Death by Facebook (7 page)

After
a moment, and without wiping her face, she stripped off all of her
clothes and stared again at herself, her body. Hands shaking
slightly she moved them up and under her small breasts, gently
lifting them. She pulled at her nipples for a second and then
released them quickly. Reaching to her sides, she moved her hands,
gently now, down her ribs and to her hips. She was crying again, but
lightly. I could almost hear the tears hitting the counter top.

She
felt around her belly for a long time, then moved back around to her
butt. She always had a fantastic butt, spectacular, actually, not
that I cared much anymore, but I did remember caring at one time.

It
was strange watching her. I got the distinct impression she was sad
about herself, although I can't imagine why. She had an athletic,
muscular build that I had to defend on more than one occasion in a
bar. When she was happy and smiling and friendly, she was a knockout.

Finally,
she reached up to wipe away her tears. Her hands found her long red
curls this time and both of them lifted the mass up and over her
head. She turned her left hip inward, posing like a model and trying
to smile. It looked forced.

She
turned the other hip in toward the mirror, preening for the mirror,
for herself. Then she laughed a little and let her hair fall.
Lifting one leg up onto the counter she leaned in close to the
mirror. I watched her expression change as she moved one hand down
low. Her eyes closed gently as she took a deep breath. For a few
minutes she tried and tried, but her concentration, her mechanics
were off, and she quit.

That's
when I saw the anger in her eyes. She stood there, hands on her
hips, frustrated and angry about it. Furious. She slapped herself,
right across the face, twice. Then she slapped her breasts, hard
enough to leave a mark. She was crying again now. Angry tears,
pissed off tears.

She
picked up the last beer and chugged it, smashed the can with her
hands, and tried to throw it out the bathroom window. It missed the
small opening and bounced right back into the toilet.

Cursing,
she turned back to herself, in the mirror and began punching her
stomach, like a samurai might sink his sword. Of course, she
couldn't get enough leverage to hurt herself much, but she was going
to try.

I
was afraid she might actually hurt herself in a minute, if the
thought of a weapon crossed her mind. Immediately upon thinking that
she stormed out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. She was
throwing things around, bouncing shoes off the walls and knocking
over a lamp with her jacket.

Still
cursing loudly, like I might, but certainly not like any woman I had
ever met she apparently found what it was she needed. Slamming the
bedroom door open so hard it bounced closed again behind her she held
long fabric sheers in her hand as she marched back into the bathroom.

This
I couldn't watch, wouldn't watch.

11

The
cold gray sand was locked in an immortal battle against the green
terrorists. Her bare feet ran quickly over the firmness, just above
where the last wave had receded. She saw it easily, knowing the
heart of war personally, and recognizing one you could never really
win. A battle yes, as the gray sand battled the sea and its jade
green pebbles, but never the war.

38
years old, tough, single, and moving powerfully along that indefinite
line between the Pacific and Oceanside, California, she never paused.
Never slowed down for a breather, lest she drop her pulse too low.
Never skip a run, even in the obnoxious winter dampness and cold.
Sergeant Joyce Johannson liked it that way. No time to dwell on the
impossibility of it all.

Impossibility
seemed to permeate everything, at least this morning. All this
running wouldn't prevent anything in the long run. Her skin would
slacken, her hair would gray and her muscles weaken. She stopped at
the pier and counted to 60 before turning to head back the direction
she had already come. And, she felt, nothing would ever stop the
war. The war in mankind's soul. They could win every battle, every
skirmish, every challenge, and still, there would be more. Just from
some other direction over some other reason, imagined or real.

It
didn't matter at this point anyhow. She was going to continue to run
in 40 degree fog and she was going back to Afghanistan. And she was
going to gather her soldiers like a mother hen and get them all
together at Ft. Bragg in two more days.

There
was only one man left to confirm and he had just posted on Facebook
that he was dead. She had heard of excuses before, but this one got
the award for originality, if not for stupidity as well.

How
can you post something when you're dead? That hit her first, but
then immediately after she thought it was something people don't
normally joke about. So, if it was legit how would you do it? Set a
timer or something and then go jump off a bridge?

Regardless,
she needed Private First Class James Madison Turner on a plane pronto
if he was still in Hawaii. It would take him nearly 20 hours to get
from airport to airport. She would try and call the front desk at
Kilauea Recreational Area to get a message to him directly.

