Damaged Goods

Chapter Nineteen

After talking to Amelin, I sat in my car and reviewed my jottings. I combined what I had learned from him with what I'd learned before our meeting. None of it gave me any comfort.

The scenario Blaine had presented—one in which Kandinsky might have skimmed a portion of the partnership's profits—was metastasizing into something much worse—a phony artifacts smuggling ring. But I couldn't know for sure without poking my nose where it might get cut off.

If Kandinsky had been part of a smuggling ring and the artifacts were fakes, that could explain why he was murdered. Or he might have been killed by a jealous competitor. Maybe Kandinsky's death had nothing to do with either of those things.

The problem is, I don't believe in coincidences. I doubted that I had simply stumbled across Kandinsky's body, met with an art instructor and a criminologist, and then become the random victim of a passing vandal with time on his hands (and a sharp knife) who cut my brake line.

I went home and turned my attention to other work that was waiting for me—small-change stuff, but clients, nonetheless. While I was at the computer, I tried again to find information about Melissa Blaine—free information, that is. Once again, I came up almost empty handed. I did happen across a Web site that featured artwork credited to "Melissa B." Very nice, but not very helpful. I wondered how she managed to keep such a low online profile.

That night, I decided to read a book to relax before hitting the sack . . . but I was still haunted by the nightmares.

*****

A car is approaching the outpost. I motion for it to stop, but it keeps coming. My partner yells at the driver. We both yell and gesture, but that doesn't change a thing.

This damn place is so hot, it's like an oven. I squint against the glare of the sun and the grit of sand blowing against my face. Focus on the dark object barreling towards us out of the white heat. Why won't it stop?

Screaming the word "halt" over and over seems ridiculous. Does the driver even speak English? By now, you would think they'd have learned what the word meant, though. Surely they understand my frantic motions.

My partner raises his M16, sites the oncoming vehicle through its ACOG Riflescope. Almost simultaneously, I do the same. We're synchronized, like we're on parade. Or a perverse new Olympic event. Our drill sergeant from boot camp would be impressed.

My mouth is dry and my heart pounds. No time for thinking or feeling. I'm a Marine. This is what we do. Aim and shoot. Protect and defend. Kill.

The car is almost on us when I pull the trigger. I aim for a tire. Shots ring out. The sound echoes as a child runs toward me. The scene has changed. I'm on a street in Kandahar, in the middle of a neighborhood in ruins. Hot as hell, positioned behind a fallen wall, laboring under the weight of pounds of gear not designed for my body, but rifle at the ready.

The child reaches me—a small boy. He's crying. I give him a one-armed hug, checking to see if some joker has strapped a bomb to this kid. All good. When I return to my position, the boy's tears have turned to blood. The boom of an explosion knocks me to the ground. Knocks the wind out of me. For a moment, I'm too dizzy to move.

When I look up, the boy still stands there. He's stopped crying. But the blood is all over his face. Oozing from his pores like sweat.

I try to speak to him, but no words come. How can he still be standing, bleeding from every pore? I see it on his arms now.

I don't understand. But the boy stares at me, without blinking. Then I realize he's dead as another explosion topples him in front of me.

And, not for the first time, I realize that death is just inches away from me.

Now, I'm in the mine-resistant vehicle with Perkins. He drives. I'm beside him—M16 at the ready. An electric jolt runs up my back as the vehicle bounces down the dusty road. If you can dignify the narrow strip of ground as such. The strip of ground is packed sand, the same relentless dusty beige as its surroundings.

We're on our way home. Then, an explosion, and everything turns black.

*****

I jolt awake after the explosion. I am drenched in sweat. Gasping for air. My heart pounds to the same beat I feel in my head.

What I wouldn't give for a single night of peaceful dreams. Reluctantly, I get out of bed and force myself to face another day.