

JIGSAW SOUL

by

SCOTT MIDDLEMIST

Copyright © 2012 Scott Middlemist

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781301313112

Smashwords Edition

For Annie, Jack, Ryan,

Carolyn, Arthur and Amy
PART 1: HATE

Chapter 1

During Desert Storm, I slaughtered thousands in the wide-open sandbox of Kuwait and Iraq. As a combat air controller, I directed aerial attacks around the battlefield like a 3-D videogame. It was simple and sterile without blood on my hands or bodies to bury, because airstrikes leave little more than dust. Yet killing from a distance beyond the dying screams and charred remains convinced me that combat was a joke. But the dead weren't laughing. Before they tore my soul apart, they waited for me to fight another war, this time with carnage close enough to pick my pockets.

I thought about Desert Storm again as we flew from Romania to northern Iraq in March 2003. Operation Iraqi Freedom was about to begin, so I double-checked my gear and tested my primary weapon: the 117 Foxtrot radio. With this harmless-looking green box, I could obliterate the enemy with bullet rain and missile storms, even if he crawled into bunkers or deep mountain caves. If he hid in a crowded city, I'd knock on his door with a laser dot and send a bomb like a bead on a string through the peephole.

I packed the radio in my ruck and noticed Colonel Rip walking down the cabin of the C-130, towering over us like stretched black steel. He took a seat next to me and reviewed how we'd employ the B-1 bombers and F-14s. Our mission in Third Special Forces was to mobilize the Kurdish resistance and harass Saddam's army in the north. Rip talked about our first objective: Securing the roads at Debecka Pass to block the oil fields in Kirkuk, and then he asked if I'd ever worked with the Kurds before.

"No, sir. They any good in a fight?" I asked.

Rip's voice was a calm bass line of confidence. "They hate Saddam. You'll love 'em. Bunch of junkyard dogs." He pointed at my boot tapping on the floor. "Nervous?" he asked.

"Been a while, sir. Few butterflies, that's all."

"Means you're ready to race," Rip said.

"Hopefully in the right direction," I said.

He laughed. "Remember the Twin Towers. That'll focus you."

I nodded and recalled watching them crumble on TV, knowing it meant war.

Rip squinted at my ratty baseball hat with an 82ndAirborne patch. "What's with that funky cover, Sergeant?"

I tugged at the old blue cap and smiled. "My old man's. Once threw a no-hitter wearing it."

"You two must be tight."

"Not really. My mom gave it to me when he died."

"Sorry to hear." He leaned in. "Keep it close. Maybe it'll ward off evil spirits." Rip smiled and sipped from his waterpack, then said, "You believe in ghosts?"

"No, sir."

"What about souls?" he asked.

I laughed, but he was serious. I shrugged.

He said, "In the end, I don't think souls go to heaven or hell. I think they act as fuel for new universes." My eyes widened, and Rip laughed again. "I know, crazy shit. Guess we'll find out soon enough."

We landed in Kurdish territory, and thirty-one of us loaded into Humvees armed with Mark 19 grenade launchers and .50-caliber machine guns. We drove about fifteen clicks to a town called Irbil, where eighty Peshmurga militiamen joined us for the march to Debecka. Our first task was penetrating a ridgeline that stood between us and the road to Kirkuk's oil fields. The ridge, called the "Green Line," divided the Kurds' north from Saddam's south.

We arrived after dark at our staging area, and our reconnaissance teams confirmed a heavy Iraqi presence all along the Green Line. Colonel Rip waited until after midnight to call the B-1s. He knew the value of first impressions, and he realized the carpet bombing's wall of fire would motivate our allies and terrify the enemy.

At one in the morning, the Pesh leader, Rani Hamza, sat with me as I radioed the bomber pilots to attack. Rani was about forty, but harsh weather and the long war against Saddam had crinkled his skin in sharp valleys, so he looked seventy. He smiled while our bombs pummeled the Green Line, and his eyes glowed orange in the blast wave.

About thirty minutes before we assaulted the ridge, Rani told me about gas canisters that Saddam had dropped on his village. The Kurdish rebellion had weakened Saddam's stranglehold on Iraq, so he ordered the chemical attack. When the canisters landed, Rani was away, trading scrap metal for cloth and cigarettes in another village. When he and his men came home, they saw piles of clothing in the street and started laughing, believing their wives had thrown away old clothes in anticipation of new garments.

As the men got closer, they realized the piles were corpses. Seeking clean air, their families had crawled into the street as cyanide gas filled their homes. Rani described the bloated blackness of his wife's face, and how her hands clutched their son's swollen body. His voice trailed away as he finished, and he pulled a curved blade from his belt. "Our dead thirst for blood," he said.

I thought about an email from my family living in Phoenix. I'd printed the note from my wife and tucked it in my pack with the extra radio batteries to keep it dry.

Arthur,

I came into the family room, and Hank was touching the TV. A soldier who looked like you was being interviewed, and Hank had his hand on the soldier's face. When the interview ended, he ran to his room for that old walkie talkie you gave him. We lay on the grass in the backyard, under the line of planes flying over on the way to Sky Harbor. Hank pretended to land them with the broken radio. He remembered to say, "over" and "roger" like you taught him and wouldn't let me take the walkie talkie when I carried him to bed. We miss you. Be safe.

Love, Katie

Just before sunrise, Rani's men negotiated the minefield guarding the Green Line, using hand grenades to blast a path. Green Berets covered them by firing Javelin missiles at Iraqi tanks, and the Pesh rushed the smoking vehicles, pulled the crews out, and beheaded them with short swords. Iraqi soldiers, hiding in the ridge, surrendered after Rani dragged their commander from a bunker and blew a hole in his chest with a shotgun.

I walked past Rani and asked, "Are the dead still thirsty?"

His brown teeth flashed in a grin. "Nearly quenched," he said.

I keyed the handset to check the radio, and someone yelled, "Sniper!" Rani tackled me at the waist, but I felt the bullet's sonic hiss along my cheek. Rani's men found the shooter tucked in a cave and buried him with grenades. To thank him, I gave Rani an infrared strobe so we could easily find him if he got in trouble on the battlefield.

The Iraqis didn't go quietly and soon counterattacked from the prairie below. Colonel Rip asked Rani and his men to guard the Green Line and our Iraqi prisoners while we assaulted the enemy. We engaged with our grenade launchers, .50 cals, and shoulder-fired Javelin missiles against two hundred infantrymen and a dozen tanks that controlled Objective Rock. As we advanced, I called in the cavalry, and two F-14s answered with five-hundred-pound bombs. The Iraqis used smoke generators from their armored vehicles to shield their movement, so I advised the F-14s to use thermal sights to spot tank silhouettes. Our jets quickly destroyed several T-55s and then requested more targets.

Before I could respond and confirm the target, a pilot said he was locked on an infrared marker behind us and fired. The jet dropped two five-hundred-pounders on Rani's men, who were standing on the tanks we'd destroyed earlier. We couldn't break contact to help them because the F-14s had exhausted their ammunition, and our advantage flew away.

The battle produced a shroud of smoke and dust over the intersection, and the wind blew it right in our faces. We couldn't see a goddamn thing, and the Iraqis advanced by dropping mortar rounds on us. Rocks we used for cover were useless against bombs from above, and one of our Humvees was blown into the air. It came apart as it somersaulted back to earth, and the burning shrapnel shredded a .50-cal team.

I asked Rip if I could move around to the Iraqis' left flank and laser-mark tanks for the next wave of jets. He shook his head and shouted over the mortar thuds, "ETA on air support?"

"Fifteen minutes," I shouted back as we lay side by side behind a boulder. Two mortars hit close behind us, and several men screamed as fragments sliced into them. "Let me try, sir. I can use the hills for cover and take out those tanks."

Rip nodded. "Take two Javelins and keep your ass in one piece."

Under the smokescreen, I jogged with two Green Berets, each carrying missile launchers, and we found a knoll with a clear field of fire. We spread out with a hundred meters between us so one mortar couldn't wipe us out. I was in the middle position and watched our Javelins fly downrange, destroying the last two Iraqi vehicles with smoke generators. We had just MP5 machine guns and .45s to defend ourselves until the jets arrived. The Iraqis sent an assault team after us while lobbing mortars into the hills, and one landed on Sergeant Trent to my right. The flash and concussion dazed me, and the Iraqis came from behind and were almost on top of me before I saw them.

I rolled on my side and sprayed them with the MP5. I killed four, but the other two launched RPGs in my direction. My dad's cap must've intervened because both missiles sailed high overhead. I shot the last two men, grabbed one of their RPGs, and loaded it with a round from his pack. I crawled to the hilltop and faced a T-55 barreling toward me. I'd only fired an RPG once in my life, and my first shot missed badly to the right. The tank fired a shell into the face of the hill, and it lifted me off the ground. With my head spinning, I got to my knees, loaded another rocket, and launched it. I dove down the hill and lay on my back, waiting for the tank to crest the hill and crush me under its treads. It was too damn quiet. Maybe I was already dead. I exhaled and looked at the sky, listening for aircraft.

The Green Beret on my left, Sergeant Meeks, low crawled over and explained why I was alive. He said my second RPG hit at the base of the tank's turret, a perfect shot that killed the crew instantly. Blind luck, but we didn't have time to laugh about it because two F-14s arrived, and I marked the last few tanks with laser dots that brought missiles like lions to meat. With their armor destroyed, the Iraqi infantry retreated at a dead run, and we took control of the intersection.

I returned to the ridge, where dozens of Peshmurga were dead or dying from the friendly-fire mishap. When I kneeled over him, Rani was barely breathing, but a medevac chopper was on the way.

"Rani, a helicopter is coming. They'll save you." When he heard my accented Arabic, Rani opened his eyes in slits.

"Did you take the crossroads?" he asked.

"Yes."

"The device you gave me...when I tried it...nothing happened."

I closed my eyes and said, "Didn't I tell you? The light's invisible." Rani said nothing. My mind raced, trying to recall my instructions.

"I hear them," Rani said.

I didn't hear the medevac. "Hold on, chopper's coming."

"I hear them," he said again.

I only heard the cries of the injured Peshies around us. Rani's eyes opened. "I hear them." Blood seeped over the corners of his mouth. "Close," he whispered.

"Who?" I asked.

He blinked. "My wife...son."

He blinked once more and died with his eyes wide open. We dug graves and buried the Peshmurga. I walked the ridge all night, trying to remember if I'd told Rani that the strobe light was invisible. How the fuck could I forget to tell him? He saved me from a sniper, and I got him killed.

At sunrise I finished Rani's grave and sat next to it with cold mud all over my hands.
Chapter 2

With the Debecka intersection secured, we continued fighting in northern Iraq for the next several weeks. I trained a half dozen Pesh to operate as combat controllers while coalition forces took Baghdad in the south. One afternoon, Rip called us together to watch streaming video on his laptop of U.S. forces toppling Saddam's statue in Baghdad. The gleeful Iraqis dragged the giant iron head of Saddam around town and partied like the war was over.

As we watched, I said, "Good. Let's get this war finished before some asshole commits friendly fire again."

Rip came by my tent later and asked me to step outside. "You okay, Sergeant?"

"Hanging in there, sir."

"Thinking about Rani?"

I nodded. "Hard to forget it."

"You gave him the strobe as a lifejacket, right?"

"Yes, sir, but he didn't realize the light was invisible."

"And that's your fault?"

"If I forgot to tell him," I said.

"You're beating yourself up over a pilot's error."

I shrugged. "I think it's my fault."

Rip crossed his arms and drummed his fingers against his bicep. "You know, my old man loved the old quote about the path to hell being paved with good intentions, but good intentions in combat are about all we have, Sergeant."

"I don't know, sir."

"In this meat grinder? Don't doubt yourself. When you do fuck up, as we all will in combat, all you have to lean on is the good you've tried to do."

Less than a week later, Rip called me away from teaching Peshies about radio procedures. He looked pissed off as we sat in the command tent. "Sergeant, someone got hold of the commendation I sent up the chain for your actions at Debecka Pass. Your new commander radioed me this morning, tells me he's calling 'on behalf of the secretary of defense' and wanted to verify your qualifications."

"Where the hell am I going, sir?"

"Task Force 121. Camp Nama in Bagdad."

"Great. Who's the commander, sir?"

Rip sneered. "Eric Larson. I hear he's an ugly SEAL with a bad temper."

"This just gets better and better," I said.

Rip smiled. "That's what you get for acting like a damn hero at Debecka, Sergeant."

SecDef Rumsfeld had created a special base near Baghdad where high-value targets could be captured and interrogated quickly. He designed Task Force 121 to act as his silent hammer in Baghdad with one standing order: _Apprehend HVTs and use all means necessary to extract intelligence concerning missing Iraqi leaders and weapons of mass destruction_.

I flew into Baghdad International Airport, and a civilian from the Defense Intelligence Agency picked me up. He told me his name was "just Jeff," and he said even less about Camp Nama—other than it stood for "Nasty-Ass-Military-Area."

Nama's gate guards had thick beards, carried customized assault rifles, and wore khaki civilian clothes, flak vests, and wraparound sunglasses that reflected iridescent orange. Their grave expressions warned wannabes to fuck off.

Eric Larson commanded Operational Detachment Six, or "Odious" as it became known. Our primary mission was "high-value target" location, apprehension, and interrogation. Larson was called "Medusa" for reasons clearly understood when you met him. He was a comic-book hero with gladiator muscles and a confidence that comes from saving the world over and over again. OD6 was housed in a single-story tan stucco building with a rec room, weight room, dining area, and commander's office. I walked in to shouts from the rec room, where men sat before a massive plasma screen, cheering a blonde porn star's ability to hold her breath. They didn't acknowledge me, so I found Larson's office on my own.

I knocked, and he told me to enter. I walked up to his desk and reported by saluting. He was looking at papers on his desk and didn't return my salute, so I stood with my hand at my eyebrow, looking at this...monster. His bald head and Popeye forearms were exposed, and his skin was covered in purple serpents. Bodybuilders have steroid-pumped veins twitching under their dehydrated skin, but Medusa's thick, crawling veins would've made those inflated fuckers puke.

Medusa finally looked up at me. His voice was deep crystal. "Put your hand down. Just do what I tell you, when I tell you, and that's respect enough. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

He read the file I gave him. "Arthur Logan. Nice name, Sergeant, but I won't say it again. No ranks or real names allowed here. We use nicknames to confuse insurgents, and for immunity against future prosecution."

I laughed, expecting him to acknowledge the joke. He just stared at my military record. "I'll need the same performance you delivered at Debecka, but I'll need it every fucking day, not just when the mood strikes. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

I was holding my dad's cap in my hand, and he noticed me nervously squeezing it.

"Sergeant, you can wear any cover you want, but that thing looks like you wiped your ass with it. What's the logo on the front?" He held out his hand, and I hesitated. "I won't bite, Sergeant, let me see it."

I gave it to him, and Medusa examined the patch on the front. "82nd Airborne? What's an air force douche doing with an army cover?"

"It was my father's. I carry it for luck, sir."

He tossed it back to me. "Shit, Sergeant, no need to get fucking weepy about it."

My face was red, and I wanted to get the hell out of his office. He stared, waiting to see if I could keep it together. I focused on the biggest vein in his forearm and imagined sticking a knife in it, which calmed me down.

Medusa said, "Your call sign is Hotel Eight." He smiled. "I'll just call you 'Hate,' and you can call me 'Medusa,' like everybody else."

"Yes, sir." I looked at the floor to avoid his face. It was wriggling, alive, and hungry.

"My...abnormality...might disgust you, but it's an asset here. Look at me, Sergeant."

I raised my eyes to his, but moved my focus to his nose, thinking I might turn to stone if I looked in his eyes too long. He said, "Guy named Shiv from your old unit is out in the rec room. He'll take you to your quarters." He paused and I kept staring at his nose. "Welcome to OD6," he said.

We were fairly quiet for two weeks while the team was assembled from units across Iraq. Medusa used the time to test us. Ten-mile morning runs finished with "buddy carries" up and down a half-mile hill, where we took turns carrying each other on our backs until we couldn't walk. After breakfast, we prayed in Medusa's "church," the weight room. He was close to six-five, hairless, and worked out in just PT shorts. He had a Latin phrase tattooed in bold black letters right below the collarbones and across his chest: ET IN ARCADIA EGO. His curses filled the room as he pushed and pulled hundreds of pounds with his veins pulsing like an earthworm jumpsuit.

One day, he spotted me on the bench press. The skin on his chest rippled with serpents, and I feared those bungee cords would pour down my throat like nightcrawlers. When we switched places on the bench, I pointed at the tattoo. "What's that mean, sir?"

He smiled while adding extra plates to the bar for his set. "Means you can run, but can't hide," he said. He pushed up 325 pounds ten times and then said, "One more." He was inches from getting it, but my arms were jelly from the workout, and I couldn't lift the bar back on the rack as Medusa's arms failed.

As the bar slipped through my fingers, he somehow tucked under so the metal rod only scraped his bald scalp. The bar smashed the bench, and splinters flew while Dusa rolled away on the floor. He stayed on a knee, and I tried helping him to his feet. He slapped my hand away and stood up. Leaning over me, blood and sweat rolled from his scalp and down his forehead in a red line off his nose. The blood spattered on my white running shoes while the rest of OD6 watched silently in the humid room.

I said, "Sorry. You okay, sir?"

He reached up to his scalp and dragged his palm along the red ribbon, smearing blood along his forehead. He wiped the bloody hand down the front of my shirt and said, "You weak little bitch."

He wanted me to throw a punch or at least defend myself with words, but I knew enough to just hold my ground and stay quiet. He was grinning now, with thick veins twitching across his face and neck as blood continued dripping on my feet. Only one sound in the room like a late-night leaky faucet...drip...drip...drip...drip. Nobody said a word, waiting for knuckles on skin. There were too many witnesses for him to punch me, so he said, "Fuckstain," and bumped me with a shoulder as he walked out of the room. The rest of OD6 followed him, and I cleaned up the broken bench. It took me a while to pick up the pieces, because my hands wouldn't stop shaking.

After that incident, I was a leper with all but two in the unit. Knob was a SEAL and Shiv a Green Beret—both snipers—and during missions we were the team that overwatched OD6. Shiv was with me at Debecka Pass, and I think he convinced Knob to give me a second chance. We were kindred spirits, trained to kill from a distance, and we'd taken many lives between Desert Storm and now. With that much common blood on our hands, it became instinct to watch each other's back.

Once assembled, Operational Detachment Six was a forty-man mongrel unit, comprised of Special Forces operators from every branch. We used U.S. Navy boats, Air Force helicopters, and Army Humvees in scrambled-egg harmony. We looked a little funky, but our job was catching bad guys, not catwalking. General Trent, Camp Nama's boss, recommended more medals for OD6 than any other unit, but he despised Medusa's brutality and was disgusted like the rest by his serpent veins. It was Trent that first dubbed OD6 "Odious," but a Camp Nama nurse gave Commander Larson his nickname of Medusa.

Shiv told me the story about Larson going on sick call in only shower shoes and PT shorts, hoping to seduce some nurses. In the medical tent, he eagerly dropped his pants and complained of a sharp pain in his groin. The nurse was repulsed by his freakish veins, slithering beneath her fingers as she tried to examine him. It was comical until Medusa supposedly pinched her ass. She slapped him and famously screamed, "Hands off, Medusa!" Then it got ugly as he flipped over an exam table, and the doctor on duty called the MPs. If not for the SecDef's intervention, Medusa would've been court-martialed, but General Trent still forced Medusa to wear his dress whites and apologize to the entire medical staff.

Our area of operations was the Tigris River and adjoining neighborhoods in Baghdad. We traveled the river in small, quick SOCR boats that were armed with mini-guns and grenade launchers and capable of running in shallow water at high speeds. Our launching base was an area on the Tigris named Jazirat Umm al Khanazir. Medusa tagged it "Jizzum Island," and so it became.

We pursued high-value targets, capturing bomb makers, black-market arms dealers, insurgent recruiters, and terrorist leaders. We also guarded VIPs and even transported "special" cargo on occasion. No task was beneath Odious, even delivering a reward to a local chieftain who'd provided intel about insurgent safe houses.

Heading north on the Tigris in two boats, we carried Cuban cigars and three cases of twenty-year-old scotch on one boat and two blonde "models" from Germany on the other. One wore a long, red leather coat, but the other stepped on board in a little black dress that barely covered her ass. A party was being thrown for the chieftain in northern Baghdad, and the delivery run would take about thirty minutes. Medusa's features were hidden in the dark, so the women didn't mind when he helped them put Kevlar vests and helmets on and tucked them safely in the steel driver's compartment.

With the Green Zone on our port side, we went under the Sinak Bridge, and insurgents ambushed us with RPGs and machine guns from the starboard riverbank. Our boats unleashed mini-guns and launched grenades at the hajjis hiding behind a concrete wall.

Medusa yelled, "Hate, do your fucking job!"

I called an Apache, call sign "Butter," and she dropped from above, spotting my laser tag on the bunker. The Hellfire missile killed the insurgents with an orange fist of high explosives.

"Nice shot, Butter. Target neutralized," I said over the radio.

Her whisky voice purred, "Any time, Hotel Eight, whatever, whenever."

Shiv said, "Goddamn, her voice gives me wood."

From ambush to silence was less than ten minutes, but it whipped the woman wearing the little black dress into hysterics. Medusa put one hand on her shoulder and the other to his lips in the universal sign of silence. The yelling continued in German, so Medusa lightly covered her mouth, which caused her to slap him twice. He grabbed her wrist and lifted her straight up, and she kicked him the stomach, so he flung her in the river. She sank like a cinder block, and we stared at the bubbles, but she never resurfaced. Now the other blonde stood up crying and screaming, so Medusa gripped her by the back of the neck and bent her over the water while hissing, "Quiet," in her ear. She stopped, and Medusa yelled at the driver, "Move out!"

We beached about fifteen minutes later when a white Land Rover flashed its headlights at us four times. Medusa hand delivered the cigars, scotch, and terrified prostitute to three men in black suits waiting on the riverbank. They asked in Arabic about the other woman, and Dusa dropped the scotch at their feet, where it shattered on the rocks. He stuttered in Arabic, "You're w-w-w-w-welcome."

No one else on the boat knew the language well enough to detect his stutter. Stress and rage caused Medusa to stammer horribly when speaking Arabic. The fact I spoke it fluently became more valuable than my controller skills, and his impediment eventually saved my life.
Chapter 3

In the summer heat of 2003, IEDs blossomed around Baghdad, and Rangers patrolling Haifa Street triggered a string of buried explosives. The video was posted on the internet with "Allah Akbar," or "God is Great," flashing on the screen as the bombs tossed Rangers around like rag dolls. We heard the high-pitched laughter of the Iraqi who filmed the ambush of eighteen men dying in a blast wave of asphalt and shrapnel. The video also displayed the beating and beheading of two soldiers who survived the initial blast. General Trent watched the attack twice with us in our briefing room, and then addressed us. "Gentlemen, this...heinous act...is unforgivable. Your mission is to find these killers. If intelligence can be gathered in the process, fine, but the priority is eliminating those bastards."

We took four boats and beached near the Ranger ambush site under the Sarafiya Bridge. A group stayed with the boats, and Medusa took a team of ten into the city. We walked along the pedestrian chaos of Haifa Street and around the blast crater from the day before. Medusa found an abandoned shop that provided some cover, and we waited for his guy to show. Since the start of the war, Medusa had been in Baghdad with his SEAL Team and had cultivated a source with information about most terrorist cells in the city, not to mention a guy that could get _anything_ from the black market. When Medusa spotted his source, he cracked the front door and quietly whistled. An enormous Iraqi turned and smiled; Medusa nodded at him, and the big man lumbered inside.

CD Ali was larger than Medusa, but blubbery and profoundly retarded. Ali walked along Haifa every day selling bootleg CDs and DVDs from a basket that hung around his neck on a red velvet strap. His family was Shia and hated Saddam, and all Sunnis for that matter. Green Zone diplomats and journalists loved him for his movie selection, and so did bomb makers for his access to copper wire. Medusa trusted Ali, with his savant's memory of names and places, and oddly they were friends.

After he set his basket down, Medusa hugged the huge man and smiled at Ali with compassion I didn't believe he was capable of.

The rest of us formed a defensive perimeter inside the room, peering out the cracked windows as Medusa talked with Ali in fluid, stress-free Arabic while the giant patted Medusa on the shoulder like a brother. Dusa handed the grinning Iraqi a bag of chocolate bars and a roll of cash and asked how his family was doing.

"Sister...sick," Ali said.

"Still?" Medusa said.

Ali nodded.

Medusa looked toward our medic, Doc Drip. "What the fuck, Drip? I thought you took care of her."

Doc said, "Tried. Late-stage leukemia, doesn't have long."

Ali couldn't understand Doc's English but interrupted. "Cry all night, day and night."

Medusa said to Doc, "Go there tomorrow. Bring enough meds to keep her quiet until she passes."

"Yes, sir."

Medusa returned to Arabic. "D-d-d..." He stopped and composed himself. "Do you have new movies?" he asked.

Ali pulled several out of his basket and fanned them with his dinner-plate hand. Medusa pulled out _Old School_ and _The Matrix_ and slid them in the cargo pocket on his thigh. "When _Return of the King_ arrives, who gets the first copy?"

Ali laughed. "You."

Medusa smiled and waited while Ali ate a chocolate bar, then asked, "Big bomb on Haifa yesterday. You remember?"

Ali nodded.

"Who made the bomb?"

Ali grinned.

"Where are they?" Dusa asked.

"Bus fix. Bus broken. Bus fix," Ali said.

Medusa took out his map and clarified the location with the big man. He folded his map, patted the Iraqi's ham-sized shoulder, and thanked him.

Ali had identified a bus depot near Haifa Street, and we returned to Nama to prep our attack. An hour before departure, we met in our command center for a dose of Medusa's precision. The long whiteboard behind him was covered with aerial views of the depot and overlays depicting mission choreography with a minute-by-minute timeline of activity on the objective. Our pilots encouraged fast-rope insertion instead of landing. Medusa glared at them. "We'll park, no ropes." Dusa paused, daring them to challenge him. "And you might get shot at—tough shit." He finished, "Bomb makers sleep next to their kit like a mama bear guarding her cubs. If at all possible, I want them alive. The rest get two in the head. Our time on the ground is less than five. Questions?"

To delay detection, our Pave Hawk helicopters dove on the bus depot from high above. The landing skids touched, and OD6 swept the compound with silenced weapons sounding, pit, pit, pit, pit, pit, pit, pit. They were all asleep and didn't fire a single shot. Three bomb makers, curled around their IEDs, were zip-tied and tossed on a chopper for extraction. The other twelve terrorists lay in the dust with holes in their heads, and we flew out four minutes after touching down.

We landed at Nama and drove the insurgents to Motel 6—a collection of wooden outdoor "rending" cells, caked with waste from past prisoners. The Iraqis baked in boxes so small they could only squat or lay in the fetal position until the NIC boys came for them.

Nama's Interrogation Center—or NIC—was run by the CIA, and it decided when detainees were ready for questioning. Medusa cursed the spooks as we waited for them to question the Haifa bombers. _Apocalypse Now_ played for the hundredth time in the rec room, and his ranting became the soundtrack. "Fucking suits! Intel will be old and cold, if they get anything at all. Need to squeeze those ragheads right fucking now!"

The CIA finally requested the bombers after sweating them thirty-six hours. We dragged their rank asses out of Motel 6 and bagged their heads for delivery to NIC. Medusa handed over the prisoners to Q-man, the CIA's chief interrogator—a rigid, small man who stared up at Dusa with calm brown eyes. "Thank you, Commander Larson," Q-man said.

"Whatever they have is worthless by now, goddammit," Medusa said.

"Thank you, Commander Larson," Q-man said again with a slight smile. Then he closed the door slowly, and laughter drifted out to us.

"Oh, fuck you!" Medusa shouted at the steel door.

They used four rooms to extract information: Quiet, Black, VIP, and Presidential. The NIC's Quiet Room was a holding cell where screams from the Black Room came through loud and clear. Waterboarding, electrocution, and beating all went down in the Black Room. If they survived all that without breaking, they were tossed into the VIP—a walk-in freezer that utilized hypothermia and exposure to crack naked prisoners. With all their resistance peeled away, they were now prepped for the Presidential Suite.

Strapped to steel chairs and baked under bright lights, the prisoners usually buckled. If they withheld, Q-man came out of the bullpen, and his money pitch was the "water cure." The technique was even more severe than waterboarding's simulated drowning. He forced prisoners to partially swallow a garden hose and then let the water run. The rapid bloating caused intense pain, followed by fists and feet that forced the water out. Q-man would crouch over them and ask questions in a voice so calm and encouraging you'd think he was a priest taking confession. If they still refused to answer, they ate the hose again and again and again. He was undefeated as NIC's closer.

After time in the shit-smeared Motel 6 boxes, soaked in triple-digit heat, the three Haifa Street bombers gave up all they knew in the Black Room. That night OD6 fast-roped from Pave Hawks to a rooftop in Baghdad's Shula district. Medusa was right. We only found IED components and rusty RPGs, but the insurgents were long gone. He seethed on the chopper ride back to Nama, and Q-man only made it worse when he arranged for us to take the Haifa prisoners to Abu Ghraib for permanent detention. Six of us escorted the prisoners in a Pave Hawk.

"Fucking spooks, fucking Q-man," Medusa said as we boarded the chopper. He was too pissed to manage Arabic, so I asked the men if they knew where other insurgent cells were located. They smiled and shrugged. I asked again, and one made the mistake of laughing. Medusa stood up, grabbed him by the collar and belt, and threw him out to the desert far below. Medusa grabbed another bomber and shouted at me, "Ask him again!" He listed five locations, and Medusa organized our assault when we returned from Abu Ghraib.

At dawn we apprehended twenty HVTs from the five sites, along with huge weapon collections. Medusa decided to do it his way from then on and started by creating OD6's very own interrogation center. It was a two-level underground bunker behind Motel Six marked by a sign on the door:

High Five Paintball Club

No Blood—No Foul

Medusa billed it as a place for soldiers to blow off steam playing "capture the flag" with paintball guns, and polka dots soon covered the walls. After hours, we hunted prisoners through High Five and took the CIA out of the loop. Dusa chose four from OD6 to assist in the game of "predator-prey." He needed me in case the stutter showed up, but the other three were loyal SEALs—Flipper, Taint, and Snorkel. Not surprisingly, a shirtless, screaming Medusa induced many confessions, often without firing a single paintball.

During the next meeting with Ali, Medusa asked how his sister, Eman, was doing. "Your medicine, she sleeps, no more crying," Ali said.

Medusa looked at Doc Drip. "She's got a few days left," Drip said.

Medusa bought the entire basket of DVDs and slipped an extra thousand in the roll he handed Ali. He also gave the Iraqi a cell number to call if his sister needed help. The giant cried as he put the paper in his pocket, and then he gave Medusa another name and location.

We departed Jizzum Island at zero-two in SOCR boats, proceeding south on the Tigris to an orchard near Nazl `Usfur. Medusa decided two boats carrying fifteen triggers would be enough. The riverbank was quiet except for dogs barking in the starlight. A few hundred yards from shore we accelerated silently and beached the boats. We hopped on the sand and pushed the boats free, and the drivers banked away in smooth U-turns back to Jizzum.

We used nightscopes to find the orchard Ali told us about and stopped four hundred meters short of the trees to recon. Ali had given us Abu Rakim, a man known for selling weapons to Sunni insurgents, and the golden rumor was that Abu provided cash to Saddam, so he might know the dictator's location. Before we left Nama, Medusa repeated one point in his orders four times: "Take Abu alive."

We lay on our bellies scanning the orchard, Medusa beside me. He whispered, "Pave Hawks on standby?"

"They'll be here within five minutes of my call," I said.

We crawled through high grass until we saw movement in the trees. Fourteen men were digging up a cache, but one stood smoking a cigarette that glowed white in our scopes.

Medusa spoke in our earpieces, "Target is the smoker, do not engage, repeat, do not engage the smoker. Snipers—take the rest."

Shiv and Knob popped the caps on their rifle scopes and killed the diggers as Medusa and the others covered the fifty meters at a dead run. I called in the choppers and told them to look for my infrared strobe.

Abu shot wildly at Medusa's squad. I watched in the nightscope as Dusa ran right through him with a forearm clothesline to the chest. He threw Abu over his shoulder while the other men swept the area for intel, killing those who had survived with shots to the head. They dropped white phosphorous grenades on the buried weapons, melting them into a useless mess. The night bloomed white as the Willy Pete ignited.

Medusa jogged up with Abu over his shoulder and hissed, "ETA?"

"Thirty to sixty seconds," I said.

It was dark, and I was glad he couldn't see the sweat on my face. Ten seconds later, the whump-whump of the Pave Hawks arrived. We landed at Nama, and Q-man met us on the tarmac with three other spooks to whisk Abu away for interrogation. Medusa hopped out of the chopper and took off his watch cap, and his writhing skull made an impact in the light of the landing strip.

He calmly told Q-man, "I'm taking this asshole to High Five, and then you can have him."

Q-man said, "You have no authority. Give him to me."

Medusa ignored him and moved to the OD6 Humvees that waited with engines running. Q-man kept talking, but Medusa offered him only a one-finger salute. We loaded the Humvees and drove south of the airfield to the High Five bunker. The five-man "predator team" went inside with Abu while the rest of the team guarded outside. Medusa untied Abu's hands and in perfect Arabic told the dazed Sunni to run and hide. Abu stood still. Medusa opened a cabinet to his right and pulled out a paint gun. He fired a bright blue paintball at the man's forehead from six inches away.

Abu collapsed, and Dusa let him writhe and scream on the bare concrete floor for a few seconds, then screamed at him in Arabic, "Run and hide!" Abu ran. Medusa handed the four of us paintball guns, each with different colored pellets inside. He grinned. "Normal rules. Twenty minutes. Man with the most paint on the target wins."

We spread out, and I stayed on the first level. The others hollered in pursuit, but I listened and walked slowly. I eventually heard wheezing and found Abu in a backroom closet, disoriented and sobbing. I pointed to fire but paused at the powerful stench in the closet. He'd fouled himself, and I lowered my weapon. I pointed at a sandbag bunker used for team paintball in the corner of the room. "Get in the bunker," I said in Arabic. "And be quiet."

I left the room just as Medusa rounded the corner down the hall. I ran in the opposite direction, chasing solitude. Medusa followed me, but Abu's stench made him double back. I found another bunker and sat on the cool concrete floor, looking up at the wall vents where light from security lamps outside oozed through the slats. Dust swirled in the faint light around me, and I blew the floating particles toward the ceiling, waiting until they drifted back down so I could push them away with more puffs of air. That cycle continued until Medusa signaled game over by yelling, "All up! All up!"

I walked slowly and arrived last at the entrance. Medusa stood over the wet, ragged Iraqi covered in blue spots from his gun. The blue paint ran in Abu's eyes, and he tried to wipe them, but his tears made a burning paste that blinded him. He knelt and put his forehead to the ground in exhaustion, or maybe prayer.

"Weapon check." Medusa ordered us to empty and clean the guns. He bound Abu with zip ties and sat him up in a corner. We started to clear the weapons, and Dusa was about to interrogate Abu when he noticed the pile of red paintballs next to me.

"You didn't fire a fucking shot," he said.

"I never saw him," I said.

"Bullshit. I saw you walk out of the room where I found him. You'll wipe out a town with an airstrike but can't shoot a paintball?" He stood looking down at me and said, "You pussy."

I stood slowly, knowing I might provoke him. "Sir, shooting a guy who shits his pants is..." and then I was sailing backward from a chest punch. I landed, breathless, as he knelt down listening to me gasp.

He said, "Follow my orders asshole, or I'll finish you." He looked at the others and laughed. "Wouldn't his son be proud of his daddy—King Pussy."

On my back, I threw a punch, and he deflected it easily. I threw another, and he blocked it. I tried kicking him in the groin, and he stepped aside laughing. There was a loud knock at the door, but he ignored it. I was on my stomach now, and Dusa grabbed the back of my collar. As he lifted me off the ground, I flipped over and cracked him in the head with the paint gun, and he went down hard. The others would've thrashed me if not for another loud knock and shouting at the door. General Trent had sent word to deliver Abu to the NIC _immediately_. Flipper and Taint helped Dusa to his feet, and he wiped blood from his temple and said, "Dumb fuck. Assaulting an officer. With witnesses no less." I lay on the floor and looked up at him as he gathered Abu and opened the door to leave. He said, "Better write your last letter home."

The next day Medusa called me into his office, and I stood at attention while he ignored me by shuffling papers on his desk. Sweat beaded on the top of his bald head and trickled over the raised web of veins on the way to the floor. He sat back in his chair and lightly touched the bandage over the cut I gave him. He said, "Hate, I'm loaning you out to Alpha Company tonight. You'll chopper in ahead, and use a gunship to clear their assembly area. Questions, Sergeant?"

"No, sir."

He smiled. "Good. By the way, you're going in alone." He laughed and said, "It's a bad part of town."

The Pave Hawk hovered in darkness while I fast-roped to the ground and found cover in a blown-out building overlooking the dirt lot where Alpha Company would assemble in a few hours. I saw insurgents running in packs with AKs and other weapons, but none hung around long. Before dawn, eighteen men arrived to prep an IED ambush. Most dug spider holes and covered themselves with burlap that matched the dusty ground perfectly. The rest were unloading bomb supplies from backpacks when someone ran up to the leader.

It was a boy, beardless, with a kid's squeaky voice—maybe thirteen. The leader pointed for the kid to leave, and then they were shouting. I was close enough to hear them refer to each other as father and son. The leader's back was to me, his hands locked on his hips as he berated the boy. The kid demanded to fight, and the father stopped yelling. He handed his son a small shovel so he could help bury bombs along the road.

I had radioed the Spectre gunship just before the boy arrived. The last thing the pilot said was, "Roger, target fixed. Get your head down for the Apocalypse." I went prone to a peephole and watched the insurgents absorb thousands of rounds from the burping Vulcan guns. The scene was a huge, shaken snow globe, peppered red instead.

Then I caught something ugly in my web.

The boy was the last alive, and he kneeled over his father. He picked up the dead man's AK and fired from the hip at the Spectre. The gunship was almost out of range when a lucky red tracer round hit the tail. I could hear the plane bank hard for another pass. Slugs ripped along the boy's chest, and the rifle slipped from his hands. Somehow he stayed on his feet and tried to scream at the sky, but his lungs had collapsed. His arms dangled dead, his mouth spoke only blood, and he dropped in the dirt like his bones were liquid.

Bile filled my throat, so I sat up to stop gagging. With eyes pressed shut, I heard Alpha Company roll safely into the area. I sipped from my waterpack and replayed his death, sipped water, replayed it, sipped, replayed, sipped, and replayed.

Knob came to my room the next morning where I lay in bed. He'd served with Medusa since Desert Storm, and I trusted Knob, so I'm sure that's why Dusa sent him. His lower lip bulged with chew, which he sometimes swallowed "for the fiber."

He said, "Interrogators can't crack Abu. Q-man says the night in High Five ruined the dude. Says he only drools and cries now. Everybody thinks he knows where Saddam is hiding, so General Trent told Medusa he better finish the job he started or it's his ass." He paused, waiting for me to say something, but I didn't. "Dusa needs your terp skills to help break Abu."

I rested my forearm over my eyes and said nothing.

Knob sat in the desk chair. "Great chance to get back on his good side."

I said, "It's an order, not like I can say _no_."

He said, "You know what I mean. Come through, and he'll get off your ass."

I rolled away and faced the wall. "What time?"

After Knob left, I opened my eyes and realized someone was still sitting in the chair. It was the dead boy from the day before. Bullet holes across his chest oozed black blood, and he smiled at me. Flies poured out of his mouth, and I closed my eyes as they swarmed my face. The buzzing was so loud I almost screamed until I realized it was the alarm clock next to my bed.

After sundown we boarded a SOCR boat with Abu and another prisoner plucked from Motel 6. Dusa told the driver to take us to "The Shards," a three-hundred-meter sandbar where junk cast in the Tigris collected in the shallow water—broken furniture, dead trees, scrap metal, rusted cars, and piles of broken glass—creating a human cheese grater.

Medusa forced Abu to watch as we dragged the other prisoner behind the boat over the "The Shards." The debris on the river bottom shredded him, and Medusa pulled the mangled corpse from the water and dropped him at Abu's feet. Rusty fragments impaled the body, which was covered in small pieces of glass.

Medusa said, "This dude looks like a fucking hedgehog, Abu." Medusa patted the dead body on the head. He opened his mouth to speak Arabic but choked on the first syllable. He tried again and sounded like a croaking toad. He reverted to English and looked at me. "Tell him he's going in the water unless he gives up Saddam."

I told Abu, who sobbed in heaving gasps. He didn't look at me when I put my hands on his shoulders. I said, "We offer freedom. Choose a country, and we'll send you there. Just tell us what you know."

Medusa knew we could make this promise, and he hated "giving in," but he kept silent with the stakes so high. Abu's crying slowed, and his eyes darted back and forth in confusion or fear. I said, "You can save yourself." Medusa stepped forward with the rope, but I raised a hand. "Wait," I said in Arabic. Abu focused, eyes steady, looking into mine. I said, "You can save your family." He looked again at the bloody body and requested a map.

Abu's fingertip left a sweat trail as he dragged it along the map, stopping finally on Mosul, and he described the neighborhood and building in detail. It wasn't Saddam, but second and third prize, Udai and Qusay Hussein—his sons.

Medusa took OD6 to Mosul and granted me forty-eight hours of R & R. Of course he never said a word to me, but the gesture was clear. I slept in, ate breakfast, and hung out at the PX, stocking up on magazines and candy bars. I read and waited for the time zones to align before calling home on a satellite phone. I hoped Katie wasn't overwhelmed living with her mother-in-law.

My mom was living alone in a big four-bedroom house and had invited Katie and Hank to live with her in Phoenix while I was overseas indefinitely. Since Katie's folks had retired to a Scottsdale condo, the thought of having three grandparents around, plus my brother's family, seemed like a good move. We packed up the rental in North Carolina and got settled before I left for Iraq. It turned out better than I imagined because Mom helped Katie deal with the stress of my absence, and Hank loved her to death.

I dialed, hoping my wife would answer, but Mom picked up on the first ring. "Arthur! My God! Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

"Mom, take it easy, I'm fine. Just had a little time off and wanted to check in."

"Are you safe? Where are you?"

"I'm in Baghdad, and I'm fine. How are Katie and Hank?"

"Your boy is enjoying first grade and has a picture he wants to tell you about. He's quite an artist, just like his grandpa." I could hear Hank asking for the phone, and Mom said, "I love you, and...and please send strawberries and...also some gasoline."

I said, "Love you too. What do you want me to send?"

"Daddy!" Hank came on the line and jumped right into a description about a coral snake he'd painted at school. He carefully explained the snake's alternating black, yellow, and red bands, and how his picture was just like the real one he'd seen at the zoo.

"Just one bite and you'd die," Hank said.

"Hey, that reminds me, there's a soldier here who looks like snakes are crawling under his skin. Bet you'd like to see that, huh, buddy?"

"Jeez! Don't let him bite you, Dad."

Katie got on the phone, and we laughed about how excited Hank was over the snake. Her voice was so hopeful that I relaxed just listening to her. She used to teach full-time when we lived in North Carolina, but she'd just started tutoring some kids in Phoenix. She was happy to be teaching again and was thinking of subbing since Hank was in school now. Katie mentioned Mom's sixty-fifth birthday and reminded me to send something when I had a chance.

"How's Mom? She asked me to send strawberries and, I think, gasoline."

"Really. Well, she says strange things, and Hank always laughs, so I thought she was doing it on purpose, but it's getting worse, I think," Katie said.

"Call John. My brother knows every doc in town."

"Maybe she's just having anxiety about you being over there. Could be confusing her."

I said, "Maybe, but will you call John and get her in to see someone?"

She said, "Of course. Sorry we have to talk about this at all when you're the one fighting a war. You okay?"

The honest answer was too heavy, especially after Mom's issues, so I changed the subject. "I had pancakes for breakfast this morning and thought of the time Hank spun around the kitchen, balancing pancakes on his forehead."

Katie laughed and said, "Oh my God, then he started cracking up and blew milk out his nose with pancakes flying everywhere."

After the call, a corporal from Trent's HQ came in and handed me an update on Mosul. Udai and Qusay were dead—identified with dental records after their bodies were dragged from the rubble pile. I finished reading the update and went back to my room to clean some neglected gear. As I organized my stuff, I realized my dad's blue cap was missing. I couldn't recall when I wore it last, but it was always in the top pocket of my ruck when it wasn't on my head. Everyone in OD6 knew that.
Chapter 4

When Ali's sister succumbed to blood cancer, we drove four Humvees out to their home in Sadr City. Ali was sitting outside when we pulled up, and his neighbors filed past his sullen bulk, but he barely acknowledged them.

Dusa told us to stay in the trucks. He pulled crates of food and supplies from the back of the Humvee and took them inside. Then he came out and sat in the dirt next to Ali and tried to console him. The Arabic flustered him, and Dusa looked like he was fighting superglue stuck to his lips. I waited for him to flag me over, but he seemed to get through it as Ali leaned against him and cried.

Medusa stood up to leave, when Ali suddenly grabbed his arm and became hysterical. I was too far away to understand, but Ali's face turned red, and his arms waved wildly. Medusa listened and slowly moved a hand over his eyes as if to block the sun, then tears appeared on his cheeks.

"Jesus," Knob said from the back of the Hummer.

A new sergeant in OD6 chuckled next to Knob. "Look at Dusa, bawling with that fucking retard."

"Shut the fuck up," I said from the front seat.

"Eat me," he said.

Knob leaned toward the young sergeant. "Shut the fuck up." He did.

Medusa composed himself and said something that made Ali's crooked teeth grin. Ali tried to embrace him and went inside to announce Medusa's message. Ali's father, Maulana, ran out as Medusa opened his Humvee door.

"You will take her?" the old man asked.

Medusa nodded and said, "Be ready at sunrise."

Just after dawn the next day, a Humvee delivered Ali, Maulana, and Eman's body to Camp Nama. OD6 boarded six Pave Hawks and headed south for Karbala—home to a sacred Shia cemetery. Even with Saddam deposed, Shia Muslims couldn't safely travel to Karbala, but Medusa was determined to bury Eman in hallowed ground for Ali's family.

Our helicopters landed in a circle around the cemetery. Medusa chose the broadest backs from OD6 to dig while the rest of us pulled security. E-tool, Buzzy, Flipper, Ali, and Medusa dug the hole in less than forty minutes. Ali and Maulana placed Eman's body carefully in the grave and helped cover her with dirt. The father and son prayed at the grave and then went to the martyr Ima'am Hussein's shrine to leave Eman's artifacts in his protection: hair combs, an amber bead necklace, and a small photo of the girl with her family.

The choppers departed, but a team of twelve remained hidden around Eman's grave for the response from Sunni locals. They spotted us but came after dark anyway. We realized the hajjis were probably jacked on amphetamines when it took twice the normal rounds to bring them down. We killed twenty with small-arms fire, but I called an AC-130 because a larger force was massing for an assault. The Spectre scattered the crowd and killed dozens with pinpoint fire. Medusa captured one alive and zip-tied him to a tree before gathering souvenirs from the dead with his knife. He cut ears off several corpses and dropped them in an empty MRE bag, and then he created an oval around Eman's grave with the severed ears.

Medusa called me over to speak to the prisoner. "Tell him those ears let me hear any violation of the grave." The prisoner's eyes widened as I explained. Then Medusa said, "I need to make sure you deliver the message." As I finished translating, Dusa kneeled down and put a hand over the prisoner's mouth and sliced his ear off. Over the man's muffled screams, he whispered Arabic in the gory ear, "I'll be listening."

After the cemetery mission, OD6 was calm for a while, and we wondered if Eman had influenced Fate on our behalf. Helping Ali's family reinforced our resolve; knowing we could do something that didn't beg the question, "What the fuck are we doing here?" made the dirty work manageable.

I searched for Dad's cap but figured it probably came loose the night we crawled through the grass toward Abu. Without the hat, I felt exposed, like bad luck was drawing a bead on me, so Shiv and Knob tagged along one afternoon to see if we could find it in the waist-high weeds. The snipers understood the value of talismans, and anything that could bring good fortune was worth slashing around in the grass for a few hours. We came up empty but did recover two hand grenades that OD6 had left behind, so at least we saved some curious kids from blowing themselves up. Driving back to Nama, I figured either way a hat wasn't going to be enough to protect me from the future.

In the Doura district of southern Baghdad, a swelling Sunni militia was wreaking havoc, and Special Forces arrived to organize a counterinsurgency. Colonel Rip was in charge of the operation, and OD6 provided him a guided tour of the district. We drove to Jizzum Island, and Rip waited near the boat landing where we talked alone before departing.

"Colonel, is this a promotion or did you piss somebody off?" I asked.

He laughed. "Probably both. How this place treating you, Sergeant?"

"Well, I knew I was in trouble when they turned my call sign, 'Hotel Eight," into the nickname 'Hate.'"

"Beautiful." He laughed then asked quietly, "You boys have a nasty rep. What's the story?"

"Commander Larson is unorthodox, but we're...productive," I said.

"He looks like somebody turned him inside out," Rip said. "What's _his_ nickname, Autopsy?"

I laughed. "Even better. Medusa. By the way, any chance you're taking me back, sir?"

At that moment, Medusa approached and said, "Colonel, we'll show you the Tigris sector of Doura and introduce you to some locals."

Rip said, "Sounds good, Commander. I just need to make my link-up at twenty-one hundred." Dusa smirked, and I knew he didn't give damn about Rip's timetable.

Our three boats moved in a wedge as the sun set on the Green Zone. We cruised around a horseshoe in the Tigris with the University of Baghdad to the port side. Medusa pointed out common ambush points in the groves and industrial sites, and showed Rip where the easiest beach landings were. We took sniper fire from bushes in front of a water-treatment plant, and Rip witnessed the firepower of the SOCR's mini-guns and grenade launchers that ate up the landscape like lawnmower blades.

We beached soon after the attack, and our team of ten, including Rip, went with Dusa while the rest of our men remained with the boats. We moved up the beach and through an orchard, maneuvering within a few hundred meters of a building where our contact, Malik, worked. Our target was an insurgent named Jamail who ran al-Qaeda operations from a bogus cell phone shop. We needed Malik to give us the guy's home address because security was too tight around the store. We trotted over open sand and entered the rear of a metal shop, where Malik waited for us. He took a wad of cash from Medusa and gave Jamail's address in return.

It was a half click away, and we were there in minutes. Five men stayed on the ground floor, and the other five formed a stack in the hall outside the target's apartment; Medusa placed me second in the stack. If someone got shot entering, it was usually the number-two man, but I tried not to take it personally. Then Medusa picked up "Thor's hammer," the steel battering ram we used to smash down doors. He easily splintered the door with one swing, and our first man, Flipper, killed a guard with his silenced MP-5; I shot another coming out of the kitchen. Dusa went right for the bedroom and had Jamail on the floor with hands zip-tied behind his back by the time we entered.

Rip laughed. "You musta been a cattle roper, Larson."

"Fuckin' A." Medusa smiled as he pulled a roll of camouflaged duct tape from his pack and wrapped the man so only his face and feet were exposed. The technique was better than waterboarding for suffocating, especially in the heat of summer, because the duct tape tightened with every move you made.

Rip couldn't resist. "Why not just ask him questions before you mummify him?"

Without looking at the colonel, Dusa said, "This is our playbook, take it or leave it."

Dusa started shouting at Jamail in Arabic, but he stuttered when he asked where the bombs were stashed. I said, "This man will kill you right now if you don't tell us where the explosives are." He was terrified, and his eyes bulged, but he said nothing.

Medusa straddled the mummy and his sweat dripped in Jamail's eyes. The Iraqi panicked inside the tape and started hyperventilating. He'd die unless we cut him loose. A cluster-fuck was building, but Medusa would not play the fool in front of Rip. The veins in his temples throbbed as he pulled his knife and sliced the cocoon open. The terrorist was cut along the chest but breathed freely again.

"Where are the bombs?" I asked again. He pointed under the bed and Medusa kicked the bed frame over, using his knife to raise the floorboards. Bricks of explosives were packed in a coffin-sized compartment. Dusa pulled the pin from a grenade and forced it in the bomber's mouth.

"Quite a playbook, Commander," Rip said.

Medusa ignored him. "Hate, ask this fucker about the cell phone bombs."

I kneeled down and said in Arabic, "Nod if you can tell us about the recent bomb attacks in the area." Jamail didn't nod so I said, "Your jaw will eventually stretch out, and the spoon will pop, and then your head will explode. Last chance—nod if you'll talk." He nodded, and Medusa removed the grenade. We sat him up in a chair and videotaped his confession.

After he finished, Medusa said, "I'm gonna detonate this cache and send a message to his pals."

"What about civilians in the building?" Rip asked.

Medusa ignored him again and shouted, "Everybody out!"

I was next to Rip in the stairwell and told him, "Take it easy, sir, this guy is—"

"An asshole," Rip said.

We joined the others on the ground level and set up a perimeter on the street while Medusa finished upstairs. I was across the road with Rip when a window shattered in Jamail's apartment. Medusa had launched him through the glass, and Jamail screamed in midair as the explosives taped to him exploded. The concussion knocked us flat and covered us in body parts and glass. The colonel ran over to Medusa as he emerged from the building. I followed him but failed to keep the peace.

Rip said in a low voice, "Fucking cowboy. Got your head up your ass?"

Medusa closed one nostril with his index finger and sprayed a sticky mass at Rip from the other. As Rip's eyes closed to the mess, his right hand shot out reflexively and struck Dusa's throat, staggering the SEAL. Some of our team dove on the colonel and pinned him face down in the dirt as Dusa got to his feet.

"Shit, Colonel," Medusa coughed. "Guess you don't like fireworks. Let him up."

Rip attacked instantly, but Medusa was a hand-to-hand guru. Rip threw punches that would've floored most men, but Dusa blocked them all and waited for the colonel to wear down. When he threw a slow jab, Medusa timed it perfectly, stepping under the punch and slamming his elbow in Rip's temple. Good night.

I helped carry him back to the boats, and we cruised to the location of the colonel's scheduled link-up about three clicks south. Snorkel and E-tool dragged him up the beach, where several Green Berets waited on the shoreline. Medusa hopped to the sand as Rip's medic checked his pulse. "What's this swelling around his temple from?" the medic asked.

"He got in over his head," Medusa said.

The medic used smelling salts to bring the colonel around, and he sat up as we pushed back in the water. On Dusa's orders, we opened throttle and covered the Green Berets in a rooster tail spray.
Chapter 5

By September 2003, many units from Camp Nama had shifted elsewhere in Iraq, but General Trent was under such pressure to produce intelligence that he kept OD6 intact. Trent couldn't give us extended R & R, but he reduced the stress by occasionally assigning "light" missions in relatively peaceful river sectors. Cooler evenings offered relief from the blistering summer, but only emails from Katie gave me what the war smothered: hope.

Arthur,

Just tucked Hank in bed, and I promised to tell you that he lost a tooth and got a dollar under his pillow. He says he's going to save the next one for you to see, even if the tooth fairy offers ten bucks.

Took your mom to see a doctor that John recommended, and the news wasn't great. Early stages of dementia that probably gets worse when she's stressed out. He said reading and crossword puzzles help, but it will probably get worse over time. Wish the news was better, but we'll take good care of her.

We visited my folks for dinner last week, and they send their love. Dad said guys like you can dodge bullets. Mom sent you her famous chocolate-chip cookies and promised to keep them coming until you get home.

Hank and I were playing in the park today and like always he pointed out every bug and funny-shaped cloud, but it wasn't the same without you. I know we're not a "normal" family, but we have something special. Be safe!

Love, Katie & Hank

In October, we witnessed a miracle: Medusa got laid. She must have been drunk or blind, but our fearless leader was reborn. Siba was a gorgeous Syrian, spying in Baghdad for the CIA, and she apparently had a snake fetish that Medusa happily indulged. Dusa was humming and grinning like he had a magic wand for a cock. If we'd known those were the side effects of getting laid, we would've pooled our cash long ago to make it an hourly occurrence. He even unveiled a sense of humor.

"Knock-knock," he said in the rec room.

"Who's there?"

"Blowjob."

"Blowjob who?"

"Doesn't matter, you're getting blown."

The levity was short-lived when photos of extreme prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib flowed over the internet. The world rocked from images of Iraqis stacked in human pyramids and tied to chairs with dogs snapping at their genitals. The scathing publicity drove OD6 deeper into the shadows, and Medusa was our bloodhound, sniffing out the enemy without a moral compass to confuse him. We conducted interrogations in the field and executed any Iraqi deemed a threat. Of course, Medusa thought everyone was a threat, so we filled empty buildings and back alleys with bodies. After the enemy buried their dead, they came for our heads.

Since the massacre at Eman's grave, al-Qaeda had been tracking us because the ears encircling her grave terrified them, earning Medusa the nickname "Asala," after a mythical deadly snake with a human face. The CIA knew OD6 was targeted, but kept a lid on it until General Trent was blown apart by an IED so powerful it split his Humvee in half. At the briefing Medusa went ballistic, yelling at Q-man, "You fucking knew? Al-Qaeda is hunting us, and you keep it secret?"

"We knew that _you_ were a target, Commander Larson," Q-man said. "We believe al-Qaeda attacked the convoy because OD6 often guards General Trent. They wanted you, not Trent."

"So no problem if I get clipped?" Medusa said.

Q-man remained soft-spoken. "We followed you closely, hoping to spot enemy operatives—"

Medusa stuck his finger in Q-man's chest. "Fuck you!" Everyone stood up expecting a street fight, but Q just smiled and walked out of the room, followed by the NIC boys.

We looked for CD Ali for three days, and one source, Rashid, just shook his head and said, "Gone" when we asked about Ali. Medusa decided we'd search around his home in Sadr City, but we had no idea what awaited us.

A powerful cleric in Ali's neighborhood named Moqtada al-Sadr had organized disgruntled Shiites into the "Mahdi Army." Al-Qaeda leader Abu Musab al-Zarqawi met with al-Sadr and convinced him that OD6 must be trapped and killed. Their ambitious plan involved over two hundred men.

Sadr City was Saddam's version of public housing, with cardboard and corrugated-tin shanties jammed together. We traveled there in eight Humvees with two Apaches overhead in support. A mile out we slowed, maintaining one-hundred-meter intervals between vehicles while listening to constant updates from the Apaches.

One pilot said, "Hotel Eight, only light pedestrian traffic to report."

"Butter" was the other pilot, and she radioed, "Looks quiet from up here."

I called an AWAC monitoring radios and cell phones in Baghdad. "Hotel Eight, heavy cell phone traffic in your area. Coded conversations, proceed with caution, over."

Ali's home was nestled in the eastern corner of Sadr City at the end of "Martyr Boulevard"—so nicknamed for the countless Shiites that went missing along it during Saddam's reign. The road was a lazy fishhook that ended in a cul-de-sac, and Ali's house sat on the hook's point. The dead end was created by abandoned vehicles, now welded together from repeated bonfires.

The air was electric, bristling the hair on my neck as we dismounted, while the rest of OD6 watched over us with the Humvees' weapons. Sometimes you can sense an ambush before it rises up around you as a dust devil of bullets and blood. We walked toward the darkened house until our point man opened the front door and paused, crossing his arms over his head—the signal for "bomb."

The house exploded in a flat shockwave of metal fragments, and homemade napalm and automatic weapons fired on us from all directions. Our ambush procedures saved some of us, as each man still alive and the Humvees turned on infrared strobes. The Apache guns immediately destroyed anything not blinking on their scopes with thousands of rounds. The helicopters also blew a hole in the wall of burned cars that created the cul-de-sac, giving us access to our emergency rally point—a three-story warehouse a few hundred meters away. The building promised good cover and a rooftop to Medevac our casualties but seemed miles away as bullets sliced the air around us.

Our dead and wounded were tossed into Humvees or carried on shoulders, and we all ran for the hole created by the Apaches. More insurgents waited on the other side, and I was just through the car wall when an RPG hit the man to my right in the chest. It vaporized him from the waist up and filled the air with wet smoke.

Medusa pointed to me, Knob, and Shiv and then to a nearby house. We had to overwatch the retreat, so we used smoke grenades to maneuver quickly behind the occupied house. We came in the backdoor and killed the hajjis, taking their firing positions and covering our men outside. We provided fire as the remnants of OD6 ran past us to the warehouse fifty meters away.

