The Sandbox (25 page)

77

The moon is
a hairline crack in the heavens, just a rumor in the sky behind the Noses. A steady wind blows across the base. It is cold and sharp and makes my hands feel numb and clumsy. I lie beneath a sand-covered tarp about fifty yards behind the kitchen tent. After an ungodly amount of finagling and forty perfectly rolled cigarettes, I got Foss to cover for me tonight.

I glass the open space between guard tower four and tower six with a new pair of night-vision goggles Hazel snagged for me from supply. The goggles make the stars look green and bleary. Every thirty mikes or so, Hazel and Greer lap my position in their Humvee. They’re on perimeter patrol tonight and have no idea we’re out here. Nevada’s waiting in a collapsed room at the very back of the old fort. About two hundred yards from the wall, Rankin crouches in a spiderhole. The two of us dug it while Nevada kept Ahmed occupied with a game of craps. He had to lose a few bucks to keep Ahmed there. I asked how you can make yourself lose at craps, but he wouldn’t tell me.

Every little sound sets me off. I swear I hear footsteps about fifteen yards behind me, but no one walks past. I lie very still. If I get up to have a look, I risk my camouflage. An hour passes. And then another. I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing it’s almost midnight. My left leg keeps cramping up on me, and my arms feel like they’re full of rusty nails. I’d never make it as a sniper.

Again, that same sound behind me. The scrape of rubber on sand. I’m still not sure it’s footsteps. The wind is blowing. It could be a loose piece of cardboard rolling across the ground, but I doubt it. Maybe Ahmed’s too jumpy to use the hidden door tonight. I wonder if he’s walking back and forth behind me, waiting for a signal. Come on, Ahmed. Move.

There it is again. A soft crunch. And then another. Adrenaline makes my fingers twitch. The crunch has two parts, like the rolling pressure of a heel and a toe. Whoever it is, they’re moving with purpose and determination. It’s got to be Ahmed. The sounds get closer. And closer. And then a foot lands right near my face. Sand showers my left cheek and gets in my goggles. My bad eye is still so swollen from the latrine explosion that my vision is narrowed to a slit. In this condition, I can’t even make out the person’s legs. All I see is a large green blur that steps back, moving somewhere just behind me. A few more inches to the right and this guy will trip over my head. But thankfully, the footsteps move off to the left, away from the hidden door. Rankin and I agreed not to come out of our positions until Ahmed reached a spot somewhere midway between us. I wait for the figure to move again. What happens next takes me off guard.

The hidden door opens inwards. Not all the way, but wide enough for a dark space to form in the wall at ground level. Then a second man comes jogging past me, about ten steps to my right. I know he’s someone different because he’s barefoot and the sound his feet make in the sand is more of a swish than a crunch. The first guy, the one who nearly stepped on my head, was wearing combat boots. As soon as this second man passes, I see the yellow-checked scarf wrapped around his head. It’s got to be Ahmed. But if so, who was the guy in the boots? I take a deep breath and push up and out. I tear off the tarp and sprint toward him. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Nevada. He’s cooking along about thirty yards to my left. And then Rankin leaps up out of the spiderhole, startling the hell out of Ahmed, who trips, picks himself up, and makes for the door. I still can’t see who opened it.

I’m closing in on Ahmed, but Rankin gets to him first. With a flying tackle, he takes him down. Ahmed goes sprawling and flings something toward the door. It pops open and papers flutter all over the place.

“Hey, gosh darn it. Stop!” someone just behind me shouts. The owner of the first footsteps. I recognize the voice, but I don’t want to believe it’s true. Lopez. Rankin and I saw him pass a couple of times earlier while we were digging our hidey holes, but it was nearly dark, and besides, there’s always someone digging holes on the base.

Ahmed and Rankin wrestle in the gravel. Just before I reach them, Rankin yells. Ahmed springs up like a frog and snatches a handful of the papers that fell from the package he was carrying. It has to be the lockbox. I’m not going to catch Ahmed: he has too much of a lead. I’m tempted to pull out the pistol and lay into him, but with Lopez added to the equation, I’m afraid to risk it. Then I get a better idea. A couple yards ahead of me in the sand is a rock about the size of a baseball. I slide to a stop and grab it. Lopez runs past me toward Rankin. I heft the rock once to get a feel for it.

“Ahmed,” I shout.

