Light the Hidden Things (28 page)

I always needed you. Never more than now. Help me, please. I want to be me again, the way you always made it happen.

Your loving,

Crow

*          *          *          *          *

The sickle-blade of a quarter moon was dodging between clouds when Crow stepped outside. Fitful light gave movement to bushes and rocks. Crow fought back memories of times and places where that movement wasn't always just imagination. Senses jangled with at the touch of remembered sounds and smells of combat. Carefully, but with the confident progress of a man used to working in the dark, he made his way to the nearest firepit. The folded white letter jutted from his pocket. Major shambled along beside him.

It took a few minutes for Crow to gather enough wood to build a fire. A capricious wind blew out his first match. As soon as the flames were strong he sat down on the log bench. Major curled up on the ground beside him. The fire grew.

There had been so many wonderful times. Struggling on a PFC's pay, Patricia waiting tables in Oceanside to save up a few dollars for when the baby came. The crummy little apartment. Good neighbors, though; mostly other young Marine couples. Everyone with the same problems, the same attitude. The same complaints; Patricia: "If I hear Ross ranting about First Sergeant Alexander once more I swear I'll go out and buy a gun."

The blink of an eye. The baby's a teenager. Now the First Sergeant's name is Crow. Pretty, oh-so-pregnant girl Patricia's grown to be a mature, beautiful woman.

How could a man lose so much and ever hope to replace it with anything except mourning?

What kind of man could tell himself that memories were only memories when his soul knew they were so much more?

If First Sergeant Crow knew anything, he knew loyalty.

Patricia to the Crow who'd just made Sergeant: "I know the Lieutenant's an idiot, honey. You and the other squad leaders have to square him away, bring him up right. Don't let him make you forget your priorities. Your squad, your platoon, your Corps. You're the best Sergeant he'll ever see. He'll learn that."

Sergeant Crow as squad leader to Corporal Nuanez, his best fire team leader: "Nuanez, it's not your job to tell me how dumb the Lieutenant is, so don't. You just make sure you do your job. You got that?"

Most of the time with Patricia meant peace, the plainest sort of comfort. The last days before payday she did marvels with a couple of small pork chops and some veggies. Or her burgers; ground beef - and her hand - and it was a feast. There was never enough money. They walked on the beach, or, like at Quantico, just around the housing area. They read books, making the other listen to good passages aloud. They argued about whether or not the passage deserved such treatment. They watched sitcoms and laughed at the jokes and laughed at each other for laughing so hard.

No matter where they lived, the minute he came in the door, she was between him and the stress.

She absorbed it.

No man should turn his back on a wife like that. Nor on her memory.

He jerked back to reality as if waking. He had no idea how long he'd drifted, his mind flitting through the remembrances the way the moon shuffled through the clouds. He was surprised to hear the first drops of rain patter in the shrouding trees.

He took the letter from his pocket and unfolded it as if to read it. The increased wind twisted it so much he had to hold it with both hands. It made little difference; the fire was already down to coals. The light was far too pale for him to make out words. A drop of rain hit the paper with a sharp pop. Then another. The ink made calligraphic lines.

"I don't know if I should send this," he said. "After us... what we had... what I was thinking when I wrote it... Maybe I shouldn't..." He re-folded the letter and lifted it to his pocket. A gust of wind, heavy enough to make the firs groan, whipped it out of his hand. Moth-like, it fluttered in the wind. He snatched at it and missed. Spread wide open now, it settled on the coals. They glowed through it like candlelight through a paper lantern. He deciphered one word: Please.

The paper blackened, curled violently.

It flamed all at once, startlingly bright. He pulled erect, only to slump forward again, mimicking the crumbling ashes.

*          *          *          *          *

Lila wandered the house, trying to create coherence in a jumbled mind that refused sleep. She was passing a window facing the lake when she thought she saw a red glow. It stopped her abruptly. Fire was acutely dangerous to an isolated place like Bake's. There were no flames, but the uncertain glimmer sent a shiver up her back. Staring hard, she made out the figure sitting on the firepit bench.

The eruption of light at his feet startled her into a muffled cry of surprise. She saw Crow flinch backward, then seem to sag. Falling rain rushed to obscure her view. She was glad of it. Once, on tv, she'd seen a man straighten and drop back the way Crow did. He was a sniper's target; the aim of rifle and camera coincided in horrible symmetry.

For the second time in as many days a prayer pushed everything else from her thoughts.

*          *          *          *          *

Exhaustion such as he hadn't known for a long time racked Crow. He crawled into bed, dreading the sleep he knew he had to have. Weariness always weakened the walls. The red dreams were always waiting to break through.

Crow woke beside a lancing shaft of sunlight coming through a window. Major, on the floor, curled in the center of it. Crow was idly wondering if the dog would move when the beam did when he was jolted to full wakefulness by the realization that he'd had no dreams. He rose carefully, not trusting this strange well-being.

Back when the whiskey was drowning him waking was a mad blend of hangover and wrestling with lingering horror. It took a near-fatal accident to make him understand alcohol was surrender. Lost, battered, barely able to move, he spent four days stone sober in high desert country. He waved to the rescuing helicopter with a glittering slab of the whiskey bottle that broke in his backpack when he fell off the trail. Sometimes he wondered if the smashed bottle didn't have more to do with his being alive than the men who came for him.

Pulling on jeans and shirt, he thought back on that incident. Prior to falling down that mountainside, he was well on his way to throwing away his life. He was glad his recollection of those times was all blurred images. There were souvenirs; a couple of small scars. Other wounds, more noticeable, were products of a hard profession. The difference was that the ones from the drinking days embarrassed him.

