“Run!” I shouted, giving Wilson a push. “Go! Go! Go!”
The flies soared into the air as we sped past the dead man and raced toward the farthest kiln. My mind flashed to the thought that we should try to bring the man with us. So we’d know who he was. So there would be something left to bury.
The explosion came with a sharp staccato crack and the world broke open.
CHAPTER 4
Ghosts are the persistence of guilt. The persistence of memory.
They are the dark, drowning persistence of grief.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
Something struck my face.
In the seat next to me, Gonzo shot me a grin.
“Put on some music, Lady Hawk!” he whooped. We were all using call signs by then. “Scare the shit out of them crazy raghead motherfuckers.”
“You’re the crazy motherfucker,” Robo muttered from the back seat.
Gonzo winked at me. “Gotta be crazy to stay sane.”
I steered the seven-ton with the refrigeration unit, following the line of Humvees along the wide, flat road. Behind us came the explosives ordnance disposal team in their specially equipped vehicle. The military police brought up the rear in an armored security vehicle. Through the windshield, beyond rows of cinder-block houses, a smudge of smoke was just visible on the horizon.
Another IED. Another group of dead troops. Another broken day.
“Steady,” said the Sir over the radio. “We’re okay.”
At precisely that instant, we blew up.
The truck hurtled into the air, pitched, then smashed like an anvil into the desert. The sky disappeared behind a wall of dust. The truck went sideways and my arms flailed for a hold, my knees slamming into the gear shift, my head striking the window, the seatbelt biting deep.
Then a long, slow silence.
Dust sprinkling into the cab like snow. Robo talking soundlessly in the back seat.
I sucked for air and found none. My lungs were clotted with debris; I was drowning in earth.
Another boom, and something wet spattered my face and chest.
Gonzo.
The first sound I heard through the ringing in my ears was a deep, ragged coughing.
I lay on my back, a sharp pain in my leg and another in my shoulder. Grit cracked between my teeth. I turned my head and spat then coughed again. My eyes burned with dust and I kept them closed. Something nudged my ribs; I swatted weakly with my hands.
I rolled into a fetal position, then, with a nauseating surge of dizziness, made my way to my hands and knees. My entire body screamed in protest. My face burned. I coughed again, drooling dust onto the ground. The world spun.
“Gonzo,” I whispered.
Not Habbaniyah, I told myself. Denver.
I rocked back on my heels.
Edison Cement Works. Kiln. Bodies.
Bomb.
My eyes shot open. “Clyde!”
A bark and another push against my ribs. Blinded by dust, I scrabbled for my partner. I felt his tongue warm and rough on my face and hugged him tightly before gently pushing him away. I pulled my shirttail free and wiped my eyes clear—blood made a Rorschach blot on the white fabric.
Clyde’s nose touched mine.
Frantically, I ran my hands over his head and back, down his rib cage and then along each leg. My hands came away thick with dust but otherwise clean.
“You’re okay, Clyde. Brav! Good boy.” My voice sounded like it came from half a mile away. I gathered spit and yelled, “Wilson!”
“I’m . . . okay!” His voice was faint. Maybe he was a faster runner than I was.
“I’m over here!” I called.
Done with Clyde, I checked myself. As I’d been taught in the Marines, I patted my legs, then squeezed my groin, armpits and neck, looking for arterial bleeding. When I lifted my fingers to my face, they came back bloody. Gently, I ran my fingers over my face and skull—the wounds seemed superficial. I rotated every joint. My knee felt like someone had taken it out with a sledgehammer. My leg and shoulder still hurt. But nothing was broken.
“We’re all right,” I whispered to Clyde.
I felt around on the ground until I found my earpiece and shoved it into my pocket next to my phone. Nearby was my hat. My sunglasses—an expensive pair of Ray-Ban aviators from Cohen—were shattered. He should know better than to give good gear to a railroad cop. I leaned on Clyde and staggered to my feet, stumbling away from the kiln and into the open.
The structure Clyde had kept me from entering was vaporized. In its place was a deep, gaping hole rimmed with debris. The explosion had sent the bricks flying out in all directions and raised a cloud of dust I couldn’t see the end of. The chair, the bodies, the message in red paint, all were gone. As was the body of the dead man. When I saw a foot and ankle, severed from the rest of the body, I closed my eyes, picturing the red flags we’d used in Iraq to mark remains.
Just like Samantha Davenport.
Breathe. Stay here.
Please stay here.
When the ground stayed steady under my feet, I opened my eyes again, well aware that only distance and the intervening structures had saved Clyde and me from being blown apart.
“Wilson?” I ran my tongue along my dust-furred teeth and tried again. “Wilson!”
“Can’t . . . get up.”
I turned in a circle. Through the haze, I could just make out a form lying on the ground a dozen yards away. Clyde and I stumbled across the ruined landscape and found the detective sprawled on his back. His eyes were closed, his face awash with blood.
“Wilson! Dammit, you said you were okay.”
He groaned.
I dropped next to him and studied the gash running across his forehead. Wide and shallow. A bleeder. I did a quick check of the rest of him. He’d suffered a lot of superficial cuts on his arms and he had a painful-looking wound on his thigh. His left arm lay awkwardly across his stomach, the wrist turned at a bad angle and clearly broken. When I looked more closely, I saw a growing stain of blood beneath his hand. Gently I moved the arm aside, ignoring his groan, and lifted his suit jacket. Blinked. Put it back. I reached for my radio.
“First responders are inbound,” dispatch told me.
I touched Wilson’s shoulder. “Can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes, squeezed them shut. “The hell?” he croaked.
I forced a smile. “You look like shit.”
His smile was more a grimace, his teeth red. When he tried to open his eyes again, I told him to wait. I wiped his eyes as I had mine, using my shirt to clear away the worst of the dirt and blood.
“Florence Nightingale,” he said when I’d finished. “Clyde okay?”
“Yes. He’s good.”
Wilson coughed. “You look like a fucking dust mop.”
“An improvement, then.”
His eyes found mine. “Lucy?”
“She wasn’t in there. Clyde would have known.”
“What did you see? Before the bomb?”
“Bodies,” I said, picturing the destroyed face that had stared at me through the heavy plastic. “Two of them.”
Approaching sirens wailed. A long string of vehicles sped along the road toward the gate, their lights dulled by the miasma of dust and smoke.
“Cavalry’s coming,” I said. As if they could fix what had happened here.