He hesitates a moment but doesn’t stop. I hurl that rock as hard as I can. It sails over Lopez and Rankin in a beautiful arc. Ahmed is almost to the door. But there’s Nevada right behind him, galloping and leaping like a white-tailed deer in flight. From here it’s impossible to tell who’ll get there first. Just ahead of me Lopez reaches Rankin; he tries to stop short but ends up sliding on the loose gravel. He loses his balance and tumbles.

Ahmed makes the mistake of taking one last backward glance. For a moment, our eyes connect. And then he swings around, but not before my beautiful throw catches him high on the cheekbone. It’s a glancing blow but hard enough to drop him. I let out a cheer and start to run again. Nevada looks as though he’s got our man. He’s only about ten yards behind him. But then the figure in the doorway reaches under Ahmed’s armpits and pulls him up and in. The door begins to close.

Nevada leaps, twisting sideways, like a runner sliding into home base, and hits the bottom of the door with both feet. The sudden impact makes the stones screech. Ahmed’s rescuer steps forward and kicks Nevada in the leg, hard because I can hear him grunt from here. With one hand, Nevada grabs the man’s pant leg and pulls, and with the other he fumbles for his gun. The man pivots and kicks him full in the chest. Nevada loses his balance and pitches backward, dropping his gun but keeping a grip on the man’s pants. Two booms. They sound like someone pounding on an empty metal trash can but much, much louder.

I reach the door just as it grinds shut. Nevada lies on his back in the sand. “Motherfucker!” he shouts. The sound carries.

“Hey,” I say, “you all right, man?”

“He just clipped me. It ain’t nothing,” Nevada wheezes. “It don’t even hurt much.”

Blood darkens the sand beneath his right shoulder. Behind me, Rankin shouts my name. Lopez scrambles about, snatching up the fallen papers. Rankin lies on his side in the sand.

“I’ll be all right,” Nevada says. He closes his eyes and mumbles. “Go get that asshole.”

“You sure?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

I’m breathing hard; but, even so, I run again, hoping to reach Lopez before he gets everything back in the box. I notice a piece of blue cellophane stuck to a dead shrub. I grab for it, but Lopez beats me, slipping it into the box and snapping it shut. It’s only then that I get a good look at what he’s holding. It’s definitely the lockbox. Green and battered and covered with dust.

“Gimme that,” Rankin says to him. “That ain’t your shit.”

Lopez doesn’t answer. He looks back and forth between us, a hand on the holster clipped to his waist. Rankin sits up, clutching his arm, and eyes Lopez’s gun very carefully. His own gun lies beside him on the ground in two pieces. It must have smashed on a rock during the tussle with Ahmed. I crouch down next to him to get a better look at his arm. His sleeve is slit and soaked in blood. This isn’t a tear. Something sharp cut through and into him. Nevada shouts in the dark behind us. Something about chickpeas and bitches.

“You all right?” I ask Rankin. “Nevada got winged but says he’s okay.”

He grumbles something unintelligible. All his attention is focused on Lopez, his gun, and the box.

“Hand it over, motherfucker,” Rankin says, spitting. “Just let leave of it and move your sorry ass on back, unless you want me to kick it home for you.”

Lopez holds up the lockbox. It’s barely visible in this miserly moonlight, but I can see a glint here and there in those places where scraped-off paint reveals metal.

“You saying this is yours, then?” Lopez shakes the box at us. Something shifts inside. Once again I think of loose bills. “This yours, Durrant?”

“I know it ain’t yours,” I say, careful now. He’s leading us into something.

“Darn right it’s not.” His voice quavers. “This is the lieutenant’s lockbox. It’s been missing for several days.”

“So what, we get a reward?” Rankin says.

Lopez shakes his head in an exaggerated display of disgust.

“Well,” I tell him, “at least you’ve got proof we didn’t take it. We were, in fact, in the process of recovering it.”

“Sure you were,” Lopez says.

Rankin frowns at me and then looks over at the box. I can see him wondering if I know anything about it. “What are you doing out here anyway, man?” he asks Lopez.

The blood drips from his fingers into the sand. A lot of it. This worries me. I kneel closer to inspect the wound more carefully, but all I see is blood-soaked cloth. There isn’t near enough light. Rankin grunts when I move his arm. I glance back at Nevada. He hasn’t moved.

“Ahmed told me you—” He points to me. “—were up to something this afternoon. He said you were burying something out here, so I came by to check and I saw you two digging. I checked the duty roster and there wasn’t any digging on it. Then I came back to see what would happen. Ahmed said he thought you might try—” He pauses, looking back and forth between me and Rankin. “—something. And he was right.” Lopez takes a step toward us, keeping one hand near the holster on his belt, and peers at Rankin’s arm. “So you’re in on this too, Rankin?”