An RPG hit an Apache, and it crashed in the field next to the warehouse. Once the three remaining Humvees were in position to protect us, we rushed out of the house and into the warehouse. Knob was killed just a few feet from the door. I sprinted upstairs to the roof where I could best direct air support. The warehouse was taking fire from all sides, and mortar rounds were walking toward us in smoking craters that would soon smash our roof. Shiv stood beside me with his .50-caliber sniper rifle. Using binoculars, I spotted the mortar team in the back of a pickup truck about four hundred meters away. Once Shiv had them in his scope, they died, and then he fired incendiary rounds into the mortar tube and engine block, rendering them useless.

I directed Black Hawks with green smoke to the rooftop, where the dying waited for dust-off.

"Med One, green smoke is LZ, over," I said.

"Roger, Hotel Eight, think that roof can hold us, over."

I guessed without hesitation. "Guaranteed, Med One."

Med One dropped like a stone but somehow landed gently on the roof. The dead waited while we loaded the wounded, and then the chopper was gone. Med Two dropped in right behind, and then Med Three took the last of the injured and the dead. Med Three just cleared the roofline when about ten RPGs launched at her. Four rockets hit home, and the Black Hawk went down in the field near the burning Apache. The explosion was massive, and no one survived it.

OD6 was down to fifteen men from forty. We fought from the windows and rooftop, but thank God, Butter's Apache was still flying, strafing back and forth until she was empty.

"Sorry, Hotel Eight, I'll be back," she radioed.

"Roger, we've got Archangel coming heavy," I said.

Archangel's Spectre gunship flew a circle above us, firing cannons and machine guns as I called in enemy positions. It was getting dark now, and Archangel's green tracers danced over the blackness, but the enemy fire was still too intense for chopper extraction. The good news was that the surrounding houses were all on fire, which kept insurgents at a distance and made it easy for us to spot movement. It was a standoff for the rest of the night, but no one slept. Before dawn, headquarters radioed that armor was coming to the rescue, but the insurgents had one last surprise for us.

The tanks were twenty minutes out when a bullhorn shouted at us, "Asala, Asala! A gift for you, Asala!" A white van sped toward us from the neighborhood. We blew the tires and killed the driver, and it screeched to a stop about two hundred meters from us. The back doors swung open, and a huge man jumped out. His torso was strapped with explosives that swayed as he trotted toward us.

Medusa screamed in our headsets, "Hold your fire—it's Ali! Don't shoot! For God's sake, don't shoot!"

Ali was screaming wildly, probably amped up on speed, and he yelled in Arabic as he lumbered closer, "Die, Saddam, die!"

Butter's Apache was back on the scene, and she saw Ali coming to kill us. "Hotel Eight, I got 'em."

Medusa was suddenly next to me and grabbed my radio handset. "Don't shoot!"

I said, "He's strapped with enough to take down the building. We have to—"

Medusa punched me in the face twice, but held me up on watery knees while screaming at the Apache, "Don't fire, motherfucker!"

Butter's Apache buzzed Ali and banked for another pass. He was a hundred meters away, and those left in OD6 decided they'd rather die than disobey Medusa. His screaming at Ali brought me to my senses. I jammed my knee against his balls and slammed my forearm into his jaw, and he went down. He was on his back, pawing at me like a drunken bear when I said to Butter, "Engage target!"

The Apache's nose gun lifted Ali's three hundred pounds off the ground, and he came apart like a smashed watermelon. His explosives detonated and shook the warehouse violently, but the building didn't collapse. Within minutes, M1 tanks swept over the landscape, crushing rickety houses under their tracks, and their booming guns chased away the last Iraqis. Bradley transports followed and pulled up to the warehouse, and we quickly loaded into the safety of reinforced steel.

The damaged vehicles left behind became war trophies, and the internet filled with pictures of the Mahdi militia posing on the bullet-ridden Humvees and smoking helicopters. They celebrated the death of our twenty-five men, ignoring that we killed at least three hundred of their Muslim brothers. In fact, al-Zarqawi became a god to al-Qaeda after what they called, "The Battle of Martyr Boulevard."

The Sadr City massacre made OD6 the redheaded stepchild of Camp Nama. Flipper, Shiv, and Taint were alive, but Knob, Snorkel, E-tool, and Buzzy were gone. Now that Trent was dead, his replacement wanted to keep the last of "Odious" locked in a closet until we could be reassigned. I thought Medusa would come after me, but all he wanted were the heads of those who sent Ali to die.

Medusa didn't pursue al-Sadr or al-Zarqawi because he discovered it was someone else who masterminded the suicide mission. Dusa believed whoever it was would eventually brag about it, and he was right. A former captain in Saddam's dreaded Republican Guard fell into a trap when he talked about using a "human bomb" against the Americans. In a café, Ahmed Sameer told a beautiful journalist he had used Asala's "fat friend" as an example of what happens to those who assist infidels. The journalist was Medusa's woman, Siba, and she provided us with his photograph and a detailed diagram of Sameer's apartment in Mansour.

Medusa formed a five-man assassination team with Flipper, Taint, Shiv, and me. We used a civilian vehicle to infiltrate the area as contractors working to restore electricity. While the others hid in the back, Shiv and I drove the van into Mansour and pretended to work on a transformer outside the building, until the man came home after midnight. When the street was clear, I knocked on the side of the van, and we rushed the apartment. Taint held Sameer flat in bed as Medusa strangled his wife to death and then duct-taped Sameer so only his eyes and nose were visible. Medusa threw him over his shoulder; we left their children sleeping and went silently back down the stairs. We drove back to Nama in the green work van through quiet streets and parked in front of High Five.

Dusa hung Sameer by his ankles from a ceiling beam so his head was about three feet off the ground. Then he beat the man's midsection like a heavy bag, cracking ribs with vicious body blows. He also kicked Sameer's head several times until blood ran from the man's mouth and ears, and he was barely breathing. Being upside down, the man's salty tears mixed with snot and ran over his forehead to puddle in the dirt. Medusa pulled his knife, and I knew he would never ask Sameer a single question. But I didn't know that Medusa was planning revenge on more than one man; maybe if I'd just kept my mouth shut.

"Do you want me to question him?" I asked.

Medusa spun quickly and his boot crushed my midsection, sending me flat on my back. He sat with his knees on my shoulders and full weight on my chest, and I couldn't breathe. He stared down at me. "I don't give a fuck what he knows." Medusa put the tip of his knife in my nose and sliced the nostril open. With his weight on me, I couldn't scream as blood ran in my eyes and down my cheeks. Medusa stood up, and I coughed for air, while he used the knife to slice open Sameer. The man's guts fell in the dust, and the room smelled of rusty iron and methane.

I got to my knees, but even Shiv stayed away from me, and Medusa kicked me in the face. Now I was on my chest, looking at the ground, and Medusa sat on my spine, pulling my head back by the hair so I faced the ceiling. "You killed Ali. You...fucking...you." Medusa was crying as he put me in a chokehold.

Shiv said, "Don't kill him, sir."

Medusa yelled, "Wanna be next?" Shiv didn't move, and Medusa whispered in my ear. "Ali's waiting to rip out your tongue. Before he does, tell him I said hello."

After I passed out, they carried me back to my bunk, and I woke up with a wicked migraine that hurt too much to open my eyes. My nose ached, and I felt the stitches used to close the knife wound. I didn't realize Shiv was in the room until he spoke. "Glad you're still alive."

"Barely," I mumbled.

Shiv said, "Ali was like his brother, you know. He's not crazy enough to kill his own, just wanted to scare you, I guess."

"Thanks for stopping him," I said with my eyes still closed. He didn't say anything for a while, and my head throbbed in the silence.

"When you're up to it, there's food and water on the desk," he said and closed the door as he left.

I took a Humvee in the middle of the night and found Colonel Rip's headquarters in the Green Zone. After I told him my plan, he didn't need any coaxing because he wanted payback for what happened in Doura. But I still needed bait, and I found it the next morning.

Lieutenant Susan Moore was a gorgeous Nama nurse from California. I found the surfer girl with long blonde hair packing to fly home later that day. Dusa had pursued her for several months, and she was kind enough to write a perfumed note asking him for a midnight tour of High Five. After he read it, he spent the afternoon lifting weights, getting pumped for the big date.

At midnight, he strutted up to High Five. Susan wasn't waiting, but Medusa saw what was hanging on the door handle: a black lace bra. From a side window in High Five, three Green Berets and I watched him grin as he lifted the bra to his nose. Our task was to make sure he didn't get out after he came through the door. They were confident in our four-to-one advantage, but I sweated with second thoughts.

Medusa walked in and saw the next breadcrumb at the top of the stairwell: a matching lace thong. He actually jogged across the room and down the stairs; we followed behind, and the seven Green Berets in the basement jumped him. Medusa kicked the first man in the teeth. The second took an elbow in the groin and went down groaning. We dogpiled him, and Colonel Rip covered his mouth with a rag soaked with enough chloroform to stagger a polar bear. Dusa was limp as we tied him to a concrete support column. We wore black ski masks and stood around him in a semicircle. Medusa came around and was oddly relaxed, as though waking from an afternoon nap. Rip turned a spotlight on him.

"Nice masks." Dusa squinted in the glaring light. "Smart, but I'll get every one of you."

We raised our weapons and fired. Red paintballs exploded on his face in a crimson mist, and Medusa whimpered. Rip laughed. "Hear that, boys? Bad-ass navy SEAL, whimpering like a pussy." We all laughed, and Rip continued, "Time to give this mermaid a bath."

Rip stepped forward into the light and set a bright blue bucket in front of Medusa. Each man took a turn pissing in it. I stared at Medusa through my mask as I released my bladder. He tilted his head and stared back at me. There was a twitch of recognition in his face, and I was frozen until Rip touched my shoulder and eased me back into the darkness behind the spotlight.

Rip lifted the bucket and white foam splashed over the sides. Medusa said, "I see black skin around your eyes, Colonel." Rip dumped the bucket over Medusa. He tried to clear his vision, but the ropes restricted him, and the urine filled his eyes.

"That stings a bit," Medusa said quietly.

The men laughed again. Medusa spit, his eyes blazed, and the veins on his scalp glistened in the piss. "You know, Rippy, it kinda tastes like your mother's cunt." The men stopped laughing.

Rip punched Medusa in the face, and the cartilage cracked; blood streamed down the white ropes and spotted his tan boots. Rip pulled his hand back to strike the huge SEAL again, but Medusa started to laugh—an inhuman cackle that unnerved me. Dusa strained against the ropes, and dust puffed off the column from the stress. We could hear the rope popping and slipping as Medusa slowly wriggled free. Another Green Beret stepped forward and cracked Dusa in the skull with the stock of his rifle, and the SEAL's head dropped as if unconscious.

Rip moved closer. Medusa's head popped up, fully alert, and he spit in Rip's face. The colonel wiped the mess off his cheek and said, "We all heard you whimper like a bitch, and if you push this, we'll make it worse next time." Medusa smiled, and Rip slammed the piss bucket on the SEAL's head. As a parting gift, we fired another paintball volley at the bucket, and the impact echoed across the concrete floor.

Outside, Rip shook my hand before he climbed in the Black Hawk. "Sergeant, I hope we taught that son of a bitch a lesson, but I doubt it."

"Hope you're wrong, Colonel," I said.

"Make damn sure you burn everything you wore tonight so that prick doesn't track you down. If he tries anything, we'll make another house call."

"Thank you, sir."

Medusa went on a two-week leave after the MPs cut him loose from High Five. Word got around that they only found him because he was singing, _The Ballad of the Green Berets_ at the top of his lungs. When the MPs asked who tied him up, Medusa grinned and said, "Ghosts."
Chapter 6

Camp Nama's new commander, General Adams, notified the remains of OD6 that we'd be reassigned within thirty days. When he heard about the orders, Medusa returned early from leave, but I didn't know he was back until I awoke under a night sky full of magnificent stars. Lying on my back in the bottom of a SOCR boat, I had a great view. I was wrapped in duct tape with just my eyes and nose exposed as we glided on the Tigris. Medusa looked down at me with eyes still black from the broken nose Rip gave him, and he smiled as the wind roared over his teeth. "What are you doing awake? I want this to be a surprise," Medusa said and then kicked my head to blackness.

When I awoke, my skull was pounding—more from hanging upside down than being kicked. My vision was blurry, made worse by the dim light in the room. Another body dangled beside me, but the guy's face was too bruised and swollen to recognize. Medusa saw I was awake and kneeled in front of me at eye level. I tried to punch his shit-eating grin, but I was still wrapped in duct tape.

"Welcome to Wonderland, Hate. Recognize the hero beside you?" Medusa said.

With tape over my mouth, I was speechless.

"No? Let me give you a hint. It's the piece of shit that broke my nose. Your pal Rippy."

It was then that I heard several dogs whining behind a door across the room from me. From the sound of their heavy paws scratching on the door, I knew they were big. Medusa slapped me hard on each cheek. "Can't wait for you to meet Ajax, but not yet."

He cracked smelling salts and stuck them in Rip's nostrils until the tall man shook himself conscious. "Rippy, time to play again," he said quietly as Rip opened his eyes. "Dream time is over, Colonel." Medusa smiled and then punched him in the stomach hard enough to pop the smelling salts out of his nose.

Blood bubbled from Rip's nose. "Please," he said.

Medusa laughed and walked over to the wall where the ropes holding us were tied off on iron boat cleats. He pulled my rope, raising me about six feet off the dirt, but Rip remained only a foot from the floor. It was sweltering, and Medusa was shirtless, his veins engorged with blood from hoisting me up, and he rubbed his palm over the ET IN ARCADIA EGO tattoo while contemplating our distances from the floor. "I'm not sure if you're out of reach, Hate. They haven't eaten in days." Then he opened the room holding the dog pack. A black beast stood in the doorframe while five others danced behind him. The immense ebony dog must've weighed over two hundred pounds.

"Stay! Good boy, Ajax. Hate, these dogs were bred to kill wolves, but they took me as their alpha—after I killed their trainers." Medusa pulled his combat knife and went to Rip. The dogs whined when the blade punctured Rip's stomach, but the pack stayed in their room about twenty feet away as he screamed with his guts dangling and dripping in the dust. Medusa stepped clear of the mess and whistled once, releasing the dogs.

"My, my, they're starving," Medusa said.

I gagged on vomit. Medusa took the tape off my mouth when I started to suffocate. He kicked me in the back and the debris exploded out as I gulped for air. I closed my eyes to the wet work beside me, while the dogs attacked one another for meat. Once they'd consumed the colonel from the waist down, Medusa cut the rope, and Rip's upper half fell to the dogs. Near the end, Ajax stood on his hind legs, balanced his front paws on my swaying shoulders and licked the dried salt off my forehead.

Medusa laughed. "He likes you." Then he whistled again, and the dogs retreated to their room slowly with full, swaying bellies. Medusa closed the door and replaced the padlock. He put tape back over my mouth, patted my forehead and said, "After Ali, you deserved what you got. Coulda been even, but you had to one-up me. Bad idea." He walked to the shack's entrance. As the door opened I saw trees and the Tigris a few hundred meters away. "Sleep tight, shithead," he said.

I pressed my eyelids tight and hid inside myself. Hold on. Hold on.

During the next two days,,, I managed to get the tape off the corner of my mouth and call for help, but I only attracted flies. Dehydration made me delirious as I talked to the bloody scraps of the colonel's uniform in the dust beneath me. As sweat flowed down my neck and over my chin, I trapped a few drops on my lips, and the tangy grime evaporated quickly on my tongue.

On day three, the dead boy came to visit me again. The bullet wounds across his chest were dried up, but the skin on his face and arms had rotted away, and I almost puked at the smell of decay. He squatted and sniffed at what was left of Rip and looked up at me, smiling with broken yellow teeth. He reached up with a bony hand and dragged his fingers over my face. He pulled the last of the tape off my mouth and shoved his fist past my teeth. I kicked and swayed, but he pushed his fingers into my throat until I passed out.

The low rumble of a boat motor woke me. Medusa opened the door and entered with a body over his shoulder. He untied my rope and lowered me until I lay in the dirt, looking at sunlight coming through slats in the ceiling. I saw the new prisoner lying nearby. His head was bagged, and plastic zip ties bound his ankles and wrists. As Medusa sliced away the tape, I took a deep breath for the first time in days, and he held my head up so I could drink water from the plastic bottle without choking.

He repeated himself three or four times before I understood anything. He was scared, that was clear. "Come on now, you'll be fine. Keep drinking. I have food too." I ate some raisins, and Medusa let me doze for a few minutes. He sat me up against the wall, gave me more water, and lightly tapped my face with his palm until my eyes opened. He was sitting in the dirt a few feet away with a .45 in his hand, pointed at the ground. There was desperation in his voice. "If you play nice, and help me, then we're even for High Five, but you gotta decide right now. Are we cool?"

I drank more water but felt dizzy.

"Are we cool?" he asked again.

I tried to lie down, but Medusa sat me up and slapped me hard. His pistol pressed against my temple. "Help me with this fucker and you live." He slapped me hard again and my eyes opened fully. "Nod if we're cool. Or I put a bullet in your head."

I nodded.

Oddly, Medusa had some fresh almonds that he cracked for me while blood moved from my head and slowly loosened my stiff arms and legs. While he opened the almonds he said, "I fucked up. But you'll help me. We can make it right. I know we can."

Still surprised to be alive, I chewed and listened. Medusa stood and paced the room now. "They questioned me about Rip. I mean fuck, they must know, right? Fuckin' A they know." He checked on his new captive, who was moving now. Medusa pulled the sack off his head for easier breathing, but I didn't recognize the Iraqi. Medusa toe tapped the man lightly, and the Iraqi mumbled. I asked for more food, and he handed me an orange and fresh bread. He paced and ranted, "Fuck. Just fuck it. Rip had to pay, but we'll make it okay."

"Who is he?" I asked after Dusa settled down a little.

He said the prisoner was Mohammed Muslit, one of Saddam's former bodyguards. He'd been captured by Army Rangers, who discovered handwritten messages from Saddam in his pocket. Medusa abducted him from the NIC, hoping to use Saddam's location in exchange for amnesty in Rip's disappearance, not to mention mine.

"How'd you get him out?"

"Siba," Medusa said.

"Right," I said, thinking they were both psychotics—perfect for each other.

Muslit tried to get up, but the bindings made him roll on his belly. Medusa put a knee in his lower back and covered the Iraqi's mouth with duct tape. Medusa stood up and pulled a stun gun from his cargo pocket. He pressed the contacts to Muslit's neck and clicked the trigger. The prisoner's body arched in a frozen U, but the tape kept him quiet except for air rushing in and out his nose. He clicked the trigger again for close to five seconds, and Muslit's nose started to bleed, so Medusa pulled the tape off his mouth. He gasped and cried, but Medusa zapped him again anyway. He sat on Muslit's back and said to me, "Ask him where Saddam is."

I sat against the wall and looked between my boots at Muslit ten feet away. I was still groggy, but speaking Arabic helped focus me. "Mohammed, where is Saddam? Tell us, or this man will make you suffer." Wet hair fell in his eyes when he lifted his muddy face off the floor. He looked at me, dark eyes defiant.

"Fuck you mother," he said in broken English.

Medusa kicked him in the face and almost kicked again, but stopped when I said, "We're fucked if he dies." He went to feed his dogs, and I saw Ajax again; he was some enormous breed of Great Dane. While Medusa fed the animals, I heard another boat. Medusa heard it too and cracked the front door to see who it was.

"I'm taking the dogs outside. If you try to run, I'll let them have you, understand?" I nodded, and he left us alone.

Medusa's pack was by the door, and I crawled to it. I found an infrared strobe, but nothing lethal. I groped around and felt something hard in the bottom of the bag. I turned it over and located a hidden pouch. Inside were two items: my father's blue cap and a two-way radio. When I heard Medusa whistle for the dogs to follow him inside, I put the items in my cargo pocket and crawled back against the wall.

He returned and locked the dogs away. Siba came in after, carrying supplies for us. She looked at me. "You will help?" she said. When I said yes, she smiled.

The only part of their conversation I heard was right before she left. "Tomorrow?" she asked.

Medusa nodded and said, "Same time. Hopefully we'll break him by then."

We spent seven hours interrogating him. Medusa dangled Muslit from the ceiling and pummeled him for ten to twenty minutes at a time, and then I squeezed water from a rag into his mouth to revive him before I questioned him. He was impervious to pain, and Dusa finally got frustrated and used the stun gun until white foam appeared on his lips. Then he cut the rope and let the big man fall on his head in the dirt.

Medusa sat against the wall opposite me and ate from his pack. I held my breath, but he didn't notice anything missing. Dusa was gassed from pounding Muslit, breathing heavily with sleepy eyes. "Talk to this fucker, Hate. Make him understand."

With Muslit's wrists and ankles tied, I turned him on his side to make him more comfortable, wiping his face with the damp cloth. "Mohammed, give us his location and we'll set you free. Your family will join you. But time is running out."

He whispered, "You a prisoner?"

Medusa was exhausted but still suspicious. "Fuck's he mumbling?"

"He wants something to eat," I said.

"Fuck no," Medusa said. After a few minutes, he closed his eyes.

I looked at Muslit, nodding in response to his question. "Then we're both dead," he said. I nodded again, not wanting Medusa to hear. The Iraqi spit in the sand. "Free me, I give you Saddam."

"You walk?" I asked.

"Broke my leg," he whispered.

We both looked at Medusa with his chin on his chest, almost tipping sideways. He finally settled against his ruck, and his neck went slack on his shoulder. I crossed the room on adrenaline. I kicked at his head, but he wasn't sleeping, and he rolled under my leg and got behind me. His arms wrapped around my chest and squeezed, forcing air out as he tried to induce a blackout. I whipped my head back and crushed his already broken nose. His arms released slightly, and I snapped my elbow into his chin—he went limp. When I was halfway across the room, Muslit yelled, "Behind you!"

I turned to Medusa, who swaying on his knees with .45 in hand. He emptied the pistol, but the heavy slugs only battered the walls and floor. The dogs howled and clawed at their door. Dusa was on all fours now, trying to insert a fresh clip. I kicked the weapon out of his hand and slammed my boot against his face.

I hoisted Muslit across my shoulders, so we formed a T, and carried him out. I was lightheaded and almost fell over, but a surge of energy came from knowing Medusa and the dogs would soon be after us.

I followed a dirt path toward the Tigris while Muslit watched behind for Medusa. I hoped he had a boat stashed close; even if I couldn't get it started, there might be weapons aboard. When we hit sand, I laid Muslit down and searched the bushes along shore. I found the rubber Zodiac tucked under some branches. I cleared off the camouflage and sat next to the outboard. The big red _start_ button was easy to see in the moonlight, but my memory intervened just before I pushed it.

When someone pissed off Medusa he'd often say, "I should make you drive the Zodiac," but only the SEALs in OD6 would laugh. I bent down and looked underneath the engine and saw what looked like a booby-trap. I searched the boat, found a loaded twelve-gauge under the seat, and took it. I told Muslit the boat was sabotaged so we'd have to keep moving. Several clicks away, I saw the glowing smokestacks of the Ad Dawrah refinery in southern Baghdad. With that landmark, the two-way radio and strobe I stole from Medusa could now be put to use.

Barking dogs made me lift him back on my shoulders and look for better cover. I was breathing hard and knew I didn't have much left, but Muslit spotted a structure off to our right, and I broke for it. I found out later we were on an island used to grow almond trees and raise hunting dogs. Before we entered the house, I threw the infrared strobe on the roof. Inside we found bloodstains but no bodies, and I wondered if Medusa had fed the owners to the dogs. The pack bayed as they followed our scent from the riverbank to the front door. I put Muslit in a room at the center of the house and found a knife in the kitchen for him to fight with. We barricaded the heavy wood door with a solid bookcase and bed frame. I turned on the stolen radio and found the emergency frequency.

"This is Hotel Eight, distress call, repeat, distress call. Do you copy, over?"

"Hotel Eight, we copy. What is your position, over?"

"Island in the Tigris, approximately ten clicks south of Dawrah refinery. I have Mohammed Muslit in custody, and we're under attack, over."

"Copy, Hotel Eight, rescue team and Medevac on the way. How is location marked, over?"

"Infrared strobe marks our position, over."

I didn't hear the response because Medusa was throwing grenades at the front door, and then he sent in the dogs. Muslit clutched the kitchen knife on one side of the door, and I crouched on the other side with the shotgun. The dogs soon scratched and barked outside until Medusa whistled them off.

"You got three seconds and then you're both dead. One...two...," Medusa said.

"Took your radio. They're coming!" I yelled through the door.

It was quiet until a grenade knocked our door off the hinges, but my barricade held until the dogs slammed against it. I fired the shotgun at them, killing one and wounding another, hopefully reducing their pack to four. Medusa lobbed another grenade, but it hit the doorframe and bounced toward the dogs. They absorbed most of the blast, but shrapnel hit my legs and chest. I slumped against the wall and heard an Apache fly over the house, drawn like a moth to the beacon on the roof.

I had a collapsed lung, and a concussion blurred my vision. The radio clipped to my belt squawked, "Hotel Eight, this is Butter. Do you copy, over?"

As I reached for the radio, Medusa charged through the remaining barricade with Ajax behind him. The huge dog lunged at Muslit, but Medusa got snagged in the bed frame and fell on his side. Medusa saw I was injured while he disentangled from the rusty springs. He pulled his knife and said, "You're dog food, Hate."

I lifted the shotgun with my good arm, and the buckshot spun him sideways and sent him sprawling on his back.

Ajax had torn Muslit's forearm apart and was gnawing on his shoulder. I braced the stock on the floor and pumped a fresh shell into the chamber. I set the gun on the toppled bookcase and fired, knocking the dog against the wall. Somehow still alive, Ajax limped toward me, bleeding badly but still growling. I raised the shotgun and used the last shell to finish him.

I crawled to Muslit and fashioned a tourniquet with my belt on what was left of his arm. His eyes were alert and terrified. He muttered, so I put my ear close to his mouth.

"Near Tikrit...farm...Ad Dwar farm," he whispered.

I pulled the radio off my belt. "Butter, this is Hotel Eight. Do you copy, over?"

"Copy, Hotel Eight, I'm circling, and reinforcements are landing."

Three Black Hawks landed outside as Medusa got back on his feet. He held his side, and I could see the Kevlar vest that had saved him from the shotgun blast. He raised his .45 with a steady hand and fired once at Muslit, hitting him in the chest. Then he pointed the pistol at me as the room filled with light.

The blinding flash-bang grenades were followed by tear gas. Through runny eyes, I saw Medusa on a knee with his shirt pulled over his mouth pointing his pistol at the door. They wanted Muslit alive, and that made them cautious. Three Rangers rushed in. Medusa shot two, but a third tackled him. As I pulled Muslit over my shoulder and limped into the hallway, Medusa was gaining the advantage. The hall was full of dead dogs and dead Rangers. When I exited the house, fifteen laser dots danced on my chest from the rifles outside. Two Rangers lifted Muslit off my shoulders and rushed him to the Medevac. I pulled the radio off my belt.

"Butter, this is Hotel Eight. Engage the building, over."

"Copy, five seconds to impact."

The remaining Rangers followed me as I hobbled into the trees for cover. Two Hellfire missiles leveled the house in a ball of rolling, white fire. The ruins burned, and the almond trees looked like gnarled demons in the glowing light.

On December 13, 2003, coalition troops discovered Saddam Hussein hiding in a hole on a farm near Tikrit. SecDef Rumsfeld came to my hospital room to thank me personally for getting the information and to notify me that Muslit had died from his wounds. "Sergeant Logan, for your heroism in obtaining Saddam Hussein's location, the president of the United States is granting you an immediate honorable discharge with full retirement benefits."

It was an attempt to buy my silence, and I sold it willingly. "Thank you, sir."

"Sergeant, the Department of Defense has a program that will help you transition smoothly into civilian air control. Pick the city where you want to live, and I'll arrange everything. Sound good?" He handed me his card, shook my hand, and changed my life.

It took several weeks to recover. Some shrapnel, like the piece near my spine, would inflict pain forever. I called my family and told them I'd be released in a month; Katie cried, and Hank cheered. I celebrated with lukewarm beers that Shiv snuck into the hospital. He was off to Afghanistan, and I was going home.

I said, "You'll be fine. What's your line? Snipers never die, they..."

He smiled. "They just run outta ammo." He looked at the ground. "Somebody forgot to tell Knob." He was quiet, sipping the warm brew, and then said, "Promise you'll have a cold one every day in my honor?"

"Done," I said.

The next month was overwhelming. Katie and I talked it through and decided to stay in Phoenix. Hank was settled, and our families were living there, but the hard part was agreeing to stay with Mom and not buy a house right away. My brother and I weren't ready to put her in a rest home, so Katie and I said we'd live with her until we could figure out what was best for her.

The military insisted on a final psych evaluation in case I wanted to express a desire to kill myself, my family, or anyone else. I was cordial but quiet with the doctor, Major Willford.

"Sergeant, I won't detain you, but please consider counseling when you get back to Phoenix. Occasional sessions could really help keep you on the right track."

"Will do, sir."

I didn't tell the major about the phantom that was visiting me. The Iraqi boy appeared without speaking at random hours in my hospital room. He just stood in the corner watching me. I should have been scared shitless, but he seemed lonely and afraid. Dad told me that ghosts followed him home from Vietnam, so I put on his rescued blue cap, and the boy stayed away for the time being.

On the day I left Iraq, General Adams came to the airport to give me what became traditional parting gifts from Camp Nama: a canvas interrogation hood and a white ceramic tile from the room where they examined Saddam Hussein after capturing him.
PART 2: SWIMMING

Chapter 7

On the flight home, I drank a few beers, read magazine predictions for 2004, and tried to relax. Every bomb and bullet I called while fighting two wars created hairline fractures inside me, and my skin barely held it all together. The long-awaited PTSD punch line was coming to peel off my hide and scatter my soul like dust in a hurricane.

Over the Atlantic, I stood to get my carry-on from the overhead compartment, and the beer danced in my brain. I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the compartment for balance. When my head settled, I unzipped the duffle bag and took out the heavy white tile from Nama. I pulled the food tray down, setting the tile so it looked like a diamond facing me. Six inches by six by six by six—6666—the number of the beast? No, that was 666. I stared at the tile, and started believing that if I blinked, the plane would crash.

I had the aisle seat, and the old woman in the middle asked, "Where did you get it?"

I blinked at her voice and said, "Iraq." She looked at me, waiting for the rest of the story, but I just said "Iraq" again.

"How did you get it?" she asked.

I tried to smile. "Excuse me for a minute."

I stood and put the tile back in the duffle bag. I felt like an idiot for letting the damn thing freak me out, and I didn't want to talk to the old woman. I shuffled to the toilet, alternating my hands on the ceiling like monkey bars.

In line, the kid in front of me was pinching his privates in a shameless attempt to control his bladder. He tugged with one hand and pointed at me with the other. "Mommy, look, a soldier—look." The faces in the aisle turned to look at my dress blue uniform. I felt exposed.

"Going home?" the mother asked.

I nodded.

"Iraq?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Thank you," she said.

"Sure," I said and felt embarrassed as I slid past them into an open stall. I closed the door, but the light delayed going on. I panicked, but then remembered to slide the lock, which triggered the light. "Get a grip," I whispered.

I pissed with a cold sweat covering my back. No more beer for stress boy. I splashed cold water over my face and stayed in the stall until I felt better. Before I returned to my seat, I bought a pair of headphones from a steward, who pursed his lips like he had a turd on his upper lip when I handed him a twenty.

"Nothing smaller?" he whined.

"Sorry," I said.

Back in my seat, I dialed in classical music and thought about my new job. The transition program helped combat controllers get civilian jobs, and thanks to Rumsfeld, Phoenix's Sky Harbor Airport opened up a slot for me. I'd heard civilian air control was stressful, but how hard could it be when no one is shooting at you. One nice thing was that the drive to the airport from Mom's house near Shadow Mountain would be a relatively short commute.

We landed at dusk. The plane was packed with "snow birds" coming to roost in Phoenix for the winter. The tourists packed the aisle, so I stayed in my seat to let them fight over who got out first. I'd forgotten how busy the airport could be, and I almost got run over by a guy pushing through the crowd with his wheeled bag like a bulldozer in front of him. Being the tallest of my family, my brother John saw me first, and together they raised a red, white, and blue banner: _Welcome Home Hero_!

Strangers clapped when they saw my uniform and the sign, but the attention was embarrassing. Hank ran to me, and I picked him up in one arm while squeezing Katie with the other. The rest of my family gathered around in a comforting crush. I let myself fall into them while I cried.

Since we were kids, I had called John "BB" for "big brother," and he called me "LB." After letting us cry it out for a few minutes, BB broke up the team hug.

"LB, we missed you, but this isn't a funeral, people, so let's get his bags and go grab a steak. Time to celebrate!" John picked our father's favorite restaurant, Black Angus, and he referred to it like Dad by dropping the "g."

"To the Black Anus we go!" he said, and his four boys chanted, "Anus, Anus, Anus!" until his wife Erin silenced them with "Enough!"

"Sounds delicious," I laughed.

Katie and Hank felt so good in my arms that I struggled to care about my mother's sudden barrage of odd comments.

"Honey, did you see pumpkins in the sky?"

"No pumpkins. But a whole bunch of sun in Iraq. So hot it seemed to shine even at night."

She smiled up at me. "Your father said the sun was his favorite child."

"Did he?" I said.

Mom smiled at that too.

We let Hank pile into my brother's silver Suburban with his cousins, while Katie and I drove Mom's white Camry and followed behind. The steering wheel was so small compared to a Humvee's, and it felt like driving a toy. I drove with my left hand and Katie held the right.

"You're so thin," she said. "What did they feed you in the hospital?"

"Plenty. But the pain meds messed with my stomach a little," I said.

From the back seat, Mom put her hand on my shoulder. "He said it would kill you, Arthur."

"What, Mom?"

"You know," she said and sat back crying.

I looked at her in the rearview. "What would kill me?" I asked.

"What?" Mom said.

Katie sighed next to me and squeezed my hand.

"Never mind. I love you, Mom."

Mom touched my shoulder again. "So good to have you home. We missed you very much."

After chewing through my steak and trying to keep up with my brother beer for beer, I excused myself. In the restroom, I washed my hands and stared at the pale man looking back from the mirror. I pressed cool water on my eyes and dried off with a paper towel. As I wiped away the water, the skin on my cheeks felt strange, like it was bulging. I looked in the mirror at veins thickening under the skin like snakes, just like...I closed my eyes, counted slowly to ten, and splashed my face again.

The steak house used tinted glass partitions to separate each table. The forced intimacy created a labyrinth of reflective confusion. Stepping out of the restroom, I was lost in an intersection of weaving waiters and patrons. I walked to the left and then around to the right, but that was wrong, so I reversed field until I reached a large tank filled with live lobsters. The nearby hostess licked her lips and said, "Thanks so much for coming tonight."

A small voice rescued me. "Daddy, come on, you have a surprise." Hank held my hand and led me back to the table where a hot fudge sundae waited, complete with trick candles. BB said, "We missed at least one birthday, so make a wish."

After I battled the trick candles and the rich dessert, we said goodbye to BB's family. As he hugged me, my brother told me that Mom was losing ground to dementia and needed help. I nodded but let it go for now. My belly was full, and the long day had exhausted me. Katie drove us home along Lincoln Drive. I stared out the side window at the welcoming city lights. When we got to Mom's, Katie helped her out of the back seat, and Hank squeezed my neck while I carried him inside. Inside my parents' house, Mom kissed me goodnight. "My boy, home safe. I love you." I kissed her cheek before she went off to bed.

Katie, Hank, and I went to the other side of the house where the two guestrooms were. Hank was living in Dad's old office, and he was snoring before we got to the room. I performed a trick I wasn't sure I could pull off—dressing him in pajamas without waking him. I still had the touch with my seven-year-old.

I stripped to boxers and noted some dust on the collar brass as I hung my uniform in the closet. I wiped off the brass and wondered if the dust was from home or away. Katie slipped into a short white nightie, and we lay on the queen bed in the room next to Hank's. She curled against me like a missing puzzle piece and filled me, and filled me, and filled me. I woke up later in darkness, staring at the ceiling fan. Was it spinning clockwise or counter? I pulled Katie close and fell asleep again. I didn't get up until noon the next day.

I didn't start work at the airport for a few weeks, and BB's welcome-home present was a five-day vacation at a hotel with a huge heated pool and water slides. Even though it was February, we flip-flopped on the pool deck in seventy-five-degree weather. Hank was in first grade, but we figured the time together was more important. Katie and I stayed within arm's length, and I found myself absently reaching out for her throughout the day.

Hank fell in love with jumping in the pool. He sprinted, leaping and screaming into the blue. Katie and I sat on the edge, clapping and giving him perfect tens with our hands. Hank dog paddled across to us, climbed out, and started to run; I'd tell him to walk, and he shuffled back to begin the loop again. Watching Hank reminded me of late-night swimming in my folks' pool when I was younger.

After Katie and Hank fell asleep that night, I went back to the hotel pool. I stepped off the edge into bubbles rising past my face and through my hair. When my feet finally touched bottom, I opened my eyes to the chlorine sting. For as long as my lungs could hold, my mind wandered with open hope in the silent, dark blue bowl. Out of breath, I pushed off the bottom with fingers slicing to the surface. I bobbed, gorging on oxygen, then submerged again into solitude. I did that for an hour before crawling back into bed with Katie. Imagining water still around me, I drifted on a current until I saw the beach in San Diego.

La Jolla Cove. I was six or seven years old. Dad held me in the surf while leopard sharks swam around us.

"Won't they bite?" I asked.

"Harmless, I promise," he said.

Against the white sand bottom, the sharks' patchwork skin looked like Morse code. Dad reached out with a pointed toe and ran it along the spine of a four-footer gliding past. The shark responded by shooting out to deeper water. The tide came in, and we stood in awe of the sharks as the water climbed above Dad's waist.

"Do you want to touch one?" Dad whispered.

I nodded, and my face felt hot. He held me over the water and waited for another large leopard to cruise by. I laughed and kicked the water with my toes, but he pulled me back suddenly.

A massive gray shape was five feet away, turning a circle around us. I felt Dad's heart pounding, and I wriggled against the pressure of his forearms.

"Don't move," he said.

The shark circled closer.

"Gonna put you on my back. Squeeze my neck and hold on."

"Okay, Daddy."

He flipped me around to his back, and I trembled with my face pressed against his skin. We bobbed on the waves, well above the sand, waiting for one to ride. "Not big enough," he muttered. "Next one...here we go...hang on!"

His arms and legs surged in a freestyle stoke. We caught the wave perfectly as it broke. The white water tossed us forward ten yards, and Dad pulled with his arms. I held my breath as his shoulder blades batted my head with each stroke. I couldn't keep my eyes shut. I tried, but I couldn't.

The great white shark was right next to us. Its black eye was a foot from my face, teeth grinning, eager to feed. I screamed and swallowed salt water. The shark brushed against me with its sandpaper hide, causing the skin along my ribcage to bleed. I waited to die, but a wave lifted us to the beach. Dad was up and running in quick splashes as he carried me on his back. We collapsed in hot dry sand, and Dad held me on his chest. "It's okay, everything's okay. Caught a lucky wave...you're okay, Arthur."

When I felt strong enough to stand, I looked out to see if the shark was still lurking, but there was only a man floating up to his neck in the waves. It was Medusa. He started to smile, and his jaw unhinged, revealing rows of shark teeth. His black eyes stared at me as he sank beneath the surface.
Chapter 8

Landing commercial planes was monotonous. I missed the adrenalin rush of calling air strikes—those life-and-death moments made me appreciate being alive. I didn't miss the land mines or sniper fire, but I was afflicted by other controllers' anxieties. Witnessing their weird coping rituals was like attending an OCD convention. "Padre" crossed himself when his planes took off or touched down. "Double Tap" was a gal who bonked her forehead twice with a pencil before communicating with new aircraft. And a dude they called "Mr. Peabody" wore adult diapers because his bladder went haywire in the tower. I wanted to stand on my chair and shout, "Relax, nobody's dying today!"

BB lived along my route home from Sky Harbor, and I stopped by to decompress one night. His oldest boy opened the door. "Uncle LB, what's up?"

"Freddy, what's your dad brewing tonight?"

"I'm not sure, but it smells like poo."

"God loves an honest child."

John was a home brewer but resisted "normal" recipes. He was pouring a pot of brown syrup into a big glass jug when I walked into the kitchen. "BB, your boy says you're making something nasty in here."

He shouted, "Assassins don't make regular beer! Just manly ales that choke the unworthy!"

His peers called him "The Assassin." He was a millionaire whose company, ironically, specialized in combat games. John owned BlisterMedia, and plaques lined the walls of his home office: Best Game Designer for 2001, 2002, 2003 and 2004, and Best Game of the Year for 2002 and 2004.

He added yeast to one five-gallon jug while I watched the other bottle on the counter bubbling in fermentation. The contraption at the top of the bottle was struggling to release gas from the frothy tsunami below. "What the hell did you make?"

"Atomic Apple—double batch. Come on, let's have a drink. If this explodes, we'll hear it out there."

We drank his "Battle Axe Barleywine" and sat on his third-story deck, looking north toward Camelback Mountain. Dad taught us that silence is best left undisturbed, so we didn't get antsy when neither of us talked. We sipped the tangy brew and watched the stars come out across the valley. John got up once or twice to check his new batch, and after a half hour, he broke the silence.

"How's Sky Harbor?"

"Okay. My co-workers are nuts, but at least there's no bombs or bullets to worry about. Although, you'll love this: my boss wants me to call him 'Double R.'"

"What the hell does that stand for?" he asked.

"Ricky Richards." I laughed.

"You gotta be shittin' me. Dicky Dick!" BB barely made a sound from laughing so hard.

His youngest son, Peter, came out to say goodnight. He was about six—a year younger than Hank. He flexed his biceps in his Spiderman costume and said, "My spider-senses tell me Doc Ock is nearby!" The boy immediately ran inside, as if to save the world.

BB chuckled as he drank the powerful homebrew. "That's my boy."

"Goofy as you," I said.

"The apple doesn't roll far from the tree," BB said.

"Fall," I said.

"Huh?"

I said, "The apple doesn't _fall_ far from the tree, not roll, dipshit."

He laughed. "Fuck you." He took a few sips and said, "You know, we need a consultant, someone with military experience. For the new games we're developing based on Iraq and Afghanistan. As boss, I promise you'll be well paid."

"I don't know a damn thing about videogames. Haven't played since _Madden '92_ , and I was miserable, as you know. Besides, with full retirement from the air force, I'll just lay in the sun all day when I get tired of landing planes. Maybe take up golf."

"Yeah, right." BB smiled. "Come on, Arthur, you'd be pathetic without a job. I know you. You're just like Dad. Shit, you'd feel guilty if you won the lottery because you didn't _earn_ it."

"Fuck you." I laughed.

"Oh, no? You're even wearing his crazy old cap. Talk about not _falling_ far from the tree."

I tugged at the blue brim and looked away.

He said, "Just consider my offer. I know you're not a gamer. But in this job you'd be dealing with things you _do_ know—combat situations, Iraqi landscapes, enemy tactics—stuff you're an expert on."

I shrugged and tugged on the brim again.

"Will you at least think about it?"

The idea of staring at simulated combat all day made me nauseated. "Okay, I will," I lied.

Right then a loud pop echoed from the kitchen. BB didn't notice what I'd done, but it showed on my face.

"Easy, LB, it was just—"

Erin yelled from inside, "Dammit, John, come clean up this mess!"

We went inside to inspect the damage. A gas-release valve had punctured the ceiling, and the beer jug overflowed like a baking soda volcano. He quickly plugged the hemorrhaging bottle with a clean valve. I helped him towel up the gooey brew, and then he walked me out to my car. I passed off the stain on my jeans as spilled beer.

"LB, you seeing anyone in town, you know, to work on post-whatever they call it-stress?"

I stared at him. "No."

"Well, don't you—"

"Relax, I gotta guy's number. I'll call if I need to." I had no such number.

"Okay, okay, just looking out for you," he said.

We shook hands and looked at each other for a second, smiling uneasily.

"Tell Erin and the boys I said goodnight."

"Will do," he said.

I turned on the radio and choked the steering wheel, still in shock that I pissed my pants.

Later, after I showered and crawled into bed, Katie rolled closer to me. "Everything all right?" she asked.

"Long day. Stopped and had a few beers with John."

"Okay. Do I hear the washing machine?"

"Spilled beer. Clumsy."

"Erin said he might offer you a job?"

"He did. But I don't know anything about videogames."

"Erin said it was consulting, not programming," she said.

"Maybe Erin should've pitched me the job."

Katie put her arms around me. "The airport is stressful."

"I just started. Can't quit after what they did for me."

She sat up on her elbow. "You don't owe anybody anything."

"I know," I said and rolled away from her.

She sighed and lay down. "Will you consider it at least?'

"Yes," I lied.

I woke up with a start and pressed the light on my wristwatch. The little blue light led me down the hall. Hank was okay. The light guided me out to the kitchen, where Medusa stood drinking milk straight from the container. His face was melted and his body shredded from the missile blast, with smoke still coming off his charred back and chest.

He stopped drinking and sniffed the air. "You pissed your pants. Still a fucking pussy, I see." He laughed hard and milk sprayed over his teeth, hissing on the fried skin of his neck and chest.

Katie found me screaming on the floor beside the bed. She said I was shuddering most of the night, even with a sleeping pill.

A few weeks later on a Saturday morning, I walked down the driveway to get the paper—perfect timing as the battered white El Camino cruised by with a young girl sitting in back. From her newspaper bunker, she smiled and tossed a rolled copy with textbook grenade technique. Fixated by the tumbling arc, I forgot to raise my hands, and the paper hit me in the chest.

"Nice catch," she shouted as her long black hair splashed around her in the cool March air.

Back inside, I shut out the chill behind me and found Hank sitting in my chair. "Daddy, can we watch a show we both like?'

"Absolutely."

He climbed in my lap, and his flannel pajamas brushed against my forearms as we watched Spongebob chasing pink jellyfish with a butterfly net. The yellow sponge wandered into a graveyard and wondered aloud if his net could catch ghosts. "Daddy, did you kill anyone in war?"

"Only bad guys," I said.

"Like a Jedi?"

"Yep, exactly."

"Did you use a lightsaber?"

"No, I used a radio."

"Radios shoot bullets?"

"No, they call jets and helicopters that shoot _big_ bullets."

"Oh. How many did you kill, Dad?"

"I didn't count them."

"Oh," he said, then got down and went to his room. He returned, wielding a blue plastic lightsaber. "I'll protect you now."

"I know you will." I pulled him back in my lap and smelled the bubblegum shampoo in his blond hair. On the screen, the sponge failed to catch any ghosts.

We hosted Easter, but Mom's growing dementia flipped the day on its head. When John's Suburban pulled in the driveway, Hank cheered and led his four cousins down the hall to Grandma's "play chest"—a collection of toys from my childhood.

"Hank's cousins took good care of him while I was in Iraq, didn't they?" I said.

"They saved him," Katie said and held my arm as we joined John, Erin, and Mom in the kitchen.

We took wine and some bottles of BB's homebrew outside while Mom stirred her famous mashed potatoes with one hand and gravy with the other. She joined us with a glass of wine after a few minutes. It was warm in the April sun as we sat around a glass table under a yellow and white-striped umbrella.

"Five, six, seven, eight, isn't it great?" Mom sang to no one in particular. I looked at her, and she stopped humming and sipped her wine.

BB ignored her and raised his glass. "To our hero, safe at home where he belongs." We drank and chatted, trying to keep the day easy. Katie held my hand under the table, and I felt safe.

Erin said, "I can tell Hank's glad to have his daddy home. His smile looks bigger to me."

Katie said, "He slept through the night last week without once sneaking into bed with me. He was up three or four times a night last year." Katie patted my leg to brush away blame, but guilt still sunk in.

Mom looked at us and smiled. "Dad would've been so proud of all of you. Gone two years, but never forgotten."

"We do still miss him after _thirteen_ years," John said.

Mom flinched at the correction and stood up. "Excuse me while I check the food," she said and went inside.

"Shoulda let it go, BB," I said.

"We can't let it go," he said.

I sipped my beer and said, "We have a bigger problem. Mom got out last night and the neighbor called to say she was wandering around his backyard again."

" _Again_?" he said.

"I went over and found her behind some bushes. She was confused and terrified. The guy said she often wanders around the neighborhood at night.

"What the hell?" John said.

"Gets worse. He said Mr. Johnson down the block thinks she might have stolen a statue from his garden."

As John opened his mouth, all five boys burst from the kitchen door into the yard, arms full of toys, and their loud voices pummeled us. Katie went inside to check on Mom.

"What are we gonna do?" my brother asked.

I said, "Maybe she'll get better with us living here."

Katie opened the door and yelled, "I can't find her!"

Mom was in Hank's room—Dad's old office—standing in the closet with the door closed. I heard her crying and opened the door slowly to keep from scaring her. She'd taken Dad's blue cap from my room and was cradling it like an injured infant.

I stood in the closet and held her until she calmed down. She said, "He wore this dirty thing while drawing all those...uh..."

"Blueprints," I said.

She nodded and squeezed the hat tightly. "He didn't build any dreams." She started to cry again, and I helped her sit on Hank's bed.

I called down the hall, "Found her." I sat next to her on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and she was holding the hat against her chest and rocking herself.

"Mom, let's go eat the tasty potatoes you worked so hard on."

"Think he's happy?" she said, handing me the old cap. John and Katie listened in the doorway.

"I think he's building his dreams now," I said.

The comment helped for some reason, and she became lucid. "Right before he died, he said, 'Frank wants me to help. Help build it.'"

I nodded without understanding. "Come on, let me help you up. Let's eat those potatoes before they get cold."

Once on her feet, she said, "Goodness, I hope they didn't burn." She walked past John and Katie as though nothing had happened and shuffled down the hall to the kitchen.

Setting the buffet table in the kitchen was a team effort. The kids washed up and went first through the serving line on their way to the dining room. The ladies were next and just getting their plates when the kids in the next room burst into laughter. We looked at each other and followed quickly into the dining room.

Katie had worked so hard on the table, and it looked like a Pottery Barn display, including matching Easter-egg plates, napkin rings, and salt shakers. The centerpiece, however, was new—apparently something Mom had salvaged from the neighbor's trash. Several strands of twinkle lights were blinking around a two-foot statue of a man and woman. Carved from tan stone, the woman was on her knees inhaling the man's erection. The man stood with his hands on hips, obviously pleased.

Erin and Katie corralled the boys out of the room while Mom clapped her hands and said, "Isn't it remarkable?"

"It is indeed," I said.

"Think she can breathe through her ears?" John said.

Mom shrugged, sat down and started in on a pile of mashed potatoes.

Before John took his family home, we agreed to meet with Mom's doctor and figure out a plan. I did the dishes while Katie read to Hank in our room with the door closed. Mom was hyper, pacing around her room and hallucinating. She said, "Daddy, we have to go. I can't be late for Dorothy's party. She'll never forgive me. Please hurry. She'll never forgive me."

"Mom, look at me. It's Arthur. Please sit down...try to relax."

She couldn't maintain eye contact but sat down as I asked, looking over my shoulder at a moment from her past. "Please, I can't be late. Please, hurry," she said through tears.

John and I met with the doctor three days later, but I fought putting her in a rest home. The doctor suggested new drugs to help sedate her and minimize hallucinations. John agreed as long as I said we'd put her in a facility if the medications failed. The prescriptions did help, but every week she lost more personality and memory, like a candle burning away.

From then on I sat up late, watching TV until Mom would fall asleep so I could lock her room for the night. If she was awake when I turned the bolt, she'd panic, and it would take hours to calm her down. We used a baby monitor in case she had a problem, but the whole thing made me depressed and restless. I'd watch movies in the family room, listening to the static from the monitor until I dozed off in the chair.

The tape is tight around me, and blood pounds in my temples. I'm hanging in the shack, and the dogs are loose in the room. I can hear them but can't see them as I dangle upside down. Fur brushes along my head, and Ajax circles me twice before disappearing. I sway on the rope from his huge body making contact with me. Blood rushes in my ears, and I say to no one, "Please help me."

When I stop swinging, Ajax is sniffing my face. The black dog reaches up with his front paws and rests the claws on my belt while balancing on his hind legs. He sniffs my legs and groin before digging his teeth into my belly. I scream as the beast pulls the flesh straight down with all his strength. The skin tearing sounds like paper ripping. I stop screaming because there's no pain. He sits panting in front of me, staring up at my stomach. I look up into the dark hole. I reach in and feel for my ribs, for my spine, for anything, but my hands come out empty.
Chapter 9

Ricky Richards insisted again that I call him "Double R" as we shook hands across his desk in early May. I almost laughed in his face when I remembered BB calling him "Dicky Dick." Ricky wanted to discuss a "golden opportunity" and went right to the point. "Your performance has been outstanding, and I'd like to promote you to trainee supervisor. I think you'd be perfect, especially with your experience as an instructor at Fort Bragg."

It was the worst admin position in the tower, and he knew it. Rookies are freak shows and, God forbid, if one crashes a plane, you have to babysit when they go before the FAA. Double R read my hazy gaze correctly as "No thanks."

He said, "Listen, I know rookies can be a nightmare, but your composure is exactly what young guys need exposure to. The position pays well, and you get three weeks' annual vacation. I'll even throw in a long weekend at the Sonoran Suites for you and your bride."

I knew what I was getting into, but frankly, the promotion felt good, so I took it. BB and Erin took Hank for us, which gave me a weekend alone with Katie for the first time in five years. At the hotel, we reclined poolside, drinking margaritas at ten in the morning. Arizona can be brutal in May, but now it was perfect in the low eighties. The pool's waterfall splashed white noise, and I fell asleep in the lounge chair.

I'm in a SOCR boat, calling air support, but the radio's dead. Medusa's at the wheel with SEALs on every gun. Our mini-guns spit fire and turn the riverbank into dust clouds that roll together over the Tigris. Our speed creates a vacuum that sucks the darkening dust toward us. I watch the cloud fold into a funnel shape and lunge at us like a snake striking. Dusty jaws take a man, leaving a silhouette of bloody mist. The tornado recoils and snatches another man as our guns spray useless rounds through it.

Medusa accelerates, but the cyclone snaps again, cleaving a man at the knees. Another strike, and the gnashing dust devil lifts Medusa away. I leap to the wheel and turn toward shore. I don't bother to beach the boat, leaping out and splashing to shore. I lie breathless on the beach when a fang made of sand pierces my boot, and I'm pulled up, watching dirt scales pass my eyes. Then I flip high in a cartwheel. I see the wide spinning throat as I tumble back to earth, somersaulting into darkness as the jaws snap away sunlight.

I'm in a gradual slide along the throat until I slow to a stop. It's pitch black and smells of rot, and I hear moaning nearby. A gasping Arabic voice calls, "Over here. Over here. Please."

I'm afraid to move.

"I hear you, please!" he yells.

I stand with my punctured foot bleeding, but I walk toward the moaning. My foot nudges a heavy lump on the floor. "Where are you?" I say to the blackness.

"Here!" A shout from two feet in front of me. "Please, I have light...my pocket," he says.

He's wrapped in tape, and I slowly free him.

"Thank you," he whispers. "I have light."

I hear a hissing and then block the flare's red light with my forearm until my eyes adjust. "Who did this to you?" I ask.

"Asala," he says.

The Iraqi tosses the flare a few feet away from us. The cavern glows pink with dark veins pulsing all around us. Thirty or more bodies are scattered around and all wrapped in camouflage tape. The chunks of flesh amidst the tape-rolled corpses must be Medusa and the other SEALs from the boat. Glowing in flare light, the shadows of the dead dance along the walls of the creature's stomach.

I nudge the Iraqi with my hand, but he's dead. I find another flare on him and put it in my pocket. I move using the remaining light of the first flare. Only one plan for escape makes sense—what goes in, must come out. My nose finds the way. I sit down as the first flare dies. In the darkness, the disgusting, puckering muscles at the exit taunt me. I sit and listen to the greasy sphincter sucking empty air. I can't bring myself to do it. How far to fresh air? How long can I hold my breath?

I decide a slow death in the belly is worse than suffocation. I approach the exit, take a deep breath, and lunge into the obscene circle. It pulls me along swiftly, but then stops, and I can't breathe. My head swims as the gooey tube presses against me. I reach the last flare in my cargo pocket. The flare will fry me alive if the intestine doesn't react. I pop the flare, and the beast bellows. Digestive muscles shoot me forward...forward...and into the light.

I choked, water gagging me. I was under the waterfall of the hotel pool in water up to my chest. A little girl on a raft asked me if I was okay while I coughed and tried to catch my breath.

"I'm fine," I said to the girl on the yellow raft.

She shook her head and said, "Your face looks crazy."

"Thanks," I said, and she kicked away to her mother across the pool.

I found my lounge chair and wrapped myself in a warm towel. I shivered in eighty-five-degree heat while Katie napped on the lounge beside me.

That night we ate in the hotel's restaurant. My face was warm with sunburn, and I was still tense from sleepwalking in the pool. We ordered a bottle of wine, and Katie asked the waiter what "sashimi" was.

He rolled his eyes. "Yellowtail...raw."

"Oh, it's sushi," Katie said.

"Obviously," the waiter said.

I said, "Hey, motherfucker."

"Sir, don't be an ass."

I stood up, and the waiter reflexively put a hand on my chest. I had a steak knife in my right hand. Other diners gawked at us like a car wreck.

"No, no, no!" Katie pulled my right arm away.

The maitre d' scrambled across the room. "Sir, please, calm down."

"This fuck insulted my wife!"

"Please, sir, we'll take care of it, I assure you."

Katie pulled me out of the restaurant. Outside she said, "What was that?"

I walked past her and pushed the elevator button. "Let's go up," I said.

In the room, she ignored the ringing phone and went out to the deck, closing the glass door behind her. I flopped on the bed and grabbed the phone. It was the maitre d' calling to say he was sending up an "exquisite meal" courtesy of the hotel.

The hotel manager came with the room-service waiter to apologize and open a bottle of champagne. After they left, I tapped on the glass door, but Katie wouldn't acknowledge me. I sat down to eat, and she came in and went right to the bathroom. The shower turned on as I forked my steaming lobster tail. She finished and came out, sitting on the edge of the bed in a white robe with her arms and legs crossed. Her wet hair stuck to her face like a boxer in the late rounds. "You have to get help."

I lifted the cover off her lobster tail. "It's good, try some," I said, avoiding eye contact.

She shouted, "Look at me when I talk to you!"

I did.

"You're sleepwalking and yelling horrible things every night. It's getting worse, not better." She uncrossed her arms. "My God, that poor waiter. What if Hank makes you mad?" She started to cry, so I sat next to her and tried to put an arm around her, but she shrugged it off and stood up.

"Hon, I'm okay—"

"Like hell!"

"Please, just sit down," I said.

She sat and crossed her arms again.

"I know I overreacted."

"Is that what you call it? You almost stabbed him, for God's sake."

"Okay...I have a guy's number. I'll call him Monday." Same lie I told BB, but this time was easier.

"What guy?" she asked.

"A doc at the VA," I said.

Her shoulders relaxed a little.

"Now, please, let's enjoy what's left of the weekend," I said as she leaned on me. "I'll call Monday," I said softly in her ear as she hugged me.

I poured champagne and reminded Katie how my drunken brother fell in the hotel pool at our wedding reception. I kept her laughing as we ate lobster and enjoyed the Phoenix lights in the distance. After we made love, I avoided dreaming and stared out the glass door at the glowing city.

The stumbling and mumbling in my sleep did slow down, but the temporary silence came from triple dosing over-the-counter sleeping pills. My last chance to get help came and went one morning when I lay in bed, exhausted, after wandering the house all night by the light of my wristwatch in search of OD6. I needed a head count, but found only furniture. Katie rolled over, saw the circles under my eyes, and wanted to know the name of my shrink. I blinked twice and said, "Dr. Octavius." She arched her eyebrows, but thankfully missed the Spider-Man reference.

On the last Saturday in May, Hank turned eight, and Katie went shopping for last-minute party supplies. That day marked the end of monsters haunting me only while I slept, as the nightmares walked into my waking life.

I struggled with a serpent as it constricted my legs and chest. It slithered toward my neck to finish me. I had one arm loose that was holding a machete. I swung, but the blade imbedded in a tree, and I couldn't pull it free. The snake flicked its tongue on my chin and awakened my muscles. I twisted the blade free, but I lost track of the snake, and it slipped around my neck. As I suffocated, my right arm disappeared down its throat with a sucking sound.

