Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (41 page)

After Silme had healed Timmy and Taziar, they had all headed back to the police station. Larson had sent Silme and Timmy with his mother and sister, to an uncle’s house in New Jersey. Then, the most intense questioning in Larson’s life had begun.

Policemen from two precincts had fired challenges at Al Larson until exhaustion rode them all. Seven separate interpreters had failed to find a means to communicate with Taziar. The police had forced Larson to relay multiple, complex commands to the Climber before reluctantly accepting that Taziar’s language was, in fact, a language, and allowing Larson to do the translating.

Larson smiled weakly at the remembrance, not quite distant enough to find it humorous yet. He glanced over to the other bed. Taziar slept, curled beneath the bedspread, looking as fragile and insubstantial as a battered child. It had seemed easier for Larson to answer those questions the cops had aimed at the Shadow Climber. So, instead of translating, Larson had used the exchanges in barony tongue to explain the progress of the questioning, then he’d given the police the best and most consistent responses he could muster. Once, to lighten the mood, he had told Taziar a joke. That technique backfired when Taziar could not hold back a chuckle at what should have been a gruelingly serious query.

By the end of the precinct night shift, everyone appeared to have tired of the whole affair, eager to finish as soon as possible. The witnesses to the subway crime corroborated Larson’s story, hailing him as a hero. From then on, the cops’ manner softened. They became more willing to give Larson the benefit of the doubt on other matters as well. The murder and resisting arrest charges were dismissed. A kidnapping case dissolved when Mrs. Larson failed to press charges against her son or Taziar. And, with their own officers babbling about sorcerers and evil possessions, the precinct glossed over Larson’s earlier escape.

Now, immersed in memory, Larson drew a knee to his chest. With the shades drawn and the lights turned off, the hotel furnishings looked like ghostly black silhouettes in the darkness. He had brought Taziar here, too tired to make the longer drive to New Jersey until after a rest. Still, something nagged at the edges of Larson’s consciousness. Some small thing he had placed on hold kept sleep at bay.

Larson sighed, searching his memory. Some of the other charges had proven more difficult to dodge. His previously clean police record, a semester of college, and a history of participation in high school athletics had helped emphasize his upstanding image. To his surprise, the two officers he had attacked in Sears and Roebuck dropped the assault charges. McCloskey apparently believed Larson’s story: that he tripped over the elevator door slot and accidentally knocked the shambling redhead unconscious. Though more skeptical, Johnston grunted when Larson said he had then panicked and hit his other escort. Still, the quieter policeman did not push the issue either.

Larson stretched his legs, jabbing his hands into his jeans’ pockets. A crumpled envelope met his touch, and he pulled it free. His mother had handed it to him just before the questioning, without explanation, and he had promptly forgotten it in the confusion. He held the envelope in both hands, certain it was the object that bothered him and believing, without the need to look, that it held bad news. He folded it, delaying, letting his thoughts wander back to the ordeal in the police station.

Avoiding the miscellaneous weapons charges had required more finesse. Larson had claimed Bolverkr as a stranger who had been chasing him for some time, demanding money and threatening his life; in the process, Larson implied that Carl Larson might have gotten himself indebted to a mob-tied loan shark. And, though he knew he should try to avoid bitterness, Larson could not help feeling a modicum of satisfaction that his story might cast suspicion on the drunken driver who had killed his father. A roomful of officers confirmed Larson’s understatement that Bolverkr was dangerous and eager to murder, and that affirmation led naturally to the gunfight in the 6th Street warehouse.

Perhaps because of the confusion and swirling fog of Chaos, most of the officers who had survived Bolverkr’s and Silme’s attack remembered the Dragonrank sorcerer’s accomplice as a man. In the end, Larson claimed that Bolverkr had lured him, Timmy, and Taziar to the warehouse where the sorcerer attacked and wounded them. Larson confessed to having shot Bolverkr, aware the police would uncover bullets as well as traces of Taziar’s, Timmy’s, and Bolverkr’s blood, though they could never find the body.