Rankin clears his throat and spits.

“It’s a shame you came out here tonight,” I say. “It really is. We almost caught him but for you. And now—” I heft the .38 in my hand. I honestly don’t even remember pulling it out. I just suddenly find it in my hand. I’m careful, however, not to point it at him.

Lopez stiffens and jerks back, face rigid.

“So what’s your game? Are you going to try and make it look like an accident? If I shout, they’ll probably hear me in the guard tower. You think about that, Durrant?”

“What are you talking about, fool?” Rankin says.

“My murder.”

Rankin laughs. I don’t. I wonder what Lopez saw in my face to make him say that.

“So it’s just a laugh to you, that it?” Lopez glances from face to face. His eyes are wild. “A man’s life. A fellow soldier. You won’t get away with this, Durrant. The lieutenant knows what you’ve been doing.”

“Shit, Lopez,” Rankin says, “I might not like you, but I ain’t going to kill you ’cause of it.”

None of us notice the patrol vehicle bouncing along the perimeter road until it’s right on top of us. When its headlights sweep across this sorry scene, it stops. Doc Greer, who can smell blood from a mile off, jumps out with his ever-ready bag and runs over. Lopez takes a step back, and then another. I wonder if he really believes we were going to do him in. He strides off toward the officers’ trailers. Well, I think, there go my balls.

“What happened here?” Doc Greer asks.

The two of us exchange looks.

“Did you get in a knife fight with Lopez?” He drops his bag in the sand.

“No, man,” Rankin says in a cheerful voice, “he’d be dead if that were the case and—” He stops short and looks around. “Where’s Nevada?”

“He told me a bullet winged him. He’s lying over there.” I turn and point at the dark shape on the sand. “Hey, Nevada.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Fucking fuck,” Rankin says, pushing himself up with a grunt. I have to help him to stand.

The three of us sprint across the sand. Doc Greer gets there first and takes a knee.

“Nevada,” Rankin says, his voice ragged and hoarse and shrill. “Get your ass up. You best not be fucking with us.”

Doc Greer presses his fingers against Nevada’s neck. Even in the shadow of the wall, I can see his face looks wrong. I fall on my knees beside him and touch Nevada on the shoulder. Doc Greer turns away and starts to cough. Rankin eases down into the loose sand. “Nevada,” he says.

“Dead,” Doc Greer croaks.

Rankin punches the sand with his good arm. Each time he hits the ground, he shouts “Fuck!” He yells the word so loud, it stops being a word. Just an angry sound. I touch him on the arm and he punches me in the chest, knocking the wind out of me. I fall onto my back. I can’t make my brain work. There isn’t a thought in it. The sky is huge and black and very cold.

78

I don’t sleep
much. Maybe an hour. After a while I say “Fuck it” and get up. As soon as all the excitement died down, two thoughts remained in my head. Nevada’s dead. Because Ahmed killed him. He knows about Herman. And now that asshole’s out. I roll up every flake of tobacco I can find and stack the cigarettes one after another on the table beside Rankin’s bunk. There isn’t anything to say about what happened, so I’m giving him these. I imagine each cigarette as a prayer. One by one, as I finish them, I say to myself, “Take me, save the kid.” White and perfectly rolled and heaven-bound. Each breath of smoke will lift my message up into the sky. I take the last one onto the steps of the trailer. Venus rises over the Noses.

79

I look for
Rankin all morning. In the mess. On the parade ground. In the trailer. I left for KP duty before he woke up. When I got back after breakfast, he’d disappeared. Finally, just before I have to start the lunch shift, I find Rankin outside the motor pool, cleaning Nevada’s blood out of the Humvee. Because we have so little water to spare, he’s spraying the back seat with disinfectant foam. The blood has dried, but as he wipes at the vinyl with a moistened rag, the brown flakes turn bright red again.

“Can I talk to you about something?” I yell over to him. “I want to ask your advice about that kid in—”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Rankin says. “I know what you want, and I’ll make it simple for you—no. All I care about is making those fuckers pay. That’s it.”

“Rankin,” I say.

“Nevada’s dead.” He turns around and shakes the bloody rag in my face. “And you’re seeing ghosts, D.”

“That kid’s real, Rankin. I swear.”

Rankin rattles the aerosol can. I can see he’s worried I’m losing my shit. One of the reasons I haven’t told him about Clarissa’s letter, though I carry it in my pocket everywhere. He’ll think there’s some connection.

And there probably is. Just not the one he’ll make.