"Dad, Daddy...Daddy!"

I was under a musty pile of dirty clothes at the back of our closet. I could barely hear Hank as the snake devoured me.

"Daddy...wake up, Dad!"

I sat up slowly and pulled my arm from the sleeve of a black leather coat that was wrapped around my chest and throat. My vision was blurry until I pulled the dry-cleaning bag off my head.

"Dad, I'm hungry," Hank said.

"What time is it?"

"The sun's awake," he said. "Look what I made you." Hank handed over a crayon drawing of me gripping a purple bottle with a pink genie rising from the neck. "Dad, it's my birthdaaaaaaaaaaay!" he sang as he ran back to morning cartoons.

I laughed. What else could I do? Call a doctor Monday. Keep it together now. Stand up first. Step to shower. Breathe in steam. Again. Breathe again. Shampoo in palm. On scalp. Rub to foam. Keep breathing. Rinse and repeat. Water scalds away snake scales left behind. Steam along spine. Toes twitch. Here we go. Towel off. Clothes on. Happy birthday.

Sugar-charged kids at the party bounced around while I moved in strobe-light stop-motion. Katie handed me the camera, and I took pictures of wrapping paper tossed into the ceiling fan and flung across the room.

"What are you doing?" Katie touched my arm and pointed to Hank, posing with a pirate sword.

I clicked and captured and clicked and captured until I started shaking. No one noticed because the magic clown arrived in a loose red jumpsuit, wearing a black top hat and white leather boots with red laces. His face was painted white except for red lips and one eye with a black square around it. Under the ceiling fan, his clothes billowed like a lava lamp. He pulled six white doves—three from each sleeve—and a black rabbit from the right sleeve. With his arms spread apart, a multicolored scarf rose from the left sleeve and slithered into the right like an infinite rainbow. He snapped his right arm toward the ceiling, and a grenade launched out and landed in his left hand. The clown pulled the pin and caught the spoon in his teeth when it popped off. He pretended to throw it at me, and I flinched. Everyone laughed. Then he threw it at me, and I squatted to avoid it. The room erupted again as I cowered under a confetti shower. Before the laughter died, he asked Hank to pull a string hanging from his pant leg. Hank danced backward, pulling the string that unfurled a giant banner from the clown's pants: _Happy Birthday, Hank!_

Out came the cake with eight candles. During the feeding frenzy, I saw blood on Hank's cheek and grabbed a dishcloth, but Katie stopped me and said, "It's just frosting." The stream of random clips playing in my head were replaced by a single frame of Hank with cake all over his face, but that was soon broken up by the chaos of guests hugging and thanking and hopping in cars to go home.

I stepped into the backyard and let the sun rest on my face. Hang on, Monday coming, a doctor, on Monday, someday, everybody run day. I wiped the sweat dripping down my forehead. I heard someone tap on the door behind me, and I turned to see Katie behind the French door. She mouthed, "R-U-O-K," and I nodded. I sat in a patio chair and tracked a line of black ants marching through the grass, and I wondered which ant was assigned to spot IEDs. In the grass next to the ants was the Iraqi boy with bullet wounds across his chest. He put his rotting hand amidst the ants. They swarmed his hand, and the boy lifted it up to my face so I could see the tiny mandibles plucking flesh from his bones.

The door opened behind me, and Katie handed me a big cup of coffee. She didn't notice the kid or the ants. She patted my shoulder and went back inside. I offered the boy a sip, but he shook his head. I took a drink, and it burned my tongue. I winced at the pain, and the boy was gone. I remembered that I wanted to see a doctor on Monday, but was it for the burn on my tongue?

That night I sat on the floor next to Hank's bed while Katie read him a story about rabbits sleeping deep in their burrows. I fell asleep to her voice just as Hank did, and Katie touched my face to awaken me on the floor. I held her hand as she led me to bed and wrapped her thin arms around me, but I couldn't stop shaking.

I went to the VA on Monday when it opened, and they said the first available appointment was four weeks away. I asked if I could wait for a cancellation, and the nurse said "Fine," but acted like I'd pissed on her shoes. For eight hours, I read old magazines and drank shitty coffee. I walked to the exit five times and twice made it all the way to my car before going back. For my diligence, they awarded me the last appointment of the day.

Dr. Byrnes read the post-traumatic stress checklist, and I had all twenty-five symptoms. He nodded as I walked him through my anxiety, depression, and fear. He handed me a prescription to help with the nightmares. I drove to the pharmacy on the way home and said hello to Halcyon. I'd scheduled a follow-up appointment with Byrnes; unfortunately, I'd miss that meeting after killing several hundred people.

Late July brought powerful monsoons that knocked out our power several times. Without AC, we tried ice packs on our necks but were often forced into the pool for relief. During one sweltering night, we sat on the pool steps after midnight while Hank slept on a red raft. Mom sat in a rocking chair on the patio, fanning herself with a magazine. Katie kissed me and whispered what she'd do to me if Hank and Mom weren't there. We laughed and counted shooting stars.

Katie said, "Can't believe you've been home almost eight months."

"Seems like half that."

"Are you happy?" she asked.

"I am."

"Really?"

"I have bad days, but they don't involve body bags, you know."

"Is Dr. Byrnes helping?" I told Katie that Doc Ock had retired, and now Byrnes was shrinking my head.

"Well, getting rest lets me handle things better."

She put her head on my wet shoulder. "My dad said most men aren't strong enough to live a normal life after what you've been through."

I asked, "What do you think?"

"You're not like most men. "

"Always knew you were a genius, honey."

She slapped playfully at my cheek. "You just need to know I'm with you no matter what."

"That's why I'll make it," I said.

We sat in cool silence, staring up at the moon through broken clouds. The house lights flared on and startled us. Katie helped Mom to bed, and I carried Hank to his room. In his room, I couldn't see anything, but then I remembered he'd asked us to take away his nightlight after kids teased him on his birthday. The hall light crossed over his face as I closed the door. Katie was asleep when I got to our room. I stood looking at her while I swallowed a pill. Halcyon helped me sleep, but there was nothing I could swallow to douse the quiet fuse inside.
**Chapter 10**

The day I killed everyone was sticky. In deadlocked traffic on the way to work, my implosion started in the smoke from a roadside car fire. We crept along as drivers gawked at the burning sedan, which spilled clouds of melted rubber and fuel into my air vents. The fumes fried my eyes and delivered the Iraqi boy into the seat beside me. With skeleton fingers, he probed the bullet holes along his chest until black blood oozed from the wounds. I froze until a horn honked, and then I rolled down the window and threw up on the blacktop. Searing heat blasted my face as I wiped my mouth across my sleeve. I pulled my head back inside and checked to see if the boy was hiding in the back seat. He wasn't. I twisted the AC dial to max, but turning the dial tweaked the wrist I'd broken as a kid.

My dad carried me off the field that day after I'd broken it sliding headfirst into second base. I don't remember much, except something strange Dad said at the hospital. The nurse was finishing my cast when he whispered to no one in particular, "When a bone snaps, you call for help, but when your mind breaks, the silence leaves you speechless." Those words swirled around me again as I tipped the plastic bottle to flush the fumes of the car fire out of my throat.

My car was a hundred feet from the smoldering vehicle as I passed a Phoenix Zoo billboard of a chimp shoving bananas in its mouth. I thought of Hank trying to push an entire strawberry Pop Tart in his mouth but dropping most of the gooey bits on the table. I smiled again in traffic as I looked south and saw a big monsoon rolling up from Mexico. A storm that size would make landing planes a bitch.

While gauging the thunderstorm's speed, I almost rear-ended a silver Lexus that had stopped to take a picture of the burning car with a cell phone. I laid on the horn, and the driver flipped me off. I jammed my car into park, got out, and started walking toward the Lexus, which became a rusted white Honda as I got closer. I banged on the hajji's window, and the driver took a picture of me while tapping his middle finger on the glass.

"Sir, get back in your car!" I was confused until I turned and saw the cop tending the accident. He pointed at me and shouted again, "Right now, sir, get back in your car!" The interruption snuffed out the Honda mirage, and the Iraqi driver was replaced by the Lexus asshole laughing at me.

I arrived at the control tower with only a toehold on reality. The dead boy joined me in the elevator, and sweat dripped down my spine. His eyes were gone, and the black sockets stared at me. Blood pooled at his feet, and his tattered clothes fell away to reveal the pummeled flesh beneath. I walked off the elevator, and Double R asked me a question, but I blew past him as the kid followed me to the work station. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but the boy had a question.

"Sick?"

I kept my eyes closed and didn't answer.

"Arthur?"

A hand closed on my shoulder, and I opened my eyes to Double R looking down at me in my chair.

I said, "Just a bad headache. Need some caffeine. I'll be fine in a minute."

He said, "Let me know ASAP if you can't make it."

I nodded, and he wandered away with a tight-lipped expression. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a cold soda can, rolling it along the back of my neck until I stopped feeling dizzy and the boy vanished. Then I reached into the pack again for the tattered hat with an 82nd Airborne patch on the front. I pulled the old cap down low and glared out the wide window at the monsoon, which was building like a tidal wave. The massive brown cloud rolled along the ground, whispering rumors of war to the soldier inside me. The storm turned the tower into a sauna as we rushed to get planes on the ground before the dust wall hit us.

On my monitor were two BlueCloud flights on approach from the north. The lead plane descended under a thousand feet. I sped up the trailing flight because it was low on fuel, and there was no place to redirect him if the storm got hairy. The trailing BlueCloud captain said, "My Lord, a dust wave that huge must be a sign of the Apocalypse." When he said "Apocalypse," the dead boy appeared on my screen, and his lips pulled back in a grin of broken yellow teeth.

His smile dropped me in the middle of the mission that Medusa had sent me on as payback for defying him in the paintball bunker. I again radioed the Spectre gunship just before the boy arrived. The Spectre pilot repeated the line, "Get your head down. Here comes the Apocalypse."

After the Spectre wiped out all but the boy, the kid crouched over the remains of his father, then fired from the hip until the AC-130 shot him in the chest. Still possessed by rage, he got to his feet and tried to scream, but his lungs were destroyed. His arms hung limp, blood ran from his mouth, and he dropped in the dust as his eyes rolled back in his head.

I came back from that nightmare when the rotting boy reached out of the control monitor and grabbed my throat. The last thing I remembered was his rotten breath—the rest was replayed two months later in a courtroom.

The black box transmissions verified that my psychotic break happened as the sandstorm swallowed the BlueCloud jets.

Arthur Logan: "Flight 88, this is Hotel 8, increase to two hundred knots. Let's get you out of the sky before that dust storm drives you into the Tigris."

Captain of Flight 88: "Tower, say again concerning Tigris, over?"

Arthur Logan: "Dammit, 88, increase to two hundred now!"

Captain of Flight 88: "Roger, Tower, increasing speed to two hundred, over."

Trailing Flight 88 sped up, while lead Flight 29 maintained its pace as sand clouds smothered both jets. They emerged from the dust wave near the ground within three hundred feet of each other. The ensuing chaos was displayed again in court by black box voices:

Captain of Flight 88: "Jesus, pull up, pull up!"

Captain of Flight 29: "Drop gear; prepare for—"

A tourist in the airport, scrambling to snap shots of the dust wall, also captured the disaster frame-by-frame.

Photograph #1 showed how 88 almost pulled up and avoided contact, but its wing just clipped 29's tail.

Photograph #2 showed 88 cartwheeling through 29's fuselage.

Photograph #3 through Photograph #10 displayed a billowing fireball rolling across the tarmac.

Photograph #11 through Photograph #24 showed emergency vehicles trying to extinguish the wreckage.

After the slideshow, the judge read the tally: 398 dead and no survivors. Then he summarized my actions after the crash. After the planes slid to a stop and detonated, I stared out the window while controllers scrambled to divert inbound planes. Witnesses claim I watched until Double R grabbed my arm and asked, "What happened?"

I wrenched free and smashed his throat with my forearm. He dropped, clawing at his mangled windpipe. They said I stood over him for a second before slipping down the stairs. Six policemen waited as I exited the tower's ground floor. Their posture said they saw me as civilian-soft. I broke a cop's wrist holding pepper spray and used the can to blind two others. My brain unplugged until an electric dart stuck in my back. Two more darts stabbed my thigh and neck. After the triple voltage, police billy clubs cracked my jaw and shattered my nose. Local TV stations, arriving to cover the crash, captured bonus video of me assaulting police. The incident was national news for weeks, and millions of internet voyeurs watched the video of my arrest.

We watched the clip in court again, and the guards double-checked my cuffs after seeing it. The judge read my sentence: indefinite incarceration in a psychiatric institution. Katie called out, "No!" My brother tried to stabilize her, and the guards gripped my shoulders when I moved toward them. My knees buckled, and I heard the cloth slippers hissing as they carried me out with my toes dragging.

PART 3: FALLING INTO PLACE

Chapter 11

The Veterans Administration achieved its goal of reaching out to soldiers with psychic wounds when they built the Psychological Trauma Center in the late 1990s. I arrived at the Center in handcuffs and ankle restraints after the ninety-minute ride south of Phoenix. The hospital housed voluntary and involuntary patients in separate wings. The voluntary program was internationally renowned for mending veterans' minds, and its doctors published several books that established "cutting-edge therapy, sincere compassion, and tremendous empathy" in treating post-traumatic stress.

But those of us _sentenced_ to the Center lived in what the orderlies called the "wood chipper" ward, where procedures were refined on patients without choices about how many milligrams or volts went into their bodies. I wasn't allowed to leave my room during the first three days. I memorized the jail cell in ten seconds: a bed, stainless steel sink, and matching toilet. The sixteen ceiling tiles provided some recreation, and I looked for images within the small holes, creases, and peaks of their texture. In the corner above my bed was the face of Abraham Lincoln in his top hat, or a bouquet of flowers, depending on the light from the small window slat at the top of the far wall. Three times a day, an orderly accompanied by two armed guards brought me a food tray without utensils. They stood in the room, and I had fifteen minutes to eat before the tray was taken away. When I talked to them, the orderly would only say, "Please eat, Mr. Logan." I tried to keep a dinner roll after time expired, and the guard pulled it out of my hand.

"Why?"

"Might choke yourself," he said.

When I finally joined the other patients in the cafeteria, I had to filter out hospital legends from useful facts. Good to know that toilet seats, desks, books, and other rewards could be earned as determined by your doctor's weekly reports. Weird stories raced around tables about patients poisoned by new drugs or overcooked during experimental shock therapy. One popular rumor was that a recon marine got himself a bigger room with a TV for participating in anxiety-drug trials. The thought of TV access to the outside world enthralled everyone more than the fact the guy died of liver failure after six months.

While eating sticky oatmeal, the guy across from me leaned in and asked who my doctor was. I said I hadn't met her yet, but her name was Jessica Simon.

"You must be the air controller."

"How did you know?"

"Simon runs this place and only stops writing books if somebody famous shows up," he said.

"Famous?"

"Guys in the news. Since I been here, the only other guy she's worked with walked into a mall back east with a shotgun and blew away ten people. Story was in all the papers. They called him Diablo."

"Guess I missed it." I reached across the table. "Arthur Logan," I said, and we shook hands.

"Thomas Tresta. Everybody calls me T.T."

We ate for a few minutes, or actually I ate and T.T. watched me.

He said, "Simon is the top dog. More supervisor than healer, understand?"

"I hope she can do more than watch. What she do for Diablo?"

"He's down in the iso unit. Heard she sent him there to rot when she couldn't get through to him."

"And this is a _doctor_?"

"They call her 'Headhunter,'" T.T. said.

"You mean headshrinker?"

"No. She's a collector. I helped paint her office last summer, and the walls were covered with headshots of everyone in this place. She puts color-coded stickers on 'em, like purple for paranoid schizophrenic and red for really fucked up." T.T. laughed so hard he snorted hot cereal out his nose, which made him laugh harder. I wondered if his sticker was red.

"Come on?" I said.

"No shit. You'll see," he said.

During my first session with Dr. Jessica Simon, I sat in a comfortable chair in front of her mahogany desk with two armed guards standing about five feet behind me. The walls were indeed lined with rows of five-by-seven faces in black frames, complete with circular stickers in the lower-right corner. The sticky dots represented every color of the spectrum. Simon sat on a fat-cushioned chair and sipped black coffee. Sweat was beading on my forehead. She handed me a tissue to wipe it away and turned on a ceiling fan.

"Mr. Logan, may I call you Arthur?"

I nodded.

"You've been here about a week. How are you feeling?"

I shrugged. "Not great."

"Please elaborate."

"I'm incarcerated." I felt like a dog being trained when she raised her eyebrows, waiting for more. "I don't know."

"Do you know why you're here?"

"I killed people in the plane crash."

"That was the effect, not the cause. You're here because of the _cause_. Do you know what that is?"

"Insanity?"

"I don't believe that you are. Nevertheless, that is another effect. Do you know what caused you to crash those planes?" Her tone was that of the patronizing teacher talking to the simpleton in the back row.

"Wild guess. Combat," I said.

"Indeed. It injured you deeply."

"Seen a lotta combat, Doc?"

She stood up and walked along the wall of photographs behind her, pausing at the long rectangular window that looked over the grassy visitors' courtyard. Simon was a small brunette in her fifties with silver-framed glasses, which she would take off and wipe with a Kleenex when annoyed. This was the first time I saw her do it. "Yes, I've seen it. Through the eyes of a thousand veterans."

"You should jump on a plane, get dirty with the troops. You'd love it, Doc."

She sat down again, polishing the oval lenses. "You have a right to be angry. You've been through so much."

"Well, thanks for coming out of your ivory tower to save me," I said.

"Please elaborate."

"Every guy in here says you only care about your books. About being famous. Look at those stupid stickers. What do you know about any of them?"

She looked at me with a pinched face. "You've acquired strong opinions with no understanding." She jotted notes, sipped her coffee, and her face relaxed. "You don't trust me yet. I'll need to earn that." She sipped again and waited for me to reply. After five minutes of silence she said, "If you're looking for motivation, Arthur, you'll need to help provide it. I can help you, but the therapy I'm going to put you through is quite rigorous and not without risk."

"Terrific."

"Be angry—fight with me—that's all expected, but just understand that it's hard work."

I stared at her.

She cleaned the glasses again. "To understand what happened to you at the airport, you'll have to loosen the dirt around your interior life so we can dig up the problem."

I laughed.

She was calm. "Do you think I'm lying about the effort required?"

"I think you care about your career."

"And not about you?" she asked. I felt my face getting warm as it flushed. She offered me a cup of water but I refused. She asked, "Do you recall being angry on the day the planes collided?"

"No."

"There was a monsoon that day, and it was very hot. Is that right?" Her voice was steady, no longer condescending. I imagined the massive wall of dust and nodded. Her voice was soothing. "Were you uncomfortable in the control tower?"

Remembering was oddly relaxing. "I was drinking a cold soda. Told the planes to land. The storm closed around them. So much dust. It was all around me. The boy...I saw the boy." I looked at my hands.

Simon was quiet while I watched my fingers drumming on my thighs.

"Who is the boy?"

"Iraqi kid. Died in front of me."

"Do you often think of him?"

I didn't want to admit I'd seen a ghost. "Sometimes."

"Do you blame yourself for his death?"

"Yes. I killed him." I looked at the floor and didn't hear most of her following questions.

After several minutes, her voice broke through again. "...for being open. These first sessions will be difficult, but you're off to a good start. The guard will take you to your room now so you can rest."

Lying in my room, I couldn't figure out what made me open up to her. It was like I just quit resisting. Staring up at the ceiling, I knew I didn't want to fight or fucking _persevere_ , and talking wouldn't fix the death of four hundred passengers. I scrunched the sheets in my hands and felt sick. I tuned on my side, but my stomach stopped churning.

My family. The thought of my wife and son should've lifted me to my feet, shouting "Yes! Yes! Bring on the healing!" But the answer that echoed in my skull and under my skin was "No."

Dr. Simon and I met again with the same two guards standing behind me, dressed in their standard tan pants and pressed navy blue shirt. I wore the patient's uniform of white scrubs with "PTC" stenciled in black on the chest and down the right leg. She offered me a foam cup of cold water, and I accepted. She sat down with her steaming black coffee and asked how I'd slept.

"If I wake up, I can't go back to sleep."

"The medication you'll begin today will help with that."

I tried to joke. "Giving up on talking already?"

She didn't smile. "Quite the contrary. There will be many concurrent treatments as part of your recovery."

"Can't we _just_ talk and see what happens?"

"I understand your reticence, but you'll need to trust me for your therapy to bear fruit."

I imagined her planting me in a field and pouring pills over my head until apples popped out of my ears. I delayed the drug discussion when I asked why my picture had a white sticker.

She said, "Colors are assigned when progress is made."

_Progress_ sounded good, so much better than the direction I was headed. I noticed a rare dot scattered around the walls. "What are the baby blue spots?" I asked.

She smiled. "Those patients recovered and went home."

In my head I let "progress" and "home" bounce around, and I sipped water while they fused together. "What drugs will I be taking?"

I regretted asking.

"Tramadol for the shrapnel pain in your back. Midrin for your migraines. Haloperidol to steady your mind and Klonopin to control rage and anxiety. You'll sleep better, and that will allow your treatment to move forward."

"Other than talking and popping pills, what other treatment is there?" I asked.

"Talking, for the most part, and trusting me to do what is best for you."

"Okay," I lied.

Simon woke me that night and told me to follow. "I want you to meet someone," she said. We stepped into the hall, and a line of several hundred stretched all the way to the cafeteria.

"What's with the line?" I asked.

"Trust, remember? I'll go see what's holding things up." Simon walked away, and I waited, moving forward slowly. On the bulletin board was a sign:

Meet the Author Today!

Signing Copies of YOUR Life!

Waiting in front of me was a tall old man with thinning white hair, who looked back over his shoulder and nodded as though we were friends.

"I'm George," he said.

"Arthur."

"You look a little hollow. This is the last guy to see if you're looking for fulfillment," George said.

"What?"

He laughed like I was messing with him. "The author we're all waiting to see," he said when I didn't laugh. "I doubt he can help you."

"What do you want from him?"

"I want the record of my life, and then I'm getting the hell out of here. Sorry about the bad pun," George laughed.

I didn't bother to ask what the old loon meant, and he finally turned around and left me alone to wait. When I finally approached the author's table, I rolled my eyes at his appearance. He was no more than five feet tall, wearing a black suit and black turtleneck topped off with a red beret.

In front of me, George reached out for a thick black book, but the author pulled it away and shook his head laughing. George demanded the volume, but the small man just pointed to the exit, and George shuffled away.

I stepped forward, and the author removed his beret, revealing a huge red-and-black dragon tattoo covering his skull. The dragon's spiked tail ran down his neck, and yellow claws gripped the man's temples. The flexing muscles on the dragon's back fixated me, and I told myself tattoos don't move. From a shelf behind him, the author pulled a leather-bound volume from a long line of black books, and the one he took had my name etched on the spine. He turned to face me, and steam billowed from the dragon's nostrils on his forehead. The little man read the spine. "Arthur Logan?"

"Yes. Who are you?"

He smiled. "Such a life you've lived. Would you like to see what I've recorded?" He opened the book to a full spread of the BlueCloud jets colliding, and as I stared, the picture animated into a fireball bursting off the page, nearly burning my face.

"Jesus," I said.

"Not quite." He closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. "I commend you. Killing so many," he said. "Come closer."

"No...I...it was an accident."

He pulled me closer with a fishhook finger. "I'm hungry for more than lies."

The tattooed dragon's eyes opened, and fire trickled from its jaw and sizzled through the floor. The smoke from the carpet smelled like burnt hair. The man's hand was suddenly over my face, fingertips pressing me down on my knees. His wide palm blinded me, and the dragon's flamedrops seared my forehead.

He said, "My dragon claims your soul tastes like shit, but I'll decide for myself."

I told Simon the next day about the nightmare, and that I wasn't taking another pill if the side effects were going to be like that.

Simon asked, "Why do think the demon, or whatever he was, came to you?"

"Aren't you the guru?"

"I'll tell you what I think, but I want to know what _you_ believe."

I didn't want to dive in, so I pretended to think for a minute. "Well, I've killed people. A lot. Some by accident. Most on purpose." I swallowed. "I think it's all the damn pills you gave me, but the dream felt like punishment."

She said, "Your subconscious created the dream under heavy influence from your conscious thoughts and actions. Dreams are the body's way of processing your life through a hyper-sieve, almost like an air filter in a car."

"How's my filter, Doc?"

"In need of repair, but this will help." To my daily dosage, Simon added Minipress for nightmare suppression. That pill turned the world gray. I waded through days like a man plodding in waist-deep mud. I told her I needed a break from meds. She was polite, but when I refused the pills, orderlies restrained me, and the meds were forced down my throat.

In one session, I lashed out. "No wonder Tresta and the rest call you the 'Headhunter.' Said you threw Diablo in isolation when he wouldn't cooperate."

She jotted something in her notes but ignored my allegations. "Arthur, you will abide by the course of action I've prescribed. If you resist, you can blame _yourself_ for the consequences."

I went through that pill battle with the orderlies every night for a week and lost. Simon wouldn't listen, so I stopped talking in our sessions. She was calm in those quiet weeks but took my cafeteria privileges away, so it was back to the guards watching me eat in my room. When I wouldn't give the guard an apple slice after my eating time expired, they tried to put me in a straitjacket. I broke a guy's nose before they subdued me.

Dr. Simon paced in our next meeting after the apple incident. "You won't talk, and now you've injured a security officer. You leave me no choice. ECT will reduce your aggression and allow us to proceed." I think she figured my curiosity would get me to at least ask what ECT was, but I refused.

I wish I'd asked.

Electroconvulsive therapy _,_ or ECT, sounds like a way to stimulate muscle growth while sitting on the couch, or maybe a spa treatment to buzz away wrinkles. Not quite. The ECT room smelled like singed hair and rubbing alcohol. I was strapped to a Plexiglas table with a rubber safety guard in my mouth, wearing plastic pants for the mess I sometimes made when they flipped the switch.

Before the first treatment, Dr. Simon looked down at me. "A brief current will enter your brain through electrodes on your temples. The stimulation might produce a small seizure, but anesthesia will keep you from convulsing." Seeing my rising discomfort, she patted my shoulder. "This will get us back on track. Not to worry. In fact, some patients have claimed pleasant out-of-body experiences, but most remember nothing."

I wanted to tell her that I was ready to talk—talk about everything...anything—but I couldn't say a goddamn thing with the rubber bit wedged in my mouth.

I didn't leave my body or remember the shock treatments; only jaw pain reminded me of what I went through. I did get cafeteria privileges again, but T.T. was gone. An orderly told me he was transferred to another facility. I realized Simon wrote his name down the second I told her that he'd called her "Headhunter." She exiled him for it.
Chapter 12

After my fifth shock treatment, I woke up slowly on the table, and Simon was talking to another doctor. I eavesdropped with my eyes closed.

"His notoriety as the 'BlueCloud Berserker' is valuable. We have to push while so many eyes are watching. I know we can help him, and _when_ we do, PTC will never have to beg for funding again."

A few days later, as the guards sat me down in her office, the statement lodged in my memory like a thorn. "Arthur, a reporter was here this morning." Simon patted one of her books, _PTSD: Soldiers & Civilians_, on the desk. "She asked how your treatment was going, and I mentioned the progress you've made. Would you agree?"

"If by 'progress' you mean I shit my pants every time you electrocute me, then sure, big progress."

She sat across the large desk from me and fidgeted. "I understand your resentment, but it's misplaced." She paused for a response. I crossed my legs and stared at her. She took off her glasses and started polishing again. "I'd like to write about your case, because it would generate needed attention on PTSD," she said.

"What happened to T.T.?"

"Who?"

I pointed at his picture with an orange dot. "Tresta. Calls you 'Headhunter,' and now he's gone."

She looked at his picture. "The orange indicates he's moved to a halfway house. If all goes well, he'll return to society very soon."

"Bullshit. Where is he?"

"This is pure paranoia, Arthur, and a waste of energy."

"Come on. I heard you in there talking about using me to make money for this place. To make yourself famous."

She blushed. "That's unfortunate." She rubbed her cheek and sighed. "Sadly, what I said is true. And, if you'll allow me to write about—"

"Fuck no."

She unwrapped a hard candy and offered me one. I shook my head. "Very well. I'm disappointed. I really..." She dropped the peppermint in her mouth and tasted it for a moment. "Let's continue the discussion of the Iraqi boy. The one you saw on the day of the accident."

"It was a ghost. Scared the hell out me."

"You think he really appeared?"

"Think I'm stupid, don't you?"

She took off her glasses and rubbed the lenses. "Let's discuss events from Iraq that might be contributing to your rage. Perhaps a friend you lost?"

"Jesus, I don't want to relive the deaths of Patch, Knob, and the rest."

Simon put her glasses back on and said nothing until I calmed down. Then, "Tell me about Patch. What happened?"

"He killed himself." Simon took notes. "Boy, do I feel better," I said.

She stopped writing. "Our goal is to release you some day. Your attitude pushes that date farther and farther away."

My throat constricted around her comment. The stakes were too high for me to keep fucking around. Humor was my white flag. "Doc, if you want to motivate me, take away my ping-pong and cartoon privileges."

My grin was so weak she squinted to see it, and I held my breath. She recognized my lame joke as a peace offering and laughed. I exhaled, and she said, "Please tell me about Patch."

In Desert Storm, I was part of a Special Forces A-Team, and Dom Patchelli was our heavy-weapons specialist. Patch was a solid, normal dude except when it came to his "little strip of paradise" outside our barracks. He often rested on the ten-foot grass stripe, laying inside the border he made from pounding .50-caliber brass into the ground.

His girlfriend had sent him the Bermuda seed, and it took weeks to grow the lush carpet, which he trimmed with hundred-dollar stylist scissors. He kept the grass thick with an exotic mixture of chicken guts and goat shit—hand delivered by an Arab kid in exchange for porn mags and cigarettes. We plugged our nostrils with cotton so we could sleep during the monthly fertilizing. Captain Bosco, our team leader, said, "Patch, if you weren't the weapons guru, I'd torch that fucking putting green." Everyone laughed except Patch.

A week later, after a long night of playing poker and drinking homemade whisky, I was out of money and stupid drunk. My all-in bet was, "If I lose this hand, I'll take a dump on the grass." I lost and squatted while cackling Green Berets admired my idiocy. I pulled up my pants, staggered inside, and passed out in my rack. Patch got up later to take a piss, and our medic, Doc Mouse, started laughing when he heard Patch yell, "Fuck!" Patch threatened him until he pointed at my bunk.

Patch grabbed the E-tool from his footlocker and screwed the metal head into place. He was ready to butcher me, when Doc screamed for him to stop. Patch bashed my head once with the small shovel before the rest of the team grabbed him. Only luck kept me from suffering more than a concussion. MPs heard the commotion. They cuffed and carried Patch to the stockade. He was gone for fifteen days, during which we were called to action in Kuwait. The result was a brown rectangle of dead grass. Patch didn't bother with his magic fertilizer, didn't try to kill me, didn't eat, didn't sleep—but he did hang himself from the latrine's ceiling pipe with his belt. The guy who found him said piss was still dripping off his boots.

After pushing Patch so far back in my mind, telling his story to Simon made me sick. The memory weighed me down like a cast-iron coat as the guards took me back to my room. I doubted I'd ever be well enough to return to Katie and Hank. I could barely manage a runny nose, let alone a family. The decision came so quickly while I lay on the lumpy mattress. I looked for a way to do it. The sink and toilet weren't deep enough. Window slat was useless. It came to me as my fingers slid along the iron bed frame. My bed sat on an L-shaped structure attached to the wall. I took off my pants and tied one leg around my neck and the other around the frame. I got on my knees and turned away from the bed. I leaned forward without letting my weight fall so my hands rested on the sink. My windpipe cinched tight, and I knew it could work.

I'd never been much for prayer, but now I whispered, "Please" and let my body rock forward. The flimsy fabric constricted around my neck, and I was terrified—until I saw Patch again. I saw him swinging by his belt and tried reaching out to him. Then I was on the floor, a hand slapping my face, a voice telling me to breathe. I slowly came back to the only place I didn't want to be. I lay on my back, coughing. A voice said, "That was goddamn stupid thing to do, Sergeant."

I sat up to a pounding headache and an old guy standing over me. I recognized him from the dream where I met the man with the dragon tattoo. Now the old man was wearing an olive green flight suit and shiny black boots. I rubbed my eyes and tried to stand but fell back on my ass.

"Let me help," he said and easily pulled me to my feet.

"Thanks. Uh, George, right?"

He helped me to the bed. "How the hell did you know my name?" he asked.

"I...I dreamed about you."

"Did you? What happened in this dream?"

"We waited in line to meet a guy. A dragon was tattooed on his head. He had books he was signing, but he wouldn't give either of us our stories."

"Satan," George said.

"What?"

"That...thing was Satan. Been working against him for years. Don't see him much. Likes to send his goons instead."

My head throbbed, and the cloth burn on my neck ached. I lay back on the pillow, trying to wake up. "How did you know I was choking? No camera in the room."

"You said 'Please,' and I happened to hear it," George said.

"Through the door? How?"

"Sergeant, I should insist you call me 'sir,' but I won't stand on ceremony."

I blinked and looked up at his wrinkled smile.

"General George Patton," he said.

I tasted coppery bile and blacked out.

Dr. Simon placed me in the "restrained care" of a straitjacket after the suicide attempt. I was in a room with other vets on suicide watch and taking powerful sedatives that made George fade to misty memory. When they changed my sheets, I saw ten beds in the long room with only four occupied, and each had a blue-striped curtain drawn around it.

Other than a nurse, my only visitor the first day in restraints was the Iraqi boy. He seemed a bit less bloody, but the flies were so thick around him that it was hard to be certain. I wasn't happy to see him, but he didn't scare me now for some reason.

"What do you want?"

He shrugged.

"What's your name?"

He opened his mouth but only black and yellow flies flew out.

I thought of Arabic names and said, "How about 'Jutman'?" He shook his head violently. "No, guess no one wants to be called 'Cadaver.'" I thought for another few minutes. "How about 'Jundi' or 'Jinn'?" He shook off the words for "soldier" and "spirit."

I closed my eyes and thought of him standing there, firing his AK at the gunship on the day he died. "I'll call you 'Aswas.'"

He smiled with crumbling teeth at the name "Brave."

"Thought you'd like that."

He visited often, as his mood allowed, and oddly, he became a comfort. On my fourth day in the straitjacket, Dr. Simon pulled up a chair and sat down with the furrowed brow and frown we all wear when we have to deliver bad news.

"Arthur, your mother had a stroke recently. She never regained consciousness. I'm so sorry."

I stared at her, too medicated to cry, until my stomach cramped and I vomited. After the orderly mopped up the mess, Simon sat down again with a red plastic shopping bag. She patted her palm on my chest, and her wedding ring clinked against the metal clasps of my straitjacket.

"Your mother left the house to you." I nodded, and she patted me again. "While your wife was cleaning out some clutter, she found some things." From the red bag, Simon pulled the blue baseball cap and a leather volume that I hadn't seen in twenty years—my father's Vietnam diary. "I'll read your wife's note," she said.

Dear Arthur,

I hope you are feeling better and can only imagine how difficult things are, and now having to deal with your mom's death. I knew you'd want this crazy old cap, but the journal was something I found in the bottom of a box at the back of your mom's closet. Your brother suggested I send it along. Please know how much Hank and I love you. Dr. Simon said it won't be too much longer until we can visit. Until then, remember we love you and can't wait to see you.

Love,

Katie

Simon had the straitjacket removed so I could hold the hat and diary. I asked her to read the letter again, and I started crying. Instead of stuffing me back in the straitjacket, Simon waited until I was exhausted from emotion and asleep before having my wrists and ankles bound to the steel bed.

When stark sunlight greeted me the next day, Dr. Simon was already there, holding Dad's diary. I was still in the suicide-watch room and strapped to the bed. She'd pulled the curtain to give us privacy. "Arthur, if you'd like, I can read some of this to you, or you can wait until you're back in your own room."

My voice was so ragged it surprised me. "Please read."

June 10, 1967

I'm not much of a writer, but Mom bought me this for boot camp. No chance to write until now. I keep rubbing my shaved head. Feels good to test myself. I don't know how Dad rides a desk every day. That would kill me. Drill Sergeant Brown made me a squad leader when he heard I volunteered. I'm where I should be and not afraid of Vietnam. Training is hard, but I've been lucky. I'm pitching for the team on post. After Col. Beck saw my fastball, he got me a tryout next month with the traveling army team.

Dr. Simon paused after finishing the entry. "He was so gung ho. He must've been proud when you joined the air force."

"We brawled. Fists flying, knocking furniture over. Really bad."

"After reading this, I'm surprised."

I was quiet, so Simon continued. "I saw in your file that he passed away some time ago. Were you still at odds when he died?"

"After I got home from Desert Storm in '91, they found his brain tumor, and Mom called me at Fort Bragg. I took emergency leave but only had about two weeks with him. First time we'd talked in two years."

"Did you talk about Kuwait?"

"Not really. I didn't want to drop all that on him."

"Any moments stand out while you were with him?" she asked.

I shrugged, but then it all rushed out. "Dad was too weak to walk, so I carried him to the tub one night. He weighed less than the ruck I carried in Desert Storm." I stopped talking for a minute and rubbed my palms over my knees. "The tub relaxed him. He bobbed in the foam while I cleaned him with a washcloth. The cloth was so red against his pale skin. I rinsed him and lifted him to the edge of the tub, and he clutched my shoulder as I dried his legs and chest. His skin was so dehydrated and brittle that it creased and pinched from the light pressure I applied."

"What did you talk about?" she asked.

"Dad asked if any ghosts followed me home from Desert Storm, and I told him no. Then he quoted a line he always spouted to my brother and me any time we asked about Vietnam. He said, 'When a bone snaps, you hear it and call for help, but if your mind breaks...the silence leaves you speechless.' I asked him again where the line came from, and he said it didn't matter. All that mattered to him was that I get out of the military."

"What did he say when you told him about reenlisting?" she asked.

"He turned his head away from me on the pillow and said, 'What a waste,' and he died two weeks later without saying much more."

"You were with him for those two weeks?"

"Yeah, he weighed ninety pounds when he died."

"Who was with him when he died?"

"Mom. He was pretty out of it."

"Did he say anything?"

"She said he muttered about building a tower with someone named Frank. Mom thought he was talking about his hero, Frank Lloyd Wright."

Simon scribbled notes on a small pad. "Did you forgive each other before he passed?"

I looked away from her and tried to close up shop. I hung the sign in the window and bolted the door, but Simon kept clearing her throat until I made eye contact. I glanced at her.

"Would you like to forgive him now?" she asked.

I was shaking uncontrollably.

Simon set her notebook on the small table next to my bed. "He may have been too sick to say how much he loved you, or that he forgave you," she said.

"No more right now," I said.

She kept pushing. "Do you believe he loved you?"

She let that float between us until the idea embedded inside me. She said, "The fact you came home to be with him said you felt the same way."

"Too proud...neither of us wanted to be the one who gave in."

Aswas visited after Simon left for the day and I was strapped in for the night. I didn't get angry as his rotting hands explored the hat and diary on the table next to me. He wouldn't—or couldn't—open the book, but he lifted the hat and placed it on my head before he vanished. The cap felt stiff from sitting on a shelf, deprived of sweat to keep it flexible.

Simon arrived in the morning and got angry with the nurse for putting the hat on me. The nurse denied it, and Simon asked me how the hat got on my head.

I smiled. "Magic."

Thankfully, she let it go and started reading the journal to me again. My brother, John, and I had read the section she covered that morning about Dad making the army team, traveling around the U.S., Germany, and Italy, playing the game he loved. Dad was careful to mention at least twice that if called to combat he "would be more than happy to shoot gooks for Uncle Sam." By early afternoon, Simon had read beyond the last pages my brother and I'd seen as kids, before Dad hid the journal. When she reached the winter of 1968, Nick Logan, the "pitching paratrooper," was falling from grace.

January 17, 1968

I pitched a no-hitter last week at Da Nang Air Base. I'm never going to take this hat off. Every time I touched the brim, I threw a strike. My shoulder hurt like hell after the game. X-rays didn't show any fractures, so Captain White thought I was dogging it. The pain got so I couldn't raise my right arm above my head. I told White I couldn't go the next game. He told me to pitch or pack up. Now I'm headed to 3rd Brigade and a big fight near Hue City.

January 28, 1968

We lost so many men in Hue and Phu Bai that I became fire team leader and then squad leader in three weeks. Buildings were booby trapped, and I had to throw away one uniform because a guy hit a mine and his body burst over me like a water balloon. Sgt. Stuart is our platoon sergeant, and he's the reason we're alive. In one firefight, he was the only one calm enough to call artillery. I don't know how he did it with all the dust and screaming and bullets, but he called arty right on target. If he'd been off by fifty meters, those shells would have landed on us.

February 24, 1968

We were patrolling rice paddies in the Mekong a few weeks ago when Sgt. Stuart gave us a break in a palm grove. Cpl. Pinter handed me a postcard his sister had sent him. I read about hippies protesting the war on her campus, but it was the picture on the front that got me. The caption on the back said "Fallingwater by Frank Lloyd Wright." It took my breath away. I asked my folks to send along anything they could find on Wright. Three books came, and I carry them everywhere. The extra weight is worth the burden because they calm me down after patrols. I dream about one of his sketches, a mile-high tower called The Illinois. I see myself at the top, staring out a window at a sky so blue it burns my eyes. I wonder about what kind of house Wright would build in the jungle. Maybe a glass structure incorporating bamboo in a textured weave throughout. Water would flow around the perimeter and along the entryway before dropping off into a waterfall. I'm going to build that place some day.

Dr. Simon finished reading and opened a bottle of water, taking a long drink. Because I was still restrained, she poured some into a cup and held it to my lips.

After I swallowed, she said, "Architecture gave him something to live for."

"He hung pictures of Wright's buildings all over the walls of his study. Many times I caught him in there, sitting at his drafting board, staring at the Guggenheim and Fallingwater, but The Illinois was the one he obsessed over. He told me it wasn't built because God didn't want humans that close to heaven."

She laughed, then asked, "Maybe that was the tower he was talking about when he died?"

"We never...jeez...seems obvious now that you say it."

Simon wrote something in her pad. "Your dad said the tower 'wasn't built because God didn't want humans that close to heaven.' Did he often talk about God?"

I laughed. "Dad thought religion was a scam. He couldn't get over the fact that one group could be arrogant enough to think they _alone_ had it right."

Simon nodded. "But did he talk about having faith?"

"Dad believed in things he could bite or that could bite him."

She laughed. "What do you think about his diary so far?'

"He sounded tired. Like anyone who's been shot at."

"Did you feel that way in Iraq?" she asked.

"Yeah, but at least Dad had leadership he trusted in Sergeant Stuart. My commander was a psycho, for Christ's sake."

"Can you talk about that experience?"

"No, I've said too much."

"You've said almost nothing, Arthur."

"Since I'm already in such great legal shape, I think I'll pass."

"Arthur, I don't need many details, but your troubles with this commander need discussion. At some point, we have to address the trauma he created."

I sighed but said nothing.

"Until we unravel all the conflict that caused you harm, you'll never heal. Do you understand?"

I turned my head away from her, and she left after a few minutes' cajoling.

When I turned back, Aswas was sitting at the foot of my bed. He looked disappointed, as much as he could in that state of decay.

"What? Now you're pissed at me too?" I said.

He shrugged.

"Fuck off. And take your goddamn stink with you." He faded but left some biting flies inside the curtain to torment me the rest of the night.
Chapter 13

After breakfast, Simon sat down and opened a binder. "Arthur, I've done some digging. Eric Larson was your last commander. Killed in Iraq. Correct?"

"Yes."

"How did he die?" she asked.

"Friendly fire."

"Such a shame."

"If you say so."

"Arthur, I know you were at odds but—"

"He tried to kill me."

She looked at the file, searching for details not included. "What happened?"

"He was out of control. I called an air strike...he was killed."

"And you weren't held accountable?"

"Catching Saddam was at stake. Larson almost fucked it up. I stopped him, and that was my get-out-of-jail-free card."

"Good lord. You were in the middle of all that?"

"Just leave it."I asked for more water, and she held the cup for me.

"Thank you for being candid," she said.

"Let's move on," I said quietly. "Any topic other than that bastard."

She reached for my father's journal. "Shall I read?"

"My reward for barking on command."

Simon smirked. "Is that a no?"

"Okay, okay...thank you." The journal skipped large chunks of time as Dad became more disenchanted with combat. The diary closed with two entries from his time in the Iron Triangle.

May 5, 1968

Captain handed us another tunnel-clearing mission, just two days after we cleared a bunker complex in a different sector. We lost six men in that clusterfuck. So last night we humped our ass off so to arrive before dawn. Then we sat and listened. By sunrise we knew which tunnels the VC were actually using and which were probably booby-trapped. Sgt. Stuart picked me as one of three "rabbits" before we assaulted the tunnels. We attacked with the sun at our back so it shined in Charlie's eyes. We killed eight eating their rice topside. The other gooks scrambled underground, and the rabbits went after them. I crawled with my .45 and flashlight. The hole was for gooks so I barely fit. I squirmed along headfirst on all fours in the mud. I heard a click. I'd hit a tripwire and the artillery shell poked out of the wall near my left eye, but it was a fucking dud. The tunnel was humid and reeked of shit and sweat stung my eyes. I came to an intersection. I heard movement to the left and chased it, but my shoulders got pinned in a narrow section. My wriggling loosened the bulb in my flashlight and everything went dark. Charlie whispered, "Toi caca dau, Toi caca dau... I'll kill you, I'll kill you." I heard him slide the safety off his weapon, and a flash lit up the tunnel. It was from my .45. I fired again and blew off the top of his head. I tightened the loose bulb and saw the gook's face. His mouth was open like he wanted to scream.

June 21, 1968

My squad patrolled near the riverbank, and I was ten feet behind point. The river was full of rain, and the rushing water concealed an ambush. Our point man, Martinez, took a round in the helmet as we tumbled over a fallen tree. Martinez grabbed me, but he was dead before we hit the ground. VC bullets blasted the rotten tree I was hiding behind. I called for my men but none answered. The dinks charged but I was already rolling into the river and diving under to avoid their gunfire. I surfaced and grabbed a floating tree limb, but they didn't come after me. I choked on whitewater and hugged the log as the river swept me away. I used my legs to steer and tried getting ashore but the rapids kept dragging me out. I thought of the letters I'd write to the dead soldiers' families. I used a formula to help me get through it. One paragraph of sympathy. One paragraph with a good story about the guy's bravery or sense of humor. The last paragraph was hardest. I'd apologize for breaking my promise to keep their loved one alive. When it finally got shallow I swam to shore. My rifle was gone but I had a knife. I avoided a gook patrol, probably the one that wiped out my squad. I watched them search for a place to cross the river. They carried a few M-16s and U.S. helmets as trophies. I hid until they crossed then moved through the jungle until I saw the orange glow of a cigarette. It was a cherry on guard duty, and he almost shot me when I whispered the password "Hail Mary."

Simon sat quietly while I processed Dad's final entry. I don't know how long she waited, because I went far away. I thought Dad's true calling was being a soldier. Just a kid's goofy theory, but it became my religion. To me, Dad wasn't a frustrated architect, but the God of War. My God of War. And as his son, I wanted to carry his colors into battle.

I cried for a several minutes before realizing that Simon was standing over me with her hand on my shoulder. "The diary is a lot to process. Let it sink in. Don't press. Breathe easy...good," she said. She had the orderlies release my hands so I could eat. She sat with me while I ate tomato soup, chicken salad, and chocolate pudding, and when I finished she said, "I think you'll process this better in your own space, so I'm sending you back to your room. Try to rest. We'll continue tomorrow afternoon."

Back in my room, I slept well, waking only once when I thought I heard Dad whisper, "Help is coming."

I felt weary and sore the next day but wandered out to the rec room during my allotted "social" time. Major Mike and Ranger Alex let me play winner at ping-pong. Mike loved rumors and could bullshit with the best of them. At game point, he tried to distract me with the tale of a nurse coming into this room with a riding crop, asking to be spanked. I served the ball into the net. I asked for a rematch, but an orderly came to take me to therapy. Mike said, "Bet Simon has a riding crop." I could still hear them laughing as Simon's door closed behind me.

It was the usual setup with Simon behind her desk and me on the other side. Except now there was only one guard behind me. "Quite an emotional day yesterday. How are you holding up?" she asked.

"I don't know. Still trying to make sense of it."

"Tell me what you're thinking."

I talked through most of the diary again, using Simon to check my recollections against reality. I said, "I turned those few pages I'd read as a kid into a father who didn't exist."

"Who do you think he really was?" Simon asked.

"I thought he was a god. But he was...just like me."

Simon poured herself some coffee and handed me a cup of water. She pointed out the green sticker on my framed photo.

"Okay, I'll bite, what's it mean?" I said.

"You're healing. By understanding you father, you've found yourself."

"Took long enough."

"Patience and persistence. Don't roll your eyes. Those are vital aspects of therapy."

"Still want to tell my story to the world?"

"Very much so. Are you willing?"

"What the hell, Doc. I'll even sign copies to boost sales."

She laughed and took some time to explain how my case would be a major focus in her book about treatment at PTC. "Now that you've walked with your father in Vietnam, do you think we can talk about _your_ war?"

"I'll try. Hard to explain...feels like I've found a map after being lost for a long time."

A week later, after six months in the hospital, I "celebrated" my thirty-seventh birthday with fellow patients. We ate dry chocolate cake without frosting because it tweaks our blood sugar. We chased the cake with watered-down lemonade. Back in my room, I looked for Abe in the ceiling or the bushy bouquet, but I saw only rows. Rows of seats and then bodies and faces sitting in each row. Belts buckled. Families preparing to land in Phoenix. Surprised by the bumpy monsoon. Trying to be brave, but terrified as they dipped in the wind until the wheels screeched, touching tarmac. Safe with smiles on their faces, until another plane cut through the roof, and fire filled the cabin.

I watched them burn, and the room vibrated around me. I was awake. I realized the whump-whumps were rotor blades shaking the building. My escape-proof window was too high for me to see anything except sunset colors. It sounded like it had landed on the roof, and my room hummed to the bass line of chopper blades. I banged on my door.

The safety window opened. "What do you need?" the guard asked.

"What the hell landed on the roof?"

He raised his eyebrows and produced a small smile. "Landed?"

"Are you seriously telling me you can't hear that?" I yelled over the rattling vibration.

"Settle down and stop shouting or we'll have to bind and medicate. Do you understand?"

I nodded, and he closed the window with the same small smile on his face. I stood in the middle of the room and stared up at the sound. Movement came from above as something solid collided against the ceiling tiles. A tile pulled away over my head, and I backed away from a ladder sliding down. A tall man in a green jump suit descended the ladder, but his head was that of a dragonfly. I followed my instincts and crawled under the bunk.

From under the mattress, I watched the polished black boots step off the ladder and point in my direction. I closed my eyes and pinched my thigh to fight the hallucination.

The man's voice was high-pitched, but it deepened as he controlled it. "Well, well, glad you're still alive. Listen, mole man, I'm too old to drag you out from under there."

I stayed under the bed and heard a loud sigh. He paced the small room before leaning on the wall, inching down until he sat with his legs stretched out toward me. His dragonfly head rested on the floor next to him, and I recognized it as a flight helmet. He drummed his fingers on the top of it and looked under the bed at me. A few white hairs remained on his pink scalp, and he rubbed his chin while offering me a grin. "I won't hurt you, but I need you to come out."

I stopped pinching the skin on my leg and eased out of the fetal position. I crawled out to the wall opposite him and sat on the floor looking at him.

"That's better." He smiled from his seat on the white linoleum.

I recognized his face. "You saved me when I...I...hung myself." I remembered who he claimed to be. "General Patton?"

"Please call me George, or Georgie, if you like. I've come to help if I can."

I looked up at the ceiling tile and tried to put together what the hell was going on. The chopper I heard must've been an air ambulance, and this old dude had to be an inmate who snuck into the ductwork. "How exactly are you gonna help?" I asked.

He interlocked his fingers in his lap. "You mentioned Satan last time. He wants your soul, but I can help you get it back before he finds it."

Definitely an inmate, I figured. "My soul's doing fine." I patted my chest and stood up. "General, have they tried the shock treatments with you yet?"

"Save the sarcasm for the headshrinkers, son. The most important thing you own is scattered in pieces, and if you expect my help finding it, you'd better lose the attitude."

"Got it. Let me just get the guard to help you back to your room, General," I said.

As I got closer to the door, he raised his voice "Arthur Logan. Son of Nick and Becky."

I stopped.

He said, "Brother of John, father of Hank, and husband to Katie."

"How did—"

Now he stood up. "When you crashed those planes together your soul scattered all over the place." He watched me for a beat, then said, "I need you to sit down and listen."

My ears started ringing, and I tasted copper. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. Almost over now, just give it time. My heart slowed, and the ringing faded.

"Sergeant, you about done with the goddamn cat nap?" he asked.

I snapped up in bed, saw the old man still standing over me, and started yelling for help. He rolled his eyes, picked up his helmet and climbed back through the ceiling, pulling the ladder behind him.

Four orderlies rushed in with a straitjacket and syringe. I was grateful when the needle slipped under my skin. Some hours later, light tapping on my cheek brought me around.

"Feel any better?" George said. He had his hand over my mouth. "I'll take my hand away, if you stay quiet."

I surrendered with a nod. George took his hand off my mouth and unbuckled my straitjacket. He said, "Sorry I frightened you. Hospitals seem to bring out the worst in me. I'm here because your father asked me to keep an eye on you."

"My dad is dead."

"Sergeant, I need you to keep up. I'm dead too." George sat on my bed. "I met your dad when I transported folks to the place your dad and Wright built."

"Frank Lloyd Wright?" I asked.

"One and only."

"What did they build?"

"Huge tower. Built it for victims of genocide, war...it's complicated, but this tower points lost souls in the right direction. I can't tell you how it works, but it does."

"Can you take me there?" I asked.

"Maybe. I've only assisted the dead. I don't know where you can and can't go until we get to The Scale."

"Scale?"

"Next stop after death. Makes you find balance. I know that doesn't make much sense, but it's where the pieces of your soul disbursed," he said.

"How many pieces?"

"I don't know. My concern is that some might be inaccessible because you're still alive."

I wanted to shout for the guards again, but they'd just stuff me back in the jacket. "How am I alive without a soul?"

"Won't be for long if we don't get it back."

Still laying on the bed, I shook my head slowly.

Patton pulled a paper from his chest pocket. He handed me an old postcard, from a girl I didn't know, about Vietnam protests on her campus. I flipped it over to a faded image of Fallingwater. As I held it, I knew it was the postcard that inspired my dad in Vietnam. "He sent this?"

"Thought you wouldn't believe me," George said.

"Why didn't he come?"

"Like most in The Scale, he can't cross over."

While I examined the card, George said, "The tower rescues wayward souls who used to be easy pickings for Satan. Your dad thinks Satan wants your soul as revenge."

"Does he have some of it already?"

"No. Because you're still alive, it's invisible to Satan. Good thing I was nearby when you tried to kill yourself."

"If I'd died..."

"He would've rounded up your soul in a snap."

I whispered, "I thought suicides went to hell anyway."

George shook his head. "God doesn't punish people who take their lives. They need him more than anyone else."

I wrestled with all of it, but mostly with the reality that I was either experiencing the ultimate meltdown or...what? A miracle?

George said, "Satan will wait until you find a part of yourself and then try to take it."

"And you don't know how many pieces or where they are?" I asked.

"I just know where the first part is, but I'm more concerned with you getting trapped or injured. I just don't know how The Scale will tolerate you."

I looked at the postcard, rubbing the image with my thumbs. "Does my dad think I can do it?"

"Yes, as long as you're with me we have a chance."

"I've never believed in God or heaven or any of it," I said.

He nodded and took a minute before answering, "You just need faith in yourself."

It probably seemed like seconds to George, but it felt like hours getting to my lips, "When do we go?"

"Now." George laughed. He opened a rucksack by the ladder and handed me a flight suit and boots that matched his. "Put this gear on. Your hospital scrubs won't cut it."

He talked while I dressed. "This is a search-and-rescue operation, and I can get you in the vicinity, but you have to find the missing piece on your own."

"What's a soul look like? Am I tracking ghosts or what?"

George laughed. "Usually they look like body fragments."

"Are they gory like with bomb victims?"

"Easy, Arthur. Shattered souls are rare, but I've tracked quite a few. I don't know what you'll find, but when I tracked mine down, I found arms, legs...they'll call to you."

"Why did yours break?" I asked.

George ignored me and said, "I've seen a few exceptions. One soldier had to chase down music. Once he heard the whole tune, that section of his spirit was recovered."

"You only help soldiers?"

"Usually."

"Did he find all the songs?" I asked.

"Enough to move on."

"To heaven?"

George gave a small grin. "Don't know. I haven't moved on yet."

I shook my head and finished tying my boots. George said, "I know you have a million questions, but let's get going."

My brain bounced in time as we climbed through the ceiling to a moonlit rooftop and a Pave Hawk helicopter. The chopper's long refueling stem extended from the nose like a knight's lance. The rotors fired, and the sound of spinning blades caused me to tuck and run as I'd been trained. My mind slid sideways, but my feet kept moving into the black metal bird. By the time my focus returned, jumping out was no longer an option. We were a hundred feet up and flying east toward a quarter moon.

George gave me a flight helmet so we could talk in the rotor wash. He said, "Thought you'd be comfortable in a Pave Hawk, considering how much time you spent in 'em. We're gonna hit 190 knots, so buckle up."

While we banked through a series of turns, I was pinned in my seat, looking out the open door at streaking starlight. I was disoriented and could barely see George seated opposite me in the cargo area. I fixated on the green lights of the cockpit's instrument panel. I freaked when I noticed there wasn't a pilot. "Who the fuck is flying?"

"I am," George said. "With my mind. Relax. I'm good at it."

This helicopter ride was iron evidence of my insanity. I talked to avoid dwelling on the idea. "Is The Scale like limbo?"

"Some call it that. But like I said, it makes you find balance, so I call it The Scale."

I felt sick.

George asked, "So you were in the air force?"

"Yeah, combat air controller."

"What rank?"

"Master Sergeant," I said.

"Some of the best men I ever commanded were NCOs," said George. "They feared failure less than officers." He was obviously uncomfortable and tipped his chin down while looking away.

"Why are you allowed to cross over but my dad isn't?"

"Don't know for certain, but the work I do is unique. Regrettably, I'm the resident expert on locating broken souls."

"Can we go to the tower?"

He said, "I can only take you near your lost parts, and I don't have the whole map—just one location at a time. If I try to steer the chopper toward the tower or somewhere else, the bird ignores my command."

"How'd you learn all the ground rules?"

"Trial and error, but don't feel bad; I'm still learning them after sixty years. We're getting close to the landing zone. I need to prep you."

As we descended into a heavily wooded area, George pointed to something in the back of the chopper. Dawn revealed a black box lashed to the bulkhead. It looked like a coffin.

He handed me a compass. "When you rescue a portion of yourself and put it in that box, you'll feel much better."

The coppery sensation filled my mouth again, but George steadied me. "Your objective is on a compass heading of twenty-nine degrees," he said while checking a map as we landed in a clearing.

"What's my objective?"

"Again, I don't know exactly, but you will know when you see it. Sorry I can't go with you, but rules are rules, I'm afraid," he said.

"How will you find me?"

"When you have what you're looking for, I'll get a kind of signal, like a bee buzzing in my ear, and I'll come running. Now go. Time can be funny here, so let's not waste any."

After staring at him for a second, I stepped out of the chopper. He handed me a waterpack and flashlight along with the compass. He gave a thumbs-up, and I almost flipped him off, but gave a half-hearted wave instead.

"What the fuck?" I said softly while watching him fly away. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, opened my eyes, sighed, scanned the tree line, and repeated what George had said. "Gotta find all your pieces."

Fear choked the laugh I tried to force out. What about Satan? I had no weapons. I checked my compass with a shaking hand. I remembered Dad had sent George to help, and that eased my stress. I let the compass spin and found twenty-nine degrees. My heart was a marching cadence, and I kept time with the rapid beat as I set off through the pines.
Chapter 14

I walked for an hour, checking the heading every few minutes, wondering when I'd wake up in the hospital bed. George and the helicopter were impossible, and dreams this vivid could easily come from my daily handful of drugs. But I smelled the pinesap and heard dry needles crunching under my boots. The water was cold on my tongue, and the compass dial adjusted when I moved to confuse it. If it was just a mirage, the straitjacket express waited for me when this ride ended.

