Philipp Meyer - American Rust

As for the man in Da Nang, there had been no point. Another rocket barrage and not quite sunup and Harris was eating Dexedrine, bored and high. He was a year out of high school, it was insane they'd even brought him over there. He was posted in one of the outer bunkers near the helipad. The man was carrying a package, possibly a satchel charge — Harris never found out, he watched him walk a small dyke that edged the perimeter, no one was supposed to be out there, the flat-baked clay no- man's- land on Harris's side and the fertile green rice paddy beyond. He waited to see if the man would go another direction but he didn't and at two hundred meters Harris had led his target slightly and pressed the trigger of the M60, held it down for a long second. Every fifth round was a tracer and Harris watched them meet the body and then continue across the brilliant green paddy. The sapper didn't fall, he stood still for a long time as if not willing to accept what was happening and Harris, confused, offended for some reason, he pulled the trigger and held it long after the man went down, he played the tracers above the area where the man had fallen, arcing them back and forth as if trying to erase the evidence. He used up a belt of ammunition and the floor of the bunker was covered with sooty brass cases.

Later they found the man next to the dyke, human only by the shredded remnants of clothing. It could have been the result of a farming accident. The package was gone. No one else thought about it twice — a dead Vietnamese was a dead VC — but Harris had the feeling that he was owed punishment, killing someone, it seemed he should not get off so easily. He was debriefed, explained what he'd done to a bored lieutenant who made a notation in the file. One confirmed kill. Five months later, May 1971, they handed over their post to the South Vietnamese and Harris was on his way home. All the dead men of the world — they had once been alive. That was what people forgot.

He pulled into the station and thought about Grace again. She had been sleeping when he left the house and he'd kissed her and she hadn't woken up and he knew then, knew because she was sleeping deeply, he knew that she didn't really understand what she wanted him to do.

It would not be hard, it would not take long to find Murray, Carzano wanted to keep his witness around so he was giving him a hundred dollars a week in state funds, calling it witness protection though there was no protection. It was just money that Murray Clark needed and he would stick around the area to keep collecting it unless someone, Harris, made it clear it wasn't safe for him. But he would have to really make an impression.

Murray Clark wasn't a bad type. It might not be hard to get him to run off. Or it might be. You're trading yourself for Billy Poe, thought Harris. I know that.

He parked his truck, nearly forgot to turn it off, he went inside the station then downstairs to the evidence room, he felt like he was running on autopilot, there were all the old boxes of crap stacked up from their move from the old station, there were boxes that dated back to the 1950s and no one would ever go through it, at the time he'd thought about destroying it all but now he knew why he hadn't. It took him several minutes of rummaging but he found a five- shot revolver someone had turned in years ago, the date on the tag was 1974. He looked at it. He thought about Grace. Then he thought: if you're just going to talk to him, why bring it…

He checked the timing and cylinder lockup and squeezed the trigger to make sure the firing pin fell all the way. Then he went back upstairs to his office. There was a box of.38 plus-P hollowpoints and he used a tissue to pick up the rounds and load them in the gun. Looking around the office he could feel his inertia starting to build, looking at the old paintings, it was only a year and a half to retirement. You aren't going to use this thing anyway. Just give him the Talk.

His jacket pocket was sagging with the weight of the small revolver but he knew he ought to bring backup. His duty Sig didn't seem right. He went back to the safe in his office and got his.45, a Gold Cup he'd bought himself when he got back from the marines, he tucked a spare magazine in his pocket and the gun in a rear waistband holster. A final thought occurred to him and he stripped down to his undershirt, put his ballistic vest on, and then got dressed again. You're scared, he thought. When was the last time you were this scared, you're dressing up for combat. Haven't worn this thing in years. Where's your light. He took the small xenon flashlight from his duty belt and put that into his pocket as well. He could tell he was not thinking clearly. He was going to forget something. Usually the mistake that killed people — soldiers, pilots, racecar drivers — was the second one. You lived through the first one and then realized it had happened and you were so distracted by it that you made another one. The second one got you. His father had been a Corsair pilot and told Harris that if you were in a dogfight and you screwed up you were supposed to peel off immediately and put some space around you, get your head clear before you got back into the fight. Which was this? He wasn't sure. Walking out he called to Ho:

“I might be taking the next day off. Call up Miller or Borkowski or whoever else you need if you don't hear from me by seven.”

“Where you going?” said Ho.

“Fishing. You just hold the fort. Better call those two now, actually. Just tell one of them to be here when you get off.”

He got into his old Silverado and drove home. While Fur was out running, Harris put a change of clothes and a pair of running shoes into a backpack, then refilled the dog's food and water, setting the entire bag of food on the floor where the dog could get to it, then a second large pot of cold water on the floor next to it. The dog came back in and immediately sensed something was wrong and Harris had to knee him firmly out of the way to get out of the house. He made his way down the rutted road, eyes focused straight ahead, he thought you better get food and coffee, might be out there all night and all day tomorrow maybe.

In Brownsville he parked at the top of the hill near the old stone houses and sat looking at his map book. He found the addresses and memorized them without making a note on the map and got breakfast and filled up both of the truck's fuel tanks in case he had to drive a long way. There were two houses Murray Clark had given as addresses, and Harris began driving toward the first one.

After staring out over the rushing traffic for a long time, he finally left the overpass and made his way toward the on- ramp for southbound Interstate 75. He took off his coat and brushed the dirt off as best as possible and retucked and smoothed his collared shirt and ran his fingers through his hair to get the burrs and tangles out. Student on a nine- day bender, that's all you are. Pure coincidence he looks like a bum. What about the knife? Put the coat on over it.

A purple semi pulling a tanker was pulling out of the gas station and Isaac put out his thumb and stood waiting and the truck stopped. Isaac jogged over and climbed up onto the truck, pulling the heavy door open.

“Where you headed?”

“Pennsylvania, I think.”

“You think?”

The truck driver was a short thin man in his late forties, clean- shaven. He winked at Isaac. “I can drop you at Interstate 70 if you pay for gas. There's probably shorter ways to get there, though.”

“I don't have any money.”

“I'm just kidding you,” said the man. “The company pays gas and I'm going that way anyway.”

The truck was big inside, dark and comfortable. Wizard of Oz, he thought, looks like a huge beast but inside it, perched way up high, this tiny man. They were high off the ground and moving fast. About eighty.