tristan asked. “You know, before we’re there? It’ll be dark soon”

“We want it to be dark,” Scorpion said. “I’d say we’re about three miles out.”

“Isn’t it easier to fly an airplane in the daytime?”

“It is,” Scorpion said. “But it’s much easier to borrow them at night. Some people get nervous when you borrow their stuff without asking.”

“That’s because the rest of the world calls it stealing,” Tristan said.

Scorpion made a puffing sound. “We’re not going to keep it. We’re just going to use it for a few hours.”

Tristan shook his head. “I’m pretty sure the law-”

“Tristan.”

Tristan blushed. “Oh. You knew that.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Tristan wanted to ask one more time if Scorpion thought everything would be all right, but he already knew what that answer would be.

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get back home?” Scorpion asked.

“Seek counseling.”

“No, that might be the second thing. What’s the first thing?”

He had no idea. “It’s like I haven’t allowed myself to think about that. Maybe for fear of jinxing it.”

“Oh, you’ve got to think about home,” Scorpion said. “That’s where all the good stuff is. That’s where the reason to fight resides. No matter how intense the here and now is, you never want to lose sight of the goal. I can’t tell you the number of times the image of home has inspired me to take a step I didn’t think I was capable of taking.”

“Where is your home?” Tristan asked.

Scorpion waved the question away. “The where isn’t important. That it’s waiting for me is all that matters.”

“Are you married?”

Scorpion stared straight ahead. “For me, the first thing will be a shower. A long, hot shower. Long enough to drain the water heater.”

Great dodge, Tristan didn’t say. “The scotch won’t be first? The Laga-whatever?”

“Lagavulin,” Scorpion said, donning a pensive expression. “Good point. I might actually bring a wee dram into the shower with me.”

Tristan cocked his head and couldn’t help but smile. This man-this Scorpion — was such a contradiction. He’d seen him be so brutal, so ruthless, yet here he was chatting like a friendly neighbor. In the wash of the casual conversation, the weapons and the bloodstains somehow mattered less.

This guy projected such confidence and so little fear that Tristan found it impossible not to be inspired by him. He wondered if this was what the real face of bravery looked like. It wasn’t about the swagger and tough talk that passed for manliness in the halls of his high school. The real thing was about understatement and the projection of calm in spite of whatever heart palpitations were hammering in your chest.

You don’t get people to follow you by telling them what to do. You do it by being forthright and friendly.

“Yeah,” Tristan said at length, “I think a shower will be first.”

Trevor Munro lived an immaculate life. Where so many others in his profession had surrendered to the temptations of women and alcohol and overeating, his was a life of discipline. It was a point of pride.

He’d written more than once in his diary that precise men lead precise lives, and precision translated to cleanliness and restraint. People could sense these traits in him. That was how he earned their trust. And once earned, that trust was never broken. Not by him. And if it was broken by others, then he made sure that they paid a heavy price for their betrayal.

This business with Felix Hernandez was particularly troubling for him because Felix was convinced that Munro had betrayed him. That of course meant that Hernandez would be after his blood, but that was far less of a concern than the affront to Munro’s reputation. The record needed to be corrected.

As he entered the mudroom through the garage door, he punched in the code to disarm the alarm, and then armed it again as soon as the door was closed. The light switch on his left illuminated a pathway into the kitchen. His was a world of white on black. The overhead lights sparkled against the polished white Sile-stone of the countertops, which blended perfectly with the white walls and the white cabinetry. Together, they provided stunning contrast against the gleaming black appliances and the black-stained walnut floors that he buffed to a high gloss every Sunday.