As I followed the compass over forested hills, I wondered what the piece of my soul would look like—smoky apparition, stone monument, or wooden trinket. Was sight even the right sense to search with? George said one guy chased music. I slowed to a crawl, afraid I'd miss tiny clues. After a while, I tripped over a root and got so pissed that I ran, as if my soul was sprinting away from me. The sun started to drop, and I calmed to a walk. Now I was sure I'd run past whatever I was looking for. So as daylight faded, I trotted back and camped in the spot where my furious dash started. I swept the area with the flashlight and crashed on the pine needles, exhausted.

I woke up groggy and dehydrated, but I was still in the forest. It gave me hope that this wasn't a dream, that I really was here for something substantial—not chasing shadows. After filling my waterpack from the icy stream, I started out jogging, to warm my bones in the cold morning. Along the rapid stream, I breathed fresh air, grateful to be away from the hospital. Massive trout jumped for bugs, and I wished George had provided fishing line.

After an hour or so, I paused to rest. I heard animals scuttling in the bushes, or it may have been blood rushing through my ears. I sipped the waterpack and wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my forearm. I was close—irresistibly pulled like a magnet drifting toward another until they touch. Eventually, the compass led me to a red rock mesa reminiscent of Sedona. Familiarity eased my fatigue while I trekked along the ruddy surface. Under white heat, I walked two miles until the ground dipped down again into the pine valley. Halfway down the rolling slope, I saw a red sign with hand-painted white lettering. The wooden rectangle was nailed to a tree about five feet up the trunk:

You look lost

I stopped and stared at the message. I stood still, searching for traces of the author. Nothing but a cottontail stirred, so I moved cautiously, holding the flashlight like a bludgeon. The next sign was maybe a hundred yards beyond the first—same size and color, nailed to a tree:

But have no fear

A hundred yards again:

My tired friend

Same interval:

A hand I'll give

A rhythm I knew well:

Around the bend

The familiar payoff:

BURMA-SHAVE

I stopped and touched the sign. I laughed and looked around, but I was alone with the rhyme. Raspberries were everywhere, and I chewed them to juice as I walked past the signs again. Feeling that continuous pull, I went another quarter mile along the compass heading until I heard a fishing reel spinning. In the river ahead, a man was fly fishing. George said Satan would wait until I'd found the piece and then try to take it. I crawled close enough to see that the man didn't have a dragon tattoo along his neck, but I couldn't see his face because his back was to me.

I came up behind him and saw wrinkled skin on his neck and forearms. He wore khakis, a navy flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, and a floppy red fishing hat embedded with flies. He cast from shore while I closed the gap. I picked up a rock when I was five feet away, and he said, "About time you got here." He still didn't turn because he had hooked what looked like a lunker from the bend in his fly rod. "Grab that net, young man, and give me a hand with Moby."

I dropped the rock, stepped into the shallows up to my ankles, and scooped the fat trout into the net. I turned to the man and said, "This brookie weighs at least nine pounds."

"It's at least fifteen—give an old man..." I stared at my dead grandfather, "the benefit of the doubt."

I tripped backward and sat down in the freezing water with a splash. He reached out and helped me to my feet, and we were face to face.

"Easy now, let's get you on dry land," he said and led me to his camp. "Your belly needs something warm in it. I'll fry up some fish and make coffee." He wrapped a blanket around me and started a fire. Pulling off his hat, he sat and cleaned the fish and breaded the fillets. Still bald, but he looked younger than I recalled. The skillet hissed when Grandpa laid the fish on the iron, and he whistled a soundtrack to accompany our impossible lunch.

"What's that tune again?" I asked.

" _In the Mood_."

"Glenn Miller, right?"

"Atta boy, Arthur," he said.

When his infamous "motor oil" coffee finished brewing, he handed me a steaming plate of fish and buttered biscuits, along with a warm mug.

I ate slowly, steadily. I expected him to vanish.

"Looks like Minnesota," I said.

"It sure does. Liked the look of it so much I decided to stay. Probably too long." He took a bite and said, "You look a bit ragged. How you doing?"

"Better now that I'm eating this fish. By the way, I loved your signs."

He laughed. "I hoped they might relax you."

"It worked. Thought of our old game on the lake. But how'd you know I was coming?"

"This is an odd world," he said. "Sometimes it talks to me. Don't raise your eyebrow like that. I don't mean speeches from the clouds, more like a daydream. Told me to meet you here. Which makes me wonder, if you're still alive, how'd you get here?" he asked and sipped coffee.

"A helicopter brought me. This crusty old man handed me a compass, pushed me out, and flew away. Claims he's General Patton—can you believe it?

"I can believe anything in this place." He took a bite of trout and chased it with coffee. "Listen, I know you're in trouble. Can you tell me what's going on?"

I swallowed some biscuit. "The short version is that I'm in a hospital right now because I...I killed a lot of people. Not on purpose, but the damage is done."

"I'm damn sorry to hear it. And how is Patton supposed to help?"

"Well, I guess my soul broke into pieces when I killed everyone. Patton said there's a part of it around here."

He smiled. "I have something at my cabin. I thought it _might_ belong to you, but now I'm sure. I hooked it in the stream not long ago...too important to throw back, so I kept it safe."

"What is it?"

"I think I'd best just take you to my place and show you. Describing it might startle the both of us."

"Grandpa..."

"What is it?"

"Patton claimed that Satan will try to take it."

"For the place your father built?"

"How did you know?"

"He's my son. Think I don't keep tabs on his success?" He grinned. "Everyone knows about the tower. He finally built his dream."

"And Satan's pissed."

"Well, let's get moving and worry about that on the way."

We took down the camp and buried the fire under wet sand. He collapsed his fly rod and put his gear in a small rucksack. We followed the stream along a groomed path. Popple trees and blueberry bushes provided shade and easy snacking while Grandpa led at a brisk pace.

"Nice job keeping this path clear," I said.

"I don't do a thing. It services itself, near as I can tell," he said.

"How long have you been here?"

"Probably twenty years, but time does a different dance here."

"So I was told."

Grandpa turned to say something but stopped. He held his finger to his lips. His eyes wandered the brush around us. He smiled awkwardly. "Funny old ears playing tricks on me. Let's hurry now. I think rain is on the way."

I looked up at clear blue sky, but he was moving quickly away before I could question him. A few minutes later I said, "You were a skeleton when you died, but now look at you."

He didn't stop, but grinned over his shoulder. "I don't have a mirror, but when I see my reflection in the water, I swear I'm getting younger."

His stride didn't relax until we reached his cabin. He let me in and stood in the doorway, looking back out into the woods. He searched the trees slowly back and forth.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing, nothing at all."

"If it's trouble, you need to tell me," I said.

He smiled and patted me on the back. "No trouble. I promise."

I settled on the bench at his kitchen table while he put away his gear. In the adjacent sitting room, dozens of books lined the walls, and a small easel in the corner held the start of a landscape painting. He took a leather sack from the bookcase and pulled up a chair across the table from me.

"This might throw you a bit," he said and handed me the sack. "Gotta be what you're looking for."

I loosened the drawstring and opened it. I dropped it on the table, expecting it to crawl away. "Jesus, Grandpa."

He had a powerful, quiet voice. "Look at it." I pulled the hand out of the sack. "Notice the scar," he said.

It was clean at the stump and had a ragged scar running from ring finger to wrist. I looked at the back of my own right hand. It was identical.

"That open mouth of yours is ripe for a fly," he laughed.

A memory sat down like an old friend, putting its arm around my shoulder. I was fourteen again, arriving with attitude to burn at Grandpa's lake house. We came in July to escape Arizona's oven. The fight between Dad and Grandpa, which normally took a few days to boil over, happened the first night during dinner.

Grandpa asked Dad, "Son, what are you working on these days?"

Dad didn't look up from his plate. "Same old cookie-cutter houses, Dad."

Grandpa said, "You know, you need to—"

Dad stood up in the middle of Grandpa's annual speech and left the room. He stayed in the bedroom reading for most of the next nine days. Mom worked in the garden and shopped in town to avoid the conflict. My older brother had successfully begged to stay behind in Arizona for his best friend's sixteenth birthday bash. I became Grandpa's fishing buddy.

Locals called Trout Lake "The Dead Sea," but when I was on the water with Grandpa, our boat was alive with laughter. His best story was how he once smashed through an outhouse seat with a hatchet to escape a hungry grizzly. The image of this massive bear clawing down at him while he crouched in shit always made me laugh so hard that I almost fell out of the boat.

The best part of our time on the water was the Burma-Shave game. The company's roadside jingles were a part of Grandpa's life that he fondly shared with me. He even used old Burma-Shave boards to build his dock. He loved walking the "planks of verse." In our game, we alternated lines to create jingles in the style of the real signs.

"Shiny razor," he would say.

"Slices through," I would say.

"The milky shroud."

"Covering the blade."

"Like creamy clouds."

"Burma-Shave!"

That day, bantering poems kept us occupied while we waited for the fish to strike, but they also intervened when the knife slipped. It was a aaaperfect time to fish—early morning, no wind, and grassfly hatchlings everywhere. Bass and walleye went ballistic and grabbed everything we cast. We easily caught the limit and trolled home to drop our catch in the bait box attached to the dock.

We put all but the biggest walleye in the bait box. Then off came our shoes and socks, and we rolled our pants above the knee. We stood in the shallows with the dock as our butcher's block. The eight-pound walleye wriggled under my left hand, so I used a wet cloth to hold the angry fish against the plank. As I pressed the knife down hard to behead it, the walleye flipped violently, and the blade slipped into a dock nail and snapped. Momentum carried my right hand toward the jagged steel. It sliced through my palm, tendons, and muscle. Blood sprayed everywhere while I screamed.

Grandpa was calm as any medic I witnessed in Iraq. He had pliers in his tackle box, and he started whistling _In the Mood_ while he steadied my wrist and gripped the broken knife with the pliers. He pulled the shard out and applied pressure with a clean rag while walking me to the garage where "Old Faithful" waited. The rusty yellow Jeep fired up on the second try and belched smoke down the dirt road to the highway.

I was hyperventilating as the blood soaked through the third towel, but Grandpa started the Burma-Shave game right in the middle of my panic. He recited maybe four verses by himself, then started the fifth round, but waited for me to take the second line.

"Be careful when cleaning..." He patiently waited. So I went.

"Fish that are flapping," I said.

"It's harder than dicing," he continued.

"A diamond or whiskers."

"Just use a hammer for slicing," he said.

Then together, we said, "Burma-Shave."

My breathing slowed, and my ears stopped ringing. We arrived at the small emergency clinic in Crosslake, and I left with a black zipper on both sides of my hand.

Now I gawked at the raised pink worm on the back of my right hand. The identical four-inch scar existed on the severed hand lying on the table. I looked at Grandpa. "One of your signs today said, 'A hand I'll give.'"

"Couldn't resist," he laughed, and I joined him until I saw a shadow pass by the window behind him. He saw panic on my face. "What?" he said.

"A shadow," I said. We stood up and went to the picture window in the main room. We stared out, but I couldn't see anything in the trees or near the cabin.

Grandpa said, "Must've scared it—"

Bump...bump...bump...bump along the roof like small feet running. "What the hell?" Grandpa said and grabbed a heavy walking stick near the door. He handed me the iron skillet when shadows passed in front of all the windows at once with bumping on the roof like scrambling feet.

"What can we do?" I asked.

"Sit tight. Maybe they'll get bored and move on."

A shrieking started, and the piercing noise made our ears bleed. We dropped to our knees and pressed our hands over our ears, but it was useless against the volume. All the windows vibrated and shattered. The room filled with dark shapes, and one grabbed the sack out of my hand. Grandpa lunged for it and snatched the bag free before the shadow flew out the window. The black ghosts swarmed him and tried to take the piece of my soul. His arms passed through them, but they tore his shirt and scratched his face.

I pulled the sack from the mass of black smoke around Grandpa and crawled under the kitchen table, curling my body around the bag. The shadows flipped the table over and covered me in blackness. They crushed me in suffocating blackness. My skin blistered in the heat, and I tried to scream, but black smoke filled my lungs, and I choked. Claws raked my face and back. I kicked, but my legs struck nothing. Something strong clutched the sack and almost had it when a hole of light opened over my head.

I heard a voice shouting, and more light washed over me as the shadows ripped open around me. It was Patton. On my back, I watched him grab the shadows and rip them in half like giant sheets of black paper. They exploded in ash as he tore them all apart.

I crawled to Grandpa, who was slumped by the front door with blood on his face and tattered clothes. "Grandpa." I patted his cheek, and he opened his eyes after a minute.

"What the hell were those?" he whispered.

"Hell's where they're from," Patton said from the kitchen. He sat on chair, breathing hard. "Satan's hunting dogs. I call 'em wraiths."

"How did you do that to them? I couldn't touch them, let alone grab one," I said.

"Took me over twenty years to figure that one out. They scare the shit outta you, and that's their defense. Once you stop being afraid, you can take care of them pretty easy." Patton nodded toward Grandpa. "How's he doing?"

"Help me get him in a chair." Patton and I lifted Grandpa to a chair and got some water into him. I wiped the blood off his face, and the scratches beneath were gone. "What the—" I said.

Patton looked at Grandpa's face. "Once you kill a wraith, the damage it's done vanishes along with it."

"Would've been nice to know that before you fucking flew away yesterday," I said.

"If I had, you would have shit yourself and never made it this far," George snapped.

I opened my mouth, and pain stabbed along my entire spine. I dropped to one knee. "Fuck!"

"Think we need to go," George said. They helped me outside, where the Pave Hawk sat with its rotors still spinning.

"Thanks, Grandpa. Sorry it ended like this." We embraced.

Grandpa handed me the leather bag containing my hand and said, "Take care, my boy."

"Will you be okay?" I asked.

"Probably not, but it's time to move on anyway."

Patton shook Grandpa's hand. "Look after him, General."

"I'll try."

The pain along my spine came back as we lifted off, but it receded gradually the longer we were in the air. "Will he be all right?" I asked.

George said, "I think so. They wanted that hand. Not him. But he needs to move on like he said." He took a deep a breath. "Forget about that for now. You need to put that piece in the black box."

I unbuckled, and George told me to put only the hand inside. It felt cold and supple as I placed it gently in the bottom, where it immediately vanished. Stunned, I tried to ask what happened but had to scramble back to my harness as we accelerated.

We talked on the headsets. He said, "The box is a kind of portal. You'll probably notice an increase in strength and might even sleep better, but the improvement will be slight because the piece was small."

"Sorry I lost my head," I said.

"Forget it. I nearly pissed my pants the first time I dealt with those nasty suckers," he said.

My back was loosening. "The pain in my spine is almost gone," I said.

"We're close to the hospital. I think The Scales just wanted you to know that it was time to leave."

"Not very subtle," I said.

We landed on the hospital roof, and he followed me back to my room, which remained undisturbed with the ladder in place. I took off the flight suit and boots and handed them to George.

He said, "You have a long way to go, and you'll have to be patient and ornery. Not trying to pep talk you, but now you know how rough it can be. I believe you can do it, but it won't happen unless _you_ believe it. "

He replaced the straitjacket on me and helped me into bed. George cocked his head to the right and looked under my bed. "Come on out, boy. I won't hurt you."

I leaned over the bed and looked. "Who the hell you talking to?"

"I should take him with me."

"Aswas?"

"If that's an Iraqi boy, then yes."

"I can't see him. How can you?"

George said, "I can't, but I know he's here. Just being shy, I guess. You can show yourself. I'll take you to your family. To your father."

Aswas appeared when George said, "father."

George looked at the decomposing child. "Come along now. Your father can't wait to see you."

Aswas didn't move. He looked terrified and shook his head. I tried to comfort him, but George put his hand up to let me know he wanted to handle it.

"You think your father is angry with you?" George asked.

Aswas rocked back and forth on his feet and hugged his body tightly.

"Your father is very proud of you," George said. "Of the way you stood against that airplane with just a rifle. He wants to see you again."

Aswas walked toward George and held out his palms, pleading for something I didn't understand. "It's the truth," George said.

Aswas nodded and kept his skeletal hands out, and the old general led him up the ladder. George looked down at me from the top of ladder and said, "Get some rest." He pulled the ladder up behind him.

I closed my eyes when the guard came in to check on me. He rattled the straps on the jacket and noticed a buckle undone.

"Guess I missed one," he muttered.
Chapter 15

After Dr. Simon noted my "considerable improvement and a focused desire to heal," Katie and Hank were finally granted visitation. The meeting room was just long enough for Hank to get a running start to leap at me. I welcomed his weight and hugged Katie in the other arm. She smelled of baby shampoo and lavender.

"You look so thin," Katie sobbed.

"I'm in training."

She looked up with a weak grin. "For what?"

"I'm gonna make a break for it, but I have to get skinny enough to flush myself down the can." She laughed and so did the guards, seeing me as human for a second or two.

We sat at a white plastic table. Hank was on my lap with Katie next to me. She squeezed my hand as if guiding a child across a busy street. Katie asked a hundred questions about my care and daily routine. As I talked through the nuts and bolts of my treatment, I saw in her face all the hope I'd forgotten.

Hank was dead serious. "Daddy, did they hypnotize you with the big watch swinging in front of your eyes? Did they make you bark like a dog or act like a monkey?"

I almost laughed, but he was so earnest that I only let a grin slip. "No, pal, but the doctors are helping me feel better. I'm even having good dreams again. In the best one, I visited my Grandpa." I paused, knowing that the experience was more than a dream, but I didn't want to sound deranged. "He took me fishing and showed me his cabin."

"In heaven?" Hank said.

"Well, he was pretty happy. Had everything he needed just by thinking of it. If that's not heaven, I don't know what else to call it."

"What did he say to you?" Katie asked.

"He told me he was looking out for me and gave me a present."

They both asked, "Present?"

"He gave me something I'd lost. Made me feel better, stronger."

"What did he give you, Dad?"

"A piece of my soul."

Sleep ignored me again after my family left. I made fists in the shower to keep their smell on my palms. I tried to mimic the rhythm of my son's voice by finger-tapping my chest all night. Memories of Katie finally helped me rest.

The first time I saw her was in Golden Gate Park in April 1992. After Desert Storm, the air force sent me to language school in Monterey to learn Arabic. One weekend on leave, I took a bus to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, hoping to see sunbathing women, a seasonal migration, which my buddy had described in staggering detail. Rain thwarted that fantasy at first, so I stood under an awning drinking hot chocolate. But the wind arrived, and blue sky broke through, bringing life to the park. I sat on a bench overlooking a large stretch of grass and took off my T-shirt to dry.

As she jogged by in a tight red tank top and small black shorts, a little brunette mocked me. "More sun block, snowman."

I laughed and blinked, the glare off my milky chest blinding me. "Hey, think how tan you'll look next to me at dinner tonight!" I yelled, and she flashed a smile about two strides later. I was ill-equipped to chase her in flip-flops, but instinct took over. Unfortunately she was fast, and my flapping seemed to spur her on. It was over a mile before she slowed to a walk near the windmill on the park's west end. I shuffled up out of breath and didn't know what to say.

She said, "Great shoes. I thought stalkers were sneaky."

I held up the "wait one second finger" and put my hands on my knees. She rested her hands on her hips, and I had maybe five seconds to salvage this.

"Just a humble soldier out jogging. If the bad haircut doesn't scare you, how about a beer?" She grimaced, and I scrambled. "In a public place, so you won't need the rape whistle." She laughed, showed me the whistle, and agreed to one drink.

The fact that her dad served in Vietnam bought me time for a second drink and an actual phone number, which she answered, and I saw her every weekend for two months. On one memorable date, we ate chowder in sourdough bowls by the bay.

"This makes eight straight Saturdays. Is it me or the city?" she asked.

"I really do love...this town."

She punched my arm and laughed.

"I've thought about your laugh every day since we met."

"Sure it wasn't my wet shirt?"

"Maybe a little."

After dinner we walked by the water while drinking coffee. Katie was teaching elementary school and liked her art class because, "the kids stay focused on projects with their faces scrunched up, not caring about the glue and glitter all over the place."

"Forget the mess in front of you and have fun," I said, and she nodded. "No wonder you like me." She laughed and reached for my hand.

"I never thought my boyfriend would be a soldier."

"Boyfriend?" I smiled. She leaned in and kissed me.

We could see our breath in the night air. "Teaching sounds like a good fit for you," I said. "I'm hoping for an instructor's slot myself when I'm done here."

"Think the military is your _career_?"

"Not sure what else I'd do."

Katie looped her arm around my elbow. "After Vietnam, my dad couldn't wait to get out," she said.

"This won't make much sense...I think my dad liked combat, but not the killing. So he got out." We walked in silence for a while.

"My father was terrified of the jungle," Katie said. "Were you scared in Desert Storm?"

"No, not really." I sipped my coffee. "I think I was born for it."

"What about...the killing?"

"No. I didn't mean that. It's hard to explain." I walked while I tried to find the words. "Lives are saved by what I do. Every radio call matters. I can't find that somewhere else."

We walked in the cold air for awhile. "If it's who you are...if you feel called...you should listen," she said.

"I tried ear plugs, but that didn't work."

"Okay, make fun while I try to understand you," Katie said.

"Sorry, easier to crack jokes than say 'I love you.'"

She stopped walking. "Love? I say 'boyfriend' and you come back with 'love'?"

"I'm competitive. What can I say?"

A few months later, I completed the language course and was awarded an instructor's slot at the Combat Control School in North Carolina. Katie came down to Monterey with her parents for my graduation ceremony. We went out for dinner to celebrate, and I pulled Katie's father aside as the ladies got us a table.

"Tom, I've known you for about thirty minutes, but I want to tell you that I love your daughter. I'd like your permission to marry her."

Tom was flustered but managed to grin. "I shoulda known you'd be old-fashioned and put me on the spot like this."

I smiled and shrugged.

"Arthur, I have to say I wasn't thrilled when my daughter fell for a soldier." My face flushed and he put a hand on my shoulder. "But you have a...strength, if that's the right word, that I didn't have. Vietnam still haunts me. And I'd hate to see that happen to you...to both of you."

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to nod but that felt wrong, so I just put my hands in my pockets.

"You have my permission, but only if she says yes." Tom laughed and patted me on the back.

After dessert, I'd arranged for the waiter to bring champagne, and I got on one knee. Katie's mom burst into tears, so I waited a few seconds, but then Katie and her dad joined the sob chorus. I bit the inside of my cheek hard to keep from laughing.

I tasted blood as Katie said, "Yes."
Chapter 16

Dr. Simon drummed the knuckles of one hand with the fingertips of the other. For the third time, I repeated details about visiting my grandfather. She sharpened her pencil twice while scribbling notes about my recovered hand. George hadn't returned in over a month, and I decided to talk with her about it. I was more afraid of losing the momentum I had gained after recovering the hand than I was about her reaction.

I told her when I killed Medusa, missile fragments from the airstrike damaged nerves in my spine that made me lose feeling in my hands intermittently. But since I'd found that piece of myself, my right hand hadn't gone numb.

Simon was pleased but still pushed me. "Arthur, we've discussed it briefly, but you called in the attack that caused that injury to your back. Is that correct?"

"The target was too close, and shrapnel hit me in the right side and near my spine. The concussion I suffered made it all hazy. It's still not that clear."

She said, "Head injuries can certainly steal memories, but you said Commander Larson was the target, and that you meant to kill him."

"Yes."

She paused to see if I'd go any further, then said, "Well, your subconscious has created an amazing tool in George. Your interaction with him seems to be repairing both psychological _and_ physical wounds."

I knew George was more than imaginary, but arguing about it would only plant red flags in my file. Then again, he hadn't returned, and doubt sat on me like a sandbag. When I finally heard the Pave Hawk again, I woke up with a pounding heart. The chopper's rotors thumped above, and soon the ceiling tile slid sideways. The ladder dropped and tapped against the linoleum. George climbed down, and I was so grateful that I forgot how fucking crazy this was.

"Wasn't sure if I'd see you again," I said. "How's Aswas?"

"Sorry. Took a while to figure out where the next part of you is located." He sat on my bed. "As for the boy, he's with his father again. Befriending him like you did was more important than you realize. Might have lost his way permanently."

"Least I could do after killing him."

"The boy decided to fight. What could you do?"

"Not a damn thing, but I don't have to like it."

George said, "No, but you have to get past it."

I sat on the edge of the bed next to him and crossed my arms.

George said, "Ready to continue the search?"

"Any word on my grandfather?"

"He 's moved on. It was time."

"Because I put him in danger with those...wraiths."

"He'd sacrifice his little fishing cabin a million times to save you."

"Fuck, George! That's not the point. I'd just like to get fixed without putting everyone I care about in jeopardy."

George stayed calm but stern. "I understand. You can defeat the wraith, but not by worrying. Courage is your best weapon against Satan's pets. They run and hide from it."

"How many pets does he have?"

"I've only seen the wraiths. Heard that he uses golems at times. I don't know any beyond those."

"Golems? Like 'my precious' and all that _Lord of the Rings_ stuff?"

"No. Elemental creatures—made of mud, from what I understand."

"Can you tear them apart too?"

"No. Running's your best option with those."

"Terrific," I said.

"Now, this next quest takes place in familiar territory." George paused and scratched his head. "But you'll be dealing with the undead."

"Another 'pet' you forgot to mention?"

He shook his head. "There are folks who hang onto the living world and refuse to leave. They usually end up making a mess."

"Like ghosts?" I asked.

"Yes, but you can touch them, and they can touch you."

We climbed into the helicopter and flew north toward Phoenix. The heat blasted us as we landed in a mountain park. Phoenix had somehow kept developers off thousands of desert acres weaving through the city. They even maintained a trail network through the mountains, and we landed near a trailhead.

"This is the Sunset Alley trail," I said. "That's what I called it anyway."

"You know it well?" asked George.

"In high school, we'd walk in with a beer cooler and watch the sunset." I pointed at some of the spots where we'd sit with our cold beers. "I only know the first half mile of the trail. Think it's eleven or twelve miles long."

"You'll be going the distance today. Probably farther," George said.

"Where will I find the zombie?"

"Not a zombie. Ill-tempered, but I doubt he'll try to eat your brain. He's somewhere along the trail. Trying to get home."

"Needs my help."

"That's it in a nutshell."

"What's waiting at home for him?" I asked.

"That I don't know." George handed me a waterpack. "One thing about the undead, if they start telling you what they want, it's best to let them finish. They don't take to interruptions well. Apt to get violent."

I exhaled. "Anything else?"

"Keep drinking and fill up whenever you can. Damn hot today."

"Think the wraiths will attack?"

George scanned the sky and said, "Probably. If you don't think you can stand against them, then run. Being dumb won't get you bonus points."

He wished me luck, and I walked to the trailhead. My boots were broken in enough for hiking, but the flight suit was a hotbox. I unzipped the suit, pulled it down, and tied the sleeves around my waist, then put the waterpack over my damp T-shirt. I considered jogging, but the heat was so intense that a fast walk seemed smarter. I thought the undead might give himself away with a rotting smell, but then I remembered that anything dying in the desert draws a crowd, especially of birds. I followed circling hawks to a dry wash and let my nose seek him out from there. I'd consumed a third of my water on the mile hike so far, and I paused to relieve myself on a bush.

A raspy voice from the ground said, "Piss on me and you'll lose a pecker."

I jumped back and yelped. A partial skeleton lay in the weeds with one arm and the ribcage exposed. He was clothed in rags with strands of muddy hair covering his remaining eye. Decay danced in my nose. His voice was dry and harsh. "Water?"

I cupped water in my palm and brought it to his mouth. He lapped at it with a rotting tongue but the water fell through his torn-out throat. "Hard to drink. Scavengers picked me apart." He swatted flies away from his ribs. "Once the monsoons ripened me, coyotes took my foot and arm, and a hawk clawed out an eye. Maggots ate my innards."

I interrupted, "Sir, I'm sorry—"

He sprang from the dust on skeletal legs and wrapped his bony arm around my neck. Pressing his rotting jaw up to my chin, he said, "Let me speak!"

I pushed at his spine, but he swung around to my back and wrapped what was left of his legs around my waist. He flipped his one arm under my chin and could've easily choked me. His head was up on my shoulder, and his rotten breath poured over my face.

"I have what you came for," he said. "But only after you do what I say."

I'd learned my lesson, so I just nodded my head.

"I walked this desert in the middle of summer with no damn water. The heat snapped me like a dry branch." His mouth was right next to my ear, and flies buzzed around his skull. "Now the powers that be finally sent someone to take me home."

He paused, so I risked a question. "Will they be ready to see you...like this?"

He pressed a jagged fingernail against my cheek. "My boy's gonna die today. Vessel in his head's gonna pop. Gotta get home before it happens. If we don't make it in time, I'll feed what you came for to the coyotes." He was quivering now, and little pieces of his remaining flesh were coming loose and dropping on my shirt and into the dirt around my feet.

Even in the hundred-degree heat, having a corpse on my back made me shiver. "How do I know you have it?"

"You know I do."

It was true. Just like the force that pulled me to my grandfather. I was drawn to this rotting man on my back. "I'll carry you home," I said, sounding more confident than I felt.

"We'll have to take the main trail through the mountains, unless you can explain my dead body to a cab driver," he said.

"It's summer. The trail will be empty. How far?"

"End of the trail," he said.

I dry swallowed. The temperature was blistering. "Gotta be ten miles at least," I said.

"So start running, shitbird!"

I adjusted the waterpack so it buffered me from his sharp ribs. I started trotting on the dusty trail, and sweat poured down my face. The long trail was fairly flat and easy, but it would soon be 120 degrees with little shade along the route. I considered asking exactly where we were headed, but his teeth were too close my neck, so I concentrated on avoiding rocks that could snap my ankle.

"Can I ask your name?" I said.

"Run, fucker," he hissed.

I increased the pace while my mind drifted to running in Iraq with Medusa setting the pace for OD6; those epic desert treks almost killed me. We were a few miles along when we came to an underpass beneath a busy street. Luckily there was a water station, so I filled up and let the spigot spray over my head. The water scalded at first but cooled as it came from deeper pipes. The skeleton drank again, but the water dripped out his throat and down his ribs into the dirt. We jogged through the underpass with car echoes and a breeze following us. Then the trail emerged into a wash covered with heavy brush that scratched my face and arms, leaving bloody lines behind. We passed a hotel; fortunately, no one could see us behind the wall. I felt the corpse rise up to peek at the resort pool where kids were laughing and screaming. He shifted nervously as family sounds washed over the wall and drenched us.

"My son loved to swim. Michael would stay in the water all day if we let him, and his mother usually did, especially when I was working in the studio," he said. "I loved marble. When I was working, I let the dust melt in my mouth like butter."

He was quiet for a few minutes before continuing the confession. "If the work went badly, I took it out on them. Usually insults...sometimes with fists. My wife left us in the middle of the night, and Michael stayed in his room for days. Her leaving inspired me, and my art made us rich. Bought a castle on Camelback, with a dungeon no less. Hoped it'd make Michael happy."

His dead fingers squeezed my shoulder as he shifted, and his ribs poked my spine through the half-empty waterpack. "He loved the castle's hidden passageways. Michael began sculpting secretly in the dungeon. I decided to look at the pieces when he was out. Remarkable, raw but remarkable—all renditions of conflict. I told him later how impressed I was. He was furious that I didn't ask permission."

A thunderclap stopped his story, and I looked south at the coming monsoon. It walked toward us on lightning legs with wind bringing the smell of rain. My head ached from the pounding sun, and my legs cramped, but I tried to gain as much ground as I could before the storm hit. We crossed under another street; I drank the last of my water, and the cramps subsided temporarily. My passenger was subdued—perhaps dwelling on the story he'd told, and the silence was a relief.

The rolling dust wall came faster now, maybe ten minutes away. At least the storm would cool things down. The dust swept around us and revived the boneman. He yelled above the howling wind. "On his sixteenth birthday, we fought. I drove him to the hospital. Told them that he'd slipped hiking. The doctor bought it and put a cast on his wrist. On the drive home, said he hated me. That night, I...I smashed his sculptures with a hammer."

Now the rain came and soaked us. "After he saw what I'd done...he hit me with a chunk of marble. I grabbed the chisel. He was crying on his knees. I gouged his head. So much blood...I wandered out...without a flashlight, no water." His voice tapered off.

I kept jogging until lightning struck the trail, and I tripped from the impact. When I crawled into a nearby wash, where lower ground might save us from electrocution, the corpse dug his nails into my neck. I ignored his tantrum and found shelter in a cave carved in the sandstone.

"Get back on the trail, you bastard! We can't waste time in this gully!" Lightning crashed all around us, and I pulled him off my back and threw him out in the rain. He squirmed in the sand and sat up, leaning on his one arm. "Please, my son is dying, please!" I ignored him, so he punched the ground in frustration and tipped over in the mud. I went to get him and heard the flash flood coming before I saw it.

As I stepped out of the cave, three black shadows dropped from the sky like translucent bats, so I dropped flat on the ground, but they weren't after me. The wraiths tried to scoop up my passenger, and I dove toward him, grabbing his leg as the wraiths lifted him up. Floodwater was up to my knees, but it helped hold me down as the creatures pulled harder. His skeletal leg snapped in our tug-of-war, but I reached up and grabbed his spine.

The shadows released him and attacked me. I hung onto his backbone as he fell next to me in waist-high water. I tried not to fear the wraiths, but it was hopeless. They pulled me up by the shoulders and gashed my arms with their shadow teeth. Their faces were rough and pale like bleached scabs, each with one large black eye. Inside one eye, a bitter face smiled at me. It was Satan.

I kicked with everything I had, and they dropped us. I stayed under water, pulling the dead man along while swimming downstream with the current. The three black shades followed, hovering on the surface. I popped up for a quick breath, and one pulled a clump of my hair out. I held the dead man close to my chest with one arm and paddled with the other. Suddenly a powerful hand hooked my leg underwater.

A submerged tree pinned my boot between its limbs. I wriggled free and almost blacked out from holding my breath. I went up for air and saw a sandbar. I submerged and paddled for dry land. When we crawled on the sandbar, the wraiths dropped on us instantly. I let go of the man and grabbed a shadow. It realized too late that I'd lost my fear in the effort to survive. I tore it apart, and it hemorrhaged ash all over my hands. The other two wraiths tried to dislodge the dead man from a barrel cactus he'd wrapped himself around. They fled skyward when they saw what I'd done. I watched them disappear in the clouds, then fell to my knees, chest heaving while I threw up gully water.

The rain soaked me while I lay exhausted on the sandbar. I was dizzy, but the storm dropped the temp at least thirty degrees.

"Let's move!" he screeched.

I got up and grabbed him around the throat, lifting him easily off the ground. "Say one more fucking word. Go on." I glared into the decaying face, and he looked away, his body going slack.

We moved quickly in the rain, with my splashing boots the only sound around us. The wind finally shoved the storm north and made the jogging easier, cooler. After an hour, I saw the road marking the end of the trail, and I staggered the last hundred yards.

"Get off." He did, and I put my hands on my knees and felt my legs shaking. Realizing I'd run eleven miles, I laughed weakly. I took a long, warm drink from a water fountain, and my vision cleared. As I refilled my waterpack, I felt blisters covering my toes, but I didn't remove the boots because I'd never get them back on my swollen feet.

"Where now?" I asked.

"My castle," he said quietly.

Then I knew our destination. "You bought the Copenhaver?"

He nodded.

I stood exhausted on Tatum Boulevard, looking south at Camelback Mountain. Several hours running, but if the son died, it would all be for nothing. The stone camel lay with its nose on the ground pointing west, its rocky hump touching the clouds. Our path would take us up and over a saddle in the mountain—the camel's neck. The road leading to it was an asphalt roller coaster, and my legs were jelly. The bigger problem was getting there with a dead man hanging on my back. Darkness might camouflage my rotten cargo part of the way, but we'd be exposed on the sidewalk for at least forty minutes while I jogged to the mountain.

I decided to carry him on my chest with cars approaching from behind, so drivers would have to spot him in their rearview. I lifted his ragged frame, and his cold skull tucked under my chin, a bony arm around my neck with his legs around my waist. The running punished my legs, but at least the corpse was silent. I'd been to the castle once, and as distraction from the pain, I tried to recall it.

Because Dad was an architect who loved Camelot, he took us to Copenhaver Castle to see the "Moorish design, complete with drawbridge." As if dropped from a fairy tale, the castle sat high on the south side of Camelback Mountain, amidst million-dollar mansions. We'd parked on the road below it while Dad snapped pictures. I was ten and spent the time trying to catch grasshoppers, reminding Dad every two minutes about the ice cream he'd promised.

Now, as I plodded down the sidewalk in darkness, the skeleton began sobbing and muttering. "He doesn't have much longer. Please, please run." He clutched at my shoulder like a life preserver. "Please, Michael, I'm coming...please...please hang on...Goddamn you...please..."

As we entered Echo Canyon at the base of Camelback, I bent over and puked. We had to hide from the ranger who was locking the entrance gate.

"Michael!" the dead man yelled.

I started sprinting for the trail as the ranger shouted for me to stop. I climbed the slippery rocks as quickly as I could, but I was dizzy again and slipped on loose sand, banging my knees on boulders. I got lucky when the ranger dropped his walkie talkie and stopped to find it in the brush. I found a second wind and made the camel's neck in about twenty minutes. I staggered down the south slope; now the castle was close.

We hiked to the driveway and squeezed through a side gate. The raggedy man told me to set him down next to a wall by the front door. While he searched the rock wall, I stood in the driveway on an inlaid starburst pattern of white stones. He found a loose rock and removed it, pulling a tarnished brass key from behind it. He asked me to unlock the heavy oak entrance, and the gargoyle doorknocker smiled at me as I opened the front door.

"Michael! Michael!" he yelled as I carried him down a narrow hallway. He continued calling as we entered a room filled with city lights shining through tall windows. A trickling floor–to-ceiling waterfall consumed an entire corner of the room. When we heard metal striking stone below our feet, he said, "He's in the dungeon. There. In the kitchen, push that cupboard to the side." It slid aside, revealing a hidden staircase. The chiseling stopped as we descended, and the boneman panicked. "Hurry!"

Halogen lamps illuminated the cold dungeon studio, where a body lay face up on the stone floor. The old man dropped off my back and crawled to his son, who had collapsed at the foot of a black statue. I hung back and sat on the floor. The skeleton put his arm around his son, pulled himself close, and wept on his chest. Michael was breathing slowly, his eyes open and aware of his father. He wrapped his arms around his father's body and pulled him in. They whispered for maybe a minute, and then they were still.

As I checked Michael's pulse, the father dissolved to dust, except for his left leg, which became whole again. I touched it and knew instantly it was _my_ left leg—payment the old man had promised if I delivered him.

I stood up and noticed the statue Michael had been working on when he died. A seven-foot obsidian wave stood before me. A wrathful face chiseled in great detail emerged from the wave and stared down at a child. The small boy was reaching up with open arms to the crashing black wall of stone. The hateful face must have been his father's. I touched the crooked nose and furious eyes, grateful that Michael saw compassion from his father before they both died.

My legs cramped as I reached for my waterpack and sucked the last sips. I looked at Michael covered in his father's dust, and my exhaustion poured out in sobs. I collapsed on the floor and let it go—such relief in the release.

A while later, my deep sleep was broken by an easy hand shaking me. "Come on, Arthur. Need to get moving." As he helped me up, George looked at the scene. "Did you make it in time?"

"Few minutes to spare," I said.

"And I see your efforts were rewarded."

"I'm gonna need help walking...legs cramping." I carried the rescued left leg over my shoulder like an old shotgun and leaned on George as we went up the stairs to the roof. He helped me into the helicopter, and I placed the leg in my collection box; it eased some of the soreness in my lower body with waves of warmth. When we got back to the hospital, I barely made it down the ladder on quivering legs.

I was so stiff the following morning that I had to lean on the orderly as he helped me to Simon's office. She took notes rapidly, while I told her about the sculptor's reunion with his dying son. "The power of your imagination is unprecedented. You're experiencing actual stress on your muscles and joints on these psychic journeys." She continued taking notes.

I was exhausted. "Doc, I need to lie down."

She called an orthopedist to examine me. The orthopedist said my swollen knees and ankles looked as though I'd run two marathons. Simon was noticeably excited, grinning as she worked the pencil down the page.

"Arthur, this is groundbreaking. I can't believe—"

"Please, Doc..."

"Arthur, just a few more tests and—"

I exploded. "Fuck you and your book!" I staggered for the door, but my legs locked up and I collapsed. The guard helped me back into the chair.

"Arthur, please, calm down. I didn't mean to—"

"No!" I banged my fist against the chair.

Simon had two orderlies take me to my room, where I threw up in the toilet. Chills swept over me as they lifted me onto the bed. Trying to console me, Simon placed another blanket over my shivering body, but I refused to speak to her. I fell asleep to the click-click-click of my chattering teeth.
Chapter 17

Wearing puppy-dog eyes as her badge of regret for our fifth straight session, Simon tapped a pencil on the desk. She kept asking questions, but I was thinking about black shadows clawing at me as I ran through the desert with a dead sculptor on my back. Simon didn't push me to talk, but used the time instead to put me through sensory exams. In one test, I put my hands inside a box, and Simon asked me to describe the textures. Without my eyes to help, I struggled to differentiate among sandpaper, wax paper, and silk. The results were just as bleak on the blindfolded taste test where chili sauce and maple syrup were bitter, while milk chocolate tasted sour, and diced meat had a cloying sweetness.

The struggle with my dead senses was tempered by a knock at my door one morning and a man's voice. "Okay if I come in?" An older guy with close-cropped white hair came in with the guards, but he asked them to leave us alone. They did but left the door open and waited in the hall. I lay on my bed, ragged from little sleep, bloated with apathy, staring at him like a cardboard cutout.

"I'm Larry. Dr. Simon thought you might like to join an art class I teach here twice a week." He waited a minute to see if I'd respond. I rolled away from him instead. "I'm in the blue room, just off the cafeteria, every Tuesday and Thursday morning." He paused. "I'm leaving this with you. Sometimes it helps to squeeze the hell out something that doesn't mind abuse."

After he left, I rolled over and looked at the lump of clay sitting on the lip of the sink. Wrapped in white waxy paper, the lump sat like a pale turtle with all the time in the world. I fell asleep watching to see if it would move. In the morning, I sat on the white tile floor and unwrapped the heavy package. The dark red clay was cool and patient as I pounded it flat and stretched it across my chest, then rolled a smooth ball and smashed it flat again. Anger flowed through my fingers, and I repeated that cycle over and over while tension sloughed off me like steam. My hands were stained red after an hour, and I crawled into bed, sleeping more soundly than I had in days.

When I walked in the following week, Larry looked up from teaching a small group how to mix watercolors. He smiled and pointed to a chair. I sat down with my pet lump of clay in my lap. Once the group was busy painting, Larry came over and noticed my hands caked with dry clay dust. "I thought you might like that," he said.

I smiled. "You think?" We laughed. "Can you help me make something? Something I saw."

Larry spent the better part of two hours helping me shape a version of Michael's sculpture in clay—the huge wave staring down at the child. My version was about a foot tall, and I worked the longest on the face emerging from the wave. It was the sculptor's face, but I didn't want the same furious expression. I wanted compassion in the features, with skin that wasn't rotting. Larry taught me how to use a toothpick to etch the face. At first, the nose and eyes were too large, so I smoothed them over and went through a dozen versions before I had the expression I wanted. I looked in the sculptor's eyes and saw peace.

When I finished, Larry put an arm across my shoulders. "I'll see about getting you a small table to display it in your room." The next morning I woke up, and the sculpture sat on a table that Larry had snuck in while I slept.

I was talking to Simon again, but not much. At this point, creating art felt better than talking. Larry showed me how to paint, draw, and sculpt, and I usually ended class with color on my hands and face, in my hair, all over my clothes, and under my fingernails. I absorbed the spectrum, and it filled the space left vacant by the missing pieces of my soul. Not a permanent fix, but the colors buffered the echo inside me.

"Arthur, you fought in Iraq?" Larry asked.

I nodded and pumped the pottery wheel with my foot.

"I was a LRRP in Vietnam."

I smiled. "Really? You were one of those long-range-recon dudes? My dad was in the Eighty-second. When I was kid, if I did anything crazy like jump off the roof, he'd say, 'Gonna be a LRRP someday if you keep that up.'"

Larry laughed. "Yep—Larry the LRRP."

"You guys as nuts as they say?"

"Naw, not crazy, man. We're magic. I could sit on Charlie's shoulder all night. He'd go about his business thinking I was just a friendly cricket, chirping in his ear, taking notes on his unit."

I laughed. "Yeah, you're _normal_."

Larry leaned over and helped me keep the vase I was making from flying off the wheel. He said, "I can see the future, you know."

"Oh yeah?" I laughed.

Larry closed his eyes, and his head bobbed to a hidden rhythm. "You're a questing man—a knight errant." I was silent as he kept bobbing his head with his eyes closed. "You're roaming far and wide in search of...yourself." He opened his eyes and laughed at my gaping mouth.

Later, I thanked Simon for sending Larry my way. She scrunched her nose slightly. "I didn't send him, but he has a way of reaching out." She tipped her chin to me and said, "It's his gift."

I smiled and said, "LRRP magic."

The art class took my mind off George's two-week absence, but I was oddly excited when I heard the Pave Hawk again. I needed to be free of the hospital, if only for a while. Patton was grinning like a kid on Christmas. "Sorry I've been away, but the path to your next piece goes through restricted territory, and I needed approval to get you in." He tapped his pocket. "Wait 'til you see The Hangar. Makes Disneyland look like a rumpus room."

The Pave Hawk's nose tipped forward at full throttle as we cleared the hospital's roof. The cool night provided relief from the stagnant hospital. This time I could tell when we crossed over to The Scale. It was a sound I'd missed on the first two trips—a subtle static hiss like changing AM stations, lasting ten seconds or less. As the hiss faded, it became hard to talk over the mic because of chattering interference from heavy air traffic all around us. I counted lights from forty aircraft. A pink zeppelin honked a horn that played _Zippity-Do-Da_ , and ultralights dive-bombed us like a flock of mockingbirds. I was concerned until I noticed the pilots were naked, wearing only fluorescent yellow bodypaint.

George laughed when I pointed them out. "That's tame where we're going."

"They're all going to this Hangar?"

"Yes, indeed," George said.

"Popular spot."

"You'll see."

We crested a glowing ridgeline and bathed in searchlights from the bowl below. A huge hangar, checkered black and white, sat in a volcanic cone. A throbbing bass surged up from the building through the air and vibrated my spine. Blinking red beacons guided us past smoke and steam billowing from the sweltering crater.

"My Lord!" I said into the mic, and George grinned as we hovered, looking for a place to land amidst all the aircraft. We found a spot on the outer perimeter, and Patton got out, joining me. "You're coming this time?" I said.

"The Hangar doesn't normally allow the living, and never without an escort. Of course, I'll use any excuse to visit."

Weaving between mounds of lava rock, we walked over warm ground and joined a long line to get in. "What's inside?" I asked.

"A tune-up."

"Come on, George."

"Leave it to the man you'll meet tonight. He knows where the next piece is hiding, and he'll decide how and when you get it."

The people in line were old and young, some sleek and some disheveled, but all excited.

"Are they all like me?" I asked.

"No, they're all dead."

We moved slowly to the main door, which was guarded by an enormous black man dressed in a spotless white suit. He held thick chain leashes for two tigers that brushed their noses over everyone.

"What's with the tigers?" I asked.

"Death screening. But I got special permission for you." He pulled a small scroll from his chest pocket, and the tigers flashed their teeth as I stepped forward.

The black giant boomed, "Goddamn, General, you know the rules!"

George handed the rolled parchment to the bouncer.

"Well, well, an invitation from Lord P himself. Enjoy yourself, gentlemen." He palmed my head and bent down. "Behave yourself, live-boy."

When we crossed the threshold, a fist of techno music punched my chest. A thunderous drumbeat ordered my head and feet to follow the hypnotic metronome of boom, boom, boom, "Heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyy, everybody...needs love!" Boom, boom, boom, "Heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyy, everybody...needs love!"

Thousands of bodies sweated like oily pistons, hopping and sliding, arms twirling, singing and spinning in synchronized chaos around a center stage, where our conductor stood in a circle of synthesizers. He was shirtless, ripped, and suntanned with brown curls bouncing under a golden crown that shot white sparks from the top. He pumped his palms, swaying us like a school of fish. Women climbed the stage to grind against him, and their desire fueled the relentless trance: Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom.

The sensation was like leaning back on a merry-go-round with your eyes closed as your friends ran alongside, pushing you faster and faster to see how much you could take. In The Hangar, the pushing never stopped. Our feet pounded together as the beat increased to exhaustion. When the bass line stopped suddenly, clipping our strings, we collapsed. On our backs, we heaved for air as massive fan blades in the ceiling started spinning. Quivering, sofa-sized bubbles emerged from the blowers. The viscous amoebas flashed rainbows across their iridescent skin.

The DJ threw DayGlo water guns into the crowd and pointed at the soapy creatures floating above. The weapons launched streams that burst the bubbles into fist-sized water balls that rained over us, splashing away the sweat.

The DJ said, "I'm breaking for a bit, people, but EZ Pleeze will move you while I'm gone. Meantime, I could use a ride to the bar."

He tossed his crown to the crowd and piranha hands fought over it. Without the crown small horns were now visible, curling up from his temples. He crouched and broad-jumped into the audience, where eager arms buoyed him past us. I reached like a groupie to touch the soft brown fur that covered him from the waist down, ending when it reached his hooves. George grabbed my arm to follow the crowd-surfing creature. Bodies turned to touch the DJ, and we slipped through in pursuit. He was easy to track as hands carried him to a doorway marked, "Playground" in pink neon. We passed through what felt like a cellophane membrane, and the pulsating music stopped. Illuminated emerald rods hung from the ceiling and lit the entry tunnel. The breeze from people walking beneath the emeralds caused them to glance off one another like wind chimes.

"What's the thing we're following?" I asked.

"The man we came to see."

"With hooves?"

"Trust me, Pan will help you."

"Dude with a magic flute?"

George stopped walking. "Your senses need a jump start, and that's his specialty."

"I've had enough shock therapy," I said.

George ignored me, and we reached the tunnel's end. A beautiful redhead in a black leather catsuit waved us over. "Gentlemen, Lord P requested that you join him at his table."

We took a few steps, and I stopped in awe at the edge of an amphitheater facing a three-story aquarium, wider than a football field. A stacked series of grass terraces created the amphitheater; they were covered with tables sprouting like mushrooms. Feasting parties filled every table, except one, perched on a tree stump along the center terrace.

Catwoman led us to Pan's table, and I tried not to stumble while watching the aquarium's inhabitants. Hundreds of red jellyfish propelled themselves among phosphorescent ribbons of seaweed that blinked from green to purple when the jellyfish brushed against them. A gray tentacle shot from the bottom of the tank, snaring a bulbous fish without eyes. The giant squid's beak emerged, and its tentacle curled the fish into the snapping beak. Mesmerized, I bumped into George's back.

"Gentlemen, please be seated and enjoy your evening. Lord P will join you shortly."

We climbed the stump and sat on plush pillows around the thick table. Waiters arrived with dishes, bowls, and bottles. George poured wine and slid a platter in front of us filled with crab legs, steak, and lobster tails. My taste buds misfired after months of hospital oatmeal paste, leaky Jell-O, and chicken fried nasty. Now luscious flavors patched my frayed synapses, opened taste memories,= and reconnected my mouth to my brain.

I snapped the crab and smothered chunks in hot butter that burned my chin. A garlic-salt concoction covered the tender beef that I chewed gratefully. The wine bottle emptied while our stomachs bulged. We littered the plate with shattered shells and gristle fragments. George sat back, patting his belly. A food coma lowered my eyelids until Pan's voice jolted me.

"No time to doze—you'll miss the show." He sat beside me, and his thick fur smelled of dusty rainwater.

Panic cleared the fish tank as a pod of killer whales torpedoed in from the left. I couldn't track what they chased, but then realized _they_ were prey. The last whale was bleeding and lagged behind. A Jurassic beast pursued with immense flippers and skin like seaweed sprayed with gray foam. Its mouth gnashed foot-long spikes that closed on the injured whale. The crowd gasped as the jaws snapped shut in an explosion of pink pieces. The massive beast pursued the remaining whales and disappeared from view.

Pan plucked a thumb-sized green grape from a bowl and popped it in his mouth. The wrinkles around his eyes bunched as he grinned. "So much better than Sea World."

A merman dove in from the top of the tank. He flip-turned at the bottom, pumped his tail toward the surface, but slowed to face the crowd. He laughed as bubbles slipped past his teeth, and he held a glowing trident above his head as shadows darted in on him. Great whites attacked him from all directions, and the audience screamed. The trident flared like a flashbulb, and the sharks froze inside an arm's length of him. The merman swam the tank from one end to the other and twirled the trident, while the sharks mimicked the movement in circles around him. Then the merman tapped the glass with his trident, and the sharks gnashed the glass until the tank filled with creamy foam.

The aquarium went dark as the show ended, and the crowd responded with a standing ovation. When the audience finally settled, broomstick fish emerged, shimmering electric blue.

"I trust you're enjoying my tavern," Pan said. I nodded at his buttery voice, mesmerized by his horns and goat legs. Pan laughed loudly, and the sound relaxed me. "We've started the process nicely, but let's add some lubrication." He clapped twice.

A bottle arrived, and Pan turned it upside down, pushing the cork onto one of his sharp horns. A loud pop followed, then he set the bottle down, plucked the cork from the horn, and flicked it over his shoulder. "Always empty what you open," he said and took a deep drink before handing the bottle to me. As I swallowed, he said, "My all-time favorite. Made from sirens' blood."

My face flushed, and vision inverted. I handed the bottle to George, who took a small swig. "Delicious. Good to see you again, my friend," George said.

"You as well, General."

George took another sip and handed the bottle back to Pan. "What are your plans for this young man?" George asked.

Pan smiled. "Let's start with an appetizer and see how he responds." From a rope around his neck, he raised the famous flute. This tune had the same effect as the dance floor music, but Pan could aim the flute more precisely. Six women approached our table in unison. They swirled around us, smelling of citrus and cinnamon, and peeled off their clothing to Pan's staccato rhythm.

One woman straddled my lap and her warm skin pressed against me. Time skipped, and lust licked my ears. I tried to let go—I wanted to give in—but I couldn't. I pushed off the ground and tried to stand, but she playfully dug her fingernails into my thighs. I raised a hand to strike her. "Let go!" I said.

Pan grabbed my wrist and threw me off the stump and then whispered to the women, "Leave us."

He kneeled next to me and touched my forehead as if checking for fever. "General, your protégé needs total immersion. Can you drop him somewhere for me?"

George said, "Will do."

Pan tugged me to my feet. "Time to earn your keep, lad." He led us through a door in the floor, and within minutes we were outside The Hangar. I walked without assistance now around the lava rock.

"Sorry, I lost control," I said.

"You can't lose what you don't possess," Pan said. "The mistake was mine, trying to stop a runaway train with a butterfly net." We arrived at the Pave Hawk. "Your wife is in peril. You must go to her," he said.

"Katie?"

Pan pushed me gently toward the chopper, "No time for questions, only action."

I asked George, "What's wrong with Katie?"

The words blurred with the rotors firing above us, and while I strapped in, I could only decipher the word "park" from Pan's directions to George. Pan looked at me and tapped his head slowly, then offered a clipped salute to George before spinning on hooves that carried him home. Cold sweat chilled me, pooling on my face and running over my ribs. George motioned for me to put on the headset.

"Hold on, we'll get to her," George said into the mic.

"Where is she?"

"Golden Gate Park," George said.
Chapter 18

Rough air tossed us over rain clouds in an icy sky. Humidity condensed and dripped from the cabin roof. I bounced my fists off my knees to channel the stress.

"Prep for landing," George said.

I looked out the door for signs of my wife.

George outfitted me with a shoulder holster and .45 and handed me a small fire extinguisher. "Just take it," he said when I asked why. Flying above the tree line, we arrived at Golden Gate Park and landed near the archery range on the west side.

"This is where I met Katie."

"Was she wearing a red shirt and black shorts?" George asked.

"How'd you know?"

"I think we landed in her nightmare." He pointed toward a figure weaving through nearby trees with wraiths in pursuit. As she emerged from the thicket, Katie stumbled, and Satan's shadows closed.

"Go get her," George said.

I ran toward her. "Katie, get down!" She dove into the grass, and I jumped over her into the mass of swirling shadows. When I blasted them with the extinguisher's white foam, they released their high-pitched screech. I dropped the extinguisher to cover my ears, and all but one wraith dispersed into the sky. The last shade was wider than a king-sized sheet and dropped long black tentacles around Katie's arms and lifted her off the ground. She was screaming as I jumped for a tentacle, but it snapped like a bullwhip against my chest and knocked me to the ground. With my wind knocked out, I fought to get to my knees. The wraith didn't take Katie into the clouds, but floated instead about twenty feet off the ground, flying toward the park's huge windmill.

I turned to look for George, but the chopper was gone. I caught my breath and chased after them, knowing the pistol was useless and hoping the small extinguisher had enough foam left to fight with. The creature saw me and quickly pulled Katie into a grove around the windmill. I pursued into the trees and made eye contact with Katie, who yelled for me to hurry. The wraith used its tentacles to toss a tree in my path, but I dove to avoid it. When I got up, I'd lost them.

I came out of the grove into a tulip garden in front of the windmill. Trees surrounded the open area where I stood calling for Katie, but she didn't respond. I walked toward the windmill with the pistol in one hand and the extinguisher in the other. The windmill's skirt was a circular platform twenty feet off the ground, and I stood under its shade. Still no sign of Katie. I tucked the pistol against my tailbone and tested the extinguisher, but I stopped when I heard "Pssst" from the platform above.

I looked up, and something struck my forehead like a hammer. I fell on my back and saw a blurry body rappelling down to me. "Hate, you dumbfuck. Who falls for that bullshit?" Medusa held up a slingshot and grabbed a ball bearing from the dirt next to me. He tapped my head with the steel ball. "Gotcha," he said, but I was too dazed to defend myself as he threw me over his shoulder. "Let's go check on your bride." He opened a door into the windmill, took me inside, and dropped me on the floor.

I raised my head. "If you hurt her, I'll—"

"What? Kill me? You did that already." He was sitting about ten feet away and grinned while pulling off his black skullcap, exposing the thick green and purple veins around his skull.

"Where's Katie, you fucker?"

Medusa laughed and pulled a bayonet from his belt. "Gonna cut you up...like I did her."

I felt the pistol poking my back under me. "Is that her blood?" I pointed to the wall behind him.

He turned his head. "That's just paint, you dizzy fuck." When he looked back at me, I squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flashed, but the bullet froze against his Adam's apple. The slug hovered like a silver wasp, as Dusa's body shook and his skin bubbled. His desert uniform billowed, changed colors, and compressed like shrink-wrap around a woman's shape.

Now Katie sat in Medusa's place, and the bullet dropped harmlessly to the floor. Looking like a wax mannequin dressed in running gear, she fell on her side. I crawled over, touched her arm, and kissed her cheek. Her face was warm and alive. "Are you in there?" I whispered.

Her eyes opened and filled with tears as she recognized me. She wrapped her arms around me. I kissed her, and we rocked slowly. She started sobbing and shaking violently, and I took shallow breaths, trying to keep it together for her. "It's okay, we'll be okay," I said.

Suddenly I felt like I was crushing the air out of her. She was transforming, becoming smaller still. I squinted against the heat on my arms and chest until I could feel my son lying against me. He looked up. "Daddy?"

I was slipping, blacking out, so I bit the inside of my cheek. Blood rushed to my head, and I stayed conscious. My boy hugged me and said, "I missed you." He looked around at the windmill's guts. "Where are we?"

"Inside a windmill."

"What's that?"

"Like a ceiling fan, except windmills spin sideways."

"Oh." Hank stood up and tilted his head up to see the gears that spun the giant blades. He smiled. "Love you, but I have to go now."

"Hank?"

The body pulsed and stretched in all directions. It was taking a man's shape and I lunged for the pistol behind me. One round left for Medusa.

"You won't need that, son." My father offered his hand and tugged me to my feet. I was dizzy again and almost fell, but his arm held me up while my vision cleared. He was dressed in Eighty-second Airborne fatigues and looked about twenty-one. He said, "Come on. I have something for you."