“I don’t care about doing the time,” I say, sitting down on a wooden crate just beyond the bay door. “Or whatever it is that happens after I do this. Listen to me here, man. I feel like I’ve messed up every other part of my life. If I let that fucker kill the kid, it will drive me crazy. I won’t be able to forget it as long as—”

Rankin holds up his hand and breaks in. Blood has gotten under his fingernails. He hasn’t shaved and his neck is caked with yellow grit. “If you go out there on your own, they’re liable to shoot your ass. I’m talking blindfold, cigarette, up-against-the-wall shit, D.” He throws the bloody rag into the old diesel barrel we use for burning trash.

“Five minutes. That’s all it’ll take. I’m not asking you to come with me. I don’t want to drag you into this shit too. Just lend me the keys. I’ll be out and back in thirty minutes tops.” I hand him a new rag from a pile near the crates. It’s a piece torn from the pant leg of an old BDU, a battle dress uniform. I wonder briefly whose it was.

“Yeah, and then I’ll be cleaning your blood out of this thing.”

The base is strangely quiet. Not even a breeze to move the dust. Down the long sandy strip between the tents, I don’t see anyone moving. It feels like we’re the last ones left. “Listen, last night after we took Nevada to the clinic, Guzman dragged me over to the armory and asked me to explain what the hell happened,” I say.

“Yeah,” Rankin says. He doesn’t turn around. He keeps rubbing down the seats. “He talked to me too. So what?”

“He said Lopez told him he saw Ahmed leave the base yesterday afternoon.”

“That’s bullshit. Nevada was on sentry until 1900. Played craps with the asshole.” Rankin swings his hand back and forth across the seat. The vinyl’s clean, but he keeps wiping, like the mechanical arm in a carwash.

“I told him that. And that’s when this totally depressing idea came to me. Could Lopez be doing the shit he’s accusing
me
of? I don’t want to believe it, but it sure makes sense.” I move around to the other side of the car so I can face Rankin as he works and maybe catch his eye. He doesn’t look up.

“What are you getting at?”

“You want to get the fuckers who killed Nevada. So do I. Lopez is one of them.”

“Sorry, D, I don’t buy it. Lopez might be a nosy busybody, and he might of fucked things up last night, but I don’t think he did it on purpose.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, go say it to somebody else.” Rankin picks at something on the seat with his fingernail.

“Why can’t we kill two birds with one stone?” As soon as I say it, I cringe inside. I’m talking like the captain. “I know you don’t believe there’s a kid in the factory, but Ahmed does. I’m positive he’s headed out there to kill him. He as good as told me. We can lie in wait for him and get him when he arrives.”

“I know what you’re doing, D. It ain’t going to work.” And then, suddenly, Rankin stops scrubbing, and for the first time this morning, he looks me in the eye. “This business with you going out and saving some kid has to do with Clarissa, don’t it?”

Sometimes Rankin’s ability to read my mind scares the shit out of me. I light a cigarette and close my eyes. There are times when it takes all of your energy to keep from flying apart, when you have to focus and concentrate just to avoid having your cells spin off and explode. This is one of those times.

There’s nothing to it but to show him. I dig into my cargo pocket and get out the letter and the ring. He watches without saying a word. But he must see it, whatever it is, smeared all over my face.

“Man, I don’t want this.” He tries to push it away. “This is your private shit. Your woman.”

“Just read it,” I say. “You asked.”

He does. The paper crinkles softly in his hands as he flips over the page. In my head, I read along with him. Without meaning to, without wanting to, I know each word of the letter by heart. Finally, he looks at the ring and inhales so fast it whistles. Rankin knows Clarissa. He’s met her half a dozen times. Liked her, I think. Rankin stares through the hole in the ring for some time before he folds it up in the letter and hands it back to me. On the corner of the top page, he’s left behind a smudge of Nevada’s blood. I take it without a word and stuff it back into my pocket. Neither of us says anything for a bit.

“I. . . .” He runs a hand over his newly shaved head.

Whatever he decides will affect both of us for a long time to come. I’ve pushed hard enough. Now he has to make his own choice. Rankin takes one of the cigarettes I rolled him last night from his tobacco pouch. He has yet to say a word about them. I toss him my lighter.

“Listen to me, D.” He walks around the Humvee and sits beside me on the wooden crate, a trail of smoke in his wake. “You listening?”

I nod.

“This is it. The last time. No more of this shit. We get back to base and it’s over. Then we get the one who started all this.”

“Ahmed?” I ask. “Lopez?”

Rankin doesn’t answer.