The Sandbox (9 page)

22

The boy prisoner
is on the upper level in the complex of half-collapsed rooms behind the machine shop. Although not as cool, the air here smells fresher and the room is clean. Doc Dyson has been looking after the boy’s gunshot wound. Dyson appears in the doorway, startling the hell out of both me and Ahmed. There’s a smear of blood on his forehead. It makes his thin blond hair look very white. As he steps toward us, he frowns and pulls off a pair of purple surgical gloves. He gestures with his chin toward the hallway and I follow him. Ahmed steps into the room.

“Greer brought him in,” Doc Dyson says. “He did a decent job with the field dressing, but from the way he slammed the kid around, I could tell he was too pissed off to take care of him. I hope you’re not going to fuck with him.”

“No,” I say, “just ask him a few questions.”

He gives me a hard look, or at least as hard a look as he can manage. Squints his eyes. Tilts his head. Tightens his jaw. I notice he’s got a purple bump the size of a prune on his cheekbone, probably Nevada’s doing. Our Doc Dyson grew up in a little papermill town south of Savannah, but the Joes think he looks like a miniature California surfer boy. Nevada calls him Boogie Board. I’ve never asked his age, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he gets carded for R-rated movies. Doc Dyson’s our best combat medic, but I sometimes find it difficult to take him very seriously because he gives the impression of a kid dressing up in his big brother’s fatigues. Nothing irritates him more than to be reminded of this, so of course we do it all the time.

“Once they’re in our custody, they’re our responsibility. They get the same care as one of ours.” He holds up his hand as I start to speak. “I know what he did. It makes me fucking angry too. But he’s just a kid. He must know a little English because when I asked him how old he was, he flashed thirteen fingers.”

“Look,” I say, “I didn’t ask for this detail. All I’m going to do is ask him a few questions. I’m not going to waterboard the little shit.”

“I wouldn’t let Greer take care of him. And I’m not about to let you fuck with him.” He folds his arms across his chest. “He’s gutshot.”

“Yeah?” I make a face. “And Saunders is dead.”

“And the boy’s not doing very well either.” He gestures with a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re only equipped here to prep wounds for the hospital at HQ. If we don’t fly him out soon, he’s going to bleed to death. Greer said . . . never mind. This kid’s been punished enough. I’m going to stay in the room and make sure he can handle your—” He gives me a sour look. “—questions.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Dyson,” I say. “Lieutenant Blankenship told me it was only supposed to be me and the terp.”

He gives me his tough guy squint again. “Fifteen minutes. No more. And I’m going to be—”

Inside the room, someone shrieks. Doc Dyson and I rush in. Ahmed stands in one corner looking sheepish, smiling in a crooked way. The boy wails again.

“I didn’t do. The boy just make a sound.”

Doc Dyson glares at Ahmed and moves to the boy’s side. He lifts a bandage and takes the kid’s pulse. This is the first real look I’ve gotten of him. His hair is matted and dusty and his arms look painfully thin. I step over and smile at him. He has the delicate features of a girl. High cheekbones and long lashes. I’m reminded of the evening my grandfather hit a deer on the two-lane road up to Statesboro. I knelt in the grass and stroked its forehead while my grandfather got his pistol out of the glove compartment. The doe had long, black eyelashes like these and an expression in its eyes that rattled me. The kind of eyes that ask a question you have no answer for.

“That fucker did something,” Doc Dyson says, pointing at Ahmed with a bloody piece of gauze.

“This fucker did nothing,” Ahmed says with finality. He folds his arms across his chest.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I say.

“I’m holding you responsible if anything happens,” he tells me.

“Yes, yes,” I say, rubbing my eyes with my thumbs.

Outside the wind rises to a crescendo. Dust snakes in from the hallway. Then, just as quickly, it dies down again. Dyson walks to the door and stops.

“Fucking storm,” he says. “I wish I could shoot it. Herodotus says in his
Histories
that one of the Pharaohs had his army attack a sandstorm and—”

“Great, guy,” I say, leading him into the hall by his elbow, “you can tell me the whole story later, but how about right now I just get this thing done.”

I shut the door behind him.

I pop a fresh tape in the recorder and set it on the metal stand beside the boy’s bed. I state the date, time, and object of the interview. Then I nudge Ahmed with my thumb. “Ask his name,” I say.

Ahmed, looking chastened, speaks slowly enough that I can understand.

“Efraim Karsh,” the boy says, just above a whisper.

“See, a Furdu, just as I say,” Ahmed crows.