We walked up the stairs and outside onto the windmill's platform. I stood next to him as we looked over the tulip garden toward the sun sinking behind the Pacific. I leaned on him and let go. He held me and spoke quietly, telling me everything was okay while I cried. It was dark by the time I caught my breath and opened my eyes.

"My apology for the drama, but pain as deep as yours is hard to purge." I stepped back from Pan's loose hold on me, but he reached out for my wrist. He said, "I appeared as all of them for you. It was the only way to break through and let you begin again." I stared in shock at the half man/half goat. "If I could ask for your embrace once more." He pulled me by the wrist, and I moved into him, absorbing powerful warmth as his body collapsed, compressed, and rounded. In the darkness, I held something heavy.

I staggered down the stairs inside the windmill and stopped at the bottom under a light. Pan's gift was a human head. I touched the blonde hair, then turned it slowly until I looked upon my own face. An odd feeling of triumph beat back the nausea that swirled in my belly. I was still staring at myself when the wind swirled around me, and the Pave Hawk descended.

As I climbed aboard George said, "Headhunting, I see."

"Save it. I need to lie down."

"I can see that, but let's get that item in the black box first."

I placed the head carefully in the bottom of the box where it vanished like my left leg and right hand had before. My face flushed and popped with beads of sweat. As George strapped me in, I noticed tiny white hairs on the back of his hands. I smelled oily engine heat and could hear faint clicking in the rotor blades. I tasted salt in the ocean air passing through the cabin, and my fingers slipped along the flight suit's slick nylon.

George said into the mic, "It'll take some time to adjust. Pan tuned-up your senses, but clarity can be a burden." He paused as I clutched my side. "Same pain as before?" he asked.

I nodded at the stabbing in my liver and said, "I'll be okay." The higher we flew, the more it dissipated. "Was that actually San Francisco?" I asked.

"A version of it. Look below. See there? No Alcatraz. Look more closely. No banks or hospitals. Like everything in The Scale, this city is made of sensory smoke. The Scale shapes itself according to what people need. Folks work things out that they couldn't when they were alive. When they get it figured out, they move on. If they don't, they stay. Sometimes forever."

"So, it is limbo."

"That's close to the truth. I think of it as middle ground. For some it's better than moving on, like with your grandfather. For others, I think it's worse than hell. I've seen a version of Gettysburg where Confederate troops walk Pickett's Charge trying to understand the battle that took their lives. The saddest might be the parents who abused their children. They wander, calling to kids who never respond. The Scale is designed to heal us, but that process can be slow...very slow."

"Are you healing?" I asked.

"Trying. I've been helping soldiers like you for over half a century. Some day the invitation will come...I hope."

"You need an invitation to heaven?" I asked.

"And hell," George said.

I opened my mouth, but the pain was everywhere now, and I couldn't talk.

George saw me wince. "Just hold on—we'll be clear in a few minutes. Remember to breathe or you'll pass out."

I held my breath when the pain spiked in my side and blacked out. On the hospital roof, George somehow got me down the ladder and into bed. In the morning, what I remembered most was holding my wife and son, and my father's heartbeat against my temple.

The section of soul that Pan returned unwrapped the thick gauze that had suffocated my senses. Simon tested all five and measured the results against the previous exams. Now I easily identified the sandpaper versus silk, and chocolate tasted sweet, while chili sauce burned as it should. She said the sensory-measuring system was complicated, but that I'd essentially gone from three out of ten to nine out of ten across the board. Simon took reams of notes on the results, even though our conversations remained stifled.

She believed I was ready to hear other veterans' experiences. She made group treatment sound like a family of warriors pulling for one another. But group therapy was like swallowing barbed wire. Ten vets, all grated to nubs by combat, sat in a semicircle around Dr. Simon. Two armed guards stood outside our perimeter in case someone snapped. Simon facilitated as we walked the same emotional minefields again and again, deliberately tripping explosives. We looked for common threads to bind us, but usually stumbled into the noose.

Ranger Alex shot a checkout girl in the face because he believed she was an Iraqi mortar tube. He said she breathed smoke on him until he pulled a pistol. He claimed that when he pressed the .22 against her eye, she puked out a mortar round, so he pulled the trigger.

Major Mike cried when he recounted the morning his wife left to buy groceries, and his baby girl started wailing. Mike tried to calm her down by rocking her, but the screaming continued. He filled the tub and submerged her "until she was blue as her nightie." Dr. Simon asked if he knew why he'd done that, but Mike just shook his head and rubbed his hands together as if by a fire.

Devon described how his infantry patrol was blown apart by an IED, then started singing as he always did when rattled. "Should I stay or should I go now? If I stay there will be trouble, but if I go, there will be double...."

Pete was a marine who tried returning to civilian life as a baker. When his boss insisted on overtime, Pete cracked a rolling pin over his dome and wrapped him in bread dough. He continued serving customers at the counter while his boss cooked in the oven behind him.

The men all nodded like bobbleheads when I lip-synched about the plane crash and my dad's death, while the war festered in my guts like a handful of glass. I resisted talking about Medusa, who terrorized me whenever I closed my eyes. I focused instead on Pan's overhaul of my senses, relishing small details I'd missed before. Like smelling bleach on Major Mike's hands while he discussed germ aversion. Or the tiny hairs twitching in Ranger Alex's right ear as he reflected on his fear of snipers. And the high-pitched rage in every word of Pete the Marine's tale about crushing a man's skull with an M-16 that jammed during a firefight.

During one particular session, we all bitched about how bad our lives were until Dr. Simon held up her hand. "Gentleman, you have one another, and the ability to lean on each others' experiences is helping you heal. Stop the self-pity for a second and consider the men in our isolation unit. They're so badly damaged and dangerous that they can't interact with anyone."

Major Mike said, "You're talking about Diablo, aren't you?"

"I won't discuss specific—"

Mike cut her off. "Come on, Doc! You ask for honesty, but what about you?" Simon glared at him, so Mike kept rolling out the legend. "Everyone knows Diablo's badly burned. Stands in his cell all day reaching for the ceiling, pawing at the roof for hours until they knock 'em out. They say a tranquilizer rifle for sedating big zoo animals is the only way to put him down at bedtime."

"Mike, that's outrageous!" Simon said.

Major Mike was enjoying the spotlight, and we were transfixed like kids listening to ghost stories by the campfire. "You ain't fooling anybody, Doc. Your staff is terrified of that dude. Devil melted him with fire, then branded him with that _Diablo_ tat."

"No! He's a broken soldier, just like you. You make him sound like...um..."

"A monster," Mike finished for her.

Katie and Hank visited most Saturdays. We sat outside at a picnic bench when weather permitted. Katie looked exhausted as she took toy cars out of her purse for Hank to play with on the grass.

"How you doing, honey?" I asked.

"Tired, but it's good to see you," she said and gave me her best smile. She was ragged. I could see it in her sloping shoulders and in the tension wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She held my hands across the picnic table and asked how Simon thought my rehab was going. I avoided that question and talked about how my art classes with Larry had dramatically reduced my stress.

Katie squeezed my hand. "That's great news. So glad Larry reached out to you. But what about you and Simon? Since she's the one who will have to sign off before you can leave this place."

I told her that we'd been fighting since she prodded and poked me like an animal. "She cares more about her career than being reasonable," I said.

Katie took her hand off mine and crossed her arms. "Reasonable? Are you kidding me? She's trying to make you better, and you're playing passive aggressive now?" She glared at me, but I knew better than to take the bait. "How dare you do anything except what she tells you to. And if you try to tell me that your 'dreams' are helping more than she is, I swear to God, I will fucking scream."

Hank stood up. "You okay, Mommy?" He walked over and put his arms around her, looking at me like I was holding a butcher's knife.

I tried to change the subject and fix everything. "You're right. I need to listen to her." I opened my palm on the table. "I promise." After a few long seconds, she uncrossed her arms and held my hand again.

She looked over at Hank, who'd gone back to playing. "It's just been so hard," she whispered. "Hank and I both have insomnia. When we do sleep, both of us have nightmares."

I was quiet so she could keep venting, but when she didn't say anything, I asked, "What are the nightmares about?"

The color left her face. "Black shadows chasing us. So vivid I can smell them—I swear I can. Like...rotting meat. God, it's awful."

I held Katie's hands while she cried. What could I say—"I think I may have pissed off Satan, so he's tormenting you now"? I wanted to scream and pound the table. I was in a deep hole, getting deeper, without sunlight, only roots tangling around me in knots while worms crawled over my face.

Katie saw Hank coming over and forced back the tears. Hank started running around the table, creating dust devils. He carried a paper airplane I'd folded with one of the few pieces of stationery I was allowed. I told him a little piece of me was riding inside. He laughed and landed his paper jet on my shoulder and climbed into my lap. "Dad, I scored a goal in a soccer game last week. Also, Uncle John took me camping with my cousins, and we burned marshmallows on sticks. And also, I got a big scratch on my leg, but it's better now, see?"

I looked at the scab that was several inches long. "What happened?"

"Bobby," Hank said and looked down at his feet.

Katie said quietly, "Bully at school."

"How'd he scratch you?"

"Pushed me off the swing."

"Were your cousins around?" I asked. My brother's boys went to the same school as Hank.

"Not that time, but Billy's not afraid of anybody." He jumped off my lap before I could ask more. He flew the bent plane around the guards in a figure eight, humming, _Ding, Dong, the Witch Is Dead_.

Katie waited until Hank was far enough away from the table. "I've talked with the principal, and he said this Bobby bullies several kids."

"And what's he going to do about it?" I asked.

"Suspended him twice, but he said expulsions aren't that easy. Legal headaches and all that. Said he's trying to make it happen."

We needed a break, but bad news kept coming. I squeezed her hand, but she was crying again. Her hand was cold and brittle, and I tried to think of a joke—anything to make her smile—but the guards gave us a five-minute warning.
Chapter 19

It was two in the morning when George dropped the ladder again. I climbed into the helicopter beside him and stared out the open door as we took off. George talked into the helmet mic. "Your boy reminds me of a friend I had long ago. Tommy had your son's imagination and—"

"Great, maybe someday he'll fly in imaginary helicopters too."

George cleared his throat. "Hank's smart, a survivor...like you."

"Yeah. Fine father. He needs me, and what do I give him? A fucking paper plane."

George diverted the conversation. "Right before D-Day, Tommy wrote and said, 'We defeated monsters as kids, so the Nazis have no chance against you. But remember, in your rush to kill dragons, don't slay the princess.'"

As we flew high and fast, the wind helped sharpen my round edges. I suppressed my anxiety about Katie and Hank by studying George's face. Growing up I'd known him as George C. Scott, and I once caught my dad watching the movie on TV, reciting the lines from the movie's opening speech right along with Scott. "We're going to cut out their living guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks!" Dad blushed when I came around the corner and said, "I'd run through a wall for a guy like that."

"What are you gawking at, Sergeant?" George asked.

"Dad asked you to look out for me?"

"He did. After all the good he's done in The Scale, it seemed the least I could do. Of course now that I know you, I wish..." George smiled.

"Okay, okay."

George laughed but stopped when I said, "My dad worshipped you. He used to quote you to me and my brother."

George raised his hand and shook his head slowly. "I ain't wasting time on what I used to be," he said.

"Okay."

"Sergeant, let's focus on your next mission." He rubbed a hand over his face and continued. "You'll need to be locked in."

"Roger that."

"We're going where folks are raw with anger and won't tolerate interlopers picking at their business. Hell, I get furious when I see the site, and I wasn't even alive when it happened."

The chopper slipped beneath the cloud canopy, and we were engulfed by white smoke and heat. I could barely see the Statue of Liberty off to the right, but I knew where the smoke was coming from. The toppled World Trade Center smoldered as rescue workers scrambled over the ruins, searching for signs of life.

The air was saturated with concrete dust, and we covered our mouths with our hands to filter debris through our fingers. The site smelled of fire fueled by sparking wires and ruptured gas lines. As we circled, George said, "They're _all_ dead, including the rescue personnel, but they refuse to accept it."

"Why?"

George snapped, "You won't walk outta here with instincts that dull." I nodded, and he said, "They're still coming to grips with the horror of everything they saw, not to mention their own deaths. Don't antagonize even one, or the whole group will rally against you. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Avoid the rescue workers on the pile. I can't say for sure, but I think you have to go underground on this one. Try to find a way under the rubble."

As I climbed out, my ears filled with high-pitched chirping. George touched my shoulder. "Those are homing beacons attached to rescue workers buried under the rubble. You're dealing with the first responders who arrived, hoping to save a life, but lost their own instead."

Standing so close to the pile, I started sweating. "When will they move on?"

"When they realize they can't do any more. As you can see, they're still determined." Men with traffic flares and shovels ran past but ignored us. "You might also encounter folks who worked in the World Trade Center that didn't make it out, or might have jumped to escape the inferno. Most of them are badly dazed with only partial memories." He reached out and shook my hand, squeezing while he made his final point. "Keep your eyes open, your mouth closed, and get out as soon as you have what you came for."

The chopper took off, and I walked the ruins' perimeter, looking for an opening in the rubble to enter the site. Portable radio traffic bounced off the pile and echoed from all sides. I kept my eyes on the ground, avoiding eye contact with firemen who scrambled with pry bars and shovels, searching for chirping transponders beneath slabs of concrete.

In the wreckage, I saw a young man dressed in a tattered navy blue suit. He sat on a twisted girder, brushing dust from his face and picking gray gunk from his black hair. He turned his head slowly from side to side and blinked rapidly. I tried to walk past him, but he asked, "Can you help me?"

He looked at me with one green eye and the other solid black from a hemorrhage. He said, "I can't find my keys. I've looked everywhere. My girlfriend will freak." He was shaking and distraught.

"Let's look around," I said and imagined George cursing me for stopping.

We searched along the edge of debris, and he was nervous and talked continuously. "Hard to see. So blurry. I remember falling. Do you know what happened?" he asked.

"Not really." I begged for his keys to appear.

"What's wrong with my eye?" The pitch-black eyeball leaked down his cheek. He swabbed at it, then held out his fingertips for me to see. They dripped with blood.

I said, "You'll be okay."

He started crying. "You know what happed to me, don't you?"

"Sorry, I don't. Let's find those keys."

He stopped crying. "Thanks for looking," he said.

We combed the dust for anything shiny. I found a key, but it didn't look like a house key, more like a bike-lock key. I held it up. "This it?"

He ran over and laughed. "Close enough. I just don't want to upset her." He stared to sob again. "She'll already be sad after seeing...what happened to my eye."

"I need to get moving," I said.

"Can I help?"

"Know a way under this place?"

He stared at me, and blood seeped down his cheek. "There's a tunnel over there." I looked where he was pointing and saw a group of men approaching. They surrounded us, and a fireman holding an iron pry bar stepped forward. His face was slathered in black grime so his white eyes seemed stuck in tar. "Why are you here?"

"Looking for something," I said.

"What?"

"A piece of my...my soul."

"Is that right? Well, that's a problem. You might take one of ours."

They closed in on me, but the young man I helped yelled, "Hey, there's someone crawling out of the rubble over there." When the men turned, he grabbed my arm and pulled me up a hill of cement slabs. We ran through a smoldering obstacle course, and I could hear the men chasing us as their tools clanged against concrete. Mr. Keys knew every turn, and we lost the others in the maze. We stopped at the base of a large smoldering mound of debris where an opening led underground. I smelled smoke coming out of the cave, but not from an electrical fire. It was food cooking.

"They won't chase you down there. No one goes underground," he said.

"Thanks for saving my ass," I said.

He smiled and held up the twisted key I'd found. "You saved mine first."

For the first fifty yards in the tunnel, I had to crawl, but then it opened up enough to stand. When the outside light faded, I paused in the darkness, but it was pointless to stop. I had to lean back slightly to keep my balance because the tunnel was steep. When the path finally leveled, I could see a faint, flickering light ahead, and I stepped lightly toward it, making little sound.

When I was close enough to make out a small campfire, I crouched behind some rubble to listen while my eyes focused on the flame. I heard a voice and saw a lone bearded man kneeling on the ground. I crawled closer on my belly until I had a complete view of his alcove. As the fire flickered, he bowed in Muslim prayer. Being underground, I had no idea whether he was facing east toward Mecca. My leg fell asleep so I moved it, kicking a soda can in the process. The man finished praying and looked out toward my hiding place in the dark.

"Come to the fire," he said in Arabic while waving with his hand in case I didn't understand. "Come. I have food."

I stood up and entered his campsite. He didn't seem concerned by my olive flight suit and black boots. He spoke in slow, accurate English now. "You're not from the surface?"

"What do you mean?"

"From one of the Towers, or a policeman?"

"No. I'm looking for something I lost. Came down here because they were chasing me."

"They are very territorial."

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I live here, but please, your name?"

"Arthur Logan."

"I am Marwan Al-Shehhi."

Marwan handed me some kind of meat on a stick. "Try a kebob."

I didn't even try to guess what it was, but it was tender, and I was hungry. "Were you in one of the Towers?" I asked.

"Yes, but I...how do you say..."

"I speak Arabic."

"Ah, excellent. Yes. I was in a Tower."

"Why don't you join them on the surface?"

Marwan shook his head and took a bite of kebob. "No. I must stay here. Until I solve the riddle."

"Riddle?"

He smiled thinly. "Allah is testing me, and I continue to fail. So I remain, contemplating what I must do...to pass this test."

"Maybe I can help you?"

"I don't think you can help, my friend, but thank you for offering." Marwan was silent and then looked at me with tired eyes. "I must go again," he said and abruptly disappeared. I waited for an hour, but he didn't return, so I wandered deeper down the tunnel but found nothing but rubble. I came back to the fire and found Marwan asleep. I watched, and eventually he woke, sat up, and rubbed his eyes. "How long was I gone?"

"I'm not sure. Where did you go?"

"Back to the cockpit. Allah sends me whenever I think about the plane or the Towers." He paused, and I waited for him to finish. "Back again and again to the captain's chair." He finished the sentence and vanished.

I fell asleep waiting for him, but he was there when I woke up. I rushed to get my question across before he left again. "Do you have a choice?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What if the answer is avoiding the Tower?"

Marwan shook his head and was gone. How many times had he crashed that jet in the five years since 9/11? A thousand...ten thousand?

I had one last idea to try when he came back. "Marwan, maybe Allah sent me to assist?"

"How?"

"To help you miss."

He reached out like he was falling and grabbed my hands. We were instantly in the cockpit. Marwan sat in the captain's chair, and I was the co-pilot. Through the windshield, we saw the World Trade Center still standing. "We are much farther away," he said.

I saw Tower One burning, black smoke pouring over its communication antennae, which poked through like desperate snorkels. "Just land and walk away, Marwan. You don't have to do this."

He ignored me. "Usually I have only seconds before collision."

"Just land."

Marwan was nervous. "No. I must...for Allah."

"Why did you grab me?" He wouldn't answer. "Marwan!"

Tears filled his eyes. "So many times. Why does he punish me?"

We had maybe five minutes to impact. "Just turn toward the river and we'll land. JFK is close. Turn to the river, and I'll guide you."

Marwan was trembling with tears running off his cheeks, but he gently eased the stick and turned us left, away from the Tower and toward the Hudson. As I directed him, shadows slammed against the cockpit glass. The wraiths shrieked as they bounced off the windshield, leaving only greasy streaks behind. I thought we were safe until I heard metal crunching, and the emergency light blinked on the control panel, indicating the cabin door was open. I jumped out of my seat and locked the cockpit door as something big battered against it.

Marwan was screaming, "It's Allah!"

I leaned with my back against the door until the assault subsided. "Marwan, keep the course I gave you. These things aren't strong enough to get in."

Marwan turned to look at me and pointed between my legs. A tentacle made of black smoke was rising from under the door. I reached out to grab it, but it shot through my hands and unlocked the door. The door exploded open and knocked me to the floor. I was pinned down by the king wraith that I'd last seen dragging my wife through Golden Gate Park. I swung at it, but my arms whiffed through the black vapor as I flailed in fear.

Marwan screamed, "Allah, forgive me! Please forgive me!"

I felt the plane turn right, back toward the Towers. I struggled against a tentacle squeezing my throat. The wraith's massive, single black eye loomed in front of my face, and I stared into it. Looking back at me was Satan with the dragon tattoo clutching the sides of his skull. Although I couldn't hear him, Satan shook with laughter, and the dragon blew fire toward me. I felt the heat on my face as the tentacle crushed my windpipe.

Marwan saved me. "Allah, look, I'm attacking as you wish."

Rage defeated my fear, and the wraith became solid in my hands; I snapped the tentacle around my neck. I wrapped myself around it, crushing it with my arms and legs, and it burst like flash paper, blowing ash around the cockpit. We were within three hundred yards of the South Tower. I grabbed the stick, and Marwan screamed at me, "No!"

I punched him in the temple and dazed him. In the co-pilot chair, I banked the plane hard left, but the right wing still clipped the Tower and shattered. I managed to buckle up as we spun toward the Hudson River, fast and ugly. Marwan prayed loudly as we rolled over toward the water. I was wrestling with the useless stick when a wide column of water reached up from the river and burst on the windshield. My equilibrium inverted, and I gagged at the sudden deceleration. The water column saved the jet like a drinking fountain catching a dying moth. The water column lowered us slowly until the plane floated on the Hudson.

I unbuckled and stood on shaky knees. Marwan tackled me as the plane began to sink. "No! No! The Tower must fall!" On my back, I kicked him in the ribs and whipped my forearm into his chin, and he collapsed face first into the water that was filling the cockpit. I dragged him back toward the exit. The frigid September water squeezed my lungs and cramped my legs. Water poured through the hole where the right wing had exploded, and the plane tipped on its right side, sinking toward the river bottom.

The king wraith had partially torn open the main door on the left side. I levered a metal broom handle into the opening and battled the water pressure until it was wide enough to push Marwan out. I paddled through the opening and pulled him to the surface. He was alert now, and we were about a hundred yards from shore, near a boat landing. "Marwan, swim!" He looked at me with glassy red eyes and took a half-hearted stroke toward the landing. I dogpaddled in the current, my arms cramping and turning numb.

After twenty freezing minutes, I dragged myself up the landing and sprawled on the warm concrete. I closed my eyes against the blue brilliance above. After a few minutes, I stood up and looked for Marwan, but he was gone. I don't know if he had been sent back to his cave, or if he let himself drown as punishment for doing the right thing.

As I scanned the water for him, a thundering shockwave rippled under my feet. Tower One came down, and the concrete plumes pushed their way up streets and over buildings like a mudslide. I pulled my shirt over my mouth as the debris cloud rolled over me. After my swim, it stuck to me like sludge, and I saw myself reflected in a car window. I looked like I was carved from chalk against the concrete-coated skyline behind me.

But Tower Two still stood above its fallen twin. I saw the scar in the tower's side that our jet had carved. My adrenalin was tapped, and I trembled in shock, watching paper and dust flutter like snowflakes to the ground. I jumped when a blanket went over my shoulders, and then I closed my eyes in warm relief. I turned to see Mr. Keys, but his eyes were clear now, matching green. His suit was dirty but no longer shredded. "You turned that plane away, didn't you?"

"Got lucky," I said.

He smiled. "I was in that tower. You saved us all."

"I'm glad you're okay," I said.

He nodded. "Come with me."

He led me around the powder cloud of Tower One. We heard chirping to our left, and I felt pulled toward the buried cry of the locator beacon. I squatted in the dust and held my palm above the earth. "It's here," I said.

On our knees, we clawed through debris until I saw a gold flash. I looked closer at the tiny symbol of infinity carved on the wedding band Katie had given me. It was my left arm and torso, by far the biggest piece of my soul yet recovered. As I unearthed myself, a warning pain shot under my ribs but subsided. I'd been here too long.

I said, "You helped me twice today. How can I thank you?"

He pointed at Tower Two. "More than enough." Hundreds of people were pouring out of the ground floor doors, embracing one another and cheering.

"What will happen to you?" I asked.

"Time to join the others." He shook my hand and walked into the crowd from Tower Two. They huddled together with some rescue workers joining them, and I thought dust was coming off their clothes at first, but they were dissolving like salt spinning in water—gone in an instant.

The Pave Hawk flew over and landed just north of Ground Zero. Slow ripping had started inside me again, so I carried the chunk of my soul over my shoulder like a slab of clay and found street access through the concrete labyrinth. The blacktop was slick with dust, and it swirled under the rotors as George pulled me aboard the helicopter. George wouldn't let me sit until I'd placed the arm and torso in the box. The heavy fragment evaporated in the blackness, and the fingers in my left hand were instantly warm. The heat intensified in a burning rush along my shoulder and plunged into my chest. My lungs took in so much oxygen that fatigue peeled off me like dead skin.

I put on the flight helmet as we lifted over the seventeen-acre site. George said, "I lost you underground, then finally spotted you swimming in the Hudson."

I said, "Did the river really reach up to keep the plane from crashing?"

"I missed that, but I watched that Tower reassemble itself from up here in the chopper. A smooth rewind in time. Still can't believe it happened."

The pain hit me again. The Scale's reminder to get out. "George, the wraiths attacked, and I saw Satan laughing in one of the creatures' eyes."

George rubbed his red scalp. "Bastard loves playing cat and mouse. You know, he came to my deathbed. I'd been in a car wreck in Austria, and he appeared in my hospital room. Said he'd make the going easier if I gave up my soul _before_ I passed away."

"What'd you do?"

"Told him to piss off." George smiled, and I shook my head. "Took a chance of faith. I'd sinned enough to burn, but also prayed every day of my life."

"What'd Satan do?"

"Bastard said, 'See you soon, General.'"

"What happened?"

"Going into details is not going help either one of us, but suffice to say, I spent time in hell." He paused. "Don't look so worried, Arthur; you didn't commit _my_ sins. That damn demon is just pissed that you're taking what he wants."

I looked at the floor and said, "I have a lot to answer for."

George said, "You didn't crash those planes on purpose."

"Not that," I said. "The Highway of Death. Ever hear of it?"

George shook his head.

"It was during Desert Storm. I'm responsible for what happened there," I said.

"I'm sure you did what had to be done," George said.

"No, it was something else. Something savage. I turned it loose and—"

George said, "Listen now. Win this battle first. Find your soul."

I nodded, but all I could see was Satan's dragon blowing fire in my face.

I wasn't able to sleep much the next few nights in the hospital, but the thing that helped me rest was knowing that Patton was on my side. Hard to find a better ally in a fight for your life.

I did keep my promise to Katie that I'd follow Simon's plan and stop giving her the silent treatment. Not surprisingly, things improved right away. Simon and I talked about Patton, the World Trade Center, and finding my left arm and chest. She'd been researching Patton and handed me a biography with a yellow slip marking one of George's poems. He wrote it while convalescing from a football injury his plebe year at West Point. Dr. Simon asked me to read the highlighted section:

He dreams of blood, of glory, and of strife

And knows not blood is pain and glory but a bubble

Which bursts when riper age has made his folly clear.

But why alas does knowledge come too late

That we who in our youth did know it not

Have wrecked our lives by learning it too late.

I closed the book and said, "Think it's too late for me, Doc?"

"No. The _knowledge_ Patton talks about is partly your understanding how much work it is to overcome PTSD. You're willing to bear that burden; that's why you're recovering. It's why you'll eventually walk out of here."

In bed that night, I imagined dragging a zipper around my head and lifting out my brain, dripping with bloody memories, engorged with violence. I squeezed until my fingers were white, until all the poison was gone, until the fluid ran clear and clean.
Chapter 20

Because they're both trying to save me, I'm committed to Simon and Patton, but this whole recovery is pulling me apart. I have to be calm and focused to talk about combat in therapy, but the rescue missions fry my emotions, not to mention the physical punishment. I can't strike a balance, and the worst side effect is Medusa crawling around my mind.

Simon tested my hearing recently, and I listened for high and low tones but heard him whispering to me, "No way, Hate. You're never going home." The next day she conducted an eye-movement desensitization treatment, where I imagined traumatic moments while focusing on Simon's finger moving side to side, or by tapping my hands in sequence—all in an effort to reprogram my mind. As Simon's finger moved back and forth, the image of Medusa chasing me with Ajax along the Tigris hit me so hard I vomited.

Soldiers' faces rotated in and out of group sessions, but the one I saw the most was Medusa's. Sometimes he sat in the circle with us, but he often just stood by the wall, smiling at me.

Dr. Simon acknowledged my progress was slowing, but she pleaded with me to trust her strategy of revisiting the moments that damaged my psyche. The group is so desensitized to the madness of battle that we've forgotten how to flinch, and grim stories rarely registered more than a collective sigh. Unfazed, they heard about Medusa throwing the prostitute in the river to drown, and about CD Ali used as a suicide bomber, and about the Iraqi boy I killed who came back to haunt me. Yet, if you popped a paper sack or suddenly screamed behind us, our bladders would empty and we'd shake for hours.

Simon's group strategy failed Ranger Alex, who killed himself with a sharpened toothbrush that he jammed in his neck. She read his suicide note to the circle, "I went to find the cashier I shot. Need to tell her I'm sorry."

Major Mike, who drowned his daughter, could be lucid for weeks, then lose the ability to produce anything more than muttered phrases. I wanted to compile his scattered comments and see if they meant anything. He would say things like, "Blue blue cold...wrinkles...Smiling soda TV talkers listening...several seconds several...counting air maybe minutes."

We all clung to Devon's success. After he got released, Dr. Simon told us he got a job with the VA helping soldiers negotiate paperwork obstacle courses.

A new guy, Manny, fought in Afghanistan at Tora Bora. Bomb echoes in the mountain valleys wrecked his hearing, so he shouts in our sessions. Another new addition, PJ, suffers from acute shell shock, and Manny's volume freaks him out.

In one session PJ said, "Dude, stop yelling!"

"What? What'd you say?" Manny yelled.

PJ whispered, "Shut up, you deaf fuck."

Dr. Simon tried. "Please, PJ, try to—"

"What, PJ?" Manny shouted again.

"Shut up!" PJ said, whipping his chair at Manny and knocking him out cold.

As punishment they sent PJ to isolation. When he came back, he said he saw Diablo, and it shook him up. "Dude, it's like Mike said. Waxy melted skin, staring at the ceiling and clawing at it...all...goddamn...day. But his eyes. Fuck, dude. He looked at me as I walked past his cell. Pure rage. Shit, I can't sleep if I think about it."

It was better away from the circle. Larry the LRRP gave me a sketchpad to draw the details of my quests with Patton. Larry said, "If you can trap those images in the book, then they won't be able to run around your mind at night. Sleep is the key. Brings strength, and with that you fight back against any demon."

Sketching the devil and his dragon made me feel like I had some control over them. I tried drawing George with a smile, but he looked strange, so I erased the upturned lips and stayed with the scowl. I drew the World Trade Center as I viewed it from the cockpit, with Tower One engulfed in smoke. When I had them confined on paper, Satan's wraiths looked like helpless smudges. Images of Pan's Hangar didn't do the aquatic show justice, but it created confidence in me that I'd actually been there. I studied details in my amateur etchings: small scars on Marwan's cheek, Pan's swirling horns, and the dead sculptor's exposed ribs—vivid evidence that my travels were more than imagined, and not just side effects of medication.

On my one-year anniversary of incarceration, Katie and Hank arrived. My wife seemed hopeful for the first time in months, now that she'd found a job as a long-term sub for a teacher on maternity leave. She said Hank was doing better knowing she was on campus. Her optimism allowed sunlight to reach the bottom of the pit I'd dug for us. Maybe...maybe we'd get through this. I was rattling that mantra in my head when I caught the end of Katie's sentence. "He's been really helpful, giving me all the tips and shortcuts about how to survive," she said.

"That's great, hon. Who again?" I said.

"Bill Stenson, the teacher next door to the class where I'm subbing. My lifesaver."

I bit the inside of my cheek. "I'm glad you're at Hank's school. Hopefully that bully will back off."

"Bill stepped in and made sure of it," she said.

I said, "Good to know he's there to keep you both out of trouble," but in my head, I saw Bill as Brad Fucking Pitt. "When will this gal return from maternity leave?"

Katie smiled. "Bill says she's flaky and might never come back. I'm hoping to get hired on permanently. Teaching keeps my mind moving. Less time to stew about..." She paused. "Our troubles."

"My troubles," I whispered.

"I didn't mean to..." She trailed off.

I saw Bill's hands on her, and Katie...responding. It was all I could do not to scream. I stood up from the picnic bench to check on Hank under the nearby mulberry tree.

"Daddy, can I read this to you?" Hank brought over a book about space that his teacher let him borrow. We sat under the tree while Katie watched over us from the bench. Hank showed off his second-grade reading skills, but he soon got bored and asked me to read to him.

"Let's see here. Okay, the universe is made up of billions and billions of stars, like the sun that keeps our solar system alive—"

He interrupted. "Dad, how come they don't show pictures of God making the Earth and stuff?"

"Did your teacher tell you about God?"

"Naw, Mom said God made all the animals and mountains and trees and everything. We talk to him sometimes. Ask for you to get better. And to keep us safe."

I nodded, forgetting about Bill for the moment. "Do you think God listens?"

"Mommy says He hears every word but doesn't have time to answer everyone. Mom said God looks after us, and I think he does."

"Oh, yeah?" I said.

"On the way to school last week, a big black bird..." Hank stood up, put his arms out, and walked in a circle flapping slowly, "flew alongside the car and looked at me. Mom said it was a raven. I saw a face in the black eyes."

I tried not to sound terrified. "What did he look like?"

"Had a cool picture on his head and smiled at me."

I pulled Hank onto my lap and rocked him. "Picture?"

"Yeah, a red-and-black dragon."

I was crushed that night between thoughts of my wife's new buddy Bill, and Satan's raven spying on my family. Thankfully, the Pave Hawk landed before I freaked out.

"Come on, Sergeant, need to shake a leg."

"Sorry, not much sleep."

"You look like hell. What's the matter?" George said.

"Can you meet with Dr. Simon? If she could see you, maybe I'd get released."

"Arthur, I can't."

"Why, because I'm insane, and this is all bullshit?"

"Sergeant, you need to be careful with Simon. Until she finishes her book about you, she'll never let you go."

I said, "Can you leave something behind? Proof that I'm getting help from outside the hospital?"

George said, "Listen, I told you I can't. Go bang on your door. I'll show you what I mean. I'll leave my flight helmet, and see what happens."

Up the ladder he went, and I banged on the door until the orderly opened the security screen. "Please stop yelling or we'll have to restrain you."

"Okay, but I want to show you..." I reached for the helmet, but it was gone, and the orderly closed the screen, shaking his head. I watched the helmet reappear instantly, and George climbed back down from the ceiling and sat next to me on the bed.

"What the hell, George?"

"My only extended experience with crossing over has been helping you. I don't know why others can't be a part of what we're doing, but that's just the way it is. What matters is that you're getting better," said George.

"What if I'm just talking to _myself_ right now?" I reached out and touched his arm. "I feel your flight suit, but what if..." I felt sick and didn't want to say the word "insane" again.

George said, "Something else eating at you?"

"I'm losing my wife."

"What makes you think that?"

"She's teaching again and making friends at work. A man...buddy Bill."

"That's a good thing. She's probably going stir crazy at home. Did she say he was more than her friend?"

"She gushed about how _helpful_ he was."

"Jesus, don't overreact. Just calm down."

"Fine. But don't tell me to calm down when Satan's following my family." George's face dropped. "That's right. He's got a fucking raven keeping tabs on them!"

"How do you know?" George said.

"Hank saw the devil's face in a raven's eye as it flew next to their car. I've got to get out of here."

"He's after you, not your family. Bastard's trying to distract you."

"It's working."

"You've got a tough mission and—"

"Devil's chasing me...following my family. Not to mention, some dude is trying to get in my wife's pants, and you want me to focus on a mission? Can't handle that shit right now."

George grabbed my shirt and pulled me to my feet. "I don't give a damn what you can handle. Now get dressed before I kick your fucking ass!" He pushed me away, and I fell to the floor. I lunged for his legs, and he kicked me in the chest. I rolled into the wall and sat there panting.

"Just like the old days, huh, General?" I stared up at the old man. "Smack 'em into shape. Great leadership, asshole."

He took a step toward me, and I got to my feet. He said, "You dumb son of a bitch. These missions are the only way outta here," he said.

"Go ahead, tough guy. Teach me a lesson."

He stepped toward me and stopped. Then he made a fist and punched the palm of his other hand. His face went slack, and his shoulders slumped. "I...Jesus. What am I doing?" he whispered and looked at the floor.

We stood there red-faced like pouting kids. I was ashamed. "You're trying to save me. And I've...I've got my head up my ass about this...stuff I can't control."

"I'm sorry," he said.

I sat on the bed and started to dress. "No wonder you wanted to smack me. Pain-in-the-ass mental patient."

George smiled weakly while I donned the same flight suit and boots that he always brought. I followed him up the ladder and to the roof once more. We strapped ourselves into the Pave Hawk and lifted off. We didn't talk, but I watched him fidget and knew he had something important to tell me. After twenty minutes he said, "Can you tell me what happened the last time you saw Medusa?"

"Bad night. Had a prisoner who knew where Saddam Hussein was. You know who Saddam is?"

"Saw him briefly on his way through The Scale," George said.

I thought about asking more, but stayed on topic. "Medusa tried to kill me and this prisoner. We got away. I called an airstrike and killed him."

"Guess that's why he's so mad at you."

I felt dizzy. "He's part of this mission?"

George opened a large duffle containing what looked like silver armor.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"For your duel," he said.

"With him?"

"He's holding your piece hostage." He lifted the knight's helmet out of the duffle bag. "Armor's mine. I had to wear it at one point when I arrived here. It might be a little big, but I can help you adjust it."

"What'd you need it for?" I asked.

"After my time in hell, I had to put myself back together just like you. When I finished, I started helping other soldiers."

"Is this all about making amends for the troops you hit?"

He paused and tilted his head up. "I let glory corrupt me. My men..." he whispered the last words and looked out the door, "deserved better."

I felt sick to my stomach, like I was dehydrated, so I tried a joke to distract us both. "So am I saving a damsel in distress from Medusa?"  
He smiled. "Yep, but you're the damsel." He stood and retrieved a parachute. "You get to fly today," he said.

"Why Medusa? Why now?" I asked.

George said, "The Scale creates people and places we _need_ to exist, like Lord Pan and the World Trade Towers."

"So I need that psycho?" I tried laughing, but it sounded like choking. "What about the other soldiers you've helped? What did they need?"

"Cases like you and me are rare. Most have only a piece or two to find, and some just need solace before they move on." The green _go_ light flashed over his shoulder. "You have to do the work—no shortcuts—the rest falls into place."

I put on a skydiving helmet, and I checked my chute and wrist altimeter. "George, even if I succeed, do you think my family will wait?"

"They will, Arthur, but..." He paused.

"But not forever," I said.

He nodded. "Time to go."
Chapter 21

I jumped into the blue and fell in the biting wind for two minutes before opening the chute. The duffle, full of the heavy armor, dangled from the harness between my legs and pulled me awkwardly toward the ground. The heavy forest below appeared rusty from the colors of sunset. As the sun hovered on the horizon, I steered the chute and landed in a pasture. After a cursory look around, I laid out the medieval gear: suit of armor, helmet, scabbard, and sword. It took quite a while to get into the metal suit—a bitch without a squire around. As I placed each plate on my body, I thought about Dad. My brother and I pestered him constantly about Vietnam. He'd use the chance to tell us about King Arthur and his knights. Dad would say something bland about Vietnam like, "The jungle was hot," and then jump to "unlike the beautiful forest around Camelot," and away he'd go into another tale of chivalry and swordplay.

I couldn't cinch the suit's connecting straps tightly, and I laughed at how easy Dad made it seem when Lancelot would suit up in seconds before defeating an enemy horde at the gates of Camelot. Once I finally had the armor on, I was sweating so much I felt woozy. I drank water until my stomach bulged, and I leaned against a tree, nervous I'd get stuck if I sat down. When my head stopped spinning, I clanked and rattled through the forest in a hundred pounds of armor. At least the helmet fit well and the visor stayed up so I could see. I heard water running and figured following a creek helped me find Grandpa, so why not try it again.

I found a horse trail and followed the U-prints covering the ground. The worn ground was flat, so I tripped only occasionally. I was leery of the flying wraiths, but nothing was following me. George said this place was made from imagination, and since I looked like a tin man, I hoped a scarecrow or talking lion might show up to guide me. A full moon illuminated the river valley with jagged cliffs on both sides. Eventually I rested, drinking from the cold river along the path. I made a fire and dozed on my back, resting on sturdy moss that acted like a mattress. The bulky armor kept me from sleeping, and I considered taking it off, but the hassle of rearming killed the idea. I decided to at least take off the scabbard, and I was in the process when I heard something like wet clay being slapped against a table in Larry's art class.

A squishy, sucking sound was all around me, and it reeked of sulfur. The wet compressions faded to a low thumping under me, like boulders banging against each other. Then the ground erupted and tossed me twenty feet in the air. A huge creature made from sewage bubbled up through the soil. I ran but the armor slowed me down, as the giant lumbered after me through the trees. I heard its sloppy, squishing footfalls and the smell of shit getting closer until it batted me with a massive sticky arm, which sent me flying down the riverbank into the water. Splashing to my feet, I tried to clear my head as I spun in slow circles with cold river water dripping into my eyes. I pulled my sword and knew it would be ineffective.

My campfire was snuffed out when the monster surged from the ground, so now I relied on the moonlight. The stench, like something dead and unburied, gave the creature away, and the odor found me before the beast did. It was moving slowly off to my right along the edge of the water, carefully keeping its feet out of the river. The mud monster paused on a sandbar and moved its huge head in my direction. It was thick as a redwood, with giant earthen arms dangling and a bulbous head swaying as it looked for me. As I scrambled for the opposite bank, I hoped it was afraid of the water. The monster bellowed and ripped a tree from the ground, swinging it at me like a two-ton baseball bat. Only the thin branches at the top made contact, but that was more than enough to knock me down and smash the wind out of me. As I tried to breathe, I saw the beast using the uprooted tree to bridge the river. I got up as my lungs started working again; the creature was coming across, careful with each step and definitely afraid to get wet.

I found a branch to use as a lever against the bridge. As I wedged the limb under the tree, a huge chunk of shit hammered me in the ribs. I fell flat as the giant's disembodied hand scuttled on fingertips and hopped on my chest. Even though I was wearing armor, the hand crushed me while the mud beast lumbered across, watching its appendage kill me. I bashed the hand with the sword hilt, but it was useless. I looked up, hoping to see George and the Pave Hawk, but all I saw was a swarm of fireflies in the branches. I had a few seconds left before blacking out, but the fireflies attacked the giant's hand, and it twitched wildly before releasing me and scuttling off toward the bushes. The swarm pursued the fecal hand, and it crumbled in their bright, sizzling cloud. They weren't fireflies, but electric sparks.

The lights suddenly launched at the giant in a fist of red light, knocking the creature into the river. Frozen in ankle-deep water, the monster roared. The moon showed the monster slip apart in pieces that plunged into the water. Bigger and bigger sections sloughed off, and then it collapsed, drenching me in a wave of nasty sewage. I waited for the sparks to come for me, but they dissipated, sounding like wind chimes. Suddenly an old man stood above me, then kneeled down and put a hand over my eyes.

My eyes opened to morning light and the smell of frying bacon. The old man was cooking at the campfire. He was wrapped in a purple robe made of thick fur and wearing a purple cap that covered his ears like a sagging mushroom. When he rose from feeding wood to the fire, his white beard dropped to his waist. The beard was braided with gold beads and glass ornaments that sounded like wind chimes when he moved. He sat on a stump and picked his teeth with a long fingernail.

"Best tighten that armor before battle," he said.

I sat up, and my chest plate came loose, falling in the dirt. "Who are you?" I asked.

"Who are _you_?" He smiled.

I just looked at him with bleary eyes.

"Let's have a guess, shall we?" he said.

I asked, "Did you save me last night?"

He said, "I'll guess first then, shall I? I believe you're _Hate_."

"Don't call me that," I said.

"Ah, but the man who gave you that name is the one you must defeat."

The terror in my voice surprised me. "Medusa!"

"Indeed," he said as he helped me up. "Now please, warm yourself by the fire, eat a little, and do take off that bloody useless armor."

Anxiety made my heart race, but I managed to croak out, "Who are you?"

"No guess? Straight to the point then: I'm Merlin."

"King Arthur's wizard?" I almost tipped over in the armor.

"At your service," he said with a mocking bow. I took off the armor and sat by the fire, wearing the flight suit I had on underneath. He handed me a bowl of potato soup filled with bacon, and fresh steaming bread to use as a spoon.

"The general believes you can defeat Medusa, but I doubt it," he said.

I'd regained my composure, and the old man's sarcasm pissed me off. "Appreciate the food, but you can keep your opinions."

He laughed. "Do you hope to find the item you need?" he said.

I chewed for a minute. "Does Medusa have it?"

He looked at me like I was a fool. "Why else would Patton deposit you in Camelot?"

I asked, "What was that creature you saved me from?"

Merlin said, "One of Satan's minions...an excrement golem."

"Made of shit?"

"Boorish, yet correct."

"The devil's been sending shadow demons after me, but this is the first golem."

Merlin said, "Satan seems rather determined. Your soul must be quite a prize."

"Thanks for saving me. What were those lights?"

"A fire spell. Useful against creatures infused with methane."

"What next?" I said and looked at the fire.

"Come, come, Arthur, you're named for the greatest king in history. Self-doubt is quite unbecoming."

"Where is the king?"

"Searching for the Holy Grail."

"Will he find it?"

"You know the answer. For goodness sake, your father named you after him."

I choked before spitting soup in the dirt. "You know my father?"

"By reputation only. The tower he built is legendary. I think your father's reward is this quest you've been granted to reclaim your soul."

"Has Satan gone after him?"

"I don't believe so. I think you'll see your father eventually. However, you must face your nemesis first."

I chewed and swallowed. "Will you take me to Medusa?"

"Perhaps, but it would take considerable effort to prepare you, and I think you're far too impatient to absorb what I can offer."

This world was a maze, and without Merlin, I had zero hope. "I'd be grateful for your assistance, but if that's not possible, perhaps a map?"

"Much better tone, sir, and you're correct in thinking you'd fail without me."

I smiled. "Okay, I won't bother keeping anything to myself, so will you or won't you?"

"Back to snippy, is it? Very well, I will help, but only on the off chance you'll provide me with something I desire," Merlin said.

"And that would be..."

He interrupted. "Come and lie at my feet so we can begin. Move quickly before I change my mind."

I did as he asked. "Now calm your mind. No, that's anger...just breathe in deeply and then slowly out. That's better, maintain that rhythm, yes...yes, now you're relaxing...keep breathing...almost..."

When I sat up, it was getting dark already; I'd been out all day. Merlin filled leather saddlebags on two large gray horses, each with white patches along its sides, breaking up their shadowy silhouettes.

I'd slept in the silver armor, and it looked the same, but as I stood up, the heavy armor felt like a second skin. I pulled my sword and slashed through a series of effortless attacks and defensive blocks.

"What did you do to me?" I asked.

"Time to leave, Arthur."

"Am I ready?"

He mounted his horse. "Perhaps, but first you must learn about his Chameleon armor. Now mount up. I will explain more on the way."

With the skills imbued by Merlin, I climbed into the saddle easily. "Chameleon what?" I asked, but Merlin was off at a gallop, and I spurred my horse to catch up. We trotted along in the dark, and I felt at ease on an animal I'd seen only in books. "I'm different."

"Indeed. Now you are balanced. I poured experience into you, decades' worth. To be honest, you're far stronger than I expected. Perhaps you stand a chance against Medusa."

We rode through the night up steep trails covered in treacherous, loose rock. I rode with little effort and instinctively controlled the horse with subtle tugs on the reins and pressure from my legs. Just after dawn, we arrived at a chalky plateau and dismounted. From a pile of rocks, Merlin conjured a hot breakfast of biscuits, venison jerky, and ripe pears. When I finished, Merlin had me stand and draw my sword.

"Close the faceplate. Yes. Now, let's see what you can do." Merlin reached down and scooped up some dirt. He raised the handful to his mouth and mumbled something. Then he tossed the dirt up, and it came down in the shape of man dressed in animal skins, wielding a club. He yelled and charged me, but I leapt aside and sliced through his neck. As the blade touched his skin, he dissolved into dirt again. Merlin repeated the trick, but this time a knight in black armor appeared with a mace and shield. He paced around me, drawing closer and finally attacking, using the shield as a battering ram. He knocked me to the ground, but I knew his mace was coming and blocked it with my sword. I swept my legs into his knee and heard the tendons snap. He collapsed, and I rolled to my feet and plunged my sword through an opening in his armor and into his belly. Without a scream, he crumbled to dust.

Merlin clapped like he was watching a birdie putt. "Bravo. Wise to remember that the edge of the sword is as equally effective as the tip." He proceeded to list my flaws and explained how I could avoid being blindsided by keeping my stance wider.

Once I demonstrated the improved stance, he said, "Now, let's discuss your opponent. Medusa came to Camelot only once. He stood in the main square and called for all challengers. At first, his armor appeared bright green, then dark red, and finally invisible. Arthur had already gone on the Grail quest with most of the Round Table, and only thirty knights remained. Wearing the enchanted armor, our men were helpless against him."

"How did you defeat him?"

"I managed to get him outside the castle using phantom knights to taunt him. Then I conjured a fire wall to keep him out." Merlin sliced another pear for himself before continuing. "I recognized his magic armor, but thought it forever lost or destroyed. It is called Chameleon, and combined with Medusa's natural skill, it makes him quite formidable."

"And I'm supposed to defeat him?" I asked.

Merlin tapped the tip of his nose for a moment. "Only if you wish to recover your soul." He chewed the pear. "This quest for reconstruction hangs in the balance, and that incentive may trump Medusa's magic armor. Also, while I was in your mind imparting combat skills, I saw you are unlike the men in this realm—all children of humanity's imagination. You are flesh and blood, and that gives you a sensory advantage. Your senses will be the decisive factor today."

I sat on a boulder and ate another biscuit. "What are my chances?"

Merlin removed a shield and sword hanging from his saddle. "The shield is sturdy, but this sword will certainly help your odds. It is called Nathrach, and it was crafted by the fairies' finest blacksmith—my brother, in fact—who told me to use it when magic failed."

With a smooth hisssssssss, Nathrach slid from the scabbard, and I wielded it with muscle memory implanted by the wizard. The blade was light and seamless, hammered from a single piece of silver, and the sleek weapon heated in my hand as I slashed the air.

"What does Nathrach mean?"

"Serpent," Merlin said. "Now you must prepare your mind for battle. Trust that I've given you the skills to stand against Medusa. His armor is impressive, but my magic will not wilt. And _when_ you win, I request delivery of the Chameleon armor."

"What will you do with it?"

"Give it to King Arthur so he may at long last find victory on the battlefield against Mordred."

I knew the famous story where Arthur and Mordred die in a brutal final duel. The old wizard said, "The fates insist that the king die killing his evil son, but I wish, just once, for the battle to end with Arthur holding Excalibur high in eternal glory. The armor will make that possible."

I mounted the horse while Merlin held the reins. "Part of your fate was coming to this land to recover yourself. Part of mine was to help you achieve that goal. Destiny favors us today. Do you have faith in what I say?" Merlin asked.

"I will not fail you, Merlin."

"When you say words aloud, they seek to become truth. Good luck, Arthur."

The steep trail weaved through trees with bark that resembled lava rock. The high mountain air froze the inside of my nose. My horse crunched through the snow, then stopped on the drawbridge of a castle made of boulders, as if stacked by giants. There were no guards and no gate, just the promise of combat. I rode my horse right into a large hall, where sunlight poured through windows that ran the length of the hundred-foot room.

I dismounted and drew Nathrach. I noticed the ceiling resembled a porcupine, with dozens of swords dangling like grade school pencils. The door across the room opened and closed, seemingly by itself. Remembering Merlin's advice, I tried to let my senses find him, but I was clueless until the knight materialized ten feet away. He held a sword and morning star, and his armor was alive with moving color. Then he vanished. I raised my sword and shield, and the room was silent, except for his voice. "After I butcher you, your sword will hang with the rest."

I glanced up at the swords again, and he attacked. He tripped me with a sweeping blow to the knees, followed by a smashing strike to the head. The room sang when my armor banged on the stone floor. I heard him laughing. "Too easy, Hate."

I stayed on my back, hoping to draw him in. He attacked from the side, and I swept my shield across his shins, sending him to the ground, but he was on his feet before I could attack. I got up quickly, thanks to Merlin's gift of agility. Medusa's voice bounced off the rock walls and disoriented me as he charged. Fortunately, my shield blocked the pummeling blows from his morning star, as my imbued experience reached out through my sword and sliced flesh, and he broke off the attack.

I closed my eyes, listening for sounds he forgot to control...the metronome tick, tick, tick of his scabbard against the leg armor. He yelled as he moved, trying to mask his location. I filtered through the echoes and found the steady tick, tick, tick, tick. I stepped right as he charged. I spun and lunged at the sound; Nathrach pierced more flesh. Unsure of his camouflage, he cursed and scrambled away.

The ticking narrowly saved me as he closed within a yard and swept his sword toward my neck, but I ducked as his blade whipped overhead. I slashed at him, making solid, pounding contact as he tried to withdraw. If he disengaged, I'd lose him. Merlin's magic increased my accuracy, and Nathrach found gaps in his armor, leaving a blood trail on the floor for me to follow. I heard the leather bindings on his armor snap as I continued hammering, but then he used his sword and hit me in the chest, knocking me back. His sword was now visible, and I sliced it in half with Nathrach.

My labored breathing and pounding heart hid the tick, tick from my ears, but Merlin's gift of agility saved me. From behind, Medusa's morning star dented my shoulder armor, and my knees buckled. I somersaulted forward and his next swing only bashed the floor, creating sparks along the stones. I was on my knees a few yards in front of him when arrogance killed his advantage. He made himself visible, and his armor washed the room in a red glow. "Time to die, Hate," he said and ran at me with his morning star.

I read his attack instantly and launched my counterstrike. I deflected the morning star with my shield, sidestepped, slashed, and cut deeply into the back of his other hand. He answered with morning star blows to my faceplate and chest, causing my sword to fly out of my hand. I anticipated his next move and swung my shield through his line of attack, and the blow dented his helmet, dropped him to his knees and sent his weapon flying.

I could've crushed his skull with my shield, but I needed Nathrach. I was...afraid to go near him without it. While I searched for my sword, he disappeared. I listened for the scabbard ticking. Nothing. Then from the corner I heard him say, "So this is how you heard me." He threw the scabbard, and it appeared in midair, then clattered to the floor. "Gotcha now," he whispered.

I tried to calm down and let my senses find him, but I panicked. I saw his face in the stones along the wall and on the floor. Cold sweat terror hit me, and I ran for my horse. The shield slowed me down so I dropped it. I was halfway to the horse when Medusa threw his morning star, and the chain wrapped around my ankle. I went sprawling on my face. Dazed and bleeding from the mouth, I got to one knee and Medusa kicked me in the ribs. I was on my back and he grabbed the sword from my hand. As he stood over me his armor turned oily black.

From behind his faceplate he said, "No missiles to call this time, Hate." I stared up, and he held Nathrach high like a trophy. "Too afraid to fight?" He kicked my side, but I just lay there like a dead fish. "You _almost_ won," he said.

"Fuck you," I said, but it sounded meek.

From the hall's entrance I heard hooves clomping on the rock floor. From his saddle, Merlin said, "Well, General, the Chameleon armor remains with you in victory."

Medusa took off his helmet. It was Patton. He dropped his helmet on the floor and said, "He had me, but the old fear...he couldn't beat it."

"You fought well, Arthur," Merlin said.

I stood up and felt my face flush with anger. "Mind games? Fucking mind games?" I took off my armor and tossed it, piece by piece, at their feet.

George said, "The places I still have to take you would use your fear of Medusa to destroy you."

"Kiss my ass," I said over my shoulder and walked toward the door.
Chapter 22

I was barely able to mount the gray horse because Merlin's magic was dissipating. I rode to the Pave Hawk and managed to stop the horse and get down without killing myself. I buckled into the chopper and waited. I looked at the black box where I'd placed all the pieces of my soul, and all I felt was betrayal.

Patton arrived on Merlin's horse and dismounted like he'd done it a thousand times. He had my armor in a bag and threw it the chopper. He took off the Chameleon armor and stowed it in a crate inside the chopper.

"Merlin sends his regards. Had other business to tend to," George said.

I wondered how the horses would get back, but they'd already vanished from the plateau.

"You're angry, and have a right to be, but your fear of Medusa is lethal."

"And the duel was your best plan? Come on, George. If you wanted to fight me, you shoulda kept swinging back in the hospital room. Hiding behind my fear of Medusa. That's fucking bullshit."

"Sorry you feel that way, but that duel was actually Plan B."

"You had a better idea, but mind fucked me instead?"

"Wouldn't say better. In fact, it's more difficult and certainly much more complicated." He sighed and sat back. "That's what I get for trying a shortcut."

I crossed my arms and tuned him out. I didn't want to hear about the other plan or any more bullshit. I'd fix myself in the hospital—enough of the fucking Scale.

I heard that low-level static again and knew we were close to the hospital, when he finally said something I couldn't ignore. "I believe I was reincarnated. I still hold memories from those past lives. One in particular haunts me." George took a deep breath. "I was a Greek child during the Peloponnesian Wars. Taken to Sparta from my family at age seven. On the first day, I was flogged for talking in formation. That night I sobbed on my thatch of piss-soaked hay, longing for home. A Spartan officer making rounds stopped and said, 'Every tear you shed is a slap to your father's face.'" George cleared his throat a few times and then said, "I carry that pain even today."

"Congratulations," I said.

He just went on talking. "The Spartan's words ring in my ears whenever I think of the men I slapped in WWII. I get sick. I feel like I could puke right now." He spit out the door and looked nauseated. When he spoke again he sounded raspy, as if the memories clawed inside his throat. "Incredible shame. How could I hit those boys? But at the same time, I've learned to live, despite the terrible past." He rubbed a palm across his forehead. "Those memories sicken me but don't cripple me anymore. Medusa has crippled you."

On the hospital roof, George let the rotors come to a stop. "You wanna hear Plan A?"

I sat with arms still crossed, tapping the metal floor with my boots.

"I need to show you something. Then you decide. Deal?" he said.

"Okay."

We descended into the space between the walls, inching our way to the bottom floor of the hospital. It was dark in the crawlspace with a few pinholes of light breaking up the blackness.

"You been down here yet?" he asked.

"Where are we?"

George whispered, "The isolation unit. There's a man I want you to see. His cell is up ahead. Follow me."

We crawled along until we ran into some pipes. George pointed up, and we climbed the pipes until we reached a panel screwed into the wall. George carefully used a pocketknife to open the panel slightly. I looked into a cell at a scarecrow made of melted wax. His face was frozen in a terrifying grin because his lips were melted away, leaving his yellow teeth and crimson gums permanently exposed. His eyebrows and hair were gone, and the bottom lids of his eyes drooped wide open with swollen red tissue. Staring, forever frightened.

He stood in the center of the cell. His left arm was gone, and the skin on his right arm and bald head looked like twisted strips of shiny purple plastic. Two black holes remained where his nose had been, and his left ear was reduced to a gnarled stump with only a tiny opening. He wore the standard white cotton scrubs with "PTC" stenciled in black on the chest and down the right leg. He was on tiptoes, except his mangled bare feet showed little trace of toes, so he balanced on stumps. He reached for the ceiling tiles, and his eyes found us as we peered in at him.

"I knew you'd come," he said.

"Diablo?" I whispered to George. He nodded and held his finger to his lips.

Diablo's eyes teared up, and he nodded his head rapidly. "Take me."

I raised my hand to give an "okay" sign through the vent, but George held my wrist and motioned for us to climb down. As we did, Diablo shouted over and over, "Come back! Come back!"

We crawled through the labyrinth of pipes and ductwork and finally came to George's hidden ladder, which we used to climb into my room.

"That was damn spooky," I said.

George said, "He's forgotten his name—forgotten everything—but I snooped around and got it: Captain Ben Garth. Badly injured by an IED in Iraq, he came home, couldn't adjust, attacked some people, and eventually found himself here."

"Did he kill someone?"

"I believe so. In a shopping mall. Either way, he's a mess."

"How is Diab—sorry—Garth, part of the plan?" I asked.

George said, "On this side of The Scale, he's the only one who can help you get over your fear."

I didn't want to get anywhere near Diablo. "That guy is Plan A? Shit, let's try the duel again. At least that was a standup fight."

