The Lucky One(21)

He finished his beer on the way in and tossed it in the can, listening to it rattle. He grabbed the receiver from the counter.

“Yeah?”

In the background, he could hear the distorted chords of a country-western song playing on a jukebox and the dull roar of loud conversation. He wondered where the loser was calling from.

“Hey, I’m at Decker’s Pool Hall, and there’s this strange dude here that I think you should know about.”

His antenna went up. “Does he have a dog with him? Backpack? Kind of scruffy, like he’s been out in the woods for a while?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. He’s shooting pool in the back. But listen. I wanted to tell you he’s got a picture of your ex-wife.”

Caught off guard, Clayton tried to sound nonchalant. “So?” he said.

“I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Why would I give a holy crap about that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t. Holler.”

He hung up the phone, thinking the guy must have potato salad where his brains should be, and ran an appraising gaze over the kitchen. Clean as could be. Kid did a great job, as usual. He almost shouted that out from where he stood, but instead, as he caught sight of Ben, he couldn’t help but notice again how small his son was. Granted, a big chunk of that might be genetics, early or late growth spurts, and all that, but another part came from general health. It was common sense. Eat right, exercise, get plenty of rest. The basics; things everyone’s mother told their kids. And mothers were right. If you didn’t eat enough, you couldn’t grow. If you didn’t exercise enough, your muscles stagnated. And when do you think a person grew? Night. When the body regenerated. When people dreamed.

He often wondered whether Ben got enough sleep at his mom’s. Clayton knew Ben ate—he’d finished his burger and fries—and he knew the kid was active, so maybe lack of sleep was keeping him small. Kid didn’t want to end up short, did he? Of course not. And besides, Clayton wanted a bit of alone time. Wanted to fantasize about what he was going to do to Thigh-bolt the next time he saw him.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, Ben. It’s getting kind of late, don’t you think?”





6

Thibault

On his way home from the pool hall, Thibault remembered his second tour in Iraq.

It went like this: Fallujah, spring 2004. The First, Fifth, among other units, was ordered in to pacify the escalating violence since the fall of Baghdad the year before. Civilians knew what to expect and began to flee the city, choking the highways. Maybe a third of the city evacuated within a day. Air strikes were called in, then the marines. They moved block by block, house by house, room by room, in some of the most intense fighting since the opening days of the invasion. In three days, they controlled a quarter of the city, but the growing number of civilian deaths prompted a cease-fire. A decision was made to abandon the operation, and most of the forces withdrew, including Thibault’s company.

But not all of his company withdrew.

On the second day of operations, at the southern, industrial end of town, Thibault and his platoon were ordered to investigate a building rumored to hold a cache of weapons. The particular building hadn’t been pinpointed however; it could be any one of a dozen dilapidated structures clustered near an abandoned gas station, forming a rough semicircle. Thibault and his platoon moved in, toward the buildings, giving the gas station a wide berth. Half went right, half went left. All was quiet, and then it wasn’t. The gas station suddenly exploded. Flames leapt toward the sky, the explosion knocking half of the men to the ground, shattering eardrums. Thibault was dazed; his peripheral vision had gone black, and everything else was blurry. All at once, a hail of fire poured from the windows and rooftops above them and from behind the burned-out remains of automobiles in the streets.

Thibault found himself on the ground beside Victor. Two of the others in his platoon, Matt and Kevin—Mad Dog and K-Man, respectively—were with them, and the training of the corps kicked in. The brotherhood kicked in. Despite the onslaught, despite his fear, despite an almost certain death, Victor reached for his rifle and rose to one knee, zeroing in on the enemy. He fired, then fired again, his movements calm and focused, steady. Mad Dog reached for his rifle and did the same. One by one they rose; one by one fire teams were formed. Fire. Cover. Move. Except they couldn’t move. There was noplace to go. One marine toppled, then another. Then a third and a fourth.

By the time reinforcements arrived, it was almost too late. Mad Dog had been shot in the femoral artery; despite having a tourniquet, he’d bled to death within minutes. Kevin was shot in the head and died instantly. Ten others were wounded. Only a few emerged unscathed: Thibault and Victor were among them.

In the pool hall, one of the young men he’d spoken with reminded him of Mad Dog. They could have been brothers—same height and weight, same hair, same manner of speaking—and there had been an instant there where he’d wondered whether they were brothers before telling himself that it simply wasn’t possible.

He’d known the chance he was taking with his plan. In small towns, strangers are always suspect, and toward the end of the evening, he’d seen the skinny guy with bad skin make a call from the pay phone near the bathroom, eyeing Thibault nervously as he did so. He’d been jumpy before the call as well, and Thibault assumed the call had been either to the woman in the photograph or to someone close to her. Those suspicions were confirmed when Thibault had left. Predictably, the man had followed him to the door to see which way he was walking, which was why Thibault had headed in the opposite direction before doubling back.