The boy begins to speak without prompting, quietly at first and then with greater strength and volume. I look at Ahmed, but he seems to be captivated by the boy’s words. I start to ask him to translate, but he holds up his hand. Never once does he look away from the boy’s face. After several minutes, the boy stops. He swallows hard and blinks. The effort has visibly exhausted him.

“So?” I say.

“The old man is big uncle. Father’s father’s brother. Family make the boy come and do this thing. He does not want to go. This, I think, a lie. He is saying, they are not waiting for you, but someone else. The boy, he is saying, he make mistake. The uncle very mad. Then you shoot and so they shoot back. Lie, lie, lie.” This last he says with vehemence, spittle flying from his lips as he speaks. “Someone tells him to be saying these things, a made-up talk for you and the sirs. This I know.”

“How?”

“His mouth. It is hard, just here.” He taps his upper lip. “When a man makes a lie, it stays like this, hard.” Ahmed shows me by tightening his lips into a ridiculous scowl.

“Ask him who the girl was.”

Ahmed asks.

“He does not know. Again, a lie. His eye, you see it. There is also a lie living there.” Ahmed points. “A lie.”

The boy begins to cry very quietly.

Ahmed clenches his fists and grimaces. “Lie,” he shouts.

The door flies open and Doc Dyson rushes in. His face is bright red. “Enough. Enough. Out! Both of you.”

“I’ll have to come back, you know,” I tell him, forcing myself to speak as softly as I can. “And I’m still going to have to bring
him
.” I point to Ahmed, who stares at Doc Dyson with a fearful expression. As small as the Doc is, he can make a big noise when he wants.

“I don’t care,” Doc Dyson says, looking as though he might cry as well. He turns away and takes a breath. “This storm is driving me fucking crazy.” He gives Ahmed a hateful look. For a moment, I think he might attack him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the boy make a strange, furtive gesture. He curls his hand into a loose fist and taps his down-turned palm with his fingers.

“Go on back to the garage, Ahmed. Thanks,” I say. “I need to talk with the Doc here.”

Ahmed leaves and Doc Dyson lets out a long, ragged breath. I close the door.

“I want to talk with this man.” The boy has a tiny voice, like a mouse at the bottom of a well.

Doc Dyson and I swing around in surprise. The boy smiles at the reaction he’s gotten.

“Did you know?” I say to Doc Dyson.

He shakes his head.

“Don’t worry, mister,” the boy tells Doc Dyson. “I need to talk alone.”

“I’m warning you,” Doc Dyson says, but he leaves.

“You speak English,” I say.

“I learn some in school. Then after the war comes again, an English doctor he give me a book.”

“It must have been a good book.”

“Yes,” he says and gives me a long, cautious look. “I do not kill your friends with purpose.”

“How do you mean?” I say, surprised.

“That man, he’s . . . I do not know the English word. Gashtu.”

“Gashtu?”

“A different . . . um . . . family. He is right. I am Furdu.”

“Like Shiite and Sunni.”

“No, we are all Sunni here. Different families. We have our own war inside the big war. Our war is older. That man, he says to me, I will kill you. Then he pushes me here.” He points to his bandage.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It is fine for me. I want to kill him too. The bomb, it is for him.”

“The one on the road? It was for Ahmed?”

“Maybe not this Ahmed, but for one of them. They are getting ready. In the hills. They will come soon. You may not trust this man. He is bad man. His family wants to kill everyone. Furdu, American, English. They hate everyone.”

“What?” I say. My voice rises.

“It is better if you put him in room under floor. He is here to learn your weak places. They make tests.” He points to the door. “The rockets that fall on your cloth houses. They are his. Tests.”

“How do you know this?”

“He does not remember my head, but I remember his head. When I see—” The boy points to his eye and winces from the movement. “—I think, yes, I know this ugly head. It is Gashtu head. He and his brothers. They attack my village.” He looks up at the ceiling and thinks for a moment. “Two days before this week.”

“Then who was the girl on the road?”

“It is my cousin. We put a Gashtu scarf on her head to trick them. Yellow scarf with white spots. You see it?”

I think about it for a moment. Maybe I saw a yellow scarf. I can’t quite remember.

He goes on. “It is the father’s idea. The mother does not like, but he say, her ghost with Allah now, but the body she can still help. We all cry then.” The boy’s eyes roll back, showing only whites, and he closes his eyes. I wonder if I should call Doc Dyson. He remains silent for so long, I assume he’s unconscious; but after a time, he coughs quietly and opens his eyes. We look at each other. When he speaks again, his voice is a dry rasp. “But, then, I am sorry.” His eyes become wet. “It is this person’s fault.” He taps his chest and winces again. “I am nervous and when I see the men in road, I push the button. I am far away and I think you are Gashtu. My uncle, he is very angry. But when they shoot, we must shoot, he says to me, or they kill us.”