George was calm. "Told you this was more complicated. But you're also afraid."

"No!"

"That's why I beat you." I wanted to fight with him but he raised his palm. "Arthur, please. Some of your soul is trapped in bad places. If I was foolish enough to take you at this point, the dread you harbor would get you killed."

He sat next to me on the bed. "What am I supposed to do? Find his missing arm, heal his mind or what?" I said.

"All I know is he can purge Medusa from your system. You'll have to talk to him." George stood up and said, "Find a way to contact him. That has to happen before I can return. Understand?"

"Why didn't you just let me talk to him a minute ago?"

"Garth thinks his cell is a...portal out of this hospital, but it isn't. Your connection with him has to take place away from his fantasy."

"So my missions with you to recover my soul are okay, but whispering through the walls with him is _fantasy_?"

"Not the same. Don't shake your head, dammit! You saw him. His grasp on reality is gone."

George patted my shoulder, then climbed the ladder, and pulled it up after him. Before sliding the ceiling tile into place, he looked down at me and said, "Garth needs you as much as you need him."

As the ceiling closed, I shut my eyes, lay back on the pillow, and wondered how I could reach out to him—to that melted soldier in isolation.
PART 4: DIABLO

Chapter 23

I woke up still thinking about Patton's orders and whispered, "Fuck that." I stood at the sink and brushed my teeth, relieved that I didn't have to see George again. He tried to kill me, then chucked a lost cause in my lap with Diablo. No thanks. Dr. Simon could take me the rest of the way. No more Scale, no more dead people, no wraiths or golems. No more bullshit. Finished with helicopter rides, I wanted time to heal and get the hell out of this place. This pep talk put a smile on my face as I walked to breakfast and filled my plastic plate with powdered eggs and burnt toast.

Major Mike looked up from his bowl of oatmeal and raised an eyebrow at my grin. "Fuck's got you so happy?"

"I'm light as a feather and full of song, Mikey. So spoon that nasty shit in your mouth, and leave my buzz alone."

"Musta changed your meds again." Major Mike laughed and kept eating.

"You ain't shaking me out of this tree. Just let me swing from the high branch for a minute, okay?" I said while spreading extra butter over my blackened toast.

Mike clanged the spoon in his bowl and stood to leave. "What happens when you come down?" he asked, and I shrugged. "Well, swing once for me, will ya?" he said.

I finished and burped loud enough to make those around me laugh, which kept me rolling as I was escorted to Simon's office for another session. As I knocked on her door, I heard a helicopter and panicked until I realized it was a random chopper just flying over the hospital.

"Come in, Arthur," Simon called to me through the door, and I already had my smile back as the helicopter faded away. The guard closed the door, and I sat down. Simon chuckled when she saw my face. "Well, Arthur, I take it you and Patton had another successful mission?"

The tension in my cheeks slipped away as my smile disappeared. "The general's gone. Looks like you'll have to take me the rest of the way, Doc."

She grimaced. "Gone? Where is he?"

I tried to smile again, but it was fake so I let it go. "I mean George said I had to do it on my own now," Simon shook her head slightly. "But I figure I'm better off with you than an imaginary playpal anyway, right?"

"I can't believe it. I mean, why would you stop?" she asked.

"Doc, I don't control him."

Simon took off her glasses and polished away. "But you _are_ in control. In control of one of the most unique healing processes I've ever seen. Why abandon it? Why quit?"

"Hey, he abandoned me!" I tried to lower my voice to calm her down. "I didn't quit. George called off the game."

"Arthur, if you concentrate, I'm sure George will return."

"He said there was nothing more he could do," I lied.

"You haven't recovered all the pieces of yourself. I want you to try to call Patton back."

I shook my head. "Worried about book sales, Doc?"

She stood and put her glasses on and told the guard, "Take him back to his room."

I tried a chuckle to disarm her. "Doc, I thought you'd be happy about..."

"About what? That you've turned your back on recovery?" She glared at me as the guard led me away.

I spent the afternoon weighing Simon's anger against Patton's orders. I decided I'd rather deal with her wrath than with George's Easter-egg hunts and Satan's pets. What weighed me down was I wouldn't see my father and his tower. That regret became a constant thought about a red spike jutting out of the sand, growing like a weed at odd angles—reaching up and up. I tried the hospital gym, but running on the treadmill didn't shake the image loose. I was pursued endlessly by thoughts of the red tower shooting up from the sand into the clouds. I daydreamed in group one day, and the mental picture shifted from the tower to the sand around its base. The sand bubbled and popped from something full of rage and sadness under the surface. Whatever lived underground was lost and longing for the tower to pull it inside.

After three restless nights, I visited Larry. He patted my shoulder and said, "Take it out on the clay. Let your hands figure it out."

I strangled stiff chunks of clay until it embedded under my fingernails and stained my hands red. The labor eased the tension in my shoulders, and I stopped fighting the tower. I slept well that night and had a vision of The Illinois rising from the sand. But this version was constructed from meat and bone and seemed to pulse as if blood ran through it.

I returned to the art room after breakfast the next day and worked on recreating the tower. I told Larry about it, and he found some white plastic shower-curtain rings left over from an old project. He helped me break them apart to use as bone fragments. By day's end, I was frustrated by the meager foot-high lump that resembled a ruptured hot dog. Larry sensed my disappointment and said, "We'll make some room for you to expand on this. Detail will really come out on a bigger scale, I think."

I didn't think about Simon or George for several days as I went without lunch, working at a corner table in the art room. The tower moved closer and closer into focus, and it was alive. As if drawing breath, the enormous spire swelled and compressed, or maybe it tried to speak, but in a voice I couldn't hear. Larry left me alone except to bring more clay and pieces of plastic. I was exhausted at night and didn't dream, but I woke every morning as if my hair was on fire, pacing until the guard let me out so I could grab a piece of fruit in the cafeteria and return to the clay.

At the end of the week, Larry pulled up a chair and said something I didn't hear. I wiped sweat off my face and left behind ruby streaks from the clay. Larry spoke again—louder this time—so I stopped. "What?" I said.

He laughed. "Man, you're like Dreyfus in _Close Encounters_. Look at this thing. It has to be six feet high."

I stepped off the table and stood next to him. The sticky clay had ruined my clothes, and my hair was full of dust from carving and sandpapering the drying structure.

Larry laughed again. "Amazing work, man, truly amazing."

We looked at the tower with its bony ridges poking out like ribs from the crimson clay. The sculpture tapered to the fine point of a radio antenna that Larry found for me when I described what I needed.

"What're you going to call it?" he asked.

I shrugged with fatigue. "No idea. Looks like a blood clot."

"No way, man. It's a cathedral made of skin and bone."

I smiled. "I like that. I'll call it _Skin and Bone_."

He smiled. "You know, Simon watched you for over an hour today. Did you notice?" I shook my head, and he continued. "She was floored, man, so don't be surprised if she wants to talk about it. Good chance for you to share a peace pipe, amigo. Know what I mean?"

"We'll see," I said while using a big yellow sponge to mop the clay from the white linoleum floor.

Dr. Simon sent for me the following afternoon. "Your sculpture took my breath away. Larry said it was something you dreamed about?"

"Yeah. Something to do with my father." I wanted to be angry at Larry but knew he was trying to help.

"Did you ask George about it?"

"No, but he mentioned Dad was working on something big, and I think my clay version is close to what he was talking about."

"So George came back?"

"No. Don't think that's gonna happen." My voice sounded uncertain, but Simon didn't pounce.

"Just stay open, and I'm sure he'll return if need be."

"Honestly, Doc, I don't want him to."

She switched gears. "I'm sorry about my behavior, but I need you to understand where I'm coming from. The story of how you tapped into your imagination as a catalyst for healing needs to be told. And George is such a unique component. I...well, I'm a bit obsessed by the idea."

"Sorry I'm not giving you the ending you wanted."

She blushed. "No, no. Again, I just want you to be open if George tries to return."

"But if he does come back, doesn't that really mean I'm getting worse, not better?"

She opened her mouth, but closed it, sipped some coffee, and finally stood up. She pointed to the pictures of PTC's patients along her wall, each with color-coded dots indicating their illness or stage of recovery.

"Look at all of them, Arthur. We're helping men and women find their way back to their families and resume productive lives. But even the healthiest leave here with cracks. We've glued them back together, but under the right conditions they could break again, usually along the same cracks...along the same memories."

She turned back from the pictures to look at me, and I softened my stiff expression. She sat down at her desk. "I wanted you...I still want you to be the first to leave PTC without cracks, without fractures—seamless."

"Especially since I'm the guy who made headlines crashing airplanes together, right? Bet you'd sell a ton of books."

I thought it would set her off, but she remained composed. "I need to disclose something to you. Something personal," she said.

"Okay, Doc," I said and slid forward in my chair like a student awaiting a teacher's reprimand.

"My older brother was a Vietnam vet. Joe left college when I was in high school to enlist in what he called, 'a war on injustice.' That's what he shouted at our parents on Thanksgiving before he left in 1969." Simon drank from her coffee mug. "He survived his tour, but I knew from his letters that his wit and intellect were damaged. When he came home, my parents were so glad he was alive that they ignored the signs." Simon asked the guard to step outside the room.

"But, ma'am," he said, "that's against policy."

Simon's voice was quiet but threatening. "Step out."

"Yes, ma'am."

When the door clicked, she said, "Looking back, I know it was depression that made him feel isolated, and when I asked my parents why he never came out of his room, they said it took time for soldiers to leave the war behind." Simon took off her glasses and set them on the desk. "When I found him in his room, the smoke from the pistol was still drifting over his body." Her eyes were red but without tears. "I decided that I would do whatever I could to prevent that from happening again."

"And here we are," I said.

She put her glasses back on. "And here we are."

"Glad to be a part of it. Hope the book helps other vets," I said, and her face relaxed a little. "But I can't promise anything about Patton's return."

"I understand. Just wanted you to know why I'm pushing so hard."

The soldiers in Larry's classes asked to keep the tower I made. Larry told me one vet said, "We're all climbing that tower, so it's good to see what we're up against." Those words perched on my shoulder during every meal, every shower, and every conversation. Night after night the words rested on my pillow and repeated themselves over and over until I realized that Diablo couldn't climb the tower alone.

Later that week, sitting in a group, I was a ventriloquist's dummy, nodding with false intensity and offering expected comments: "So true.... I'm afraid of honesty too.... Your open dialogue is so courageous." Ambiguous enough to look like I was participating, while I spent real energy thinking about Diablo. Garth's disfigured features appeared in my mind, with his wide, unblinking eyes, hairless scalp, and savage burn scars. I had to put my head between my legs to keep the room from spinning. Simon stopped the group discussion and said, "Arthur, are you okay?"

I said, "Yeah, I...mixed powdered eggs with grape jelly. Bad juju, Doc." The group laughed, and Simon raised an eyebrow, but she returned her focus to the group as the laughter faded. In an afternoon meeting with Simon, she returned to the earlier moment. "Where were you today? You acted like you were with us, but seemed somewhere else."

"I was there." She frowned. "I was. Just didn't feel well. My stomach was messed up."

"Yes, I remember. It's just when the subject turned to Baghdad, you didn't really engage like you normally do."

"Sorry. That was quite a story this morning."  
"Arthur, we didn't talk about Baghdad at all." My face flushed, and I looked at the carpet to hide. "Please tell me what's on your mind," she said.

I avoided Diablo and stayed with the other meal on my plate. "Sorry, Doc. I'm thinking a lot about my dad and that crazy clay tower I made." I stopped and clarified my thoughts. "Finishing the tower, having clay all over me—the whole process was healing. But it didn't make my dad go away. He's calling me. Another piece might be there. "

Simon waited for a few beats. "A section of your soul? Like the ones recovered with Patton?"

"I think so."

"Could the pull you're experiencing be more than just finding your soul? Could your desire to reconcile with your father be driving this?"

I fell into old quicksand again. "Jesus, Doc, maybe...okay...probably."

"I know this makes you uneasy, but your need to resolve that conflict is vital."

"Well, George is gone, so I don't see how I can resolve it." I fought the urge to tell her that George had ordered me to visit Diablo. I was so close to blurting it out that I had to cough so the urge could escape.

Simon said, "Talking is how we can resolve it. If we can look at the rejection you experienced with your father, hopefully we'll understand what motivated his behavior. The lack of resolution is why you feel him calling and why you're compelled to build the tower."

She waited patiently for my response while I debated telling her about Diablo. If I talked to him and somehow reached him, then George would return, and I could actually go to the damn tower and figure it out face to face with Dad.

"Arthur, let's leave it there for today. The only thing I want you to consider on your own is the tower. What does it tell you about your father? About yourself? Please reflect on that for a few days. No group or individual sessions for the rest of the week, just concentrate on those ideas, okay?"

"Will do," I said and stood up to leave, holding the back of the chair against lightheadedness. She walked me to the door, and the guard opened it to escort me to my room. She said, "I know your family's coming this weekend. Don't let this keep you from enjoying that time. We'll chat again Monday."

The image of Katie and Hank temporarily sliced through the fog of Diablo, the tower, George, and my father. But I was dizzy and felt so sick on the walk to my room that I had to lie down as soon as I got there. The mantra waited for me under the pillow—repeating, "Can't climb alone, can't climb alone."
Chapter 24

Katie brought news that her substitute-teaching job had become a full-time first-grade position. The teacher Katie replaced had vague complications during delivery and decided to stay home permanently with the baby. The money was small, but Katie already loved her students, and she was giddy with pride as she told me something about all twenty-four.

Hank was more lighthearted because Bobby the bully had backed off since Katie started teaching at his school. While Hank played in the grass with his toy cars, I told Katie how well therapy was going and that I'd stopped having the traveling dreams. We ate grilled cheese sandwiches in the bright sun and avoided the pain of separation, and the question of how much longer it would continue. Katie talked about her lesson plans and how supportive her students' parents were, and I almost ruined it by asking how Bill Stenson was doing. I waited until Hank was chasing me around the grass, and I let him tackle me far from the table where Katie watched.

"Mom seems so happy, pal, what do you think?" I said.

"She smiles more now, that's for sure," he said.

"How's Mom's friend, Mr. Stenson?"

"Helpful, but a little weird too."

"Oh, yeah? How?"

"He was helping me with math the other day after school and..." Hank trailed off.

"And what, buddy?"

"His sleeve, see, he only wears long ones, and one sleeve brushed against the edge of the desk and it pulled back...I could see his skin. He didn't notice 'cause he was showing me something with addition. The skin looked really strange." He tried to get up and get me to chase him, but I pulled him back and tickled him until he could barely breathe.

"Was it a tattoo?" I asked.

"No, but the skin was shiny and had scales. Weird, huh?"

"Like fish skin?"

"No, like a snake. A red snake." I let him go, and Hank sprinted toward his mother laughing, sure that I was running right on his heels, but I stayed on the grass for a minute before walking over to join them at the table. We ate a few chocolate-chip cookies, and Hank wandered off to check out a silver lizard soaking up heat on the sidewalk.

I chewed a cookie, trying to form a question without sounding paranoid. "Honey, Hank told me something odd about Mr. Stenson."

Katie smiled. "What?"

"He said the skin on his arm was funny, said it looked—"

She laughed and interrupted. "Psoriasis...really bad, so he wears long sleeves all the time."

The image of Brad Fucking Pitt fell away. "How old a guy is he anyway?"

"He's been in the school district for twenty-five or thirty years, so he must be close to sixty-five—maybe seventy. Why?"

Now I laughed and must have blushed. Katie laughed and said, "You've been jealous, haven't you?"

I shrugged. "Sorry. Too much free time to think about that stuff, I guess."

"Next time just ask, okay?" She took a bite of her cookie. "Bill's a good man. Saved me a million times already. It's like he knows what I'm about to ask."

We finished visiting, and I walked them to the gate. As the guard came over to let them out, Katie reached into her purse. "I almost forgot, Bill sent this book along for you."

She handed me a leather volume with an image of Frank Lloyd Wright's The Illinois on the cover. The massive cantilevered building was like the tower I'd built out of clay.

"How did he know?" I asked, but Katie had already kissed me, and she and Hank were waving at me as they walked through the breezeway to the parking lot. I waved absently to them and looked back at the book. "How the fuck did Bill know?" I whispered.  
Back in my room, I sat on my bed and examined the book. The cover was different since I'd looked at it outside. The Illinois was still there, but no longer Wright's rendition. It was the tower I'd molded from clay, with me standing beside it in a photo I never posed for. "Jesus," I said and dropped the book on the floor.

I don't remember how long I waited to pick it up again, but long enough to convince myself that it wasn't real. I let jealousy of Bill cloud a thoughtful gift from an old schoolteacher. I lifted the book and saw Wright's drawing again on the cover, trying to understand how he knew about The Illinois. I opened to the first page and learned the truth about Bill.

Taken from high above, the first picture showed the two planes I'd crashed together engulfed in orange fire. I started feeling sick as I turned to the next image, which was of my grandfather standing in a river, holding my severed hand that he'd just found in the water. I flipped to the next page: another shot taken from the sky of me running through the desert with the sculptor's cadaver on my back. I closed the book because I was hyperventilating.

I went to the sink and drank water from my cupped palm. It took several minutes, but my breathing slowed, and I felt under control again. I considered calling for the guard, but I thought the book would vanish. I had to finish it. There was a message in the pages, and I had to know what it was. I thumbed beyond the pictures I'd already viewed and stopped when I came to a picture, again from a bird's-eye perspective, of the windmill in Golden Gate Park when Medusa shot me with a ball bearing and knocked me out.

I was dizzy again and almost dropped the book, but flipped instead to the next picture, which was of Marwan and me in the cockpit, heading toward the World Trade Center. As I stared at that image, I knew then why all these images were taken from the sky. They were moments captured by Satan's wraiths that followed me all along the journey. Even as I realized this, I flipped to the centerfold of the tower I sculpted, but it wasn't the clay statue; it was my father's creation, reaching from the desert up to the clouds. I lost track of time examining the intricate details of Dad's red spire. I turned the page to see more images of my father's work, but I was greeted by a memory that could've only come from my dead mother's mind.

In the image, I was flat on my back; my father straddled me with his hands around my neck. His office was in total disarray from our fight. It was the moment I told him that I'd joined the military. In the picture, I could see the tears running off his face as he squeezed my throat. The image overwhelmed me, and I started sobbing. As my tears hit the book, the image changed to the moment Aswas died. The AC-130 rounds were just entering his body as he fired his AK at the plane. The picture moved in for a close-up of his face as I stared in horror. The boy's eyes and mouth were surprised, but before he collapsed, the eyes filled with tears, and he pointed at me.

A twisted curiosity took hold of me as I looked at the next page. It was the moment from my dream when I met Satan at the book signing. The dragon tattoo slid along his skull as he handed me the black leather volume. The picture zoomed in so I could see the cover, and it freaked me out so I slammed the book shut. Now on my lap sat the same black leather volume with the same title on the front **—** _Book of Sins: Arthur Logan (Volume I: 1971–2006)._

I tried throwing the book across the room, but it stuck to my palms, and now pages flipped themselves. The next image was my worst sin—worse than crashing the airliners. From the Gulf War in 1991, the picture displayed the ridge where I'd called in the airstrike on a road leading from Kuwait to Iraq. The book animated the moment, so it appeared I was flying low from the ridgeline over the long line of burned vehicles. The moving picture stopped and panned down to a charred Iraqi soldier crawling from a smoking truck. He reached up closer and closer until his hand emerged from the book and grabbed my throat.

I jumped up and pushed the book into the wall, pinning the burned arm just inches from my face. The blackened fingers clawed at me, and the smell of burning flesh made my stomach clench. My arms quivered, and I gasped but couldn't scream because a charred finger hooked my cheek. I bit down hard enough to sever the digit. I spit out the finger, but it vanished before hitting the ground, leaving only charcoal grit in my mouth. The arm pulled back into the book, and I dropped it to the floor, where it turned to the final page.

The last photograph was of my father being ravaged by a black-and-red dragon, Satan's pet. The claws ripped across his chest, and I heard Dad screaming, yelling for me to save him, but it wasn't Dad screaming. It was me. I didn't realize how loud I was yelling until the book burst into flames, and I flipped it in the sink. I cowered under the bed as I'd done when George first arrived. The book blazed in the sink, and the room reeked of rotten eggs.

Three guards heard me screaming and pulled me from under the bed. I thrashed frantically, so they injected me with sedatives and restrained me to the bed with straps. I yelled for them to put out the fire, but the sink was empty. They left the room, and I watched the sink as the sedatives made me drowsy. I smelled something rotting as a pile of thick maggots poured over the lip of the sink and plopped to the floor in a gooey mass. I tried to yell, but vomited, so my pleas were just gurgles. The sedatives slowed down my senses, and I drifted off to faint sounds of slithering.

My jaw hurt from grinding my teeth, and all the muscles along my back, arms, and legs were stiff from straining against the straps in my drug-induced sleep. Simon came in around midmorning and stood over me with that look a parent saves for those moments when a child has a blazing fever.

"Gonna let me out?" I asked, rattling the straps.

"We'll need to talk about what upset you so much last night. But for now, take some time to calm down."

Satan's book changed the stakes, so I skipped the foreplay. "I lied to you about George. He had a plan for me, but I lied and said he left." I let that sink in, and it didn't take long.

"Why would you lie?"

"I didn't want to go back to The Scale. I was burned out...and scared." Simon took notes on a small pad. "I have to go back. Gotta follow George's orders. I have to finish something."

Simon had a chair brought in and sat down after helping me sip water through a straw. "This outburst you had last night. That was about this sudden need for George? To follow his plan?" I nodded but looked away. "Arthur, this is no time for deception." She waited for me, but I had no idea how to begin, so she asked again, "What happened last night?"

"Doc, I have to follow George's plan. I've been avoiding it. I thought building the clay tower was progress, but it only brought trouble."

"Trouble?" she asked. I nodded and asked for more water, so Simon held the cup while I sipped from the straw.

"What happened?" she asked for a third time.

I took a deep breath. "Something is trying to stop me..." I paused, knowing that she'd never believe me. "He's angry that I'm recovering my soul."

"Who's angry?"

"My wife's friend," Simon raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt. "He sent me...a book." Simon looked around for it.

"It's gone...disappeared. Don't look at me like that, Doc." I took a deep breath because I was going to hyperventilate again. "It showed terrible pictures. Things I have to fix."

I described the images of war and of my family in jeopardy, and how the book finally burst into flame and turned to maggots in the sink. She didn't say anything until I was finished, then she stood and paced for a minute. "You think this Bill Stenson is a threat to Katie and Hank?"

"Yes," I said.

Simon stopped writing, distracted by something on my bed. She pinched her fingers around an object on my mattress, a piece of singed paper the size of a soap bar. She looked at the paper, and the lines around her eyes scrunched in a smile. She looked at me. "Where did you get this?" She didn't wait for a response, but when she looked at the paper again, her eyes opened in terror. The paper burst into flame, and she dropped the ember. It slid toward the space under the door, but she stomped the floating ash like a roach before it escaped.

She released my wrists and ankles from the restraints. "I need to speak to the orderlies who came to your room last night," she said and left me alone for about ten minutes. I rubbed my sore wrists and ankles, massaging blood into the joints.

She returned and said, "Do you know why they rushed in last night?"

"Because I was screaming like a madman?"

She shook her head while peering into the sink. "The fire alarm was triggered in your room," she said and swallowed hard. "I'm going to have a friend—a policeman—check on Stenson."

"Doc, what was the paper you found?"

She sat down, and her hands twitched nervously in her lap. "A photo of my brother."

"The Vietnam vet?"

"Yes. I need to think about...what I saw." She put a hand over her mouth for a moment. "I promise to discuss it further, but please, tell me George's plan."

I didn't push her. I told her about my last mission with George, and how he disguised himself as Medusa and beat me in a medieval duel. Simon took notes while I explained that George wouldn't take me back to The Scale because my fear of Medusa might get me killed. I finished with the account of crawling through the walls to see Diablo, and Patton's orders to make contact with him.

When Simon stopped writing in her notepad, she said, "Arthur, Captain Garth is the most dangerous man in PTC. Totally unpredictable. He's appeared docile and receptive to treatment in the past only to turn wildly violent. His body is resistant to sedatives, and doctors and orderlies alike have suffered broken bones and severe lacerations from his attacks."

"Whatever you saw with your brother's picture has you believing the impossible. After traveling with George, I know the feeling." She didn't say anything. "Just let me talk with Garth once and see what happens."

She polished her glasses, probably annoyed that she was allowing herself to even consider my request. "Arthur, as a doctor, I can't condone such recklessness." I sat up, and she said, "Wait, before you get angry. I'll consider it. But you've been traumatized, and what you really need is sleep. Will you try to rest if I agree to think about this meeting?"

"Fair enough. Thanks, Doc."

I did try to sleep, but my body was ramping up, as it did before any combat mission. My focus was Garth and finding a way to reach him. I imagined the picture again of Satan's dragon mauling my father, and it strengthened my resolve. Help Diablo, get George back ,and find my soul—one, two, three—easy as trapping a tiger in a shoe box.

Simon looked haggard when I saw her again. "We'll try a meeting. We have a counseling room divided by heavy-gauge plastic. They tell me it's bulletproof."

I was surprised to see her in my room so early. "Thought I'd have to beg." I waited for her to smile, but she was frightened.

"My friend, the policeman." She stopped and bit the eraser of the pencil she'd been twiddling. "They found Stenson. At least...part of him."

"Part?"

She was flustered and kept biting the pencil between words. "They found blood on his door...so police forced entry...more blood, everywhere." She paused and brushed her fingers over her lips. I thought she might faint, but she stayed on her feet and composed herself. "In the kitchen, there were maggots in the sink...on the countertops. The officers followed the worms to a vent along the baseboards." Simon held the lip of the sink but pulled back, probably checking for maggots. "My detective friend said they opened the vent. My God....." Simon's face went pale, and she gripped the edge of the sink again for support. "His head was jammed inside."
Chapter 25

We met in Simon's office on Friday before the Monday meeting with Garth. She was nervous and agitated, which she made clear by polishing her glasses in slow circles. "One meeting. If it goes well, we'll reevaluate," she said.

"I need to meet one on one with him."

She squinted and shook her head. "Impossible."

"You told me the barrier was bulletproof, and Diab...Garth is a one-armed man. Please, let me talk to him alone." She hesitated, so I stretched the truth. "George said I need to be alone with him or it won't work."

She rubbed the lenses firmly and took a deep breath. "Dammit, Arthur, then you must take it slow like we discussed. You cannot antagonize him."

When I left her office, my thoughts shifted to my family coming on Saturday. Hank arrived with giant, green foam superhero fists that made the sounds of smashing bricks and glass on contact. The sound effects made the guards laugh when Hank popped me in the face as I bent down to hug him.

Katie's eyes were still red from Stenson's funeral the day before. While Hank kicked a ball around the grass courtyard, she talked about Stenson's brutal murder, and I tried to sympathize while she cried over her mentor's death. I was thankful she'd never experienced the evil inside him. She said the police were struggling for leads but assumed a crime that violent would eventually generate a suspect. I imagined Satan unleashing his dragon on Stenson, just as he'd done in the picture with my father. I closed my eyes, hoping Dad was okay for now.

We ate lunch at the usual picnic table, and the pickles were so sour that I snorted, and Hank fell against me laughing. He'd brought baseball gloves, and we played catch while he recapped every Little League game I'd missed. He was still too young to skip over mistakes he made. I loved the description of fly balls dropped, pinging aluminum bats, and ripped pants sliding home. Helped me forget Stenson for a while.

We had to find shade because the sun was brutal, and a big mulberry tree cast the perfect shadow. The fresh air washed the hospital's antiseptic aftertaste out of my mouth. I watched Hank drive a small red bicycle around the tree, chasing lizards that hunted bugs while avoiding his toy.

Katie picked at her sandwich and said, "I just want a day where everything's okay. Just one, where I don't cry...or Hank doesn't." She talked quietly through gritted teeth. "We're due for some goddamn luck."

I wanted to say that I was almost well enough to come home. But saying that with Diablo in my way would be a lie. I searched for something to make her laugh a little. "Hon, remember that terrible movie we saw on our honeymoon?" Her sobbing quieted a little. "It was that mystery. With the goofy-eyed guy—what was it called?"

" _Teapot Depot_ ," she said and stopped crying.

"God, remember how awkward the love scenes were? You almost passed out laughing when the guy said something like, 'I'm so hard, I could break a window.'" Katie was laughing against my chest.

"We'll make it," I said.

"How can you say that?"

Hank was running over. "Because of him."

Hank had something in his hand. "I caught a lizard, but its tail popped off. Check this out!" He held up the wriggling tail. "How can it live and move so crazy?"

"Distracts predators, so the lizard can escape. The cool part is the lizard will grow another one," I said.

"No way!" He stared at the twitching tail in his palm. "I wish I could do that."

"Oh yeah, why's that?" I asked.

"When Bobby grabs my arm."

"The bully again?"

"He grabs all the younger kids. Says we have to ask permission to use _his_ playground."

I felt helpless, but Katie saved me. "Hey, let's read Daddy's favorite book." As I read about Max the Mongoose protecting his land from Killer Cobra, I forgot Bully Bobby and focused on my family and on taking the next breath. After reading, we ate brownies and talked about an old trip to San Diego. Hank was one at the time and on shaky legs as we played on the beach. I remembered Katie in the wind, staring into the sun with black sunglasses and an easy smile. Hank picked up seashells and tossed them in his green plastic pail. Remembering the sound of shells clinking together in the pail reminded me of the glass beads colliding in Merlin's beard.

In my stiff hospital bed that night, I pushed the pillow, reeking of bleach, over my face and screamed. I washed my face in the sink and rubbed cool water along the back of my neck. I sat on my bed and tried to imagine what the hell I would say to Garth when we met. I wasn't sure if I could even look him in the face with his melted permanent grin and lidless, unblinking eyes.

On Monday morning, Dr. Simon escorted me to the meeting room where a plastic chair waited on my side of the Plexiglas, but Garth hadn't arrived yet.

"Remember, Arthur, he's unstable and might not respond. You need to be ready for that reaction and have patience. Not your strong suit, Arthur, so please."

I smiled. "I understand, Doc. Let's just see what happens."

I sat down, and she patted my shoulder. "Good luck."

Four armed guards led Garth in, dressed like me in white scrubs with "PTC" stenciled in black on the chest and down the right leg. The famous "Diablo" tattoo was hidden under his shirt, but not the wicked scars on his face and right arm. He wore white slippers, and I remembered his feet were burned to clubs because fire had melted his toes away. I fought nausea by taking some deep breaths as they led him to his chair on the other side of the thick plastic divider. They'd drilled half-inch holes in a circular pattern so we could easily hear one another. Garth refused to sit, and the guards backed away slowly and out the door. He stood and stared down at me with his blue eyes amidst the scarred remains of his face. With just black holes for a nose, he looked like a wax alien.

I almost stood but didn't want to seem confrontational. "Captain Garth, I'm Sergeant Arthur Logan." I waited for a response, but he continued staring as if I'd said nothing. "Captain, we both served in Iraq, and I think we could help each other, if we...talked."

He turned away and started examining the ceiling. Pacing back and forth in the small cell, he searched for something in the ceiling tiles. I thought he was going to start pawing at the tiles as he'd done the night I saw him with George. While he looked up, I tried talking about Baghdad and the Tigris River, but Garth was only concerned with the ceiling, perhaps hoping to escape. I knew Simon was giving me an hour, but I stayed bland with my questions. I asked him where he lived before coming to the hospital, and I told him I was a desert rat who loved watching college football. He just stared up.

I was quiet for five minutes or so and closed my eyes, trying to think of what might break through to him. When I opened my eyes, he was seated in his chair and leaning forward so his teeth almost touched the barrier. His voice was bone dry, brittle as crunching gravel. "Your smell. I recognize it from behind my cell wall. I couldn't see your face that night but...it's the same stink. Know what it smells like?"

Terrified by the waxy jack-o-lantern, I just shook my head.

"Fear," he said.

He went back to the corner of the room until the guards arrived at the end of the hour.

Simon came in and told me I looked like a little kid seeing a lion up close at the zoo. "That's the first time Garth has addressed someone directly in months," she said as we walked out of the meeting.

"Sure is lovable," I said.

"That sense of humor keeps you sane, Arthur."

"We'll see, Doc. I'll take a long shower before the next meeting, so we'll have something besides my body odor to talk about."

Simon laughed. "Just stay patient. I think you have a real chance."

At our next meeting, Garth didn't acknowledge my presence. He just engaged in a one-way dialogue with someone named Mowdee.

"When, Mowdee? When?" Garth shouted and walked in a tight circle on his side of the room. Around and around, then whispering too quietly for me to hear, slowly building again to a raging shout at the ceiling. "A promise! You must abide! Must...please...come." He dwindled to a whisper again. Garth sat against the wall, pulled his knees to his chest with his one arm, and tucked his head down. He sobbed uncontrollably during the last fifteen minutes of our session until four guards came in.

They pulled the limp Garth to his feet. One guard prodded his spine with a black baton, and Garth came alive. He spun quickly, and his elbow hit the guard in the temple, dropping him with a thud. The other three pounced and wrestled him to the ground, but Garth stopped fighting as soon as they jumped him. They quickly cuffed and dragged him out. Simon came in for me as doctors treated the unconscious guard on the other side of the divider.

Simon was excited in her office the next morning. "We were able to amplify some of Garth's whispering, and I want you to hear it." She pushed play.

"Mowdee. Take me. Promise...Valhalla." Garth repeated, "Mowdee" and "Valhalla" again and again before Simon turned it off.

"We've examined the word 'Mowdee' in the context of 'Valhalla,' and it seems he's referring to Modi from Norse mythology. Spelled M-o-d-i. He was the god of rage."

"Perfect."

Simon poured herself another cup of coffee and offered me ice water. "Modi was the son of Thor and commanded an army of savage warriors called 'berserkers.' I checked Garth's unit and found no mention of 'Modi' or 'berserkers.' What do you think?" she asked.

"Don't remember much Norse mythology. Valhalla is their idea of heaven?"

"Yes, 'Hall of the Slain'—Norse heaven for warriors. Does any of that ring a bell?"

"Not from Iraq, but my old man told me a few stories about it when I was a kid. He didn't get into it like King Arthur, but I remember him saying only heroes who died in battle went to Valhalla."

"Perhaps you can ask Garth about Modi?"

"I can't do much worse."

The next time we met, Garth looked nervous while he walked back and forth in front of the Plexiglas, talking to himself. "When? When?"

I took a chance. "Modi sent me."

Garth stopped pacing and looked at me like a turd he wanted to avoid stepping on. "You?" He spit on the plastic wall in front of my face. "Modi would never send someone...like you. You'll _never_ see Valhalla _._ " He turned his back on me and walked to the opposite wall, where he stood in the corner and started muttering to the ceiling.

I sat in the chair, losing a chance to recover my soul and see my father. Might as well go down swinging. "Modi sent me to check on you." He stopped muttering, but I pushed to make sure I had his attention. "I'll tell him the truth. You're not ready for Valhalla." I held my breath.

His voice was surprisingly soft. "You judge me _unworthy_?" He quivered, his face flushed dark red, and he pulled at the neck of his shirt. The muscles in his forearm bulged until the thick cotton tore apart. He tossed the rags aside and hurled himself at the plastic divider. He backed up and threw himself at it again, and it cracked. He pounded his fist against the shattered plastic, and I backed up, but I finally saw "DIABLO tattooed across the left side of chest. Some letters were obscured by swollen scar tissue, but I didn't see it for long as four guards burst in and fired Tasers at his back. They paralyzed him with enough electricity to hobble a bull, and he crumpled to the floor. The guards scrambled to get the straitjacket on him before he revived, which he did as they dragged him out, feet first. He bowed his neck on the tile floor to look back at me and shouted, "Liar! Fucking liar!" until the door slammed on his curses.

When Larry saw how freaked out I was, we talked briefly, and he gave me a big pad of paper. "Sketch him," he said. "Won't be as scary in two dimensions."

"Bullshit," I said and smiled.

"See, made you feel better already."

I was drawing in the common room the following week when Dr. Simon sat down next to me. She wanted me to try another meeting with Garth. "I didn't think antagonizing him was wise, but you got through to him," she said.

"Yeah, really made him open up."

She smiled. "You have good instincts, and I think you should talk to him again. Unless George has reappeared and said enough is enough."

I sat back and rested the paper on my lap, tucking the pencil behind my ear. "No sign of George, but I don't know what else to say to Garth."

"He responds to Norse mythology," she said.

"I'm glad you're smiling, because that's nuts."

"I know." She looked at my sketch. "May I see your drawing?"

I held up the paper with my crude rendition of Garth's bare chest pressed against the Plexiglas. The DIABLO tattoo was a mess of smudged erasure marks.

"Why not ask him about the tattoo? "

"I don't know. If talking about the god of rage made him shatter bulletproof plastic, what's talking about Satan gonna do?"

"Arthur, I'll have him restrained. It won't be like last time. I promise."

With George pulling a no-show, and who knows what threat coming next after Stenson, I needed Simon on my side. "Let's give it a shot," I said.

"Excellent. I'll set up a meeting for next Tuesday. Hopefully that will give Captain Garth time to stabilize, at least to _some_ degree."

Larry paused by my table in art class to watch me sketch. We were working with charcoal, but I ignored the basket of fruit in the middle and worked on Garth's tattoo.

"Doesn't look much like apples and bananas," Larry said.

"Can't stop thinking about him."

"You know, I tried to get Garth to play with some clay a few months ago, and he covered his head with it like a skullcap. Scary-looking dude. Never said a word, and I never got the clay back. Ate it for all I know."

"You shoulda seen him that day he charged the wall. Thick plastic. Hit it so fucking hard, he cracked it. Guess that's normal for someone claiming to be buddies with the Norse god of rage."

Larry nodded. "Modi."

"Jesus, is there anything you don't know?"

"Told you once if I told you a hundred times, LRRPs are magic."

I laughed. "I'll try to remember this time."

"Stay with that tattoo sketch. See where it takes you." He smiled and walked on to the next patient, who was drawing fruit.

Back in my room, I took a break from the tattoo and sat on the floor with my sketchpad, messing with an old landscape of Camelback Mountain. While I thought about carrying that old cadaver to his dying son, I found myself writing, "DIABLO," just like on his chest. The image of the melted skin around the tattoo wouldn't leave my brain. I wrote it again and again. I thought about the odd placement of the word so far to the upper-left side of Garth's chest, like it might be the end of a longer message. I drank from the room sink and then let the water run over my face. After I dried off, I wrote, "DIABLO" again on a fresh sheet and stared at it. Was it part of a longer phrase that the fire burned away?

I finally went to bed with the word gnawing at my brain. It was the "B" that kept appearing to me. I sat up with a start. It wasn't a "B." It was the letter "E." I got out of bed and grabbed the paper. I wrote it down in my sketchbook: "DIAELO." I concentrated on the memory of Garth's tattoo. Was it an "L," or was it disguised by the mangled skin around it? I tried several letters until I found the one that made it clear. The "L" was a "G." With the amount of burn damage and scar tissue on Garth's chest, it was easy to mistake the letters as one word, but now I knew it was two words: "DIA EGO."

I went to bed feeling closer to an answer. Staring at the ceiling, I repeated the phrase "Dia Ego." After twenty minutes, it materialized, and I knew the words hidden under his scars. I jumped out of bed and wrote it down in disbelief. I rubbed my hand over the words "ET IN ARCADIA EGO." I sat on the edge of my bed. Could it be? Yes. Medusa.

I stabbed the pencil into the words. "Goddamn you, George," I said to the empty room.
Chapter 26

I debated telling Simon but feared she might cut contact all together. After trying to puzzle it out all night, my biggest questions were, did Medusa know who he was, and did he recognize me? He tried to break through the barrier to get me, but that was after I said he wasn't ready for Valhalla. What would he have to gain from this charade? No way the government would prosecute him for killing Muslit—not in his condition. But for Colonel Rip, they might crucify him. Especially if they could prove his insanity was a ruse.

Before I met with Garth the first time, Simon had told me what little she knew about him. He was an MIA Delta Force operator in Baghdad who showed up mangled at an aid station, delivered by an Iraqi woman. She claimed an IED had blown up Garth. With no family listed in his file, he became a ward of the VA. He ended up at PTC after the VA facility in Philly called Simon and asked if she would take him, because they were getting nowhere, and he was dangerous. She told me the challenge intrigued her, but she admitted PTC had failed to break through to him. She was hopeful I might find a way.

Delivered to an aid station by a woman? I wondered if it was Medusa's woman, the Syrian spy, Siba. She was CIA. She could've forged paperwork to hide Medusa as whomever the hell she wanted him to be. He was so badly burned, nobody would've bothered with fingerprints. Siba could've easily searched the MIA list to find a physical match for Medusa, and presto, he became Ben Garth. But how the hell did he survive the missile strike? Unless Siba was coming to the island that night. Maybe bringing him supplies, since Medusa was hiding hostages—Muslit and me. Somehow Medusa was blown clear, and Siba got him off the island.

Simon reminded me to ask about the tattoo before I met with Garth for the last time. I met him in the "strong room," as Simon called it—a room divided by iron bars with a red plastic chair on my side and a blue chair on his. Four guards brought him in and sat him down, but they kept him in the straitjacket.

After the guards left, I broke out in a cold sweat. Even with the bars and his restraints, I was afraid. His permanent, horrific grin and freakishly wide eyes locked on me. I said, "Modi said he's coming." I took his silence for curiosity. "On one condition."

He cocked his head to the side, and I waited for a response. He was silent but breathing more rapidly like he was excited. He either wanted to listen or kill me. Probably both.

"Modi will send for you _after_ you answer some questions." I looked at Medusa, and my bladder cramped. "Tell me how you were burned...Eric?" I leaned forward when he started mumbling. "I can't hear you, Eric."

"Fucking liar," he whispered.

"Okay, Eric, remember the night you saw—I mean, smelled—me in the wall of your cell?"

He winced at some hidden pain. "Who's Eric?" he said.

I kept going. "Do you know who I was with that night?"

Now I waited. If he didn't engage, then this was a waste of time. Maybe ten minutes went by, and I thought it was over, but then he said, "I heard his voice. Sounded old. But not Modi."

"No. It was General George Patton. He's taking you to Valhalla."

The melted man across the bars from me began to laugh. It started as a small cough that turned to convulsive, quiet laughter before tears came to his eyes. It looked like he'd blown a fuse, so I watched and waited to confirm that I'd lost him. After several minutes, he settled and sighed deeply. "Only Modi could make 'Blood and Guts' a messenger boy."

I smiled. "True. Can you answer some answers?" He nodded and I asked, "How were you injured?"

"I remember fire...drowning in fire."

"How long were you unconscious?"

"Not sure," he said.

"They told me you were in Delta Force?"

"I don't know."

"What do you remember?"

He said, "The desert. The heat."

I asked several more questions, but he just shook his head, looking confused and tired. It was time. "You know Eric Larson? He was a Navy SEAL."

His eyes twitched when he heard, "SEAL," but he said nothing.

I asked, "Did you know Medusa?"

"I know that name." he said.

"Medusa was Eric Larson's nickname," I said, and he didn't shake his head or nod, but the skin pinched around his eyes like he was concentrating. I was quiet for a minute while he focused, trying to recall something. I said, "Et in Arcadia ego."

His eyes snapped back to mine.

I said, "When I saw it on your chest, you told me it meant, 'You can run, but can't hide.'"

He looked at the floor and flexed his body beneath the jacket, straining for relief. I knew there would never be a _right_ time to push. "Did Siba help you?"

He looked up, and his face opened like a lid was lifting on the past. "She...she...saved me from the fire." He was shaking, and sweat rolled off his head.

"It's okay, Eric."

He stood up and backed away from the bars, away from me. He wretched and staggered to the door. He slid to the floor against the door and started sobbing. He tipped over, and the straitjacket kept him from breaking his fall, so his face hit the floor. Choking on tears, he rolled on his back and screamed, "Get me out!" He kicked the door, and his shoes went flying, so just the melted stumps bashed the door. "Get me out!"

Because he was blocking the door, the guards forced their way in, falling over Medusa and making his nose bleed. He screamed and kicked with his face slathered in tears and blood.

After they carried him out, Simon took me into her office. "Arthur, what just happened? Who's Siba?"

"Ben Garth is Eric Larson. He's Medusa."

She put her fingers against her lips and shook her head.

"Fingerprint him," I said.

"Burned away," she said.

"Dental records? Gotta be a way to verify. It's him. I'm sure of it." I explained about the tattoo and Siba, and how she may have helped him escape from Iraq. "He might not remember exactly who he was...or _what_ he fucking was, but that's Medusa."

She said, "We'll try a DNA test. But nevertheless, you broke through." She was pacing, seeming both nervous and excited. "His mind, his memory...reawakened."

"Fuck that. I can make him confess. I need more time!"

She talked quietly. "You've both suffered. I don't see how pressing him will help. I think we need—"

"He's a butcher!"

The guard held my arm, and Simon stood up. "Please! We'll talk in a few days...after our emotions have a chance to settle."

I glared at her. I tried to continue, but she sent me back to my room. I tore up the sketches of Diablo's tattoo, and then I ripped up the pieces into smaller bits and tossed them around the room with impotent rage. I wept as the confetti fluttered around my face.

When Patton returned the next night, I had a target for my fury. I ignored the ladder dropping and pretended to sleep. George sat on my bed and put his hand on my chest. "Arthur? I know you're awake."

I punched him in the face, and he reeled away, but I swept his legs before he recovered, and he banged his head on the floor. I sat on his chest and punched him in the face again. As I pulled my fist back, I could see he wasn't going to fight. He just blinked, waiting for my fist.

"Fight!" I yelled.

He shook his head, and I punched him again. His nose was a bloody mess. "Fuck you!" I shouted and stood up, pacing for a minute and then leaning against the wall, chest heaving.

From the ground he said, "Sorry I had to put you through that." He sat up and wiped the blood from his face with the back of his sleeve. "Guess I had that coming."

"Shoulda told me the fucking truth!" I shouted.

"Well," he said quietly and stayed on the floor, "if I would've told you who he was, what would you have done?" He looked at me trying to catch my breath. "After I left, you were exhausted and relieved the missions were over, right?"

I didn't want to admit anything.

"If you knew that helping your worst enemy might start the recovery missions again, how motivated would you've been?" He slowly got to his feet and washed his face in the sink, then sat on the bed. "You saved Larson."

"Fuck him."

"You saved him." George said quietly but looked away from my glare.

"Bastard should rot for what he's done!"

"Arthur, if you're asking me to say that a soldier hell bent on glory is beyond saving, you better try again."

"Glory? That's your take on why Medusa's a ruthless animal? Fuck that, George, just fuck all that!"

George sighed and waited for me to finish ranting, but I was too pissed to keep talking. He said, "Larson was stuck. You snapped him out of it. In the two days since you've seen him, all his memories came back. He's suffered more than you can imagine."

"More than I can imagine? Get the fuck outta my room! Guards!" I shouted and banged until an orderly showed up. "I need something to sleep." While he went to get me something, I glanced over my shoulder, but George was gone. The orderly came back with a guard, and I smiled at the syringe. It felt good sliding into my arm, and I chased the blackness.

George was sitting on the bed when I woke up. "Go away," I said.

"I know you want Medusa to suffer. But you saw him. How much is enough?"

"Now I'm supposed to feel bad for that asshole? Fuck you."

"When you mentioned Siba's name, it reconnected him to this world. Now he's finished here, and can move on."

"Enough riddles. Say what you need to say and get out."

"Like your father filling your head with Camelot, Medusa escaped into childhood fantasies about Valhalla to hide from the horror he found himself in...in this reality."

"So now he's what? A fucking model citizen?"

"No, now he can go forward with a free soul. You released him, Arthur."

"Wonderful. And for the shit he put me through? What do I get?"

"You get to free the rest of your soul," he said.

I wanted to fight, but it seemed like such a waste of energy. Patton remained quiet, letting me figure out what I wanted to do. "So what happens to Medusa now?"

"Easier if I just show you. Come on, get dressed."

"Tired of this bullshit," I said.

From his backpack, George pulled out my flight suit and boots and set them on the bed. "It's up to you, Sergeant."

The flight suit was my anchor and my wings. I wanted to burn it, but I wanted to see my father. I needed to the rip the suit apart and piss on it, but I needed to rescue whatever was left of me out there. Balancing act. Guess that's why they call it The Scale.

I got dressed.

I wanted to get under the old man's skin, so I sang as we climbed. "Over the ladder and through the roof to Grandpa's Pave Hawk we go."

On the ladder, George looked over his shoulder at me. "See you found a sense of humor while I was gone."

"The hospital's full of comedians. Haven't you heard?"

George kept climbing.

The cool breeze on the roof was a relief, and I'd forgotten how much I missed the helicopter and its promise of escape. George said, "He's waiting for us in the chopper."

I stopped walking.

George smiled and tugged at my wrist. "It's okay. Come on."

Medusa stood as I climbed in the side door. He was dressed in the same olive jumpsuit as I was, but he looked nothing like Diablo. He was Eric Larson again, without burns or the missing arm. He was more massive than I remembered with thick veins pulsing on his neck and head. But his expression was new—face pinched, shoulders slumped...ashamed. He raised his hand to shake mine.

"Fucking kidding me?" I said, keeping my hands by my sides.

He put his hand down. "Sergeant, I want...I want to thank you and apolo..." He looked down and rubbed his forehead with his hand. He began to cry. No hysterics, just tears dripping on the floor of the chopper.

George started to say something and stopped. I stepped forward, almost put my hand on Medusa's arm but pulled it back, not in fear, just not wanting to patronize him. Like crushed cans, kicked to the side of the road, both of us trying to avoid getting run over by another car. "Like we haven't had our ass kicked enough, they send us Patton," I said.

Medusa looked up and smiled, then shook his head, still fighting too much emotion to talk. I sat down and buckled in, and George tried to ease the tension. "Okay, boys, enough chit-chat."

As we lifted off PTC's roof, the wind swirled through the open doors, and I closed my mouth against the rooftop grit that peppered us. Medusa sat across from me and stared down at the hospital, saying into his mic, "I would've been trapped there forever without your help."

I suddenly felt heavy in my seat and exhausted. I opened my mouth but ended up just nodding to him, and he nodded back.

George said, "Fortune is smiling on you both. No point in lying; I'm envious." But his smile hid tension around his eyes.

"Envious?" I said.

George raised a hand at my arched eyebrow. "You're going to hallowed ground. A place I've never been invited, damn you." George smiled, but again his eyes were anxious.

I tried to ask more, but Patton looked out the door and squinted at something. He pointed, and I followed his gaze to some white blurs on the horizon. Medusa saw them before I did and asked, "General, are those what I think they are?" Then I saw the white wings of giant birds approaching.

"Valkyries," George said in awe.
Chapter 27

The birds grew from dots to full detail in seconds: seven winged women with swords, shields, and golden armor, flashing reflected sunlight. George opened the chopper's side doors, and warm wind rushed through.

"What now?" I screamed over the turbulence.

"Stand up!" George shouted. The creatures were close, and George yelled, "Jump out!" Medusa didn't hesitate and stepped into the clouds.

I was terrified so George tried to push me, but I held firmly to a ceiling strap. "Fuck no!" I shouted and posed in a half-ass fighting stance. George stopped pushing and pointed to the armed Valkyries flying over the helicopter; one pulled her wings in tightly and dove at us. I thought it was a kamikaze attack, but she grabbed me at full speed and rocketed out the other side of the chopper. Her six companions dropped around us in formation, and we left the Pave Hawk behind as a black speck.

About ten feet to my left, Medusa was grinning in the arms of a Valkyrie, and he gave a thumbs-up like we were hang gliding on a Cancun vacation. The blue sky turned gray as we soared into the atmosphere, where the lack of oxygen made me lightheaded. The Valkyries' twenty-foot wings thumped in the freezing air that penetrated my face and hands like tiny needles. My Valkyrie held me like a child in her powerful arms, and her melodic voice pushed through the wind. "I am Freya! Odin sent for you!" Her voice filled me with an instant desire for the battlefield.

Golden armor covered her torso, but her legs and wings were white-feathered, ending in savage yellow talons. What kept me from shivering was the song they sang—repetitive and hypnotic. At first, I felt elation like survivors experience in combat, but the Valkyries' music tapped the darker pleasure derived from killing an enemy—bloodlust. I looked over at Medusa; his eyes were closed and calm like he was listening to a lullaby.

My stomach lurched up in my throat when we dropped from the clouds. Air whistled in my ears as we sailed closer and closer to earth and suddenly turned sharply over a sheet of cobalt ice. Gliding over snowy hills, we approached a ring of tall trees surrounding an enormous grass field, and I heard shouts and clanging metal. The field was an emerald oval protected by huge copper-colored trees that attracted falling snow like magnets, preserving the green battlefield. A raging battle played out below us, with bearded men in all styles of armor fighting giants draped in animal skins and wielding spiked clubs. The glare from shields and breastplates was blinding, but I saw that only a few giants remained. The Valkyries' song inspired the men, who roared as we soared overhead.

I witnessed how the men triumphed against such massive opponents—it was a butcher's ballet—smooth and brutal. They'd perfected a technique of hobbling the giants by slicing their tree-sized tendons with battle axes, dropping the giants to their knees. Then the men attacked the giants' bellies with spears until the beasts were prone, and finished them with slashing swords to the head and neck.

The Valkyries sailed over the carnage, and then pumped their wings hard when we reached the bottom of a mountain. We slipped into an updraft that pushed us toward the summit. Freya pumped her wings so hard that I banged against her chest armor with each beat. As we climbed, the cold air froze my watering eyes shut. The Valkyries' song never ceased, growing louder and louder until Freya stalled in a rush of icy air and we landed smoothly. Still cradled in Freya's arms, I felt a hot tongue licking my icy eyes, which thawed quickly under the warm saliva. I wiped away the residue and saw a creature from my past.

"Keep away!" I yelled at the giant black dog.

Freya said, "He means you no harm."

Medusa laughed and walked over to the massive Great Dane. "Ajax! Never thought I'd see you again." The dog sat with his tongue lolling as Medusa rubbed his neck and ears. It was the beast that killed Colonel Rip and would've done the same to me if I hadn't escaped. Freya set me down, and Ajax came over and licked my hand. Seeing the black dog's immense size reminded me how lucky I was to be alive.

Behind Ajax stood a thirty-foot iron gate in a wall carved from ivory. The wall reached high into the surrounding mist and ran to the horizon. Ornate carvings covered the entire wall with depictions of what the Valkyries' song promised—victory. There were countless images of champions with swords held high over their vanquished enemies. Medusa whispered behind me, "Valhalla's Gates."

From the gate came a towering man wearing a suit of silver chainmail. He leaned on a thick walking stick carved with interwoven serpents. The Valkyries departed, and the gatekeeper waved at them with a broad smile and shouted in a language I couldn't understand. The Valkyries replied with their song of bloodlust, and adrenalin raced through my veins again. The gatekeeper placed a hand on my shoulder and muttered something that made my ears buzz. He did the same to Medusa, and when he spoke again, I understood him. "I am Bragi, welcome to the Hall of the Slain." Bragi looked at Medusa and said, "Modi requested you personally."

Medusa's eyes widened, and he looked like a humble child standing before the nine-foot Bragi. Medusa said, "I...I...thank you."

Bragi turned to me. "Odin has a request _and_ a gift for you." He grinned when I swallowed hard. "Please follow me. The Einherjar are returning from battle, and their arrival is a wonder to behold."

Bragi's stride was immense, and we had to jog to keep up with him. Medusa grinned as he told me that the Einherjar were the warriors who resided in Valhalla. We trotted through the gates that closed behind us without assistance, and we headed down black marble stairs to a vast field of green. Ajax ran ahead into the shin-high mist that made it hard to gauge the size of the circular courtyard, which held hundreds of statues carved from the same black marble as the stairs. Most depicted men in combat with other men, but a few displayed monsters. Bragi tapped one with his walking stick; it showed what looked like Bigfoot holding two men off the ground by the neck, while another man ran a spear through the creature's heart.

Medusa pointed out a giant marble man with a wicked hammer smashing the head of a serpent coiled around his legs. Medusa sounded like an eight-year-old meeting Santa. "It's Thor," Medusa said. Just before we emerged from the statue garden, Medusa motioned at the biggest sculpture and said, "That's Odin." With a raven on each massive shoulder, he looked like a poster child for steroids, crossing two swords over his head in an X. Odin stood on a pile of stone corpses, and his mouth seemed to drip blood, but it must've been the mist playing tricks on my eyes.

We stepped from the garden onto a white sand beach where Ajax sat waiting with Bragi. Bragi banged his staff against a sheet of brass hanging from a driftwood platform, and a Viking warship appeared on the horizon. It rowed to us, and we boarded. While they propelled us around bobbing ice floats toward a set of golden pillars, Bragi led the oarsmen in songs about death and victory. Ajax trotted along the ship's center planks to the bow, where the air ran around his open mouth and dangling tongue.

We beached near the pillars and stepped off the ship. We walked through the gleaming columns and beyond to a space about three hundred yards long and fifty yards wide. It was covered in black cobblestones. The rectangle's perimeter was marked by a hundred or more freestanding wood doors about ten feet high, all covered with serpent carvings similar to those on Bragi's staff. No walls, beams, or roof—just doors and the cobblestone floor. Medusa asked Bragi where we were, but the giant held a finger to his lips and said, "Wait a moment...listen, the Einherjar are coming."

The Valkyries' song reached us just before they flew into view and stopped at the far side of the cobblestones. They hovered like armored hummingbirds over a set of double doors that opened beneath them. The song grew louder as the first forms appeared. Bragi explained that the first was Odin, a titan wearing a black breastplate and a helmet in the shape of a boar's skull. A brooding raven sat on each of his broad shoulders. Behind him came thousands of warriors dressed in armor, chainmail, and animal skins. As they crossed the doorway's threshold, their armor and weapons became Valhalla around us.

Chainmail flew up to form the ceiling, while shields and plated armor became walls. Swords, spears, and fighting staffs created tables and chairs. The Einherjar, wearing just tunics now, took seats at the long tables forming around them. Bragi lead us to the head table, where Odin stood over me as if I were a boy. He dropped a hand on my head that felt like an anvil, and we stood facing the long room.

Odin's voice reached into my guts and grabbed hold. "Einherjar! Warriors from the outer world have arrived!" The riotous hall fell silent with all eyes on us. "Modi, introduce your disciple."

A man wrapped in brown furs and almost as large as Odin stepped forward. His long blonde braids rested on his thick chest, and he put his arm around Medusa's shoulders. Modi said, "This brutal-looking beast is Eric Larson, and he is pure Berserker. But before we welcome him into our ranks, I will confirm his pedigree." Modi placed his palm against Medusa's forehead and slowly backed away, pulling a thin string of smoke from Medusa's head. He stopped about ten feet from Medusa, and the smoky wire glowed magnesium white, casting memory movies in the air above.

Medusa as a boy, pushed to the ground and encircled on the playground. On his feet, he bit the first boy on the throat and broke another's forearm before the rest fled.

Older now, a teen, mocked for his hideous veins by an old man—a grandfather perhaps—before Medusa attacked with a broken broom handle and knocked the man across the room, leaving him unconscious.

The Einherjar were restless and unimpressed by the violence against children and old men, but they began to cheer as we watched a young SEAL crawl from the sea and up the beach toward a bunker. His knife plunged into the neck of an Iraqi sentry, and he slaughtered six more inside, using only the knife.

Valhalla erupted with each passing sequence of savagery. Medusa's raw fury whipped the Einherjar into a frenzy during the scene of the Sadr City ambush. I realized how little Medusa relied on modern weapons, preferring his hands and blade for killing. Perhaps the Valkyries' song lingered in my blood, but I was awed by his merciless power. I realized that killing fed his vicious disposition, but his repellent nature was both evil...and honest. I watched in wonder at him taking lives like most men take oxygen. Effortless, instinctual...essential.

The glowing strand of smoke evaporated as the last image faded—Colonel Rip hanging from the rope as Medusa turned Ajax loose to devour him. The Einherjar stood, clamoring approval, and shouted, "Eric! Eric! Eric!" Medusa blushed like a boy winning the spelling bee. He was an innocent in the midst of these men—ancient relics of rage who killed for pleasure, for sport, and for the love of slaughter.

Modi wrapped Medusa in a cloak of brown fur like the one he wore and embraced his disciple. "As you all can see, Eric has earned the right to wear the bearskins of the Berserker clan!"

