Phillip Margolin - Heartstone

If it had not been for the liquor, he would not have made it. The bottle brought dreamless sleep and peace. It made the war softer and easier to survive. He began to see the war as part of some other life led by some other person. There were two Bobby Coolidges. One drinking and drifting and biding his time and the one that that one watched: the one who went through the motions of being a soldier. In no time at all, and without formal training, he was becoming a man of conscience. He was rejecting the violence of his youth. Questioning. There was no glory in it anymore. He had learned that on telephone poles in the dark and in side streets of Vietnamese villages from the faces of dying children.

The road was the same everywhere. The headlights hypnotized him and his eyelids grew heavy. He must have dozed for a minute, because he could not remember seeing the old man dart into the road. He was just there, frozen in the headlight beams, a frightened deer, paralyzed and staring with eyes that begged for life.

Maybe Bobby could have given it to him if he had been sober, but he was too slow and the truck was over him before he could apply the brakes. There was a thud and the truck was tearing slowly through resistance for a moment. All Bobby could do was lay his head on the steering wheel of the truck that now sat sideways across the road.

The sudden stop had thrown Mosby against the dashboard. He saw his friend moaning and he saw the position of the truck. It took him a few seconds to take it in.

“What happened?”

“I think I hit a man.”

“What?” Mosby asked, still confused by sleep.

“With the truck. I think I hit an old man. I swear I didn’t see him. He was just there. I don’t know how it happened.”

Mosby stared into the darkness.

“I don’t see anyone.”

“He’s probably behind us or under the truck.”

“Oh, shit.”

They sat in the cab for a moment.

“We gotta see if he’s dead. He might just be hurt.”

Bobby was afraid, but he followed Mosby, lowering himself out of the cab onto the hard-packed dirt. Mosby took a look around. It was pitch black where the headlights did not shine. He leaned into the cab and fished a flashlight out of the glove compartment. He flicked on the beam and they walked cautiously to the rear of the truck. At first they could not see the body, because it had been knocked into a thicket by the roadside. The beam caught a leg bent at the knee. The face was frozen in a state of disbelief. There were no outward signs of death except for a trickle of blood at the side of the mouth. The old man did not move when Mosby prodded him with his foot.

“Is he dead?” Coolidge asked over Mosby’s shoulder.

“I think so. He ain’t movin’.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. Let me think for a minute.”

Mosby shone the light in all directions. The area was deserted.

“Look, this was an accident, right?”

Bobby shook his head. He was still shaky and he felt loose inside, like he might come apart at any moment.

“This guy was old anyway and he’s a gook. If we pull him into the bushes, he won’t be found for days. And if he is found, who’s gonna care? There’s no way they can connect us with this thing if we don’t tell anyone about it.”

“I don’t know. I killed him, Carl.”

“Listen, Bobby. You got to start thinkin’ straight. This ain’t some white man. This is another gook. You don’t know. He coulda been a V.C. Now, if we don’t say nothin’, there ain’t gonna be no fuss.”

Bobby had to sit down. He slid down the side of the truck and took out a cigarette with a shaking hand. Mosby reconnoitered the area looking for the best spot to dump the body. When he returned to the truck, Bobby was calmer.

“You’re right. I’m okay now.”

He stood up and approached the body with caution. Bobby licked his dry lips and bent down. His hands jumped a bit as he touched the still warm legs. Mosby had the corpse under the armpits and Bobby averted his eyes as they lifted and dragged the old man farther into the bushes. There was no blood on the truck and they sat in the darkened cab breathing heavily from the exertion. When they had recovered, Mosby drove the truck toward camp. It was finished. Nothing had happened. They agreed on that.

A few nights later, Bobby woke up screaming. He had been wandering through a village. The dead were everywhere. Their bodies were naked and their stomachs had been ripped open so that the intestines hung outside, looped in insane coils, tangling his heels as he walked among them. In the light of napalm flashes he saw the faces of the dead staring at him with the eyes of the old man.

“We’re not gonna find ’em, tonight,” Officer Stout said.

“You don’t think so?” Shindler asked rhetorically.

“They’re whores. They’ll travel to L.A. or Frisco. They’re like birds-they migrate. Be back next summer,” Stout said, laughing at his own joke.

Shindler was in no mood to joke. He had been riding the streets all night with Stout, who knew the district, looking for two hookers who were witnesses in a murder case. Now it looked as if he might not find them. He was tired and depressed.

The police radio crackled, but Shindler paid no attention until Stout swung the patrol car in a U-turn with a squeal of tires.

“What’s up?” Shindler asked, starting out of his reverie.

“Attempted suicide a few blocks from here,” Stout said, the humor gone from his speech.

Stout pulled the car into the curb in front of a four-story apartment building. A woman in a bathrobe and curlers was standing in the lobby.

“She’s in room 4B. It’s locked. You better hurry.”

But Stout and Shindler were already bounding up the steps. Shindler was puffing when they hit the fourth-floor landing, but Stout, young and in good shape, didn’t show any signs of fatigue as he raced down the hall to 4B. Stout paused in front of the wooden door for a second, then swung his foot into it near the lock. The wood splintered and Shindler saw the end of a piece of chain whip through the air.

The girl was lying nude on the bed. An empty bottle of pills lay on the nightstand. Stout shouted that she was still breathing and Shindler dialed the phone in the front room that served as kitchen and living room. By the time that Shindler finished calling for the ambulance, Stout had her up and was trying to walk her.

“She left her baby at my door.”

Shindler turned around. The woman who had met them was standing in the apartment doorway, staring past him at Stout and the naked girl.

“Pardon?” Shindler said.

The woman talked without taking her eyes off the tableau in the bedroom.

“I heard the baby crying. It was six o’clock and it sounded louder than usual. He was in his stroller in front of my door. She dressed him and strapped him in and left him. When I read the note, I called the police.”

“You did the right thing,” Shindler reassured her. He heard footsteps pounding up the stairs and walked into the bedroom to assist Stout. Two men in white carrying a stretcher rushed into the apartment. The tiny front room was getting crowded. Shindler watched the girl’s face for signs of life. She was a pretty girl. Sensual was a better word. Pretty was for Miss America. This girl had a darker beauty.

The men with the stretcher were asking him questions. Something about the girl disturbed him. He felt that he knew her.

“What’s her name?” Shindler asked the woman in the curlers.

“Esther Pegalosi,” the lady replied as the men with the stretcher began to assist Stout.

Shindler looked at the face again. Esther! But not Pegalosi.

“I want to ride with her to the hospital,” Shindler said.