Larson sighed more deeply, clenching the letter in both hands, listening to the rustle of stiff paper bending in his grip. It was not over yet. He knew the police would be sorting questions and answers for a long time, that he would still go to trial, perhaps even serve some time in jail. Still, when it was all over, he had reached the hotel room in reasonably good spirits, despite exhaustion. He had Silme, Taziar, and his family, far more than he had a right to expect.
I’m surrounded by people I love and who love me. For the first time in more than a year, my life is on the right track. Aside from Astryd and my father, I have everything. What more could I ask for?

Buoyed by the thought, Larson rose and crept to the window. Pulling one curtain a few inches aside, he let the exposed beam of sunlight fall across the paper in his hands. Without glancing at the return address, he drew the letter free. He read only one word, the first: “Greetings....”

Larson stood frozen for a full minute. His gaze locked on the word, and he was unable to continue.

Gradually, helplessness suffused Larson.
Greetings.
He wadded the letter in his fist, his mood shattered.
Greetings. And welcome to your new future, Al Larson.
He hurled the letter across the room, watched it bounce from door to lamp to television before landing at the foot of Taziar’s bed.
Greetings. Welcome back to Vietnam.
He held his breath for a moment, as if the mere act of tossing the letter away might make it disappear, along with everything for which it stood.
Back to shallow graves and body counts. Back to maggots and leeches, the constant odor of excrement and death. Back to sleepless nights and desperate days, warm blood, the screams of the injured and fear hovering always like a too familiar friend.

A million possibilities came to Larson’s mind at once, each crazier than the one before. He sorted and discarded every one.
This is no dream. If I ignore it, the government won’t just forget about it. And I’m not running.
Grief turned to frustration then flared to rage.
Finally, things were going right.
He slammed his hand against the window hard enough to rattle the pane.
And now, NOW, I’m going to die.
“Damn it.” His fist crashed against the glass again. “Damn it, damn it,
damn it
!” He shouted, emphasizing each word with another blow to the window. With the last strike, the glass exploded, raining shards to the street below with a musical sprinkle of sound.

“Allerum, calm down.” Taziar’s voice wafted from behind Larson. “What’s wrong with you?”

Larson whirled.

The little Climber watched him through widened, concerned eyes, keeping the bed safely between them.

Anger waned beneath an onrush of self-pity. Larson stared at his hand, rivulets of his own blood twining between his fingers. “I’ve been drafted.” The words sounded strange, impossible. “I’ve been fucking drafted.”

Taziar said nothing, not understanding the English word.

Larson did not bother to explain. “Last time, I only enlisted this week. I knew they’d have to draft me this time. I figured I had a year, at least. I can’t believe this is happening. Just when I thought things were working out.”

Apparently, Taziar put the pieces together. “Don’t panic, Allerum. You told me Vidarr said this would be a different future. Maybe this time things will go better.”

“Better?” Larson shouted. “Better! The only way it could be better is if I’d die in my first firefight instead of a month shy of leaving hell. We’re talking about ’Nam, Shadow. Viet-fucking-nam. The place that drove me mad, stole every shred of compassion I ever had, then took my life as an afterthought!”

Taziar crawled across the bed to Larson’s side. “Calm down. We’ll work this out.”

“No.” Larson sat on the edge of the bed, feeling weak and rubbery in the wake of his fury. His head sank to his chest. Blood seeped into the coverlet, unnoticed. “The first time, I had all my wits about me and I still died. I’ve been getting flashes of war memory in your world. What’s going to happen when I’m back, stressed by similar circumstances to the ones that caused the insanity?” Larson did not wait for Taziar to respond to a mostly rhetorical question. “I’ll get confused, maybe panic. I’ll get not just myself but every member of my platoon killed. And, if I survive, and any of them do, too, they’d be stupid not to shoot me dead.”

Taziar placed a hand on Larson’s shoulder. “You’re saying you’re a danger to the other soldiers.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Maybe if you explained that? Maybe they wouldn’t want you?”

“How could I possibly explain?”

“The way you just did to me,” Taziar suggested with simple logic.