When he finished lacing his boots he patted Major. "You're the only good thing to come out of those times." Thoughtful now, he sketched invisible pictures in the pooled sunlight on the table. "No one'll ever convince me Patricia wasn't there on that mountain. Didn't she hate alcoholism? Wasn't I thinking about her when I went over the side? Didn't I tell myself not even a fool spent an afternoon drinking and then hiked a mountainside trail? I know you won't believe me, but I heard her scolding. Not mean. Worried, like always. She always made sure I controlled that stuff instead of the other way 'round before... before what happened. I believe she kept me from dying in the fall. Then broke the bottle so I'd dry out and have a chance to get squared away." His self-mocking chuckle was deep.

He went to the sink to wash up, still musing. "You tripping Lila last night - that's a whole different thing. That was just a clumsy mutt stunt." He turned a face full of shaving lather down at Major. "I don't know why I put up with you."

Major's panting grin could easily have been a sly hint that he knew they were both pretty pleased with the way that turned out.

As soon as the trailer was policed up, Crow took Major outside. Injured side or no, the dog pranced as soon as he was on the ground and they were on their way. Crow was surprised to see Lila jogging onto the road. She wore a sleek blue and white running suit. A darker blue headband held her hair tight, save for a rhythmically swaying ponytail. Something bright embedded in the blue band winked like morning dew.

He started to call and checked it. He didn't feel up to roadwork yet. As quickly as he'd decided against interfering, he overruled himself. He whistled. Lila stopped. When she saw them she ran back.

She smiled to herself as she closed the gap. She liked the way he walked, easy and confident. When he had an objective, though, his whole posture was purposeful. She played with the whimsical notion that, if she looked hard enough she'd see the invisible marching band playing behind him. He called a greeting and she waved, impressed by how his voice carried. She was willing to bet that when he shouted orders they sounded more like Major's bark than anything else.

That was exactly the kind of pointless speculation that could lead to trouble. A man's walk or the way he shouted weren't rational items for conjecture. It was downright girly-silly to get wrapped up thinking about such common things.

But he
was
different.

There was so much she didn't know about him. Once she realized how much she wished she did, it set off a cascade of reactions. For one thing, she should have admitted at the outset that she secretly thrilled at him living so close. So she'd never admit it to anyone else; at least she could have been honest with herself. Now that closeness was a done deal and she had to confront her interest.

Which took her back to being in his arms.

Another thing to not think about.

Oh, stop it. Yes it is.

She waved as they closed the last yards between them. The gesture felt as self-conscious as a fourth grade Christmas pageant. Her "Good morning" was a bleat. She wished someone would rescue her from herself.

He said, "I should have known you'd be into working out; you're in good shape." He blinked. "That didn't come out right. I meant to say you look healthy."

He was nervous, too. She felt better. She said, "There's not a girl on the planet who wouldn't rather be told she's attractive instead of healthy. Trust me."

He said, "I wouldn't say girl. I'd say woman." This time he rolled his eyes and spoke toward the mountains as if seeking their sympathy. "How does a guy manage to get both feet in his mouth and not fall over?"

"I wouldn't say guy. I'd say boy." She laughed.

So did he. "You'd be right, too; why else would I feel like kicking pebbles and saying 'Aw, shucks?' Commenting on women's appearance isn't a frequent event for me."

"You do fine. You're pleasant and thoughtful. There's no better compliment than that."

"'Thoughtful' is when you let some poor jerk off the hook. Thanks. But look; I don't want to interfere with your run."

"I've heard walking's just about as good for you. Are you ready for that?" She looked pointedly at his and Major's bandages.

"Absolutely. It'll give me a chance to prove I can talk without getting everything wrong. If we're just walking, do you want to bring Zasu?"

She said, "I worry about her. She keeps taking off on her own. Hidden inside that fluffy pampered pooch is a fiery beast, even if she doesn't have any idea what to do when things go bad. Remember how she acted with Major?"

"You set the pace. Just don't speed off like that Pastor. He nearly used me up. I think old Major enjoyed watching that."

Lila set off toward the lake. "I've heard others say things like that. Andy's really in that kind of condition?"

Crow told Major to heel and fell into step beside her. "He's the best argument for divine favor I ever saw. If he can't out-preach the devil he can sure as the world outrun him."

"He's been good for this community." She glanced at Crow from the corner of her eye. "Did he say anything about how long he's been here?"

"Only that he came young. Says he's seventy-two now."

"You two have a lot in common."

Crow stopped dead. "He's got thirty years on me. And a whole lot different outlook."

Without slowing, Lila waited until he caught up, then, "What I mean is, no one knows much about him. Never married. Grew up in California's as much as he'll say."

Something twisted in Crow's gut. He didn't want to believe the drift in her conversation was a broad hint that he should speak of his own past. He forced her back to the original subject. "How could he afford to build a church?"

"He built most of it himself. People contributed - money, labor, material - real grass roots stuff. It was the sixties. People were into community."

"I don't recall reading much about religious fervor in those days."

She laughed. "I was told he spoke to the hippies of what he called real religion, a basic message of peace and forgiveness. They loved him. Some long-time locals had an 'us and them' attitude. He got in the middle and preached tolerance and accommodation."

Crow frowned, erased it quickly. She should give him a little credit. A woman like her should be smart enough to understand the contradiction between preaching and peace. Preaching told a man God forgave him. Maybe so, but God never explained forgiving one's self.