W.E.B. Griffin - Retreat, Hell!

So why am I so disappointed?

McGrory took out his pocket notebook, tore off a sheet, and handed it to Pick.

"You get in a taxi and go to Mrs. Mitchell's apartment. That's the address."

"All by myself?"

"Yeah, against my better judgment, all by yourself."

"Why against your better judgment? What do you think I'm going to do?"

"I have already told you what I'm worried about," McGrory said. "In my experience, putting together two people—especially two people of different sexes—who are both suffering from an emotional trauma is a prescription for disaster."

"But you don't want to play God?"

"I hope I'm wrong."

"I think you can relax, Doc," Pick said. "The last thing I'm going to do is fuck up a nice lady like that."

"Good," McGrory said. "I was going to say, 'Have a nice time,' but you're going to a funeral, aren't you?"

[EIGHT]

Apartment 12-D, "Ocean View"

1OO5 Ocean Drive

San Diego, California

O955 2 November 195O

The Ocean View apartment building was a large, curved structure overlooking the Pacific Ocean. When Pick got out of the taxi, he saw a Marine Corps staff car and a Cadillac limousine parked in the curving driveway, and a black wreath hanging from the nameplate on the right side of the double doors. That sur­prised him.

Maybe the owner's patriotic. Or maybe just a nice guy. Or maybe he knew Mitchell.

When he had walked down the hospital corridor to the elevator, and then out through the lobby, he had felt what, for lack of a better term, he thought of as "funny in the feet." He felt that way now, but he understood what it was. He had figured it out in the taxi. He was wearing shoes for the first time since he'd put on flight boots the morning he'd flown off the Badoeng Strait for the last time.

Even after he had been promoted to Category II and permitted to take his meals in the Officers' Club, he'd worn slippers.

The doorman was a short, plump Mexican who directed him to the bank of elevators on the right of the lobby.

He walked down the corridor to 12-D, which also had a black wreath on the door, pushed the button, and heard chimes.

A young woman in a black dress and wearing a veiled hat opened the door to him and smiled a little uneasily.

"My name is Pickering. Mrs. Mitchell expects me."

"I'm Dianne Welch," the young woman said. "Al's wife."

Okay. Now I know who you are. I don't know an Al Welch, but you expect me to. That makes you a Marine officer's wife. The sorority has gathered to do good for a member of the sisterhood now a widow.

I really don't want to be here. I really don't belong here.

"Babs is in the living room with the family," Dianne Welch said. "Down the corridor and straight ahead."

I wish there was some way I could turn around and get out of here.

What did she say, "with the family"? What family? I thought Babs . . . Mrs. Mitchell . . . said both their families were in Kansas? No, Arkansas.

Shit!

At the threshold to the living room, whose windows overlooked the Pacific, Pick was intercepted by a Marine captain, a pilot. He saw Mrs. Mitchell stand­ing with two middle-aged women and a middle-aged man by the window. The room wasn't very large, and it was crowded, mostly with young Marine officers' wives and a few Marine officers.

Not many.

Of course not. Their husbands are off on what the Crotch euphemistically calls a Far East Deployment.

"Major Pickering?" the captain asked.

"Right."

"I was getting a little worried," the captain said.

"About what?"

"We're about to leave for Saint Paul's, sir, and you—"

"I'm here."

"Yes, sir. Sir, I'm Captain Kane. I'm the coordinating officer."

"Okay."

"Sir, you are to ride in the limousine with the widow, and at grave site, you are to sit next to Mrs. Mitchell."

"Who decided that?"

"Mrs. Mitchell, sir."

"Okay. Well, I suppose I had best pay my respects, hadn't I?"

"Yes, sir. She's over by the window with Captain Mitchell's parents and—"

"I see her. Thank you," Pick said.

He walked across the room toward Mrs. Mitchell, who smiled faintly when she saw him. She was dressed very much like the officer's wife at the door, in a simple black dress with a veiled black hat.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you," Mrs. Mitchell said. "I'm sorry I couldn't pick you up. . . ."

"Not a problem," Pick said.

"This is Dick's mother and father," Mrs. Mitchell said. "And my mother. This is Major Pickering, who was on the Badoeng Strait with Dick."

Hands were shaken all around.

"Babs tells me you're in the hospital," Mr. Mitchell said.

"Yes, sir."

Dick Mitchell's mother looked at him as if she didn't like him.

What's that all about?

She thinks I'm fooling around with Babs. . . Mrs. Mitchell?

Or how come I'm back alive from the Badoeng Strait and Dick isn't?

"Babs didn't say why," Mrs. Mitchell's mother said.

She obviously didn't want to say "Neuro-Psychiatric Ward."

"It's sort of an extensive physical checkup."

"Really. Were you ill?"

"Pick was shot down and spent three months evading capture," Babs said.

Pick. Not Major Pickering.

"I read about that," Mr. Mitchell said. " 'Marine Pilot Rescued After Three Months.' Was that you?"

"I don't know what you read, sir."

"That sort of thing happen often?" Mr. Mitchell asked.

"No, sir. I don't think it does."

Captain Kane walked up to them.

"If it's convenient, Mrs. Mitchell, it's that time," he said.

"Anything you say," Babs said.

Kane gestured toward the door.

"You're to ride with us in the limousine," Babs Mitchell said.

"So I understand."

"I need to talk to you for a minute," Babs Mitchell said, and added, to the others, "You go ahead. We'll catch up."

That did it. Now Mama has her proof that we're fooling around. And Bab . . . Mrs. Mitchell is so naive, she doesn't even see that.

She took his arm and led him into a corridor. The door at the end was open. It was a bedroom, the bed covered with women's coats.

"I'm sorry about this," Babs Mitchell said to him. She was standing close to him, and he could smell both her perfume and her breath, which smelled like Sen-Sen.

"Sorry about what?"

"When I called them to tell them about the funeral, to invite them, they didn't say anything about coming. They told me I was making a mistake I would remember all my life—"

"He was your husband, for Christ's sake!" Pick blurted, and then quickly added, "Sorry."

"—and that was it. And then they just showed up last night. Right after Captain Whatsisname and a representative of the Officers' Wives Association showed up to tell me how they were going to help out today."

"What are you apologizing for?" Pick asked. "I don't understand."

"I thought I would call up and tell you, but the truth is I guess I really wanted you to be here."

And what did the good Dr. McGrory have to say about that? "The woman, whether she's aware of it or not, hungers for a strong male shoulder to lean on. "

"I'm glad you did," Pick said.

Am I just being polite, chivalrous? Or what? For Christ's sake, what?

"I think we'd better go," Pick said.

Leaving unsaid, Or your mother-in-law, and maybe your mother, too, will re­ally think there's something going on between us.

The rear of the Cadillac limousine provided upholstered seating for three across the backseat, and two jump seats.

Mr. Mitchell was in the jump seat, the women on the bench, leaving space for Babs on the bench and Pick on the other jump seat.