With his hand still resting on my head, Odin said, "And this scrawny savage is the man who shall refill Valhalla's vats!" The cheering was so loud that my ears started ringing. After the ovation settled, Odin said, "Be seated." He sat to my left, and his ravens flew up to sit in the rafters. Once all the warriors were seated, the perimeter doors opened, and beautiful women emerged carrying platters of roasted meats, cheeses, and bread along with huge iron chalices of frothing mead. The singing began as the food was served. Odin said it was the song of victory, and the Valkyries led as every man joined in raucous harmony. The walls shook as the singing boomed off the steel walls, iron ceiling, and stone floor.

When it ended, Odin stood again. "Today, as I defeated the king of wolves, and Thor destroyed the great serpent," Odin paused and reached his hands out to the Hall of the Slain, "you slaughtered their army of giants on the plains of Asgard!" The hall roared in revelry until Odin raised his hands to quiet them. "We were victorious today and forever! Tonight, we shall feast and fuck and rejoice! For we earned this right, as we do every day...in battle...in victory!" Odin raised his chalice and said, "To us, the best of every clan, from every war and every world!" We all raised our glasses and cheered with banging cups.

Food and drink were gnashed, shoveled, and slurped, and the plates kept coming and coming and coming. I watched it all in wonder until Odin leaned closer and said, "I want you to meet with our kitchen master, Andhrimnir. He'll explain exactly what we need from you, and of course, you shall be rewarded." He waved over a voluptuous redhead who'd been waiting near the table since the banquet began. The woman was covered by little more than the leather sack she carried. He grabbed the large bag with one hand and pulled the girl onto his lap with the other. He growled, "This is Xena. Razor dangerous. But quite lovely, when you get hold of her." She laughed and kissed the ancient god until he patted her ass and sent her away.

Odin pulled two limbs from the sack and placed them in front of me. Some men around us stared, hoping they were food, but for only a second, and then they continued drinking. On the table was my right leg, complete with dime-sized burns along the thigh from melting plastic soldiers as a kid. Next to the leg was my right arm from shoulder to wrist, without the missing hand I'd already recovered from my grandfather.

Odin patted the pieces of my soul. "Worthy motivation for your task."

"So, you'll pay an arm and a leg for my services?" I laughed at my cliché.

Odin didn't laugh. "Or you'll pay with a pound of flesh if you fail." Odin slapped me on the back and stood, calling Xena over, "Time to satisfy another hunger." As the old warrior led his lover through one of a hundred doors, he looked back and said, "Golgrub can be nasty, so mind your manners."

"Gol...what?" Odin was already through the door and gone.

Odin's departure signaled the others that the feast was over, and the warriors quickly partnered off with serving women. Medusa paired with a dark, beautiful woman, who reminded me of Siba, but he asked her to wait while he came over to me. I knew it was goodbye, and I almost put out my hand to shake his, but he embraced me. I let my arms hang loose at my side. He let go but kept his hands on my shoulders. "You saved me...after what I did...thank you."

I'd never forgive him, but after watching his memories, I said, "You're made for this place, Eric."

"I'm home," he said and embraced me again. This time, I put my arms around his massive back.

After Medusa left the hall, only Ajax and I remained. The huge Great Dane lay next to my chair with his head resting against my foot, while I drank the last of my mead. The liquid was a warm mixture of honey and hope that drowned my shock and disbelief. The buttery mead floated my consciousness, and my long journey bobbed on the surface. Valhalla...Merlin...Twin Towers...Pan...dead sculptor...my grandfather. Each destination, a part of the jigsaw falling into place. Right hand...left leg...head...left arm and torso. After this mission, I'd gain my right arm and right leg—my soul finally complete.

A door opened, and a hulking brute with braided red hair poked his face into the dining hall. Disappointment creased his face as he stared at me. His voice was harsh and hard to understand, like Scotty's from _Star Trek_.

"They say ya can do it," he said and shook his head. "Well then, to the kitchen, boyo." His head retreated, but the door remained ajar. It figured. Medusa got laid, and I got Chef Boyo-dee. Ajax followed me into the kitchen of comforting smells from meat roasting and bread baking. In a kilt of green-and-black plaid, Chef Redbraids leaned against an enormous iron vat. He was barefoot and bare-chested with his tattooed arms crossed, muscles bulging like cantaloupes, so I barely noticed a sickly goat lying at his feet.

"I am Andhrimnir. I keep Valhalla fat and happy. But not for much longer." He knelt to stroke the goat and said, "This frail creature is the source of our nectar, the mead of Valhalla."

"Finest drink I've ever tasted."

"Yes, boyo, and what a connoisseur ya clearly are." He sighed and continued. "Only one thing can bring this beast back to strength."

Ajax trotted over and sniffed at the sad creature that bleated meekly. I thought Andhrimnir would smack the dog for getting close to the precious goat, but he just lightly rubbed Ajax's head.

Andhrimnir said, "Only Golgrub tears can save her."

"Odin mentioned that. What is it?"

"Ya call them Sasquatch or Yeti," he said.

"Bigfoot?"

He smirked. "Yes, yes, that's quite original, boyo. They used to reside in this world and fought with the giants against us. It was easy to collect their tears from the battlefield, but now they live in exile. Near your Rocky Mountains." Andhrimnir tossed Ajax a bloody bone, and the dog lay down beside me to gnaw it. "Golgrub tears will fill the goat's teats with nectar, so ya must retrieve some."

"What's in the tears?" I asked.

He stirred one of the many cauldrons. "Powerful salt—found nowhere else. Believe me, I've bloody well looked."

He stirred another iron pot, and I mumbled to Ajax, "Why not the Loch Ness Monster? At least I enjoy swimming."

Andhrimnir said, "Nessie'd make short work a ya, boyo." He stirred the pot again, then paused to hand feed the goat some cheese rolled in hay.

I asked, "Why can't _you_ ask for more tears?"

He gave me a disdainful smirk again. "We can't pursue the Golgrub in your world, that's bloody well why." The goat coughed; Andhrimnir knelt to look in its mouth, and he shook his head at whatever he saw. The goat bleated, and he gently fed her more hay and cheese.

"Why can't you go there?"

"Do ya want your bloody limbs back or don't ya?" It wasn't worth a fight so I nodded, and he said, "Valkyries will carry ya close, and Ajax will lead ya from there."

Ajax sat up, and his huge black skull tilted slightly. Andhrimnir went to a trunk and pulled out a hairy blanket. He snapped the dust from it and brought it to Ajax's nose. "Golgrub pelt, Ajax. You'll be hunting fresher skin, but this scent will leave a lasting impression." Ajax pulled back at the smell, which drifted toward me as a mixture of ammonia and sour milk. "Off ya go. Valkyries are waiting outside. If they're still eatin,' let 'em be—understand?"

The armored raptors were perched on Valhalla's rooftop, gorging on chunks of flesh. I couldn't tell what kind of meat and didn't really want to know. They ripped apart the slabs, and I didn't need Andhrimnir's warning to stay quiet. Their beautiful faces were blood-smeared as they snapped bones to lick out the marrow. When all the meat was devoured, their wing tips curled in and wiped away the gore. When Freya finished preening, the Valkyries swept down and picked us up.

They carried Ajax and me above the clouds, where thin air combined with mead and caused me to hallucinate. Stars danced closely, and planets laughed while sipping comet tails. I flirted with winks and smiles, but the stars ignored my distant attempts to gain favor. Eventually I drifted off to the rhythm of Valkyries' wings beating against the cold air.
Chapter 28

I awoke in sunlight, on my side, in tall grass and heard low snarling. I popped my head above the grass; Ajax was staring and growling—must've had a scent. We were in a dry creek running through foothills of what I assumed were the Rockies. I jogged after the Great Dane as he trotted along the bottom of the creek bed, thankful the mead had produced only a mild hangover. There were no other tracks except Ajax's in front of me. I wondered if we'd come across giant footprints like the ones displayed on the old show _In Search Of_. I could hear Leonard Nimoy explaining their nuances over the grainy eight-millimeter footage of something furry, tall, and blurry running through the woods. "Just a guy in a monkey suit," my dad claimed, "trying to cash in on a legend."

Ajax paused at a muddy bog and started drooling. I laughed at the long white strands and was about to ask what he'd found for breakfast when a golem exploded from the earth. I ran for a hundred yards before looking back to check on Ajax. The dog had already torn the legs off the golem and was in the process of ripping its throat in half. I ran back and watched in awe as the Great Dane dominated Satan's slimy pet. The golem's now headless torso was trying to crawl away using its arms, but Ajax quickly tore off those appendages. The dog sniffed the pieces, and the golem liquefied, becoming sewage again. Ajax lifted his leg to mark his conquest, then trotted off in pursuit of the Golgrub.

I followed Ajax for about two hours until the scent ended at a barred, drainage grate at the bottom of a fifteen-foot block wall. "Neither of us is squeezing between those bars. Let's follow the wall to the entrance." As I started walking, Ajax ran out front to lead. We stopped after maybe half a mile and hid behind shrubs so the armed guards at the entrance couldn't see us. I rubbed Ajax along his muscled spine and counted four men with pistols on their belts. I almost stood and walked over to them, but Ajax closed his jaw over my forearm and pulled me back into the bush as two security trucks pulled up with men carrying machine guns.

We walked back to the grate where we'd started. It was dark, and we didn't have food or water, and the wall was too high to get over without a pole vault. I sat down to think and dug absentmindedly at the dirt, which was soft sand. I started digging but made slow progress, so Ajax nudged me aside with his huge face and put his plate-sized paws to work. Sand, stones, and finally clay sprayed from between his hind legs for twenty minutes. He squeezed under the grate first, and I low crawled after him. On the other side of the wall was a paved cul-de-sac with a neighborhood sprawling beyond, filled with pillbox mansions all shrouded by pine trees.

As Ajax searched for the Golgrub's scent, a bicycle appeared, and Ajax growled. "Easy," I said.

There was no way I could stop him if he wanted to attack, but he stopped growling and sat on the street while the shaggy little figure rode toward us. The kid pedaled past, rang his bell, and stuck his tongue out at us. He laughed and rode away as fast as his little bike allowed—all normal kid stuff except for the thick brown hair covering his body. Ajax whimpered and wanted to chase him, so I patted his thick neck. "Come on."

Before we got out of the cul-de-sac, a red pick-up stopped, and the driver flipped open his cell phone; soon the front yards around were filled with men. Not a Golgrub among them, but they carried shotguns, shovels, and golf clubs. I thought they'd wait for the trained guns from the front gate, but they came at us without backup. I was about to try talking to them when Ajax unleashed thundering barks that thudded in my chest like sonic booms. The men stopped moving forward, and some ran in terror. The ones remaining backed away slowly, and the little Golgrub on the bike pedaled up again with a smile on his face. "Nice bark, doggie-dog. Mom says she wants to see you. Asked that you...um.....please get off the street before you scare everyone to death."

He started pedaling, and we followed. The men stepped back, creating a path, but Ajax maintained a rolling growl to keep them at bay. The kid rode next to us; he wore a black ball cap with a Colorado Rockies logo, but only fur otherwise. He said, "We don't get many strangers. Guess you came in the back way over the mountains. Mom said somebody named Odin sent you. Is that spooky bark his only trick? Hey, check out my first fangs. See how sharp they are. Mom said I can tear open metal cans with them. Cool, huh? Boy, you guys don't say much."

"Just waiting for you to take a breath, kid."

He yammered all the way down the block, and I had to jog to keep pace with his pedaling. He never got winded and never stopped talking. We went on for over a mile to the biggest mansion on the block, which had a black iron fence and white pillars out front.

"Here we are. Come on, you can meet Mom."

The front door opened as we approached, and a regular guy stepped out and invited us in. We stood just inside the front door, and he said, "Sorry about the welcoming committee. We have to be careful with outsiders. I'm Bob. I see you met our son, Joey."

"Yeah, he saved us from your neighbors. I'm Arthur, and this beast is Ajax." Joey was trying to rub Ajax's ears, but the dog kept pulling his huge head back, none too pleased with the boy's sharp fingernails.

Bob said, "That's enough, Joey, leave the dog be. This is my wife." He pointed to the hallway, and I expected Chewbacca, as the seven-foot woman strode into the room. She wore a white linen skirt and a black turtleneck. Her exposed skin was a lustrous caramel—and hairless, including her scalp. She was all sleek intimidation, reminding me of a panther walking upright, and her beauty was...humbling.

She walked right over to Ajax and patted his back. His massive skull was lost in her hand as she scratched him behind the ears. Then she took my hand and introduced herself. "I am Oolee. Excuse the rough manners of the men who threatened you, but _this_ dog could only come from Valhalla. Our history with the Einherjar is quite savage, I'm afraid."

She led us to a large room painted chocolate with a vaulted ceiling. She sat down in an enormous white leather chair. Bob got me an ice water and excused himself to "work on the car." Ajax lay near me on the ground, and I sat on a couch facing Oolee. Joey sat on the arm of her chair staring at me.

"Joey, your father needs help."

"Come on, Mom."

"Joseph. Now!" It came out as a snarl that would have made a normal kid soil himself, but Joey just skipped out of the room whistling. Oolee watched him go and then turned to us.

"Excuse my son, he's very curious."

"No problem. I've got one the same age."

"Wonderful." She looked at me with large feline eyes that flickered between yellow and orange in the light. "But I doubt Odin sent you to chat about children."

"No. I'm sorry. I just...I'm in over my head and don't understand what I'm in the middle of here."

Her laugh was a sensuous purr. "I'm sure this is all very disorienting. I can provide the Golgrub perspective, if you wish."

"Please." I sat back, sipping my ice water.

"We fought against Valhalla's warriors for a thousand years, growing weary of the constant slaughter until my father, King Bantheran, asked Odin for safe passage to a new land. Having amassed a lake of our tears collected from a millennium of battles, Odin approved—if the Golgrub promised more tears when that reserve ran dry. My father agreed, and Odin sent us to your world with his _blessing_.

"We arrived in the mountains two centuries ago and fell in love with the Rockies. It was a short love affair, as we buried most of our men by the end of the year. This atmosphere caused their lungs to fill with fluid that suffocated them. We females suffered more than just the death of our mates. Our skin erupted with boils, and many died from the toxic cysts. Those of us who survived lost our hair, which actually became a blessing for...assimilation into human society."

Oolee paused to check my reaction. I looked away from her intensity and mumbled apologies for her losses. She said, "Questions? Please speak freely."

I thought of their mansions and walled compound. "You've prospered. How?"

"This community is the culmination of our struggle. The survivors banded together—at first in caves—watching this land grow up around us. We became more confident as human males discovered us and were, for lack of a better term, enamored. They believed we were an undiscovered Native American tribe, and we took advantage of our smooth skin and intellect by pursuing men with power and wealth."

"Joey is the only male?"

"No, but one of the few who lived more than days. Almost ten years old now. He is my miracle."

"Our sons are important to both of us. I want to be with my son again, and you can help me do that. Odin promised me something important, something I need to save myself."

She stared at me. "You were sent for the tears."

"Yes."

Her brow furrowed.

I said, "Sorry to trouble you, but...I need them."

She growled, "For the cursed mead!"

"Yes," I mumbled.

"Forever we've been hunted for their many uses." She emptied her glass in two smooth gulps.

"What can they do?" I asked quietly.

She sighed. "In crystal form, an aphrodisiac. Mixed with sulfur, and you could level a city block with a spoonful. When fed to goats, of course, they produce luscious mead." Oolee gritted her teeth. "For the ravenous pigs of Valhalla."

I said, "They just sent me to ask. I'm not going to force the issue."

She laughed. "Why do you think they sent him?" She pointed at Ajax. "He was created to _force_ the issue." Ajax stopped panting and sat up, staring at Oolee.

She smiled at the dog, unafraid. After a minute of Mexican standoff, she looked at me again and said, "My father was a good king because he often listened more than he spoke. So I will listen. I know what my tears can do for the Einherjar, but I want to know what my tears will do for you, Arthur."

Without wiggle room, I stuck to the truth. "I've done...questionable things as a soldier, and I lost my soul along the way. I ended up in a hospital after killing hundreds in an accident, and I've been looking for my soul ever since." I took a long drink and then explained the rescue missions, and how I'd slowly pieced my soul back together. Telling the story was like releasing a long-held breath. I finished by saying, "Odin has the final two pieces."

"If you deliver the tears?"

"Yes."

She whispered, "My father would've admired you as much as I do." She stood, and so did Ajax. "I will give you the tears...in exchange for some of yours."

I thought she was talking to Ajax, but then realized she meant me. "What for?" I asked.

"Come with me."

Ajax and I followed her down a hallway—past a library, a playroom, and Joey's room to a closed door on the right. She opened the door and bent under the doorway with Ajax and me right behind. The room contained a bed covered by an oxygen tent, like hospitals use to protect from infection.

"This is Joseph's twin brother, Jacob. He was stronger that Joey not four months ago, but his lungs began to fill." She put her hand to her mouth. "Your tears may help him."

"How?"

"Our human husbands discovered, while weeping over our dying sons, that when their tears ran into the boys' mouths, they sometimes revived the child temporarily."

I shook my head in wonder. "I don't understand."

"The power in our tears corresponds to the life we've lived. We believe that is also true with humans to some degree. Odd as it sounds, the greater life's trials, the stronger the tears. And you, Arthur, have endured severe trials." She put her hand on my shoulder. "They'll be most effective if drawn during a powerful experience."

I raised my eyebrows, "What'd you have in mind?"

She laughed quietly. "I'll show you."

We left the sick child and continued down the hallway to a final door, taller than Oolee. The room smelled of cut grass and was lined with blonde wood shelves from floor to ceiling. Each shelf had hundreds of color-coded vials. Oolee reached for a golden vial from the highest shelf. I would've needed a ladder, but on her toes she easily reached it.

"Our oldest recipe. Golgrub tears combined with sap from the great tree of life, Yggdrasil. The mixture must ferment for at least a century to be effective, and this batch has been at it for over a thousand years. A drop or two, and you will see the stars."

"Sounds like tequila."

She smiled and asked me to lie on the ground. "At first, you'll feel queasy; then you will... _understand_." Oolee dipped a fingernail in the gold vial and traced the inside of my lower lip with the sweet moisture. I closed my eyes and accelerated.

The nausea was horrific, but momentary. I flew through a tube of blurry silver light that burned and cooled simultaneously. Over a distance of many miles, the tube flattened and blackened, and I rode on an endless sheet of shimmering dark matter. Stars burst from the blackness around me, and my trajectory curved up and over. I was sliding along the face of an ebony wave. But instead of being crushed by its collapse, I slipped into the wave and shot upward to the crest and then over, held aloft now by globules of bright electricity floating around me. The globs combined into giant red, orange, and yellow spheres, and the heat should've burned me alive, but I only experienced static shock. I don't know how long it was before I realized I was laughing—an astronaut in zero gravity, passed back and forth between stars with hands made of static.

These spheres started fluctuating from red to blue to orange to white. Time slid in stop-motion action, and the burning lights all began blinking in rhythm, swirling around me and then...absorbing me. Inside the devouring lights, it was coal black, and I felt something close, a dark energy, pulsing against me like a heartbeat. At last in the pitch dark, I could see it, the heartbeat manifesting as a point of light. Humming, growing intensity...I was screaming and crying when the light suddenly pierced me. It filled me with rage and emptied me with laughter, engorged me with sadness, and slowly, slowly released by longing, and finally freed with love. I was free in rising, floating solitude, where light moved from black to gray to white as I swam up through a pool of black mercury.

I broke the surface and was flat on the floor of the vial depository with Oolee and Ajax standing over me. I felt the edge of a glass vial pressing on the corner of my eye. I rolled away from it and brought my hand up to protect my face. My palm was soaked with tears.

"Thank you," Oolee said. She left the room with the vial of my tears, and Ajax put his nose near my face. I patted his heavy head and caught my breath.

Oolee returned and kneeled to check my recovery. "Jacob's breathing easier already. Thank you, Arthur." She smiled and opened a small panel near the baseboard. She removed a red vial from a safe inside the wall and handed it to me. "From the night my first husband died." She stopped and bowed her head while clenching the vial in a trembling fist. "Take these tears to those bearded pigs and free yourself."

I was too weak to walk, so Oolee carried me down the hall and took me outside, laying me in the back of a pick-up truck, where Ajax jumped in beside me. "My husband will take you into the mountains. I'm sure the Valkyries will come quickly when the dog calls them."

I was too exhausted to walk, let alone talk. Oolee held my hand. "You won't feel like moving for a while, and it's best not to try. You were touched by creation. A gift that takes time to recover from. Good-bye, Arthur."

Joey sat in the front seat next to his father and pressed his hairy face against the glass to watch us. Bob drove past the guard gate and along the outside of the wall on a dirt road and into the hills. After what could've been three minutes or three hours, Bob pulled on my feet and Ajax pushed with his head against my back, and I stood wobbling in a creek bed. Bob shook my limp hand and thanked me for helping Jacob.

Joey said, "Tell Odin I'll be coming for him." He smiled to show off his new fangs that could penetrate steel.

Ajax waited until their brake lights vanished, then howled at the sky for several minutes before sitting quietly, rotating his head like a radar dish seeking signals. I lost track of time as my tear-fueled journey raced around my brain. The Valkyries' song announced their arrival. I had to show them Oolee's vial before they would agree to take us back to Valhalla. Freya removed the cork gently and sniffed the liquid. "Well done," she said and lifted me in her arms for the flight to Valhalla.

Andhrimnir slapped me hard between the shoulders as he handed me the bag with my right arm and leg in exchange for the tears. He poured the vial into an emerald eyedropper and fed the dying goat a few teardrops. She shook slightly and then released an enormous fart that startled Ajax so much that he barked.

Andhrimnir said, "That's my girl! On the mend."

The goat stayed on her side but chewed some golden straw. "We'll have mead from her teats by morning, boyo." He pointed to a table in the kitchen. "Sit. I'll make you some food."

While he cooked, I looked into the feasting hall, but it was open-air silence. Andhrimnir said the Einherjar were off waging their daily battle against the giants and other monsters. I sat in the kitchen and ate roast duck and fresh bread and drank warm, spiced wine. Ajax nudged my leg with his huge, cold nose, and I put a hand on his head. "Andhrimnir, where I'm from, Ajax is a cleaning powder. I take it this dog was named for something else?"

"Ajax is the god of war, boyo," he said as he stirred a giant pot with a spoon the size of a canoe paddle.

"Who picked that name?" I asked.

His eyebrows scrunched together, and he stopped stirring. "Boyo, that dog _is_ Ajax."

I looked at the Great Dane, and he stared at me from the stone floor. He rolled to his feet, and his jet black eyes were above mine as I sat at the table. His nose twitched until I rubbed behind his giant ears, and then he walked over to Andhrimnir, who handed him a chunk of bloody meat, and the Great Dane trotted like a horse through an open door leading outside. All I could think was, no wonder Oolee gave me the tears.

Andhrimnir brought me more food, and the sounds and smells of the kitchen relaxed me until Bragi came and told me Patton had arrived. I said goodbye, and the big redhead grunted at me while slicing open a giant cow with a stone knife. I carried the sack with my arm and leg while we crossed the ice lake.

"Where's Medusa?" I asked.

Bragi said, "Staying with us."

"For how long?"

"Men like him, in love with violence, often stay forever."

"He won't be missed at home...I mean, the hospital?"

"He died there. The body will be cared for, according to your customs."

I stared at him. "I was traveling with his soul?"

Bragi laughed. "Yes."

We beached and walked through the statue garden out to the main gate, where George sat in the door of his Pave Hawk. Bragi said, "Perhaps one day you'll visit, General."

"Be a dream come true," said George.

Bragi put a heavy palm on my shoulder. "You did well, Arthur. We will drink deeply in your honor tonight. You have our loyalty, and the return of your prized limbs as signs of our gratitude. Live free, and pull your sword only when your tongue is too dull to dismember." The gates closed behind him, and Bragi returned to Valhalla.

As I climbed in the helicopter, George said, "I've flown as close as I could to these walls without pissing off the Valkyries, but this is the first time they've let me land. Lord, just look at the walls." He admired the carved scenes of combat, and then he walked to the gates and put his hands around the bars, staring at the statues inside.

I didn't bother him as I placed my limbs in the black box and was again energized with instant warm strength in my right side, which eased the fatigue throughout my body. I felt good, really good, but I expected fireworks when I finished—when I was whole again. When George climbed in he said, "Don't tell me even one detail. I want to discover it for myself someday." We took off, and George continued staring at the gates, which were growing smaller behind us.

"You'd fit right in. Why haven't you gone?" I asked.

He sat down and rubbed his pink scalp, brushing the remaining white strands into place. "I was a damn fine soldier. Excelled at anticipating the enemy's mind, but not in controlling my own." He sipped some water from a canteen. "I assaulted my men..." He took a big swig of water. "Because I believed a slap in the face would save them from a bullet on the battlefield." George held the strap on the bulkhead, watching the clouds blow under us. "The Scale is stone deaf to excuses. But it does provide a path to redemption. I should know; I've worn out my boots walking it."

We rode in silence for a few minutes. "On to better things. Let's get your last items in the box," he said.

I shrugged. "Sorry to steal your thunder, but I already did."

He stood up and opened the empty box. "You put in everything?"

I sighed. "Yep."

"Dammit," he said quietly.

"Come on, don't fuck around."

He kicked the box and then sat on it. "The box always disappears once everything's inside."
Chapter 29

Pain was building in my gut from too much time in The Scale. George could see me grimacing and increased velocity. Blurs filled the doorframe as we accelerated, and deep breathing helped me, as if I were being lowered to the bottom of a quiet well in a bucket. I sensed the pain in my spine, but as I dropped lower and lower the pain released, and I drifted far away. At the quietest point, I noticed an echo in the well that lingered like a butterfly. But the butterfly grew teeth and bit my ear, gently at first, then harder as a voice broke through. I tried to push it away, but the voice amplified until I recognized it.

"Hank! Something's wrong with Hank!" I said.

"Whoa, hold on. You've had a hell—"

"Take us down, George! Get us down!"

We dropped through the sky until I saw an open field and knew we had to land.

"How do you know it's him?" George asked.

"Land, goddammit!" I saw a crowd of children in a circle with a big kid at the center, and he was standing over a boy. As we got closer, I saw it was Hank cowering in the dust at his feet. "It's that goddamn bully!" I yelled.

George looked with binoculars. "That's not a kid. It's a man."

The man's back was to us. His arms were waving wildly, and he was shouting at my son in the dirt. The chopper's dust chased most of the kids away, and I was running before the skids hit the ground. Hank saw me coming, and his face was a mess of tears and terror, but his attacker saw him looking at me and spun just as I tackled his waist and drove him to the ground. He jabbed his thumb in my eye as I tried to strangle him, and it broke my hold.

He was up and so was I, but I could only see through my left eye. He kicked me in the chest and followed with a punch to the throat, and I went down. He could've finished me but decided to go after Hank again. I was gasping for air and on my knees when I saw the man slap Hank across the face. I was up, clawing at the man until my arms gripped him in a chokehold.

"Hank, run to the helicopter, run!" I yelled, but Hank stood staring at me, shaking his head.

"Dad?" He started sobbing. "Daddy?"

"Go to the helicopter—you'll be safe!" The man whipped his head back and smashed my teeth with the back of his head, and he broke free. He grabbed Hank by the arm and said, "Get up, Arthur. You pathetic fuck."

My right eye was clearing, but blood pooled in my mouth from the head butt. The man put his hand on Hank's throat, and I could finally see who he was. Dressed in an olive jumpsuit and black boots, it was me. Me!

He pulled a knife and I rushed forward, slamming the base of my palm into his chin. I heard teeth crack in his mouth as he fell back and released Hank. I picked up my son and ran toward the chopper. George jumped out, running to meet us. I was close when my clone tackled me around the knees and I fell, but Hank rolled forward and got up. He understood the helicopter was safety and kept moving toward George.

Before the twin could get off my legs, I turned from my belly and drove my elbow into his temple and cracked his head open. Not bone, thin as eggshell. No blood came from the hole in his head, only blackness, puffing out like steam. I kicked free of the body, which crumbled in an ash heap and released a swarm of Satan's wraiths.

I ran with all I had left, but there were at least thirty shadows chasing me toward the chopper. The blast of air from the rotor wash pushed back the wave of dark assassins as I jumped aboard, and George closed the doors and locked us in. The wraiths attacked in one wave and slammed the Pave Hawk like a battering ram. The helicopter didn't roll, but it rocked wildly. George killed the engines and I yelled, "What're you doing? Get us out of here!"

"They'll bring us down." George's voice was calm, but his eyes were full of fear. The rotors slowed and stopped, and the wraiths pounded on the chopper, and Hank screamed at the thudding concussions. George looked in the cargo hold and pulled out smoke grenades. "These'll scatter 'em." He went forward and opened a small pilot's window and tossed seven grenades out. George came back to the cargo hold and pulled out six frag grenades and two large fire extinguishers.

"Help me tie these together. Hurry!" We lashed grenades to the extinguishers with our bootlaces, knowing we had to work while the demons were blinded by the smoke cloud that enveloped us in a green and red fog. When we finished, George said, "I'll get the rotors going, you'll stand in the right door and I'll take the left." He fired the rotors up, and the demons descended on us as we lifted off. Before we opened the doors George said, "When I hit the gas, I'll count to three; we'll pull the pins and heave these fucking things out."

We flew straight up, and the swirling gusts pushed away the smoke. We stood in the doors with our bombs, but the wraiths pursued at a distance, maybe sensing a trap. "Here we go!" George opened the throttle, and they closed on us. "One...two...three." We pulled the pins, and George yelled, "Throw!" We tossed the grenades. The doors slammed shut, and the chopper dropped like an elevator with severed cables. As the bombs exploded above us, George and I were thrown around the cabin, but we dragged ourselves into seats and buckled in. Hank's eyes were closed. He was too terrified to do anything but squeeze his harness. I held Hank's hand and listened for the demons.

The fire extinguisher bombs gave us a head start, and we kept them at bay for thirty minutes, then they were upon us. From the sound of scratching metal, it seemed the creatures were trying to destroy the engine and make us crash. I looked out the side window, and a wraith peered in at me. I saw Satan laughing in the creature's one huge eye, and I spit at him, but the saliva ran uselessly down the glass. The rotors strained against the attack, and I looked at the roof, expecting a hole to rip open, but it was the side door that tore away first. Wraiths poured in, and George and I were pinned against the bulkhead. They clawed at Hank's buckles.

"You fuckers, take me, not him!" I yelled, but a wraith pushed itself into my mouth to gag me, and I chewed it to ash. By the time I coughed out its remains, Hank was unbuckled and held in the open door by a wraith.

"No!" I got an arm free and ripped one wraith in half.

In the door, Satan smiled at me from the wraith's eye before tossing Hank out. I broke free, diving after my son into the blue. The wraiths screeched in pursuit, but I dropped like a stone, catching up, grabbing his ankle, and pulling him into my arms. The ground was close. "Close your eyes, Hank!"

Powerful arms wrapped around us, and I tried to kick free of the wraith, but it was Freya. The air space around us became a slashing matrix of diving shadows and golden blurs. The Valkyries swooped in and destroyed most of wraiths in seconds with their talons and teeth, shredding the demons like strips of meat. Freya flew us to the chopper where George had regained control and hovered in wait. She handed us to George one at a time, and she dropped away to pursue the last wraiths with her sisters.

Hank was shaking and crying. I held him in my lap. I rocked him and whispered that he was safe now. He put his arm around my neck and pulled me close. "You flew. You saved me." He repeated that like a chant and slowly released the squeeze around my neck, falling asleep in my arms.

George whispered that we'd just made it to Valhalla's borders. He changed course to take Hank home. We approached a neighborhood at dawn, and the whole block was quiet. George said, "This is uncharted territory for me. We're flying around inside your son's nightmare, and I can't land because we might not get out. You can take him inside, but if he wakes up—you might be trapped."

"Got it."

George hovered above the street, and I jumped the four feet with Hank in my arms. The door was unlocked, and I walked down the hall to his room. Hank wrapped his arms around the pillow as I pulled the blanket over his small body. I kissed his forehead and started to walk out when I saw Katie in her bed.

I knelt beside her sleeping face, wanting to kiss her but fearing I'd startle her. I inhaled the air around her, and she smelled like home. I lightly kissed her cheek, and that's when Hank woke up. "Mommy, Mommy, Dad saved me, he saved me!"

The dreamscape warped as if blowtorched. Everything swirled in bright heat. I reached out to hold Katie, willing to stay, wanting to stay, but she was gone, and I was alone in the dark. I stumbled toward the front door, but it was gone. I heard distant laughter and knew who it was. Would he bring wraiths? Maybe the dragon? I stopped and tried to control my breathing. I didn't want to be taken from behind so I turned slowly, listening to the laughter that turned to thumping. Golem?

The steady thumping pushed away the laughter. Thump-thump-thump, the slow-motion sound of rotors above me. I jumped at the sound. My hands bashed against the helicopter's landing gear, and I cursed the darkness. I jumped up again, and my arm slipped over the lip of the side door, and I hugged tight. The chopper lifted, and a hand grabbed my arm, tugging me aboard in the blackness. "Got ya," said George. The rotors whistled as we flew toward a faint light growing larger as we passed through gray, then into white sunlight.

I slumped in my seat. "What happened?" I said.

George rubbed his chin. "Dreams are connected to The Scale, but for us to travel into Hank's thoughts would take serious power to orchestrate." George shook his head and sighed. "Satan must have made it happen. Son of a bitch damned near trapped us."

The pain intensified along my spine like razors slicing the nerves, but then it eased as we flew closer to PTC and subsided as we landed on the rooftop. I was exhausted and sleepwalked down the ladder. In my room, George had to take off my boots and flight suit. I was lead jelly on the mattress. George splashed cold water on his face from the sink and sat on the edge of my bed. "You okay?" he asked.

Not knowing where or when this would end crashed in on me. It was hard to breathe. I covered my face, and the tears came hard. "Have to find it...before he kills my family."

George whispered, "We'll find the last piece. Please, calm down, just breathe...come on now, breathe...that's it...keep breathing...that a way."

George kept talking as I wiped an arm over my face and tried to catch my breath. He smiled and said, "We'll find it, but no more dream diving, okay?" He sat with me until I fell asleep.
Chapter 30

Since the Bill Stenson episode and sharing the story of her brother's suicide, Dr. Simon and I talked with the kind of honesty reserved more for friends than doctors and patients. We dedicated two weeks to dissecting George's return, Medusa's death, and Valhalla's violent afterglow. It didn't feel awkward discussing the possibility that I might've seen God after drinking Oolee's tears.

Simon was now my confidante and confessor, a change that allowed uninhibited discussion without self-conscious sludge getting in the way. I told her I'd made peace with Medusa and that George had helped me recover all but my last soul fragment. We talked about how her book concerning PTSD was shaping up, and how pleased she was with the progress, including how the book should end.

"Does the good guy win?" I asked.

She smiled. "Arthur, I've scheduled a release hearing." She laughed while I did a little dance in my chair. "It will take a month or so to schedule, and candidly, I've rarely seen patients released at the initial hearing." I frowned. "However, it's quite common for a patient making your strides to be released after a second hearing."

"So what's an optimistic timeline, Doc?"

"Two or three months," she said. I let out a whoop that I wouldn't have dared a month ago, but she no longer required an armed guard in our sessions. She laughed, then reeled in her smile. "Again, I want to temper your excitement, but your time here is drawing to a close."

Physical therapy is a big part of the PTC recovery plan, but I'd resisted it until recently. I'd reconnected with the only thing about running I enjoyed—the high—that fully relaxed state with a supersensory focus. The treadmill was a miserable machine, but the high was my carrot, and I chased it daily—sometimes getting lost, occasionally off the map, pursuing specters like ice cubes on a summer sidewalk. Thud, thud, thud on a revolving sheet of rubber, running down regrets and crushing them under my shoes. Thud, thud, thud, only one man outran me. My father was fast...thud, thud, thud...but I closed the gap.

Reading his Vietnam journal several times now brought me closer to him, but the pages reminded me how little I understood about what drove him. He was quiet and liked to read. He played catch, built models with us as kids, and chased away my nightmares. As I ran on the treadmill, I realized that phantom jungles and ghost soldiers still separated us, and the invisible triple-canopy between us only opened once when he was alive.

When we were kids at home one night watching _Happy Days_ , a strong fist knocked on the door. Dad gave an annoyed shrug to Mom on his way to the door. Vietnam stood on the welcome mat, wearing jeans and an old, gray 82nd Airborne sweatshirt. The man embraced my father, and we were shocked at Dad's tears.

"Everyone, this is Harry Stuart. He was in Vietnam with me," Dad said.

"Sorry to barge in, but I was in town and...well, I just hope it's okay," Harry said.

The two men made awkward small talk with us for a few minutes and then went out to the patio with cold beers in hand. BB and I _asked_ to go bed that night, as opposed to the usual tranquilizer darts and monkey nets required to get us into bed. Our bedroom window looked over the patio table and was prime for eavesdropping.

We heard the pop and hiss of bottles opening. Dad made a toast, "Jump with your eyes open. God made the view for the Airborne."

The bottles clinked together. "Haven't heard that in a long time," Harry said.

Dad said, "Is there a better way to start drinking with an old friend?"

"We're two of the few still rambling around," said Harry. "But I've tried to stay in touch with the platoon."

"Still the mama bear."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, I suppose, but I did a better job as platoon sergeant because I could keep an eye on 'em. Back home, most of 'em couldn't keep it straight." Harry took a long drink.

"How many are left?"

"Counting me and you, only five are still alive."

"What the fuck happened?" asked Dad.

BB and I looked at each other and giggled at Dad's language from another life. BB pinched me to keep us from getting caught.

"Booze and suicide. Worse than an ambush," Harry said.

They were quiet for a while, and then Dad went in for more beer. The bottles emptied, and the men shared stories about families, job hassles, and eventually, Vietnam.

"Harry, I want to send you something I've been writing."

"Like a book?"

"Well, sort of. Things I remember and...can't forget," Dad said.

"You were my best squad leader, but so damn quiet. Never knew what you were thinking." Harry sipped his beer. "I'd be honored to read it."

My brother and I felt the same way and made it our mission to find Dad's war journal. It took us more than a month, because he'd cut pages from a dictionary and replaced them with his work. We read the first chapters one night under a blanket using Dad's army flashlight. We tried to be careful putting his papers back, but he realized someone touched it, and the journal vanished. Didn't see it again until Mom died and Katie sent it to me in the hospital.

Growing up, I watched Dad at his drafting board, but I imagined him running through shadows with a knife and rifle, not a pencil and T-square. In my battlefield fantasies, he was always the last man standing. I couldn't shake that mantle, and I eventually dropped out of college to see if I could carry it. I enlisted in the air force and qualified for Special Forces. I thought the old man might carry me around the house on his shoulders.

"You're a fool," he said when I told him in the fall of 1989.

"We'll see," I said. "At least I have the courage to go after _my_ dreams."

He stared at me. "Hell's that supposed to mean?"

"My whole life, I've watched you envy another man's dreams." I pointed at Wright's Fallingwater and The Illinois hanging on the wall. "You abandoned yours."

He tried to stay calm. "Arthur, I don't want you coming home in a body bag, I just want you—"

"To give up like you did?" I shouted in his face.

He slapped me hard and tackled me when I tried to punch him. We thrashed on the ground, kicking over his drafting table with papers flying everywhere. Mom came in screaming for us to stop, but Dad already had me pinned face down in the carpet. "You know shit about courage!" He took a deep breath and through gritted teeth whispered, "Go on, pray for war. See how fucking tough you are."

On the hospital's treadmill, that memory ran alongside me. "Pray for war" rang in my ears until the orderly unplugged the machine, so I had to get off. I cranked the shower water to hot as I could stand, but it didn't burn away the fact I _did_ pray for war, and it came for me...twice.

In bed, I kept thinking about our brawl. I'd carried his hateful words like bricks through boot camp, and after graduation, which he didn't attend. Dad didn't say a word to me during my two-week leave. When I fought in Desert Storm, he wouldn't talk to me when I called home, or even write me a letter. We didn't speak again until he was diagnosed with brain cancer, but we still never apologized. I had to fight another war and go through everything at PTC before I understood the lesson he wanted me to learn from his cryptic mantra, "When a bone snaps, you cry for help, but when your mind breaks, the silence leaves you speechless."

Katie convinced Dr. Simon that cake was in order to celebrate my release hearing the following week. Simon even joined us for a slice in the courtyard, and she taught Hank how to do rock-paper-scissors, so they could determine who got the biggest piece. Katie hugged Simon and thanked her before Doc left us alone. Katie cried happy tears for the first time since I'd returned from Iraq. Hank was leery of what the release hearing was all about and wasn't convinced I'd be home any time soon. Doubt was crawling on my brain, and I thought it might show on my face, so I asked him how school was going. He had us laughing about how ugly fractions were compared to whole numbers. Then he turned serious, and I got nervous again, but he just wanted me to explain how pitchers calculate ERA, so I improvised an answer that seemed to satisfy his curiosity. Now he'd run out of steam, and I casually asked how he'd been sleeping, or if he'd had any interesting dreams.

"There was one a few weeks ago. You and some old guy saved me from shadowy things."

I almost choked on a wad of cake.

Katie said, "You didn't tell me about that one, Hank. What happened?"

Hank told the tale almost blow-by-blow as I remembered it. "You shoulda seen him kick his own butt and then jump outta the helicopter after me!"

I laughed and shrugged like I was playing along, but I was terrified knowing Satan could attack on any front at any time.

When George returned, I asked what he really knew about Satan.

"All I know for certain is he's allowed to cajole, tempt, and torment whenever and wherever. Only way to beat him is by believing that he can't stop you."

"Sounds like a fortune cookie."

He crossed his arms. "This is the end game, Arthur, and you lose everything if you can't face him with conviction."

That sucked the air out of the room, and levity was the only way to bring some oxygen back. "Doc says I've got a good chance of getting out soon."

"Great news." He laughed. "But mine's better." I sat up on the bed. "Your last piece is at the tower your father built."

"Is he there?"

"He's been waiting for you."

I started changing into the flight suit and boots, and George said, "I have some good news. I won't be going with you." He smiled, which only confused me.

"What the hell, George, why not?"

"I...I get to move on." He choked up. "You'll drop me off on the way to your father."

I stared at him, searching for words in the churning joy and sadness and fear inside me. Even as I asked, I knew it was true. "Am I taking you to heaven?"

George forced a laugh. "I hope so."
Chapter 31

We climbed the ladder together for the last time. Aboard the Pave Hawk we put on the flight helmets, and George said, "I'll train you to fly this bird, so you can get to your father in one piece." We both laughed at the strange joke.

"How will I know where I'm going?"

"You just will. The helicopter will do most of the work, but let me show you."

It was oddly simple, flying the chopper with thoughts. I'd controlled so many aircraft with radios over the years that sending mental instructions came easily, and I spoke to our Pave Hawk like an old friend. It responded to every turn and acceleration without hesitation as an extension of my will.

"Well done! Should've had you flying us all along," he said.

As I banked and swooped through the clouds, I watched George as he wiped his fingers along his forehead. He was sweating and looked pale. "General, come on, you look like we're going to funeral. Isn't this what you want?"

He smiled weakly. "More than anything." He looked at the floor for a moment while rubbing his hands over his face. "You wouldn't believe how many people were pleased the day I died." He let that comment hang over us for a minute. "That troubled me for so long. But now, the only opinions that matter to me are those of my men...the ones I slapped." His hands were trembling. "They've been with me this whole time in The Scale. In my mind. In my heart. Tonight, for the first time, I feel forgiven."

George took control of the chopper again, and we descended below the clouds where the open ocean awaited us. I saw an island and pointed it out to George. He looked out the window, and his face brightened. "Catalina...magnificent," he said.

"Near Los Angeles?"

George nodded, and his voice tripped with emotion. "As a boy...I...I was invincible here. The island believed in me." His eyes moved back and forth quickly, scanning the landscape. George took his time considering landing zones, and the mountains on the island eventually held his attention. "They were working on an airport when I died in 1945. Let's see if they finished it."

We flew along the coast before turning inland. "I'll be damned, look at that." George pointed to a single-strip airfield carved in the rocky terrain. We set down on the blacktop of an empty parking lot in front of the control tower, a welcoming white monolith with a red Spanish-tiled roof. We stepped out of the chopper and breathed warm, clean Pacific air.

George said as he stretched, "You can't go home again? Bullshit! Where else are you supposed to go?"

I followed him to the control tower, which was unlocked, and we climbed the stairs to the top. As we looked out the big windows, George got his bearings. "We'll head southeast toward Avalon. I spent many summers there, living in a cottage with my family behind a hotel my relatives operated." Patton gestured to the rugged hill country around us. "I hunted all over this island. Catalina planted the soldier seed in my belly." He pointed at a trail heading south, and we were soon walking through the hilly landscape, dotted with clumps of green brush and trees.

I teased him about not flying to Avalon. "And miss a chance to walk along these beautiful canyons? Hell, it's only eight miles, so just humor an old man." We headed east for a mile and then turned south on the path, so the shimmering Pacific was about a mile to our left. From a side trail to our right, a small deer shot from the bushes and ran along the trail ahead of us, chased by a fair-haired boy carrying a shotgun.

"Mule deer! Come on, I want to see if he bags him!" George said and took off with surprising agility down the rocky path. We heard the gun pop, and after a few minutes, we saw the boy kneeling beside the dead deer. "Let me do the talking. Don't want to scare him," George said.

The boy heard us and stood up as we approached. George stopped and whispered, "My Lord, it's me."

The boy waved, and we continued walking toward him. George reached out and shook the hand of his twelve-year-old self. "Well done, son. You took him down with one shot. Did you use slug load?"

"Yes, sir, got 'em right through the heart," the boy said.

While the boy cleaned his kill, George asked to hold the shotgun. "Beautiful. 12-gauge Le Favre." George said.

"Yep. Remember when Papa gave it to us?"

"I do." He laughed. "How did you...recognize me?"

"We've been waiting. All of us," the boy said. "Come on, I'll take you."

"Who's waiting?" George asked.

"You'll see." The boy smiled.

George shook his head in shock and after a second or two said, "Can Arthur join us?"

The boy said, "Of course."

We waited while the boy finished dressing the mule deer and slung it over his shoulders. George walked with the boy, talking about every canyon and hilltop and the best spots to hunt quail, squirrel, fox, and deer. They knew every crevice and boulder like the knots and scars on their own skin. Several buffaloes raised their massive heads from the grass as we passed within a hundred feet. George turned his head back to me and quietly said, "See those beautiful bison?"

"Hard to miss," I said.

George laughed. "Scientists brought them here in 1924 to study, but I think these beasts learned more from us."

After an hour, we crested the final rise and looked down on Avalon's bay. George put his hands on his hips, surveying the cove below. The pristine bay was undeveloped with the exception of two structures near the water: a large white building with a red roof built on the beach, and a pier, extending beyond the shore break into deeper water.

"The Hotel Metropole!" George shouted.

"Hoped you'd recognize it," said the boy.

George patted his younger self on the back. "Even if I was blind."

The last mile of the trail was lined with tall eucalyptus trees that whisked around us in the breeze, dropping leaves like ticker tape. When the trail blended into the beach, we stepped out of the trees into a light wind off the Pacific. Our feet crunched in sand until we reached the steps of the Metropole. George and I stood at the door in our flight suits. The polished brass doorknob reflected us like a funhouse mirror, stretching George's arm into a wriggling string as he reached for the knob. The knob wouldn't budge when he twisted it. My stomach dropped as I watched him struggle.

Young Georgie touched my arm. "Help him."

I placed my hand on George's, and we turned the large brass knob until the door clicked open. A reception line stood inside. Along the red wall were men and women of every race and age, clothed in all manner of formal dress. The warrior in a Spartan's white tunic stood next to the woman in chainmail with blonde braids lying against her chest, and a kilted Highlander held his claymore across his shoulders. A tall black woman with tribal spirals tattooed on her face was followed by a samurai in black robes, who touched shoulders with a Viking in bare feet wearing bear skins.

Patton looked at all the faces. "Only in dreams...have I seen..." He dipped his head and sobbed. A spontaneous ovation drowned out the tears of relief that streamed down George's face to the wooden floor slats below.

A big man dressed in Union colors approached and put his hands on George's shoulders. "General, my name's Major James Tilson, and I'm honored to meet you. Even though you were born last, you have always been first among us. We couldn't walk the light without you."

Patton looked at him and smiled. "Major, when I was growing up, we had a picture of Robert E. Lee on the wall and revered it as the face of God. The fact I was once a Union officer proves, beyond a shadow of doubt, that God has a sense of humor."

Everyone burst into laughter as I followed George down the line of arms and hands that embraced and welcomed him. An invisible filter allowed language to pass freely without misunderstanding. Many in the procession paused to offer hushed words to Patton, bringing laughter, tears, and solemn nods from the old man.

At the end of the line, Tilson guided us into the next room. The Civil War soldier led George to the head of a massive oak table. Above us dangled ornate crystal chandeliers; oil landscapes lined the walls, apparently homeland portraits for each of the fifty-plus guests. The table was already teeming with platters and bowls. Tilson said, "We prepared some of the island's bounty and hope you approve."

George was fighting tears again. "Major...it's perfect."

Once all were seated, the Highlander stood at the other end of the table. Thick scars ran from his cheeks into the mottled nest of his red beard. "General Patton, as one who shared your soul, I've been asked to give a toast, and though I'm more a man of the sword than tongue, I shall persevere to honor you."

He held up a silver cup filled with red wine. "History is often determined in bloody terms, but God has forged few souls with enough conviction to fight battles. The many incarnations of our common spirit is testament, as the heavens sent it back time and again to fight wars around the globe. And we raise our glasses to the strongest emissary of our shared spirit. To General George Patton."

The silver cups clapped together, and echoing cheers of tribute circled the table. The reunion feast began in earnest with quail, venison, mashed potatoes, wine, and apple pie filling us with contentment. As the meal ended, Patton stood, and the clamor quieted. He turned to me. "Arthur, your brave journey to complete yourself did the same for me. With a grateful heart, I thank you for helping me find my way home. To Arthur!" The room echoed the toast, and we all drank. George pulled me to my feet and embraced me. "Thank you, Arthur. I wish I could see your father's face when you arrive."

His former lives stood up and surrounded Patton. "I'm ready," he said.

I followed as they led him out of the Metropole and onto the beach. I noticed that I was the only one who left footprints in the sand, but when the group reached the wooden pier, the clumping and thumping on the planks sounded like a hundred hammers. At the end of Avalon's long pier, the other warriors slowly gathered around George, arms linked, pressing closer and closer in the cool ocean air toward the center of their common soul. Like heat off the desert, the bodies shimmered and melded into a single cloud of vapor that slipped off the pier and joined the sunlight.

I watched the last traces of Patton's shared soul dissipate above the Pacific. I used my hand to block the water's glare and focused on George's path through the salt air. My own suffering made it easy to forget the sadness and pain George had endured right alongside me. "Blood and Guts," I said and walked back to the beach.

I knew the route back to the Pave Hawk, but I called for it with a thought, and within minutes the chopper crested the ridge and landed on the beach. I climbed aboard afraid and excited. I'd see my father again soon, and the tower of his dreams. The chopper lifted in a swirl of sand, knowing our course as soon as I imagined the destination.

The helicopter rose steadily above the ocean and passed through clouds before leveling at cruising speed. Sunset streaked across the sky and spotted the clouds with purple and pink. I felt the air change from ocean cool to a dry heat that I'd only encountered in the desert. I dozed and dreamed of my father and our fight, and of the remorse we avoided before he died. At sunrise I awoke with the chopper dropping gradually over a landscape of whipped cream, or so it seemed until the pale sand dunes revealed themselves as I descended. Looking for signs of the tower from a thousand feet above the desert, I slid the helmet's visor down to deflect the dunes' glare.

The chopper thundered along a sinuous river—a landmark I soon recognized from past military maps as the Tigris. After an hour following the river, I saw a black needle poking through the horizon. The dark shard was broad-based and narrowed to a single antenna on top. It looked like frozen blood against the pale sky. It was an image I knew first from Dad's office wall, and later recreated in my clay sculpture: The Illinois.

As I got closer, I saw lush grass around the base of the tower. Before landing, I traveled up the length of the massive structure, which reminded me of marbled meat. I didn't see anyone on the ground, but the sand around the tower was rippling like a pond disturbed by a huge stone, except the ripples were rolling toward the tower, not away. Because the city of Baghdad didn't exist here, it took me several minutes to recognize where I was. This was OD6's area of operations. Medusa called it "Jizzum Island," and now it was home to a stunning version of The Illinois.
Chapter 32

I landed near the tower's base in a wide circle of grass. I let the rotors stop and stayed in the chopper, waiting for whatever welcome was in store. There wasn't a single person walking around. I looked around at flower gardens, fields, and orchards. This park alone would've needed an army to build, let alone the tower.

I stepped out and looked up the length of the tower shooting up at least a mile into the blue, and it made me dizzy. I ran my hand across the building's surface. It was made from a brittle white stone with red mud packed between. The mud was cool, but the smooth stones were warm. Under my hands, I'd swear the tower expanded and contracted, just slightly, as if breathing.

A voice suddenly at my side. "Bones and clay...organic...to draw them in."

A mangy man stood before me wearing a white suit, soiled and threadbare. His stringy white hair was stuck in a permanent mane of mud, sweat, and God-knows-what. His feet were bare with ragged nails encased in clay. His face was withered and creviced from age and exposure.

The man said, "Bones and clay. It calls them."

I looked again at what I first thought to be white stone. "Bones? Calls who?"

"Look. Look up. All the way now." I didn't want to take my eyes off him, so he tried to push my chin up with his fingers. I brushed away their stink and looked toward the top. A white phosphorous sphere burst from the tower's tip, gaining altitude in an arc until it faded like a shooting star. I moved my eyes back to the nasty old man.

"Lost soul. Lost soul you saw. See-saw." He smiled with rotten teeth. "Vertebrae spire. Pulls them like a magnet." He laughed and patted my arm. "Come, come along. Walk along."

I shook my head. "I'm looking for someone."

"Yes, yes, looking, son of Nick. Come meet Adam and Eve."

He tried to walk away, so I grabbed his arm. He snatched it away but wasn't angry. "Where's my father?" I asked.

He beckoned with a curling index finger. "First pay respects. Adam and Eve. Follow, follow me."

We walked over a bridge that extended from the tower to another immaculate park where mesquite trees lined the walkway; their yellow pollen marked our footsteps. Between the trees were rose bushes, covered by strange black blossoms.

"Bloody roses," the filthy man said. He plucked one and handed it to me. My nose quivered at the intense vanilla scent from the fist-sized flower.

He said, "Nick's idea, like vertebrae in the spire. Thought flowers would attract the lost ones like honeybees...righty-right, goodnight."

"Is he here?" I asked.

His bloodshot eyes widened. "He's way up, up, up!" He pointed to the sky while standing on his tiptoes. "Waaaay up."

"Gone?" I asked, but he ignored me and continued along the path's spiral orbit until we came to the center and two large glass domes. Inside each, water shot up from the floor and erupted from a hole in the top. The water spilled over the outside and drizzled down the glass into drains in a continuous cycle.

He said, "Say hello."

I moved closer to see inside the glass. One dome contained a nude man, and the other a nude woman. They stood over twenty feet high, and each held out an arm toward the other. Beneath the marble statues, brass plaques labeled them _Adam_ and _Eve_.

The water surging through the surface of each dome cooled us in a blue mist. It refreshed and refocused me on finding my father and my last piece. The water helped focus my mangy guide as well, or least made him lucid.

"King Faisal gave me this island—Pig Island in 1957. Wanted something grand. Gropius and Le Corbusier mocked my plans." He smiled with mossy teeth. "Yet here's Edena." He held his arms out. "And _they_ are rotting in the ground." He cackled. "Nick found me, creating Edena. Helped me finish. That's when we noticed all the bones brought by the river. They collected around this island. Ghosts came looking for their bones. That was the birth of T3."

"T3?"

He pointed to the tower. "Taliesin Three. One in Wisconsin, two in Arizona. Now this sanctuary."

"Mr. Wright?"

He grinned.

While he was coherent, I pushed his memory. "And Nick helped you build all this?"

"My right- and left-hand man," he said.

"You two built this alone?" I asked.

He laughed. "Like the pyramids. Thousands worked." As I listened, Wright led us out of the garden and back to the tower. Along the way he said, "Organic. All river mud and bones. Scattered, unclaimed remains. From war...plague...suicide."

He was drifting away, so I asked, "You said my father thought of using vertebrae for the spire? Is that where that bright light came from earlier?"

He pointed up. Two more shooting stars launched from the top. "The nerves, the nerves in the spine. Pulled them like a straw. Sucked them from the sand."

Now back at the tower, we entered the ground floor through an archway of curving bones. At the center of the sand floor was a glass tube running to the top. He touched the tube, and it opened. "Melted sand for glass," he said as we stepped inside the cylinder. I looked down, and there was no floor, just a black hole, and away we went, lifted on a current of hot air. "Locomotion!" he said.

I clenched my fists when we launched skyward, but Wright, dressed in filth, remained calm as we accelerated to sunlight pouring in from above. He smelled like sewage, and bugs crawled in his hair. His mind sharpened as we flew up. "We saw ghosts lingering around some bones in the river. So we decided to build. But such brittle artifacts. Your father discovered how to soak them in the river. Made the bones pliable."

My flight suit billowed in the warm air lifting us, and I relaxed enough to ask, "Are the ripples I saw on the ground lost souls?"

"Yes. T3 draws them like insects to the flame. Watch. Look there." A glowing shape was circling up from below, following the inner walls around the tower like the stripe on a barber pole. It passed us at the halfway point, was up the wall in seconds, and exploded in a white flare from the top, filling our glass tube like a searchlight. Wright spun his hand and forearm around and up in a spiral. "Boom, boom, boom...Roman candle." He clapped his hands. "Nick predicted it."

I asked again, "Where is he?"

He pointed up and laughed.

The skylight above was getting closer, and the pushing air slowed until we hovered on the top floor. It was an open-air platform where the spire made of backbones was anchored to the floor by a skeletal scaffold. The spire continued another hundred feet into the sky. We stepped off the air column and onto a floor made of bone fragments and clay. The white skeletal pieces made a random mosaic that was more beautiful than disturbing, with each piece polished and smooth like ivory. We stood perhaps thirty feet from the spire, and I started walking toward it.

Wright grabbed my arm and said, "Stay back."

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Unless you wish to ride," Wright said.

I looked around for Dad, as another spirit rocketed up the stem, and my hair stood on end from a blast of static. I was staring at the yellow arc that the departing soul made across the sky, when a hand touched my shoulder. I turned and faced my father.

Dad smiled. "Arthur."

We wrapped our arms around each other. We held onto each other for a long time, and tears and words intertwined. "Sorry...please...forgive...love...can you...forgive...yes."

I thought Wright had wandered away to give us privacy, but then he raised his voice. "I hear what you're telling the boy! Lies! All lies!"

Dad let go of me and said, "Frank, please calm down."

Wright paced back and forth in front of the air tube. "Enough lies. No more! Not from you, Nick."

During the rant, Dad whispered to me, "I've been trying to get him up here for months, but he's been hiding. Can you help me? We gotta hold him under the spire. You up to it?" Dad asked, and I agreed.

Wright sensed our intentions as we came toward him. He stepped into the tube, and we dove for his arms. We dragged him up, and he screamed, "No, damn you! I can't face them! No!" We carried him to the spire as he flailed and cursed us. "Goddamn you! They're waiting...No!"

Wright kept yelling as we pinned him face up under the spire. He kicked and spit, and he even pulled some of his putrid hair out in fistfuls. The spire hummed, and Wright arched his back in resistance. "Noooooo!" His body dissolved in a patchwork of light, and the needle absorbed him. We watched his soul erupt, penetrating the atmosphere in an orange blur that soon disappeared from view.

"Jesus, he was terrified," I said.

Dad said, "His life was a train wreck, and it haunted him. Left his first family for another woman, who was later murdered." Dad looked up the bone antennae. "After we watched so many souls find direction, Frank told me he wanted to go to his family. We came up several times, but he couldn't bring himself to go. He told me his biggest fear was facing his children. The indecision finally drove him mad."

Dad walked near the platform's edge, pointing out ripples in the sand below. "For those lost souls, this place is the missing needle on their compass. Frank couldn't see that for himself."

As we stood watching the desert undulate, I put a hand on his shoulder. "What now?"