Up
ahead a larger wave was moving in, threatening to swamp her straight
line back across the beach. She sprinted as fast as she could to
beat the enemy. Her heart, her legs and her lungs all stepped up to
make it happen. Only a small splash hit on her back as she won, then
slowing down to a simple run, she lost her frown.

~~~

My
fascination, well, my fear, actually could finally hold me back not a
moment longer. I had been outside Cabin #94 for an hour. Nothing
had changed. No lights, on or off. No loud noises, no screams. I
sensed the static, the white static of Janet's mind begin to soften
and fade. Was she slowly bleeding to death on the bathroom floor?

Instantly
I moved inside to the fireplace mantel again, and looked around.
Nothing. Nothing indicating trouble. I gazed down the hall and then
I saw it, on the floor, spread across the entrance to the bathroom.
Red, lots of red.

Hair
was spread out across the white tile floor, almost flowing on its
own. I moved closer and into the doorway.

She
was leaning up against the bathroom counter, still naked. Her lower
belly was pressed against the edge and her toes were stretched up.
Strong legs held her as she moved the scissors for a last snip or two
of what was now a military style haircut. A military man's haircut.
Half an inch at best and brighter red than I could have ever
imagined. Carrot top, blue ribbon at the fair, kind of red.

Reaching
down for a beer, she realized the can was empty. Crushing it swiftly
she dropped it to the floor, let the scissors fall to the counter and
smiled at herself.

I
had never imagined how much her long hair had added to her
femininity. Her thin hips and small chest accentuated her now boyish
good looks. No makeup parked on her skin or lips.

She
turned and marched right toward me, running right through me. That
was a strange feeling, being that there was no feeling whatsoever.
She moved toward the bedroom and threw my suitcase up on the tousled
bed.

Soon
she had one of my white t-shirts, a pair of khaki trousers, and
finally a pair of my briefs. These she put on experimentally,
pulling them up like a pair of training panties. They fit her
exceptionally well. Next came the white shirt and then she found my
189
^th
Infantry Brigade cap, which she pulled down low over her brow.

Finally
the pants and my Wal-Mart special running shoes completed her.
Walking over to the bedside stand she found my wallet, opened it and
no doubt found the two hundred dollars I had stashed for a special
dinner in Kona.

I
wasn't sure, but I think I heard her mutter beer money as she stashed
the wallet in her back pocket,
my
back pants pocket.

She
practically ran back into the bathroom and checked herself again in
the mirror. Damn, she looked a lot like me! Her cheekbones were a
little softer and her lips a little fuller, but not by very much.
With my jacket on, my wallet in her pocket and a big smile on her
face she marched over to the Lava Lounge.

~~~

Larry
Larson had parked just outside the closed gate to the back entrance
to KMC. It was only a short walk to the Lava Lounge from there and
two miles less driving. Being almost 5pm he figured some of the guys
over at the front desk might be game for some karaoke.

As
he passed the Lava Lounge, he noticed that it was far too quiet. He
needed a couple of good voices, or at least some brave voices, to
liven things up. The front desk was only a few yards further through
the mist. Larry could see the bright lights on inside.

“
I'll
make sure we get him the note, ma'am.” Alex was looking like
it was quitting time, but was tortured with the fact that he couldn't
quite quit. “Yes, ma'am, I understand it's very important.
No. No, I'm not enlisted, no, ma'am. I just work here.” He
was nodding yes and gesturing with his free hand.

Larry
walked up to the counter and leaned in. Alex looked up and pointed
at his watch, frowning.

“
Of
course, right away. Yes. I understand.” He looked at Larry
and rolled his eyes. “I'll do it myself Sergeant.” Alex
hung up, disgusted.

“
Can
you believe that?” Alex complained.

“
What?”
Larry followed.

“
This
Sergeant Janice or something like that,” he looked down at his
notes. “ Sergeant Joyce Johannson wants me to track down some
lost solider and give him a note. This guy's about to miss his
deployment.” He waved his hands in mock desperation. “Like
I got nothing better to do at quitting time.”

“
Let
me see that, buddy,” Larry said, reaching out for the notes.
Reading it quickly, he put the note down and reached over for Alex's
paper and pen. “Here, you want me to do it? Cabin #94 is half
way between here and karaoke. You're going right?”

Alex
shook his head no. “Don't know how, Larry. I got this
delivery,” pointing toward his notes. “And some boxes to
open.”

Larry
looked over at his drinking buddy with a bit of amazement. “Boxes
to open? Are you kidding?”

Alex
shrugged his shoulders.

“
Look
Alex,” Larry explained. “I'll take this Sergeant's note
over to Cabin #94 and you get yourself over to the Lava Lounge where
I'll have two Lava Lagers,” showing two fingers, “parked
in front of two stools.”

Alex
shrugged again, and this time smiled. “I'll make it fast, but
I need to get this stuff done.”

“
Great!”
Larry said, taking the notes and transposing them onto a clean piece
of paper, making a respectable telegram. He folded it and stood up
to go as Alex was heading for the storeroom.

The
clouds had settled in thick, blocking out the late afternoon sun for
the rest of the day, and possibly the stars later. Larry took the
steps two at a time and rounded the corner of the old stone building
just in time to see someone exiting Cabin #94.