The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(42)

“Sorry,” said Josie, turning back to Peter. She lowered her voice. “Cas is our special case. The shelters are full of the people that got foreclosed on or dumped on the street when the mental hospitals got closed down. Even veterans are on waiting lists, and there are a lot of us who are homeless. Someone figured out Cas was a Marine, and he ended up with us. Harmless, but a little excitable. Just don’t talk about the financial crisis or the economy. Or politics.”

“He’s sleeping here?”

She nodded. “Don’t tell the city, ’cause we’re not legal. But yeah, we’ve got people sleeping here. Where else are they supposed to go?”

“Semper fi,” said Peter.

“Absofuckinglutely.” The woman was fierce. “If you served your country, you deserve help. It’s not easy getting back to the world. The skills we learned overseas don’t tend to apply to the civilian world. Veterans have double the rate of unemployment and homelessness as similar nonveterans. Then there’s bomb-blast brain injuries and PTSD, a lot of it undiagnosed. And the suicide rates are through the roof. The VA isn’t helping much. So we’ve got to help ourselves.”

“And my friend Jimmy, was he here to get help?”

“I hope so,” she said. “I really do. I only talked to him once or twice.” She made a face. “But clearly we didn’t help enough. Not if he killed himself.”

The white sparks clamored in his head. “I’ve got to leave soon,” he said. “You wanted to show me something?”

“Right.” She turned toward the opening in the plywood partition. “This way. We want to expand the bunkroom and add more bathrooms. Maybe you could help.”

The hallway was dim, lit only by a hanging string of construction lights in yellow plastic cages, which shed no light into the darkened openings of other rooms. Stacks of cardboard boxes only made the hall more narrow. There was a giant black metal door at the end.

The grain of the plywood whirled and looped. Peter felt dizzy, and his legs wouldn’t carry him forward. The iron band around his chest drew tighter. He couldn’t catch his breath.

“I can’t.” Sparks rose up in him like white starbursts. His head felt like it would split. “I need to go.”

She looked at him then, just long enough for him to notice the disconcerting way she seemed to see him, clearly and in entirety. Her expression held neither pity nor disappointment.

“No problem, Hoss. I’ll walk you out.”

He stepped away from her and out the front door into the open canopy of night. He leaned against the spalled brick fa?ade and let the clean, cold autumn wind blow through him. The street was busy with cars, and the trees on the parking strip were naked of leaves. But the wind filled his chest with oxygen and he could begin to breathe again.

Josie stood a few paces away, hands in her pockets, watching the traffic.

Eventually she said, “You were boots on the ground, right?”

He nodded.

“Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“Both,” he said. “Marines.”

“Ah.” A smile ghosted across her face. She was still watching rush hour crawl by. “I flew Black Hawks,” she said. “Air cav. Three tours and tons of fun until I got shot down. By some asshole with a Kalashnikov.” She shook her head. “A twenty-five-million-dollar helicopter taken out by an illiterate tribesman with a stamped-metal Russian hand-me-down piece of shit. Somehow managed to hit a hydraulic line and down I went. Broke both my legs and cracked three ribs. I crawled out of the wreck and saw those Talib assholes coming for me in a hurry. Figured they’ll lock me in a hole and rape me for a while, then make a movie while they chop off my head. I wasn’t looking forward to it.”

She turned to look at him. “But a squad of Marines was set up on the next hill, and they got to me first. They saved me. I was never so glad to see a jarhead in my life.”

Peter smiled gently, his breathing coming under control now. “Marines are always bailing out the Army.”

Josie smiled back. “Those jarheads tried to sell me that same line. I didn’t argue at the time.”

“Is that why you’re not flying now?”

She shook her head. “Too many pilots, not enough birds. Besides, can you see me as the Eye in the Sky for Channel Twelve, doing the traffic?”

He could see her doing whatever she set her mind to. “What about the cops?” he said. “Or a commercial pilot?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Flying some rich shitbird to his mansion in the Hamptons? While Cas is living on the street?”

“I see your point.”

“Besides,” she said. “I like the mission, being a part of something bigger. It’s good to be needed.”

Peter rolled his shoulders to work out the cramps and felt the stiffness of Jimmy’s photo in his shirt pocket. He was ashamed that he’d forgotten about it, even for a few minutes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been nice talking to you. But there’s really someplace I need to be right now.”

She lifted one hand in a wave as he walked toward his truck.

But of course, after he drove back to Dinah’s house and parked on the street, the house was dark.

He’d forgotten.

Dinah was at work. Charlie and Miles were at her grandmother’s.