"It's time for me to go forward like Frank, but I have something to give you first." Dad went to a large bone tile in the floor, lifted it, and pulled out a plain wooden box. He said, "To make this place possible, we asked volunteers to bring any remains they found to us. Some, like General Patton, brought material by the ton. I found this in a load he delivered. When I realized it was yours, I asked him to look after you."

He opened the box. It was my heart. "When I touched it, I could feel you alive inside me," he said and lifted it up. The heart started beating, and Dad placed it against my chest. My body absorbed it like a dry sponge drinking a raindrop. My chest locked in a spasm of staggering heat. I fell on my knees sweating and panting. My ears hummed, my eyes burned, and my tongue went numb. Electricity tremored in every cell, my skin stretched, joints popped, and I felt like putty being pulled in twenty directions. Stretching, stretching, almost tearing, and then snapping back in an instant. I cried out and collapsed.

Dad held me as the shockwaves ebbed, but I barely heard his soothing words until the ringing in my ears subsided and his blurry face became familiar again.

We sat on the floor, and I caught my breath. He said, "That was scary. You okay?"

I tried to laugh. "Jealous?"

He laughed. "How many pieces did you have to find?"

"With the heart makes eight." I told him about some of the long journey that ended with him.

"And Patton helped you?"

"More than anyone, but he was mysterious about this place."

"He knew that you'd end up at this tower, one way or the other."

I sighed. "So why not just tell me?"

"Helluva burden to tell a man he needs to find his dead father to rebuild his soul."

I laughed quietly. "Good point." I felt better and tried to stand up just as The Scale sent a stinging pain along my right side. I clung to his shoulder. "Dad, I have to go."

Dad pointed to the spire. "Me too. See me off?"

"You ready?" I asked.

"I am."

Dad lay under the spire, and I held his hand. "I love you," he said and gently pulled his hand away.

"I love you too."

Then he was gone. I looked up at his light climbing, rising straight up. Bright red against the blue sky, so blue, but then turning black along his trajectory. Heading toward darkness I recognized. A massive cloud of wraiths had waited to intercept him like a cape capturing a firefly.

The demon swarm then dove straight for the tower, and I called with a psychic scream for the Pave Hawk. I thought it was the chopper's rotors making the sound at first, but the high-pitched cackle was echoing from the pack of a thousand wraiths now within a mile of me. Tears were running off my face as I looked for signs of my father in the screeching cloud. The Pave Hawk rose up in front of me, and I leaped in the open side door, dropping instantly toward the desert.

The first shadows hit the tower and exploded in dust. Seeing the tower's power, I asked the chopper to race in a spiral around T3. The demons slammed against the tower in pursuit, exploding again and again in clouds of ash. I was so concerned about the wraiths that I forgot to monitor my altitude. When I tried to pull up, the tail clipped mesquite trees growing around the tower, and the Pave Hawk rolled. I was buckled in, but the only reason I survived was that the chopper ended up on its belly, sliding in the sand, which slowed the bird.

I was a few hundred yards from the tower, and the helicopter was totaled. I went for the black box, but it was gone. I thought it might've been thrown out in the crash, but then I realized my heart had already fallen into place, so it must've disappeared. I climbed from the wreckage, and a wraith knocked me down, but I got my hands on it and tore it to ash. Two more descended and tried to hold my arms so the others could take me apart, but anger about my father allowed me to overpower both of them. Their cinders billowed off me as I ran toward the tower, and the last few wraiths kept their distance after seeing what I'd done to the others.

The Scale fired pain through my legs, and I tumbled into the tower. A huge wraith tried to follow me but burst in the doorway. Lying in the sand, I looked up at the glass tube leading up to the spire. Where would the spire send me? Heaven, hell, or back to the hospital—two out of three—odds I could live with. Satan had too many weapons for me to walk out, and the pain in my back would cripple me if I wasn't out soon anyway. I stood, but my legs locked up, and I fell on my belly. My arms worked, so I crawled toward the tube. The sand floor rippled, and I prepared to watch another soul rise to freedom. Then I smelled sulfur and dug my elbows in the sand, pulling for the tube. Three golems emerged from the ground, dripping sewage. My hand touched the glass as they spotted me. The glass opened, and I pulled myself in, but my dead leg lagged behind, and a golem grabbed it. A jet of hot air pushed me up while the golem pulled me down. I reached down and pounded on the giant hand of shit, but it was futile. My other leg came alive in the hot air and kicked the golem's sticky fingers.

The other two creatures pounded on the outside of the tube trying to get me, but the thick glass held. The one holding me roared at the other two and then let go of me to attack his competitors. The air column launched me up the tube as the behemoths battled in the sand. The golem that had let go of me was the biggest and knocked the other two down. The smaller ones were faster and used that to their advantage to eventually grab the big golem's arms. They tore his arms off and then his legs. The kicked the torso, taunting the defeated beast until they remembered what they'd come for and turned their attention to me. They looked up and bellowed, but I was almost to the top.

They pounded with their slimy fists until the tube cracked, but thankfully it didn't shatter. One threw its body against the glass, and the other followed. Again and again they slammed into the glass, and I could feel the shockwaves a mile up. The tube finally shattered at the base, and the driving air stopped instantly. I pressed my palms and boots against the inside of the tube and slowly climbed. The stabbing pain in my back returned as I exerted all my strength climbing. Three fucking feet from the top, and my palms started sweating. I started sliding down, but my boots provided enough friction for me to bend my knees and jump for the top of the tube.

Hanging by my fingers, I was saved by rage. I thought of Satan torturing Dad, and I yelled while my feet scuffed along the glass, gaining just enough traction to push my elbows up over the lip. I pulled myself out of the tube and collapsed in the open air near the spire. I wanted to give in to the pain and exhaustion, and that's when Satan did me a favor. He sent his wraiths, and seeing them motivated me to get up on my hands and knees. I crawled under the spire. The last shadows attacked, but the spire zapped them like mosquitoes in a bug light. Their cinders floated around my face, and the spire hummed with heat and light surrounding me.
Chapter 33

In the searing light, the low tones of the humming spire transformed to a stop-and-start whining pitch, and when I could move my arms again, I put my hands over my ears. The light receded enough to open my eyes, and I stared up from the floor in my hospital room. The sound still pierced my ears, and I recognized the stop and start of string trimmers whacking weeds in the visitors' courtyard outside. Still dressed in the flight suit and boots, I waited for the room to stop spinning.

My father was a prisoner. Fucking shadow demons. I tried to sit up, but nausea punched me so hard I rolled over and puked across the tile. I wiped my sleeve over my mouth and got to my knees. Grabbing the sink, I pulled myself up. On wobbling legs, I stood before the sink, washing my face, and saw the black wave capturing my father again. Satan came to the tower for me and took my father instead. I tried bearing the weight, but couldn't carry it. I started crying, then yelling, clutching the sides of the sink, shaking, pulling, and tearing it loose from the wall. Pipes ruptured, and water sprayed everywhere, washing away my flight suit and boots, leaving me naked, sprawled on the floor in wet agony. I wanted to die, begged for it, and I heard a whisper. "Let go, let go...come."

The hospital needle jabbed my arm, and sedatives wrapped me in a warm blanket, and the voice continued. "Let...go.....let...go." But the words cut me with an edge, honed by the same darkness that took my father.

The broken sink flooded my room, so I was moved to a smaller holding cell without a sink or toilet. Simon sat in a chair next to my bed, and I was strapped down for my own safety, she said. The Pave Hawk had been destroyed, and I had no idea if I could call another, but I had to try. "Doc, put me back in my room. I can't get to the roof from this one."

Simon was calm. "The water damage will take several days to repair. More important, what happened? Where did George take you?"

"I have to be in that room. My dad. Please."

"Are you trying to ruin your chances of release? Wait! Let me talk...I've kept your outburst quiet for now. If this gets out, your release hearing will be canceled indefinitely. Is that what you want?"

"Fuck the hearing! Satan took my father!"

Simon let me rant until I exhausted myself. "Did you find the last piece?" I ignored her, but she calmly asked again, "Did you find it?"

"Yes," I said quietly.

"How do you feel?"

"Don't worry, Doc. Your book has a happy ending."

She took off her glasses and polished them with the edge of her blouse. "You have a chance to go home. To start again. But this recklessness must stop."

"I can't leave until I save him."

"Can George help?"

"He's gone."

"You said that before, and—"

"No! Gone to heaven or whatever the fuck you want to call it."

She put her glasses back on. "You finished your search, and George was rewarded. How can you be angry?"

"Shit, I don't know—maybe because my dad is trapped in hell?"

She watched me and waited for me to settle down. "What would your father want? For you to go home to Katie and Hank or risk everything?"

"Fuck you! You want me to let him rot?" I tried breathing slowly so I could speak rationally. "Just put me back in my room so I can try to find him. Will you do that?"

"No."

"Then get out!"

Simon stood up and almost said something but instead shook her head and left. I was queasy from anger and couldn't sleep until they filled me with sedatives again.

I spent the next two days contemplating Simon's question: "What would your father want you to do?" I started believing he'd tell me to abandon him if it meant reuniting with Katie and Hank. It was easy to embrace that idea, especially when the alternative meant traveling to hell. When the frustration peaked inside me, fighting the leather cuffs helped, and the restraints became the scapegoat for my conscience. Maybe Dad had escaped the wraiths. Could've been a ruse—Satan trying to lure me to him. Maybe...maybe. Chewing the possibilities left a hopeless bitter aftertaste.

When Simon returned, I was wearing my dad's lucky blue hat. She asked, "How did you mange to reach that with the restraints on?"

"Jedi mind trick," I said, hoping for levity.

While a guard carried a chair in for her, she smiled and asked how I was doing. I was in a deep hole with her after the last meeting, so I tried to be compliant, hoping I wasn't already fucked.

"Arthur, I almost canceled your release hearing. But we've been through quite a bit, so I've decided on a course I can live with."

"Okay," I said and took a deep breath.

"I called Katie, and she's coming tomorrow."

"With Hank?"

"No. I told her you've had a setback and needed to see her."

I smiled when I said, "Tired of twisting my arm alone, Doc?"

"I know humor is your favorite defense, but now I'm asking for honesty and...composure when you talk to her."

I bit the inside corner of my mouth. "Fair enough."

"If you still feel the same way after you talk to her, then I'll put you back in your old room."

"Thank you."

"Of course, if that's your decision, then I'll cancel the hearing." I stared at her, and she said, "I never told you about that photo of my brother, did I?"

"No."

"Joe sat on his bed. Just home from Vietnam with his short soldier's hair." She put a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. "He smiled at me." She stopped again, and tears ran down her cheeks. "Then he put a pistol in his mouth."

"Sorry, Doc."

She gathered herself. "The...malevolence that created Stenson's book and the picture of my brother will destroy you if you pursue it. You've been lucky to survive it so far. But to chase it, to seek it out...is a choice I will _never_ support." She paused, but I didn't have a comeback. "Now, the hospital is safe, and you could hide here forever. But going home, being a good father and loving husband isn't safe or designed for your convenience."

"I don't need a sermon."

"No, you _need_ to focus on reasons for leaving PTC. You've endured enough hardship for a thousand men. Time to stop fighting. Your story is too important to ignore and could save many men, but I will abandon the book if you choose to pick a fight with demons. Your family deserves to have you home."

"My father _is_ family."

She sighed. "Talk with Katie and then decide." Before leaving, Simon removed my restraints and had food delivered. I blew steam off the chicken soup and tried to imagine Katie's reaction when I told her the release hearing wouldn't be happening.

Katie and I walked around the courtyard and talked about her school year winding down for summer and how much she loved teaching. She gave me a card Hank had made from sky blue construction paper of stick figures labeled, "Dad" and "Hank" playing catch. It read, "Get well spoon!" We ate lunch at our usual table in the shade, and Katie asked about the setback Simon mentioned.

I told her I was afraid to leave the hospital—that I didn't trust myself—but Simon helped me understand those were normal doubts. I had the rest of the speech well planned. It started, "My father is trapped, and I have to save him before I can come home," but breaking Katie's heart only worked in rehearsal. In person, I told her the hearing was two weeks away, and I might be home in less than a month. As she hugged me, and we both cried, I hoped Dad would understand.

The day of the hearing, I shaved off frustration, dressed in discipline, camouflaged with composure, and went to court. Katie and my brother, John, sat behind me. At first, the judge sounded like he was ready to keep me locked up for life. Dr. Simon had warned me that family members of those killed in the plane crash would be there, and their presence might sway the judge. It had been over two years, but the families dressed in black, as if just coming from the funerals. The judge looked at the families as he made it clear that Dr. Simon's opinion would determine the outcome in large part, and he spent fifteen minutes explaining her background and qualifications.

Simon stepped to a microphone and explained that I was no longer a threat. She listed specific dates and treatments, carefully detailing my progress over the last twenty-seven months. "In twenty-five years working with soldiers, I've never seen a man so dedicated, so committed to healing himself. Most patients ultimately fail because they place the blame for their condition on everyone but themselves. Arthur Logan succeeded because he didn't run from responsibility. He carried it, came to terms with it, and was rewarded by healing his psyche."

The judge took a recess to consider his ruling. I sat up and held my breath when he came back and announced his decision. "As a highly decorated soldier, Arthur Logan fought in two wars and paid a heavy price in psychological damage—damage that resulted in the loss of loved ones for many in attendance here today." He sipped water from a small glass. "However, this hearing is not about who has suffered the most. This hearing is about whether Mr. Logan is ready to rejoin society."

"Expert testimony and strong evidence of recovery demonstrate that incarceration is no longer required. Once his final assessments are completed, and follow-up treatment is scheduled, Mr. Logan will be released." The judge paused, set down his notes, and looked at me. "Mr. Logan sacrificed himself serving this country and has dedicated over two years to healing himself. He has earned, at the very least, his freedom." The judge finished and allowed me to embrace my family. We locked arms and wept as the courtroom emptied in silence.
PART 5: ADVERSARY

Chapter 34

Katie sent down my favorite old jeans and a soft gray T-shirt that hadn't been worn in over two years. As I slipped on the shirt, I smelled faint pine and leather from my folks' house. Hank and Katie hadn't lived there long enough to erase the scent of my parents, and the fabric spilled their memory on me. I was packed and sat on the bed wearing Dad's ball cap, with his journal in my lap. The door was open, but I waited for the orderly to escort me to Dr. Simon for my exit interview.

Larry stepped into the room and sat next to me on the bed. "Big day, Arthur."

"Feels strange."

"You're going home."

"I can't believe it," I said.

"I'm teaching a few art classes at Phoenix College. You should enroll when you get settled. Playing with some clay might help you adjust to things out there."

"I'll do that." I looked at the old warrior as he stood slowly on creaky knees. "Thanks for everything," I said.

"I'd never leave a man down," he said.

"Yep." I stood and shook his hand.

"See you on the outside," he said and left the room.

I thumbed Dad's journal and Larry's words played along the back of my thoughts: "Never leave a man down." I closed the journal and rinsed my face in the sink. The towels had already been removed, so I had to drip dry and wipe my palms on the front of the jeans. The orderly walked in and looked at me dripping on the floor.

"You okay?" he asked.

"No towels."

"I can get you some aspirin if you need it."

Even on my last day, this place was still looking to medicate me. "I'm good. Let's get outta here."

Before I sat down, Dr. Simon showed me the baby blue dot stuck to my framed photo. "Sign of approval," I laughed.

"Sign of freedom," she said and smiled.

We sat down and talked for a while about the final details of her PTSD book, and she thanked me again for allowing my case to be the focus. She asked about my new job working for my brother as a videogame consultant.

"Are you excited to work with our brother?"

"I am, but a little freaked out too."

"Normal. Very normal. Remember we'll meet once a month at the Phoenix VA until I can find a local doctor we're both comfortable with to take over your counseling."

"Appreciate you coming up to meet. I know you didn't have to do that."

"Nonsense. Besides, Phoenix is so beautiful during the summer when it's 120 in the shade." We both laughed.

The exit interview was short, and Simon kept it light, not breaking any new ground, just patting down the foundation. As we finished, her phone rang; it was the welcome desk saying Katie and Hank had arrived. Simon signed my release forms and walked me out to my family. Just before we reached the welcome desk, she stopped and touched my elbow. "If you feel like another Stenson is bothering you, please call me right away. As I said, I have friends in the police department."

"Thanks, Doc. Hope that's all over now."

She looked up at me and patted my shoulder, and we pushed through the last door to joyous shrieks from Hank and Katie.

When my brother, John, offered the videogame consultant position again at $125,000 a year, I laughed. "Seriously?"

He smiled and said, "It's not charity. I'll get every cent out of you." John gave me a month to readjust before starting, and I used the weeks to smother Hank and Katie.

The first night home, Hank and I sat up until two in the morning watching hours of _The Simpsons_ stored on the DVR. I let Hank miss school the next day, and he helped me make pancakes. We laughed at each other's transformation into flour-covered ghosts, and we ate so much that we had to lie on the couch and watch more Bart and Homer until we recovered.

When Hank was at school, I followed my wife around the house like a starved pup and couldn't keep my body off her. I tasted, inhaled, and clutched her, and life filled me again through her touch and whispers.

But the judge's words ran circles around my thoughts: "Mr. Logan sacrificed himself serving this country and has earned, at the very least, his freedom."

In my mind, _Mr. Logan_ could've meant my father or me. When I thought about what he might be enduring, I had to leave the house—Dad's house. I walked with my head down so passing cars wouldn't stare at the odd man with tears on his face.

I enrolled in Larry's ceramics class and booked an appointment with Dr. Simon at the VA, and they buoyed me against guilt's anchor, pulling down...down. With Larry, I worked the clay hard enough to loosen the tension across my shoulders, and Simon eased my anxiety by focusing on what I had to look forward to, not _back_ on. Working for my brother was a good kick in the ass, and John kept me on course for a while.

His company, BlisterMedia, harbored caffeinated geniuses with bloodshot eyes and little awareness of time. Espresso machines, empty Red Bull cans, and sleeping bags stacked on cots were common at workstations. To sustain employees, John had three amazing chefs, working eight-hour shifts around the clock in a cozy cafeteria. The employees loved the onsite daycare, fitness center, and movie theater, not to mention the huge stock-option bonuses. It was a commune of optimism, and I gladly drank the Kool-Aid.

John put me on a team creating _Close Air Support_ —a first-person shooter with a combat air controller as the main character. When I heard the game profile, I looked at John and said, "What a coincidence."

He laughed. "I told you this wasn't charity. Your job is making it real for the guy paying sixty bucks for the ride."

I sat in a massive black leather chair and asked, "How real?"

John said, "Enough to keep 'em awake for days." The five programmers on the team chuckled.

I tugged on the brim of Dad's blue 82nd cap. "Awake with nightmares?"

I thought John was going to ask me into the hall, but I guess he trusted the team enough to say through a tight grin, "Your _experience_ is what'll keep gamers going. Can you give it to us?"

"Yes, BB," I said with a salute.

John was silent, staring, then he shook his head and laughed, and the rest followed their leader's example. He patted my shoulder and gave me a wide smile. "Okay, smartass, these are my best people. Give 'em reality, and they'll make it magic."

"Abracadabra," I said.

"Amen," John said and left us to begin.

The project manager and lead programmer was a slight, dreadlocked Haitian named Kincaid Benoit. He was an MIT grad and so soft-spoken that meetings felt like prayer services. His voice was soothing, and during our long conversations about game characters, the hours slipped along quickly. I spent fourteen straight hours with him the night we created the lead character for _Close Air Support_ : Air Force Sergeant Joe Stone. We described Stone down to his favorite song, Thorogood's version of _Who Do You Love_ , and his dream girl, a redhead with green eyes with a long ponytail dangling down her spine.

Kincaid asked the most important question right before we broke for coffee at two in the morning. "Does Stone like to kill?"

"No, but he likes the heat from airstrikes and the smell of gunpowder," I said.

"What does it smell like?" Kincaid asked.

"Sweet, acrid...final." Kincaid smiled, and I continued. "After a night bombardment, the heavy air can hold the odor like a sponge to your nose."

"Wonderful," Kincaid whispered.

"Yes," I said.

Kincaid's voice was like butter in my brain. "If not Stone, who _does_ like to kill?"

"No one. Maybe Medusa at first, but in the end, he didn't—"

Kincaid gently interrupted. "Yes, he _did_ enjoy killing. Who else?"

It didn't register that I'd never mentioned Medusa before. I felt drowsy when I answered, "No one."

Kincaid leaned closer. "No one?"

In my ears, a humming hiss like a long exhale made my head heavy, drunk. "Maybe I...maybe, but war...war...maybe..."

Kincaid said, " _Maybe_ , come now. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

"There were times, but I...I...I...yes." Saying it made me dizzy.

"Good," he said and stood up. "Coffee?" he said.

I was suddenly alert.

When I stirred milk into the cup, the swirling white loop was so perfect I watched it spiraling until the coffee was cold, and I poured another cup. The stir stick left my hand for the trash can in a tight arc, and by the time it landed, I'd forgotten the conversation about killing.

We finished working on Joe Stone about four in the morning, and Kincaid walked me to my car. "When John gets here, I'm going to tell him how hard his little brother is working."

I said, "Aren't you going home? I'm beat."

"I don't need much sleep," he said with a shrug, and his lips curled sharply at the corners as if tugged by tiny wires.

I drove home with a small headache that slowly brewed to a wicked throb. The pain made me so weak I had to put an ice pack under my neck to keep from throwing up.
Chapter 35

During our fourth monthly meeting at Phoenix's VA Hospital, Simon and I talked about my job being therapeutic. The game's combat scenarios were my experiences, so I could fight them again and again, gaining control over ugly memories without anyone dying. The digital carnage desensitized me because when the "the good guys" failed in the game, I just hit the reset button. _Close Air Support_ smothered the harsh reality of the past, and depression didn't have anything to stick to because I always won.

"You found your calling. Enjoy the pleasant side effects," she said while walking across the room to turn on the ceiling fan. On the way back to her chair she asked, "Any trouble? No one like Stenson, I hope?"

Kincaid privately applauded my use of violence in designing the game, but my memory of those conversations never lasted because of the ensuing headaches. Total recall of his intent would come later, so I sailed along with Simon, oblivious to the subversion.

"No trouble. Occasional headaches from working long hours, but no one like Stenson, thank God." I paused, and she asked if I wanted some coffee. "But I do think about Dad."

She poured us both a cup and was slow to respond to my comment. "Isn't it possible the devil deceived you? Maybe your father is safe, and his abduction was a ruse. Designed to torment you, perhaps?"

"I don't know. I hope you're right. If my job wasn't time consuming, I think the worry would eat me alive."

Simon tapped her chin with an index finger. "If evil like Stenson can exist, then benevolent forces must exist and be willing to help your father. He can't be ignored after building a tower like the one you described. After assisting all those lost souls, how could he be abandoned by...well, by God?"

I said, "Unless he sacrificed himself to save me from those wraiths. If he's not a hostage, but a willing...victim, taking my place, can he be saved?"

My brother offered his cabin in Oak Creek Canyon the following weekend. The conversation with Simon stayed with me as I drove Katie and Hank north to Sedona.

"You're distracted?" Katie asked.

"I'm okay."

"Look at your hands. Are you trying to strangle the wheel?"

I eased my grip. "Sorry, hon, we're almost done with the new game. I'm just a little tired."

She said, "Will Hank be able to play it?"

I looked in the rearview, and Hank was dozing. "Too bloody. Rated M for sure."

"Seeing that junk all day doesn't get to you?"

"No." I smiled to prove my point. "You should see the size of the screen in the testing room. It's fifteen feet by twenty-five. Very cool."

Katie rubbed my shoulder. "Okay. Sounds like you're working with good people."

I gripped the wheel again. "Kincaid's been great. He reminds me it's just red and orange pixels, not blood and fire. He keeps me calm."

"The team leader?" she said.

"Yeah, plus John's hovering like a mama bird."

Hank woke up and asked, "When's lunch? I'm hungry."

I looked in the rearview. "Uncle John says the best burgers in town are made at the airport. Wanna watch planes land while we eat?"

"Yeah!" Hank voted from the back seat.

Katie said, "You and airports. Like magnets."

I forced a laugh. "A quick lunch and then up the creek."

"Without a paddle." Hank cracked up at his own joke.

The first red rocks of Sedona appeared like a stone giant's fingers bursting from the earth. The radio sizzled with static as the pink mountains blocked the signal. The airport was above the town on a plateau, and only small aircraft used it. We waited until a patio table opened up, so we could sit in the warm sun. The burgers were gut-busting, but we still ordered apple pie. When a red-striped Cessna landed in a stiff breeze and skipped across the runway, Hank stopped chewing. "Is it hard to land here?" he asked.

"Like landing on a tabletop. Tricky if crosswinds are high, but the strip is fairly long. Not too hard for an experienced pilot. You should've seen some of the short strips I landed planes on in Iraq. Those pilots had brass ones."

Hank said, "Brass ones?"

Katie pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, waiting to see how I'd handle the question.

"Brass backbones," I said.

"Yeah, right. You meant balls," Hank said loud enough for men nearby to laugh while their wives shook their heads and tried not to smile.

Katie smirked. "We're raising such a fine gentleman."

"What? I'm almost eleven," Hank said.

"If you live that long," Katie said, and the women around us laughed this time.

We finished lunch, drove up the twisting road along Oak Creek, and found John's two-story "cabin" tucked along the creek, surrounded by pine and aspen trees. After unpacking, Hank and I went fishing and managed to land some rainbow trout. I taught Hank how to unhook the slippery fish, and on the second catch, he remembered to use his wrist to free the barbed steel.

"Great-Grandpa Henry would've been proud how you pulled that quick as a trick."

"Quick as a trick?"

"That's what he said to me."

"I was named after him?"

"Yep, everyone called him Hank too."

"Was he a good fisherman?"

"The best."

"What about your daddy?"

I laughed. "Grandpa Nick hated fishing, especially handling live bait." Hank looked away with a frown. "But in his prime, he could throw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. Even threw a no-hitter once."

Hank grinned. "No way! Was he wearing that stinky hat you're wearing?"

I laughed, took the cap off, and put in on his head. "It's magic, so no insults."

I told him about Dad's no-hitter, and Hank wore it the rest of the night and fell asleep with the hat on backwards. I decided to let him keep it.

After turning off Hank's light, I joined Katie out on the deck overlooking the creek. We shared a bottle of red wine and listened to the water. I said, "I didn't tell you what was bothering me in the car today."

She reached for my hand. "I figured you'd get around to it if it was important."

"Having bad dreams about Dad." She didn't know the details of my trip to the tower, so I left it vague.

She said, "If he's watching, he's happy knowing you're back home."

"That's what Simon thinks too."

"That's two against one, you lose. Now help me drink this wine I took from John's wine closet."

"You're gonna get me in trouble," I said and tapped glasses with her.

Later, after we'd gone to bed, I slowly separated from Katie's body and went out to the deck. Wearing only gray sweatpants, I sat in a heavy oak rocker and soaked in the crisp air. The rocker's rails ground against the deck slats in a rolling rhythm, and I thought about Simon's suggestion that Dad might've gotten away. The narrow rectangle of the canyon cliffs framed thousands of bright stars, but the mesmerizing sky offered no answers. When I returned to bed, Katie recoiled in her sleep from my icy feet, but I found warmth in the possibility that Dad might be free.

BlisterMedia was downtown, close to Phoenix College, and Tuesday nights I attended Larry's ceramics class. His room was always humid from all the wet clay. Some students manipulated clumps of it on pottery wheels, others were cutting and painting ceramic tiles for mosaics, and I was in a group covering wire frames with clay. My wire man was thin and crooked with long, wavy arms sprouting upward like vines in search of sunlight.

Larry pulled up a stool to examine the piece. "What's he reaching for?"

"Not sure, but I want to keep adding wire to make them longer. How long can they be before the whole damned thing tips over?"

He laughed. "Instead of worrying about that, think about what he wants. Sleep on it for next time."

I looked at the three-foot, stringy arms above the tiny six-inch torso. I exhaled a weak laugh, shaking my head at the statue's distortion. "Think you're right. Enough for tonight."

"Funny. It says the same thing to me that your tower did," he said.

"What's that?"

Larry smiled, and his eyebrows scrunched together while he lightly touched the sculpture's gangly appendages. "Redemption is...attainable, but you gotta work your ass off for it."

I went back to work that night, and we tested _Close Air Support_ , polishing a mission set in a SOCR boat on the Tigris River. We tried solutions and decided the best way to win was to call in Apache helicopters to destroy the insurgents firing rockets from the riverbank. The huge screen was flashing with bomb blasts, and gunfire echoed off the walls. My head started pounding, and then I had a hard time catching my breath. My heart sputtered, and I sat down with blinking lights in my eyes and fainted.

I was awake and alert by the time paramedics arrived. They diagnosed the problem as a panic attack, not heart failure. I was mad at my weakness, and after the paramedics left, I insisted on returning to work. John and I fought for twenty minutes until Kincaid suggested that we turn off all the sound effects, so only voices and images would play.

John said, "What if he has another attack, Kincaid?"

"We'll have him sit comfortably," Kincaid said in a soothing voice while picking up a schedule from the table. "Arthur will be fine, _and_ we'll meet this deadline from our distributors."

John said, "Fuck the distributors," but it was half-hearted. "Dammit, Kincaid, keep his ass in the chair. If he gets woozy, stop immediately."

"Of course," Kincaid whispered.

John handed me another glass of water. "Sure you want to keep going?" he asked.

"Yep. If I feel shitty, I'll stop. Besides, Kincaid is right. We have a deadline."

The session went well, and we reached the end when the boat returned to base on Jizzum Island. I imagined Taliesin 3, built on the same spot in The Scale. As the boat docked in the game, my eyes drifted to a storage shed in the background, and a man stepping out from behind it. My father glanced around, as if he was hiding, then looked at me and put a finger to his lips. He was dressed in rags and looked terrified. All thoughts that he might be safe vanished. There was no one he could ask to save him. No one but me.
Chapter 36

When I told Katie about the panic attack, her face seemed calm, but her hands were shaking. When I told her I'd stayed at work after the paramedics told me to rest, she screamed at me, "Are you trying to kill yourself? We mean that little to you?"

I deserved every word, so I kept my mouth shut. I saw Hank's face peek around the corner, and he was crying. Later, I found him on his bed asleep with tears across his face. He'd gone back to his room to let it out, a habit he learned when I was in the hospital.

I looked forward to receiving my "Father-of-the-Decade" award soon. When Katie finished chewing my ass to a nub, I promised to take a week off from work. She made chicken soup like I had the flu, but I was way beyond hot broth. What I needed was a long rope—a fucking epic line to reach hell, so I could hoist Dad to safety.

On the fifth day of bed rest, I got up early and mowed the lawn to prove I wasn't going to drop dead. Katie made me eggs and bacon, and then she drove Hank to school. When she got back, I was dressed for work, but I asked for permission—nothing strenuous, checking in at work and coming right home. After I promised to call if I felt sick again, she said, "Okay, but no more than two hours."

I slid behind the wheel and wasn't a hundred yards from the house when sweat broke out across my body. My dress shirt was wet under the arms with perspiration polka dots everywhere else. If I turned around now, my wife would never let me leave the house again. I drove to my brother's "meditation cave" to cool down. I parked in front of Dizzy's red door and was four beers in when the cell buzzed in my pocket. It was John. "LB, I just talked to Katie. Told her you were looking good and should be home soon. So where the fuck are you?"

"Dizzy's."

"I'm on the way," he said and hung up.

When I stood up to take a leak, the beer buzzed along my forehead and behind my eyes. I held the seat cushion, steadying myself. The urinal was a one-toilet setup, so I locked the door and stood before the bowl, head spinning again. I washed my hands as fury rose in my throat. I held it in, pounding the sink with my fists, and I started sobbing. "Take me. It's me you want. Come on...fucker."

I turned on the cold tap and splashed water over my face, then closed my eyes and breathed slowly against the rage. I thought about my father looking out at me from the game, beyond reach and desperate. A panic attack started, and the room swirled. I opened my eyes to the mirror over the sink and Satan staring back at me.

He smiled with pointed teeth, and the dragon tattoo on his head reared up and puffed smoke in my face. I coughed inside the sulfurous haze, and I held the sink to stay on my feet. Satan said, "You called?"

The dragon's smoke burned in my mouth when I said, "My father."

Satan pouted his lips like a child. "Yes, my new toy."

"Let him go."

He whispered, "What will you give?"

I let the word rush to my mouth, trying to inhale it, even as I said it, "Me."

The floor opened up under my feet, and I clung to the sink. Satan's face emerged from the mirror and he looked down at me swinging over the open pit, hanging from the sink. He smiled again, and the dragon spit flames at my fingers.

My hands melted, and I screamed, "No!"

Satan laughed. "Yes!"

My fingers dissolved in the fire, and I fell in a flat, dark spin.

I plummeted through a chorus of suffering moans, rushing faster and faster as g-forces pulled at my cheeks, tearing away my face. A scorching updraft poured into my mouth so I couldn't scream. I stopped suddenly and howled from the pain in my face and hands. Locked in midair, I dangled in blackness. I stopped yelling when I saw my hands were healed, and I reached for my face, slick with sweat, but undamaged.

Satan purred in my ear, "Fear will never do. Only rage can deliver you." He floated around me, his face barely visible in the dragon's flickering flame. "You _almost_ escaped." He laughed like cracking glass. "Reunited by your fury." I looked down to avoid his eyes, and he scratched my face with a fingernail. "Pay attention, boy!"

I started spinning in place with my stomach and brain tumbling together. I stopped in a whiplash second and gagged. Satan said, "You spend a few moments with Daddy in his feeble tower, and suddenly you're willing to forget his hatred for you?" When he said that, I turned my face down again, so he floated under me and stared up into my eyes. He said, "When Daddy was alive, he despised you."

I spit in his face. The dragon instantly doused me with fire, and my skin sloughed off like candle wax into the blackness below. When I was a charred skeleton, I heard Satan cackling on and on until he snapped his fingers and I was whole again. With his arms and legs crossed like Buddha, he hovered in space off to my right. "You had a family and prosperity, yet you wish to save Daddy. A man who tried to kill you."

"He didn't," I croaked.

"You think you're being a good son—a hero—but you're simply in denial. The past will prove my point."

I fell again, tumbling headfirst toward a distant gray light. I rocketed toward the light. Closer, closer, bracing for impact, but grabbed before collision by a soft, warm fist. The sudden stop crushed my diaphragm as I compressed into wetness. The smell of shit washed over me, and methane filled my nose. A shit golem—huge, sinewy strength without a face—clutched me with fecal fingers. It lowered me to eye level with Satan. A door in front of us remained closed, but a shadow moved in the light under the door.

The light was bright enough to see Satan, standing naked, covered in red leathery scales. I was still gripped in the golem's fist, and Satan reached up, sticking a fingernail in my Adam's apple. "Are you ready?" Ecstasy came from his words at first, but it turned to penetrating pain. I squeezed my eyes and screamed. When the ache receded, he asked the same question, "Are you ready?" I waited for the savage pain, but it didn't come this time.

"What are you talking about?"

"Something simple," he said, pushing his nail deeper into my throat until blood ran down his finger. His dragon slithered down the length of his body to lap up the blood as it pooled on the black stone floor.

I shook my head. "I won't give you my soul."

He laughed. "I don't want your wretched soul. I want access," he said. Satan pulled his fingernail from my throat and rubbed the back of his fingers across my cheekbones. "But I need your permission."

"For what?"

"To explore your memories." Satan smiled. "Grant my request, and perhaps a reunion with your father can be arranged."

"What will you do...with my memories?"

"Taste them." He smiled and whispered, "Little pig, little pig, let me in."

"Promise I can see him," I said, and the golem squeezed me in his fist.

"And you'll allow me access?"

"Yes," I said through gritted teeth.

"Excellent. Walk through this door, and you will have your wish."

The sewage beast set me down, and I reached for the knob. I paused to listen for a trap behind the door, and Satan said, "Daddy will break your heart."

"Fuck you," I said and opened the door to my parents' house. The master bedroom. Dad dying in hospice. His last words, talking to Wright about building the tower. A final smile spreading across his lips.

Satan said, "He was hiding inner hatred. Hatred for you."

I pointed at Dad. "That's a smile. Called happiness, asshole."

"It does _appear_ that way, but a peek inside in his mind would prove otherwise," Satan said.

I blinked from Dad's deathbed to the moment I'd told him I'd enlisted in the air force. Satan and I stood watching my younger self go toe to toe with Dad. Satan stopped the scene just after Dad slapped me and I was throwing a punch. Satan touched my fist, frozen in an arc toward my father, who was already ducking to tackle me. "This _fist_ is what your father remembered when he died. Just so you know, this punch awakened the brain tumor inside him."

I shook my head, transfixed on the rage that distorted my younger face. Dad's eyes drooped in sadness as he prepared to battle his son. Satan let the scene play out, and the papers went flying as our bodies rolled under the drafting table. Satan stopped it again when Dad pinned my face to floor. In the paused scene, Dad's tears dripped off his cheeks and into my hair. The droplets scattered in tiny bubbles along my neck.

Next to me, Satan whispered, "Listen, can you hear the cancer growing?" The demon kneeled and dipped his tongue in the tears streaming from my father's face. Satan smiled up at me. "Lovely blend of fear and hate...with a hint of cancer. Try some?"

"Fuck you," I said.

Satan stood. "Tsk, tsk, just admit you killed the man you claim to love so much."

I reached out to touch Dad, but the demon slapped away my hand. I went to my knees on the carpet. "No...I never meant to—"

Satan interrupted, "Of course you did, and you succeeded." He stood and laughed quietly, and in that instant I reached out and felt the skin on Dad's arm. I felt his desire to protect me from the same battle scars he carried. That desire fueled his anger, not rage against who I wanted to be.

"Don't touch him!" Satan yelled as he pulled me away by the arm. "Now, admit you killed him!"

"No!" I yelled, and he threw me against the wall. My ears buzzed as I slid to the ground in a heap.

My vision slowly cleared, revealing an empty, stark white room. Satan stood over me, and his voice reached out in quiet tones. "The only way to free your father is by confessing that you killed him. Do so, and I'll release him."

"You said the same when I agreed to trade myself for him."

Satan paced slowly in front of me. "You memory is as weak as your willingness to accept responsibility." His cloven feet clicked on the floor like tap shoes. "You became a soldier to hurt him, but you underestimated the effects. Your choice killed him."

"No."

He squatted in front of me. "Remember Bill Stenson?"

I just stared at him, and he smirked. "Bill keeps your daddy company these days. Let's chat with him about how your father is doing, shall we?"

Satan started coughing, then dry heaving, and he went on all fours with his mouth to the ground, and bile oozed over his lips. A pale hand emerged from Satan's mouth, and then an arm. The demon wretched violently, and the rest of Stenson slipped from Satan's mouth in a ball of sticky afterbirth. Satan stood up and wiped his mouth along the crimson scales of his forearm. The naked Stenson separated himself from purple goo, got to his knees, and bowed before Satan.

"William, tell Arthur about his father," said Satan.

On all fours, the devil's pet turned to face me. Stenson sniffed at me like a dog, and his words sounded dipped in phlegm. "Your daddy enjoys our routine. Well, I do at least. I flay him in the morning and flog him after lunch. When he begs for food, I pluck out his eyeballs and tell him to imagine hardboiled eggs, as I shove them down his throat."

Satan laughed, and Stenson's skin began to boil. He bubbled and popped, and the room reeked of burning flesh. Stenson didn't make a sound as his body liquefied into a puddle of blood. Satan stared into the pool and stroked his face with long yellow fingernails, admiring his reflection before blowing on the puddle and turning it to steam.

"Confess," Satan said.

"I loved him..."

"Stenson is already slicing away your father's skin for the ten thousandth time."

I sobbed, "Please, I didn't...I."

"You can stop his suffering." He opened his mouth, and my father's shrieks filled the room.

I covered my ears, choking on tears. "Yes," I shouted.

The room went silent. "You killed him?" Satan whispered.

"Yes," I said and rolled onto my back.

Satan looked down at me, and his black eyes rolled white with ecstasy. The dragon tilted its head up, blowtorching the sky. Satan's face twitched, and skin split along his arms, chest, and legs, draining yellow pus as he grew. His muscles inflated and rippled as he expanded from five feet to well over seven. The black-and-red dragon tattoo stretched along with its master, growing silky black wings that sprouted from Satan's back. The dragon's once-meager flame now vaporized the ceiling of the white room in a column of napalm.

The transformation ended, and the room was full of smoke and rabid laughter. I stayed on the ground, and Satan walked around me, showing off his colossal physique and flapping the dragon's wings that spanned at least twenty feet across. The slick red snake scales that covered his body had become dark scarlet plates of interlocking armor. His tiny goat hooves, now big as a Clydesdale's, pounded across the floor.

I was too tired to be intimidated. "Is my father free?"

Satan stopped parading and kneeled beside me; his voice was a lion's growl. "Men who beat their sons must burn!" He roared, and the hot, putrid breath rushed over me.

My throat was burned dry, and my voice sounded brittle. "He was trying to save me from war."

Moving his face closer, Satan said, "Yes, he failed you in so many ways."

"You promised his freedom."

"I see no paperwork. No contract? Such a shame." His booming laugh echoed around the room like boulders tumbling in an avalanche. "I'm hungry for another memory," he said.

He grabbed me around the waist with his rolling-pin fingers and lifted me off the floor. His tongue flicked out, snapping against my forehead in a whip crack. "Look alive, Arthur!" The dragon tattoo slipped forward, suspended between us with its tail wrapped around Satan's neck. Its jaws opened, and burnt orange smoke billowed out, noxious, familiar...from Kuwait...from Desert Storm.
Chapter 37

I stood ankle-deep in oil from blown wells in Kuwait. The sky rained inky syrup, covering the white sand in a liquid eclipse. I used my forearm to keep my eyes dry, and I climbed the ladder of a drilling tower to stay above the rising oil. Loud snaps like a thousand claps came from above as Satan's wings slapped the sky. The demon hovered a hundred feet over me, howling and then releasing a steady stream of fire from his mouth. The oil field ignited in a yellow flash that knocked me off the ladder into a pool of sludge. Fire sprinted across the desert toward me and I closed my eyes, waiting for incineration.

Rolling closer, the flames crackled, but Satan grabbed my arm and lifted me from the inferno. I swatted away the fire burning my boots as we flew above oilrigs that exploded in the firestorm Satan had created.

Soaring over the desert, he crushed me against his chest until a two-lane road appeared, packed with vehicles. I recognized the mass exodus as the end of Desert Storm. The coalition ground invasion had quickly liberated Kuwait, and the remnants of Saddam's army fled north on what would forever be the "Highway of Death." We glided along Highway 80 at window level, looking at terrified Iraqi faces inside the vehicles. Satan sailed away from the road to low hills overlooking the highway. We landed near three men lying in a saddle between two hills.

It was game time for the small unit at our feet. I was in the middle, flanked by snipers, binoculars pressed to my eyes with a radio handset held against my mouth. We'd waited here for three days, watching little more than dust devils and blowing clouds. We'd spent our time carefully marking the stretch of road in front of us with reference points for easy air strikes. Now we had the enemy crawling along in gridlock, fucking fish in a barrel. I stood over my younger self and knew the A-10s were already on the way. The Warthogs flew over the ridge where I stood with Satan, and they fired on the convoy's flank. Their goal was to stop the wagon train, and the A-10s' missiles annihilated the tanks and trucks leading the column.

The convoy stopped as darkness fell over the desert, and the Warthogs' Vulcan machine guns licked the Iraqis with red tracer-round tongues. From our vantage point, it was a black canvas filled with fire, layered with distant screams and secondary explosions in yellow and white. Out of fuel and ammunition, the Warthogs departed, leaving blast echoes in our ears.

Almost two thousand vehicles were trapped, and those that tried to flee into the desert spun their wheels to a stop or buried tracks in the loose sand along the highway. It didn't matter what they tried—they were trapped, and now Apaches had them in their sights. The helicopters engaged the rear of the column from less than a mile away with fifty Hellfire missiles.

Satan stood with me and shouted over the cacophony, "I love it!"

The laser-guided rockets hammered vehicles, bursting fuel tanks and sending fireballs and shrapnel hundreds of feet in the air. The Apaches circled while a wave of smoke, scented with burning skin, rolled over our position.

I looked at Satan, who ignored the battle momentarily to devour a scorpion he had captured by the tail.

Two massive burning roadblocks at both ends of the convoy pinned the Iraqis on the blacktop. Dozens of pilots chattered on the net, giddy with excitement as they descended on easy prey. Satan said, "You boxed them in for slaughter."

"I'm not the one flying the planes."

"You could have ended the battle, but listen."

My voice was clear, coming from my version on the ground. "No, sir, they're not retreating. They're firing at our ships. I can see their tracer rounds as we speak." My snipers smiled as I transmitted the death sentence, bringing an armada of jets and helicopters. Fuel tanks erupted up and down the column. The howls of burning men reached us between explosions.

Satan said, "On your command, fifteen hundred vehicles were destroyed. Of course, it's harder to determine the lives lost, as counting embers is impossible." He patted my shoulder with a heavy hand. "Fortunately, I know _exactly_ how many you killed. Eleven thousand eight hundred and twenty-two. They should have returned to their families, but you denied them even that small consolation."

I looked at my twenty-one-year-old self and heard him say, "Plenty of charcoal, all we need is the grill." The three men laughed loudly in the dirt and gave each other high-fives.

Satan grabbed me by the neck, and we flew down to the dead. I coughed on the thick smoke surrounding the highway. He threw me in the sand as we landed. Satan grinned at the landscape, his sharp teeth overlapping like a zipper behind his crimson lips. "Your personal apocalypse."

An Iraqi staggered from a burning truck, and I crawled away from him while he fell to his knees, looking at me as fire consumed him. Satan lifted the Iraqi up by his foot and inhaled the dead man's soul, which sprinkled into his mouth like silver glitter. The demon sniffed at the charred corpse and bit off its head, which popped in his mouth like a balloon. He swallowed and devoured the rest of the man in three bites with black ash floating around his lips. Satan walked along the column and gorged himself on fresh souls and burned bodies. After ingesting at least a hundred, he was now fifteen feet tall with wide ivory spikes poking from his forehead.

Joining the dragon tattoo, charcoal shadows covered Satan from neck to ankles. I looked closely, and his body writhed with carbonized Iraqis. They swam under his skin until one pointed at me, and they all glared—hundreds of white circles fixated and floating in the purple blackness of Satan's skin.

He rubbed the new tattoos. "Quite a gift you gave me." I turned away, refusing to look at the demon. He walked around me, smashing stones into gravel under his tremendous weight. "My prodigy. I'm in awe—almost twelve thousand dead. Not to mention what you did to Papa Nick."

"Fuck you!" I shouted.

He jabbed a claw through my cheek and lifted me up screaming to his gaping mouth. He said, "Perhaps a _gift_ will brighten your mood?" His jaws unhinged like a white shark, and the partially digested Iraqis poured over me like broken glass. Satan pumped his wings to create a tornado, and I spun through the charred remains, which slashed deep cuts across my body. Satan cackled and flapped his wings to maintain the tornado's momentum until I flopped in the air, limp as a rag doll.

The whirlwind ceased, and I landed in the sand. "You blamed the pilots for this destruction." He sat next to me and whispered, "Time to admit this massacre was your creation."

I was shredded and bleeding out. If this was it, I wasn't giving in. "Did my job."

The demon grabbed my ankle, dragging me to a civilian car, half-buried in a bomb crater. Satan ripped the door off and pulled a bundled blanket from the front seat. On my back, I blinked at the night sky and barely felt the weight plop onto my chest. Satan grabbed my hair and lifted my face to the child on my ribcage.

It was less than a year old, whimpering and badly burned. It started to sob as the pain from the burns set in. I tried to touch the child to calm it, but that made it scream. I got to my feet. "Please. Make it stop."

His voice was soothing. "First, a confession."

The child screeched, and my head throbbed as I tried to rock it. "This was a battle. Not murder."

"They were retreating. That's murder."

"No." The baby squirmed in my arms, and the smell of burnt flesh made me gag.

"Confess...and this...will all end," Satan purred.

I looked down as the child stopped crying, his charred fingers wrapped around my thumb. I said, "I wanted to win."

"Who could blame you?" Satan whispered.

I barely heard him as the infant squeezed my thumb. "I wanted to kill them all."

"Indeed," Satan said.

The desert washed away, and we returned to the white room. I collapsed on the floor, grateful to be free of the infant, of the highway, of death. The giant demon filled the room and curled his body around me, and I felt as though I'd been tossed into a pit made of crimson armor. I stared up at his towering horns, which blotted out the light when he bent his head down to me.

"I am undefeated," he said. I didn't respond, so he tapped my sternum with a foot-long fingernail. "Undefeated." Again, I tried to ignore him. "Truth cannot hide from me. I track it down and trap it. When it resists, I grab it by the throat."

"You cheat." I said.

He snorted through his manhole nostrils. "Not cheating— _finesse_."

"Whatever," I mumbled.

"Very well. Your soul became my property when you killed your father and all those poor Iraqis on the highway. You've lost, yet remain stubborn. I like that," he cackled. "Time for the most damning evidence."

I stood behind my station in Sky Harbor's control tower. The outside temperature was 113 degrees with 90 percent humidity, and it fueled a monsoon blowing up from Mexico. My controller-self was hunched over his screen, and I watched the sweat roll off his temples and moisture stains growing along his spine. The swelling dust wave filled the tower's southern window.

Satan crammed himself into the tower with one leg hanging out a window. "I can hear the BlueCloud jets on final approach."

The rolling wall came like a mudslide as I moved flights 88 and 29 on a collision course. With hand tremors as the only clue, I was imploding in the control chair. I reached out to touch the shoulders of my seated self, but the demon knocked me back with a finger. "Spectating only," he said.

As if exposed to a sudden blizzard, I watched myself shaking, knowing his mind was immersed in war memories. He couldn't hear me, but I hoped my whisper would reach him "Settle down...get the planes back on course," I said.

Satan smiled as the spasms got stronger, and the controller suddenly jerked in the chair as if shot by a sniper. I too was thrown back by a shockwave and landed on my ass. My younger body slumped in the control chair. Satan laughed and lifted me to my feet. "Sorry you missed that. I'll slow it down for you." Time reversed, and Satan played the scene back at a crawl. "Watch, here it comes," he said with wide, unblinking eyes.

I stood again behind myself, watching frame by frame, as the other Arthur convulsed violently and something erupted inside him, sending ragged pieces of light sparking in all directions. The slow-mo showed the exact detail of my ghost anatomy. My arms disappeared through the floor, my torso spun through the roof, the legs tumbled out the window, and my phantom head spiraled through me and out the back wall of the tower. The soul fragments vanished, propelled into such distant places it would take me two years to recover them all.

I reached out again for myself, as the BlueCloud jets exploded in a somersaulting fireball on the runway. Satan grabbed me, and we smashed through the tower's glass, gliding over the disintegrating planes. The demon continued unraveling time in slow play, forcing me to witness the catastrophe in close-up.

"You're an artist with fire and steel!" His laughter boomed as we circled and landed near the emergency vehicles. Rescue crews used foam cannons but struggled against the blaze, merely decorating the inferno like an apocalyptic sundae.

Satan squatted beside me. "Those pilots and passengers trusted you, and you betrayed them," he said. He let the scene play in real time, while we listened to firemen shouting where to aim the useless water. The heat on the runway made me woozy, and I put my hands on my knees when I heard what sounded like a child wailing from one of the planes.

Satan patted my back. "I can offer redemption, if you're willing to pay the price." I shook my head and stood up, watching the planes burn. Satan said quietly, "Make amends...your soul for those lost in the crash."

My voice was weak. "No, I...this was something I couldn't control."

He squeezed me in a gigantic fist. "Responsibility is yours. Trade your soul for theirs. Pay the price." He stuck me in the fire for an instant, and I screamed until he pulled me out. He dropped me on the runway, and my skin was smoldering. The flames whipped across the planes, metal creaked, and plastic bubbled.

Satan said, "Make the trade, or I'll force you to go in there." He waited for me to respond, but I was trembling in shock. "Frightened to face them? You should be. Now trade." As the last word left his mouth, fault lines ruptured along my soul and splintered like chipped stone. I opened my mouth to agree, but stopped when the people inside the planes reached out to me. I could feel them touching my mind, and I wanted to be with them.

"I'll face them," I said.

He smiled and said, "You hear them calling, don't you? They've been sharpening their teeth for a long time, waiting for you. So go."

I took a step forward, and the heat slapped my face, but I took another step.

There was a slight tremor in Satan's voice. "You'll burn inside, tormented by your victims until the end of time." Satan gnashed his teeth as I moved forward. "Stay with me. I will save you."

"No." I stepped into the fire, and heat blistered my face. Inching forward, I saw someone standing in a plane's open door.

"See how anxious they are to tear you apart. One waits in the door to be first!" Satan yelled.

I felt them pulling and heard them calling. I pushed through the flames and somehow didn't melt. The small, blackened figure in the door wasn't charred, just dark skinned. Not a man, but a boy. I walked into thick smoke that should've choked me but didn't. The boy was twenty feet away now, and he raised his hand. Now ten feet. Aswas. Whole again, reaching out to me.

Satan didn't follow—or couldn't. "They won't forgive you!" I didn't turn around, and he shrilled, "They'll devour you!"

The fire engulfed me as I entered the plane, but Aswas took my hand. The plane's cabin stretched on and on, the seats incinerated to ash with hot wind blowing through where the windows used to be. The crash victims stood along both sides of the cabin, their bodies charred and faces expressionless, dressed in smoldering rags. Their gauntlet allowed less than a foot of clear space down the center aisle.

Aswas looked at me. "Go to them."

"My father?"

He said, "When you offered to replace your father in hell, he was released. Satan is powerless against sacrifice." He pointed down the long aisle of burned passengers, and I took a step toward them but stopped. Their blank skeletal faces watched me like cats, so still, waiting for the bird to hop one step closer.

"They'll destroy me."

Aswas put his hand in the small of my back and pushed with an easy pressure.

I walked into them, pulling my arms in close, trying to slide between them. Their mouths opened in silent circles as I passed. The smell of burnt skin joined a humming chant that I couldn't comprehend. I was halfway through the gauntlet when they closed around me, crushing and moaning, and the pressure from all sides was so extreme I couldn't yell. Then their bodies ebbed and flowed like ocean current, and I sank through them to my knees, drowning in their moans.

On the floor I curled into a tight C, and their skeletal toes dragged over me. They circled in a shuffling whirlpool, so each had a chance to brush up against me. "Please forgive me. Please," I said.

They kept moving around me, and finally I understood one word stretched out over several seconds: "Neeeeeeeevvvvveerrrrrrrrr." I thought I was doomed, but then I realized it was only one word of a longer message.

I closed my eyes and said to myself, "Please. Let me hear. Let me. Please let me hear."

I pieced their words together but didn't see the message. "Never...all...your... surrender...all...is...soul...forgive...never...forgiven...never...surrender."

I kept my thighs tucked tight against my chest until they pulled me to my feet, and at last I heard them in my mind.

"Forgiven. Never surrender your soul..."

As they carried me to the door at the far end of the cabin, I noticed there were some who stood apart from the rest, watching without absolution.

Aswas waited at the far door, and he motioned for me to go through. I put my hand on the door to open it, but he clutched my wrist. "Kincaid," he said. Through his touch, I saw Kincaid creating the image of my father in the game, the image that drove me to Satan.

"Thank you," I said and opened the door to the Sky Harbor control tower.

The room was empty except for Satan standing by the window. He snorted in disgust when he saw me, and he was small again, dressed in a black suit. His sharp tan face was taut, and his black hair was slicked back with the dragon flicking his tongue at me from the side of his master's neck. Without turning his gaze from the sunset, he said, "I'm sure they didn't _all_ forgive you, did they?" I crossed my arms but said nothing. "Eventually they'll want retribution. When they come, nothing can protect you." He dragged his index finger down the glass, and the fingernail carved a screeching gash.

"If they come, they come. I can live with that, because Dad's safe...and you lost."

He turned from the window and pursed his lips. "Enjoy the moment. It won't last." Satan snapped his fingers and the tower went black. He whispered in my ear, "You will be mine."
Chapter 38

I opened my eyes under a waterfall. The overflowing sink flooded the bathroom and soaked me to the bone. The door splintered as a tire iron broke through, and my brother poked his face in the hole. "You okay?" he asked.

I sat up in the water and laughed. "You should see your face," I said.

"You should see your life," he said.

Wearing a dry Dizzy's T-shirt, I didn't try to explain on the drive home, and John only cared that I was alive.

However, when I arrived with beer breath and soggy clothes, Katie asked many questions. I tried to explain the meltdown as an alcohol-induced panic attack, but I left out my trip to hell, knowing she'd believe I'd gone insane...again.

Katie called Dr. Simon, who drove up the next day. She came to our house, and we sat in the kitchen while Katie and Hank played Monopoly in the back bedroom. After I went through the trials with Satan, she said, "You've talked about three main events: the fight with your father, an airstrike against an enemy convoy, and the accidental jet collision. And Satan wanted you to take responsibility for each?"

"Yes."

"The boy, Aswas, helped you through the last event?"

"I went to the plane because I saw him in the door. Without him, I would've turned back."

"He said your willingness to trade your soul forced Satan to release your father?"

"Yes, and Satan would've kept me if I hadn't asked forgiveness from the crash victims."

She nodded and wrote something on her notepad. I remembered Aswas's comment about Kincaid. "Doc, he also warned me about someone, a co-worker. Could you ask your police contact to check him out?"

She said, "Of course. Now please rest, fully rest, before you try to go back to work."

"Yes, ma'am. Thanks for the house call, Doc."

Katie took me to the pharmacy to fill Simon's prescriptions, and she was nervous, changing radio stations and looking over at me every few minutes. I closed my eyes and leaned against the warm side window. I wanted to say the right thing to calm her, but time was the only remedy I could think of.

The following week, my brother came by with news that _Close Air Support_ was smashing sales records.

"Home run, LB, absolute home fucking run!"

"I have an idea for the next one," I said. "Might be too bizarre."

John leaned forward in the chair next to my bed. "Let's hear it."

"You didn't ask me any questions when you pulled me out of the bathroom at Dizzy's."

"Figured you'd get around to it," he said.

"Well, this game would follow what happened to me at Dizzy's and for the last three years." I hesitated, but John nodded for me to continue. "The game is a quest, not a shooter." John sat back in his chair. "It starts the day I crashed those planes. My soul shattered that day. This game revolves around the quest to recover the pieces."

"Would it help you?"

"Yes," I said.

"Want the same development team from _Close Air Support_?"

I said, "Everybody except Kincaid. He just...rubbed me the wrong way."

"That's easy. I fired him."

"What happened?"

"He stopped coming to work. Not even a fucking phone call. Son of a bitch is probably selling company secrets to the highest bidder."

We talked for a while about taking our families up to Oak Creek and about the Little League team he was coaching. Hank and his youngest son were the starting pitchers. Before John left he asked, "Got a title for this new game?"

"I was thinking _Jigsaw Soul_."

He smiled. "Sounds like another record breaker."

I described the soul-recovery missions in as much detail as I could, and my team transformed them into pixel-perfect memories. When we worked on the Taliesin 3 episode, they recreated the magnificent mile-high tower, and Satan's wraiths were so exact I started sweating when they swarmed across the test screen.

When I told John privately that these things had really happened to me, he said, "I guess I should roll my eyes, but as you've described the missions to our designers, I hear truth."

John had a great picture of Dad standing in the sun after mowing the lawn, so we scanned it for "Nick's" face in the game. The only scene we struggled to recreate was the amazing burst of light Dad had generated when he launched from the spire on the day he was captured. On the night we got it right, it happened about three in the morning. I stood before the massive test screen and watched my digitized father repose under the tower's spire, launching again and again and again into the deep blue sky. I explained the magnesium intensity of the white flash, and the programmers nailed it, but they just couldn't generate the life inside the light that I remembered.

Test #329 started with "Nick" coming close to the screen to say his goodbyes, but his gray eyes were so clear—beyond hi-def—and the smartass smile that we couldn't get quite right appeared before me on the screen. My father raised his hand in a small wave and reclined under the spire for the last time. The column, made from backbone and spinal cord, inhaled him, and the iridescent flash bloomed like a crystal cobweb across the sky. As my father faded, the screen flashed, "Launch Complete."

We knew it was a jackpot shot and shut the system down for the night. I said goodbye to the team and sat listening to the whirring fans cooling the mainframe. I rested my arms along the back of the couch and recognized the absence of ghosts. I wasn't worried about what was behind me anymore, but the silent intentions of The Scale lingered like smoke.