Larson placed his chin into cupped palms. “It won’t work. They’ll have no record of me enlisting or going to Vietnam. They’ll think I’m just scared, just like everyone else.” He looked up. “Shadow, I believe in fighting for my country. I really do. But, damn it, I’ve already served my time, and no one should have to go through hell twice. I may inhabit the same body, but I’m not the same person I was. I can’t be.”

Taziar rubbed Larson’s shoulder reassuringly. “What if I went with you?”

“What?” Larson raised his head, twisting to confront Taziar directly.

Taziar withdrew, sitting cross-legged on the coverlet. “What if I went with you? I can keep you on task. I think we work pretty well together. We’ve handled Bramin and Fenrir and Bolverkr....”

“Whoa, Taz! I’m not talking about a romp in the park or protecting loved ones from crazed enemies. I’m talking about running around in a steamy, smelly jungle, killing guys you don’t know, kids in their early teens. Meanwhile, they’re sneaking around slaughtering you and your buddies.”

Taziar hesitated, an unnameable emotion sparking in his usually friendly eyes, now reddened and swollen from a previous session of crying. “You do what you have to do.”

There was a determined tinge to Taziar’s voice that shocked Larson past anger and exhaustion to rationality. “First of all, the army would never let you in. Even if we could forge the paperwork to make you a citizen, you couldn’t pass the height and weight requirements. Second, even if we joined together, they’d separate us right after Basic. And, third, it’s not like you to give up on a problem this way.” Larson remembered how he had felt when he believed he had to kill Silme, how he had wished for the means to take his own life as well. “You once told me how you became reckless right after your father was hanged as a way to avoid confronting problems, and that after his murderer’s death you learned to love action for its own sake. Well, if you’re thinking of running off and getting killed so you don’t have to mourn Astryd, you’d better think again. You’re going to stay here, live, and suffer grief like the rest of us!”

Taziar recoiled, startled. Slowly, a lopsided grin wriggled across his features. “Well, I see your point. Wouldn’t want death to go cheating me out of a good cry.” The smile became more natural. “But I’m worried about you. There’s got to be a way to get you out of this war.”

Larson shrugged, becoming calmer and more fatalistic himself. “Maybe this is the best thing. I mean, the future I remember didn’t actually happen. It’s my duty as much as anyone else’s to fight this war.” He spoke easily, hiding a stifling fear and hatred from Taziar.

“What about putting your buddies in danger?” Taziar reminded.

“Yeah. There’s still that.”

Silence followed. Blood soaked into the flowered pattern of the coverlet.

“What are you going to do?” Taziar asked at length.

“I think,” Larson said carefully, “I’m going to take your advice. For once, I’m going to tell the truth. And see where it gets me.”

Two months later, Larson sat on a rigid, wooden bench, dressing amid a swarm of inductees. A familiar day of examinations, paperwork, and questioning had passed in a dark blur of depression. The room hummed with conversations, none of which Larson heard. And, even the sound of his own name did not disrupt the mechanical donning of his jeans.

“Larson! Al!” A voice boomed again, louder, now directly behind him.

Startled, Larson jumped, diving to safety behind the bench. He peered over the edge, his heart pounding, strangers’ laughter echoing around him.

A tall, muscular man stared at him impassively, hands clenched to hips. Young men in various stages of dress chuckled merrily until a gesture from the newcomer silenced them.

Larson flushed and rose. “You scared me, sir,” he said by way of apology, clutching a hand to his chest.

Some of the inductees snickered, but the man ignored them as well as Larson’s comment. “You’re Larson, I presume.”

Larson nodded.

“Come with me.” Without further explanation, he exited the dressing room.

Hurriedly, Larson buttoned and zippered his fly, grabbing his shoes without bothering to put them on. He trotted after the burly man who was now most of the way down a long hall. Even as Larson watched, the other man turned a corner.

Larson had to trot to keep up with the man’s huge strides. He caught up halfway down the next hallway.
What’s going on? Why was I singled out?
He glanced over his shoulder to affirm that no one had followed. By the time he looked back, the larger man had whipped around another bend in the corridor.

Larson raced around the corner so quickly, he nearly banged into the stranger’s back. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Here.” The man stopped, pointing at a plain, wooden door.

Larson halted beside him.

“Well, go ahead, Larson. Go on in.”