The Big Kahuna (Fox and O'Hare #6)(83)

She scrambled for the sheets to cover herself, but I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her down to the floor beside me. Covering her mouth with my hand, I listened to the sounds that came from the back of the house—a chair falling, keys dropping, footsteps across the backyard. “Stay right here,” I whispered, pulling up my pants. “Don’t move.”

I turned off the light, picked up one of the hiking sticks that slanted against a corner, and went to the front door. Outside, the light from the new moon was so scant that I could see only a few feet in any direction. I crept along the wall, past the swamp cooler with its birds’ nest, and rounded the corner to the backyard. The sound of the wire fence being scaled made me run blindly toward it. Only when I was about six feet away did I get a good view of the Peeping Tom trying to climb it. I swung the hiking stick and landed it with all my force on his hip. There was a cry of pain and then he fell to the ground. I swung the stick a second time, but a familiar voice stopped me. “Dude. Take it easy. It’s just me.”

“What the fuck?”

In the darkness, Fierro’s skin looked pale and his features seemed drawn as if by charcoal. He got up, rubbed the pain from his hip. “You swing that thing like a baseball bat. It hurts.”

“The fuck you doing here?”

“You missed bowling night again.”

“So you followed me?”

“I got curious where you’ve been going the last few weeks. You never want to hang out anymore.” He dusted himself off and pulled his hoodie over his head. Then he made that whistling sound he’d picked up from Fletcher, shaking his head at some realization he should’ve had long ago. “I didn’t know you liked hajji pussy so much.”

I punched him so fast his head snapped back. “Stay away from her,” I said.

He stumbled, let out a gasp, put his hand on his jaw, then steadied himself. “I’ll go wherever the fuck I want.”

I threw my fist again, but this time he was expecting me, and dodged it. He tried to land a punch, too, and we tumbled together to the ground, swinging and kicking at each other. The dirt scraped against my chest and I could feel specks of sand lodging themselves between my shoulder blades. Then my head hit something hard—a rock at the edge of the fence. There was nowhere else for me to go. I kneed him in the groin, then pushed myself up, straddled him, and began to pummel, not stopping even after I felt blood on my knuckles.

“Jeremy,” Nora called. “Jeremy. Stop.”

I pushed myself up and took a moment to catch my breath. The numbness cleared, and suddenly I felt the cut on my eyebrow and the ache in my hands. But aside from these, I felt good. Great, even. As though I’d been welcomed back to a familiar place.

“What happened?” she asked as she came closer.

She’d put on a pair of shorts and a white camisole, so thin that the outline of her breasts showed. I took a step forward, placing myself between Fierro and her.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Go back inside, baby.”

Behind me, Fierro was struggling to get up.

“What’s going on?” she said, craning her neck to look at him. “What’s he doing here?”

“Go back inside.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Inside. Please.” Her eyes traveled from Fierro to me, and back again. She seemed about to say something, then decided against it and walked back to the cabin. I watched until she had rounded the corner, then turned around. Fierro was still on the ground, his sweater halfway up his chest, his pants covered with dirt. With some effort, he stood up and dusted himself off. We looked at each other, taking the measure of what was happening, here in the dark and empty yard of an old cabin. Then he did something that stunned me: he started to cry.

“Come on, man,” I said. “Get yourself together. You need to go.”

But he was still sobbing. I’d never seen him like this. With the sleeve of his sweater, he wiped away tears and blood, streaking dirt across his eyes like camouflage. “Go where?” he said. “I got no one.”

Slowly the anger leaked out of me, and guilt took its place. Guilt at having survived when others in my platoon had died, having my health when others had lost theirs, having found someone to love when others were alone. “Give me your keys,” I said.

“Why?”

“Just give me your keys. And wait here.”

When I walked back in, I found Nora standing behind the door. She’d put on a cardigan and held one of her arms in the other, half-hugging herself. “You’re bleeding,” she said. “That’s it, I’m calling the cops.”

“I am a cop. And I’m fine, baby. It’s just a cut.” I put my shirt back on and looked around for my keys.

“Tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“Later. Lock the door behind me.”

I waited until I heard the deadbolt turn. Then I got Fierro into his old Chevy and took off with him. The windshield was covered with a layer of dust, and the smell of car exhaust drifted inside, mixing with the scent of our sweat and blood. How often had we ridden together, at night in the desert, scarred by fights we ourselves had started? And all the while thinking that it would be over once we returned home from the war.

When Fierro turned the light on in his apartment, a cockroach skittered across the white wall and disappeared behind the television. His packed ruck leaned against the wall. A tower of empty pizza boxes stood like an altar in one corner, surrounded by smashed beer cans. There was no furniture other than a futon and a coffee table. The whole apartment smelled like trash. “All right,” he said, turning to me. “We made it back. You can go now.”