“Jesus,” I say.

“That man with ugly head.” He points to the door. “He has many brothers, many cousins. They all wait for him in the hills. It is very dangerous. You should go to other place. Not here.”

“Go?” I say. “Go where? Up in the hills and find them?”

“No,” the boy says, horrified. “They are too many. Leave this place.”

“We can’t leave,” I say, taking a knee beside the bed, so our heads are on the same level.

“They come soon,” he says. He taps my wrist with his finger.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be here. You’ll be in a hospital.”

“No,” he says, looking me in the eye, “I will not.”

“You can’t think like that—”

The door swings open. Doc Dyson marches in with a hypodermic needle and a determined look. “All right, Durrant. Leave him alone. That’s enough for now.” He finds a joint in the boy’s IV line and slowly injects the fluid. “This ought to make you feel better.”

The boy nods, his forehead creased and sweaty. He takes rapid shallow breaths. They have the sharp, harsh sound of paper being slowly torn to pieces.

“Are you going to forget English now that I’m back?” Dyson says to the kid and stops fussing with the IV line to watch him. The boy smiles. His features soften and his eyes lose focus.

“No,” he says, “you are not an Ahmed.”

23

When I report
back to the lieutenant, he seems even more distracted than usual. Sergeant Oliphant is elsewhere. The room is lit only by the desk lamp. His shadow looms on the wall behind him like a dark, unhappy doppelganger. I stand at attention for quite some time before he decides to acknowledge me. On the floor beside his desk are stacks of papers and piles of dirty camos. All of the blouses are rumpled, so I can’t make out rank or name tape. I wonder if they’re his, and if so, whether it means he’s living out of his office now. Near the leg of his chair there is a framed photograph of Lieutenant Saunders and a woman. They are young and smiling. Now I understand. Someone’s gone through Saunders’s trailer. The lieutenant looks up at me and frowns. A look of confusion flits across his face, as though I’ve only now materialized in his office and, even worse, he has absolutely no idea who I am.

“The interrogations, sir,” I say. “I finished them.”

His frown relaxes, but only slightly. It’s replaced by a look of mild annoyance. “So?” He stares at me fixedly and places his hands down flat on the surface of the desk.

“I’ve brought the tapes, sir. Would you like me to debrief you?” I hold out a sack with the tapes and the recorder.

He waves this away. “Give it to Oliphant.”

We look at each other.

“Go on, then,” he says, taking a folder from a stack on the floor. “In a nutshell.”

I clear my throat and give him a concise run-through of what happened. The lieutenant shuffles papers. He turns through them too fast to do more than just identify them and move on to the next one. Maybe not even that much. During the time I’m in his office, I notice the sweat stains under his arms and around his neck spread several inches in each direction. I’m not sure he’s listening to me at all. After I finish, I offer him the tapes again. He stands and takes the satchel, puts it in a desk drawer, and locks it. All of his movements are very precise and formal, as though he’s practiced this many times. I have a strong feeling that he has no intention of looking at them again. It doesn’t make sense. We stand in silence for several minutes.

“Is there anything else, sir?” My stomach whines and gurgles.

“H’mm?”

“Is there anything else you would like me to do? Should we decide something about Ahmed? I mean, it seems like he might be—”

“Look, these groups are always infighting. I’m sure they’re just saying that to cause trouble for one another. You must sift the information, Durrant. If I’m suspicious of anyone, it’s that Goddamned Baba.” He turns a page.

“But, sir—”

He doesn’t look up. “You’re dismissed.”

I get up and go. As I’m closing the door, he says my name.

“Yes, sir?”

“What did the prisoners say about the last question?”

“Last question, sir?”

“The one about contact with American intelligence. You did ask them both that question?”

“Yes, sir,” I lie, wanting more than anything just to get the hell out of there. This whole day’s felt haunted, and now the lieutenant seems like one more ghoul. “They said nothing about it, sir. Nothing at all.”

“Did either of them mention anything about soldiers doing digs out in the desert near their village? Or soldiers hiring workers or guides?”

I get the feeling he meant to ask this question all along and is trying to make it seem like it just occurred to him, that this is the real reason he wanted me to interrogate the prisoners.

“No, sir,” I say, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Why?”

“No real reason. Just something I had an idea about. Not important.”

Right. Not important. Bullshit.