Leo nodded. “I can understand that.”

Rakkim looked over at him. The kid was growing up.

“The church…” said Leo. “You said it was real quiet inside. Peaceful.”

“That’s right.” Rakkim smiled. “I couldn’t wait to leave.”

Chapter 35

It was almost 3 a.m. when Rakkim stumbled into the mess tent, head down, the collar of his army jacket turned up against the cold, his assault rifle slung over one shoulder. He stamped his feet, used the movement to case the place. Five soldiers sat on benches facing the electric fireplace. A potbellied cook with a dirty apron leaned against the counter reading a magazine, hitchens stitched on the breast of his uniform. Ashes drifted down from the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

“I need a couple pots of coffee and some cups for the Colonel’s guards,” said Rakkim.

The cook looked up from a well-thumbed Political Insider Quarterly. “What am I, the fucking welcome wagon?”

Rakkim shrugged. “I’m just following orders, chef.”

The cook raised an eyebrow. Pleased. Probably the first time he had ever been acknowledged by that term. He picked up a dented coffeepot from the back burner. Hefted it and handed it over. “This should be plenty for those assholes. Grab some cups off the rack.”

“Thanks.” Rakkim hooked a couple of cups with his thumb. Started to leave.

“I’m serving French toast at oh-six hundred,” the cook called after him. “I’ll save you a double order for five minutes, then it’s up for grabs.”

Rakkim took a right outside the tent, walked over the rocky ground. Good light discipline from the troops; only starlight illuminated the landscape. Plenty for Rakkim to make his way.

It had been almost two days since Rakkim had left Malcolm Crews, and the memory was still raw. He and Leo had reconned the area, hanging out in cafes and main-street shops, picking up news and rumors, trying to decode which was which. Most folks in the area thought the Colonel was opening up the coal mines again, others thought there had been a secret strike of gold or silver or diamonds, whatever their imaginations could come up with. Everyone was happy for the military presence nearby. The Colonel paid his bills immediately and in full, his men obeyed the laws and respected the women. No complaints, other than the occasional traffic jam when the rock- and earth-moving equipment inched along the local roads.

Rakkim had left Leo back at a small motel in the busiest part of the nearest town, made him promise not to call Leanne, no matter how safe it seemed. Maybe the kid would keep his word. Rakkim had other worries at the moment.

The Colonel’s base camp was two thousand feet up the mountain, a few hundred tents and outbuildings spread out along a rocky plateau, the camp reachable by at least a dozen trails and a two-lane blacktop from the small town below. At the edge of the trailhead, jeeps, trucks, and mining equipment were parked beside a skein of logging roads that led higher up the mountain. As Rakkim had figured, the major access points were well protected, armored personnel carriers and machine gun emplacements ready for any attack from the north, south, or east. The westerly approach to the camp was straight up a sheer wall.

Up ahead, Rakkim watched three irregulars standing around a heater, passing a bottle. He walked toward them carrying the cups and coffeepot, with the tired, steady cadence of soldiers everywhere, neither hurrying nor lollygagging. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” said one of the irregulars, hiding the bottle under his coat.

“I’m all turned around,” said Rakkim. “Which way is the Colonel’s bivouac? I just got in from Murfreesboro and they sent me to fetch and carry and I can’t hardly see shit.”

One of the irregulars pointed. “Keep going past the outhouses, then make a left and go…maybe another hundred yards.” He spit tobacco juice. “It’s a nice clapboard house. Used to be a park ranger station.”

“Obliged.” Rakkim kept walking.

Good directions, he thought fifteen minutes later when the house came into view. He circled the Colonel’s place at a distance. Two sentries, one in front, one in back. Wide awake, from the way they carried themselves. Cold too, the icy wind howling off the mountain. He made plenty of noise as he approached, pretending to stumble, cursing, banging the heavy ceramic cups against each other.

“Who goes there?”

Rakkim stared at the barrel of the shotgun pointed at his chest. “I love you too.” He hoisted the coffeepot. “Hitchens sent this over. One of you two must have blown him or something, because I never seen that sumbitch do a favor for anybody.”

“Amen to that.” The sentry lowered the shotgun. “Had to been Meeks, ’cause I don’t get along with Hitchens a-tall.” He took a cup, waited while Rakkim filled it. Blew across the top before he drank. “Thanks.”

“I’ll hit Meeks with a cup, then come by again in a couple hours.”

The sentry toasted him, then pulled his neck deeper into his coat.

Rakkim walked slowly around to the back of the one-story house, noting the windows, the side door. The cellar door wasn’t visible from either sentry position, but the back side would be particularly blind because the rear sentry had his back turned to the wind. He clattered along toward the rear.

“Halt!”

“Jesus H., Meeks,” said Rakkim. “You want coffee or not?”

The sentry smiled in the starlight, a faint Cheshire grin.

Rakkim handed him the cup, filled it.

“Is it Christmas already?” said Meeks.

“I figure either Hitchens seen the light or maybe the Colonel told him to get off his fat ass and do something for real soldiers.”

Meeks took a swallow of coffee. Winced. “Tastes like he put pennies in the pot.”

“What did you expect? Only thing worse than Hitchens’s cooking is his coffee.”

“Ain’t seen you around before,” said Meeks.

“Let me top that off for you,” said Rakkim, filling his mug. “Stay warm.” He walked toward the side of the house.

The Colonel struggled to wake from one of his recurring dreams-he was fourteen or fifteen, wearing shorts and a flag T-shirt, standing on the sidewalk sweating as he watched the Fourth of July parade make its way down Main Street. Floats from the car dealerships draped with bunting moved slowly past. Slim Johnson, who owned both dealerships, and cheated everyone equally, tossed plastic-wrapped peppermint candies to the kids in the crowd. Probably left over from Halloween. The high school drill team followed, pretty girls in short skirts and white boots with tassels, high-stepping to the rat-a-tat-tat of the drumline. The crowd stirred and the Colonel tossed in his bed, caught in the cobwebs of time. The dream went silent, no birds, no drums, no sound at all as the main float inched forward. The Colonel’s hand flew over his heart. Veterans of the Gulf War II stood at attention on a flatbed truck, waving listlessly to the crowd…no, the crowd was gone. The crowd was always gone. It was just the Colonel standing on the sidewalk and the vets melting in the heat. The Colonel awoke with tears streaming down his grizzled cheeks. He was not alone.

“It’s all right,” said the man standing beside the bed, his face lost in the dimness.

The Colonel turned his head. Baby slept beside him, her night breath sweet as fresh hay.

“Hate to interrupt your beauty sleep, Colonel,” the man said softly, “but I thought it best this way.”

The Colonel nodded. Mississippi, that was the accent. Gulf Coast. He wondered if it was one of Moseby’s crew come to take him home. Moseby seemed the kind of man to inspire that kind of loyalty, and this fellow, he was a cool, hard customer, just the type to dive for baubles in New Orleans. “You mind if I sit up?” he asked, one hand snaking under the pillow for the pistol he kept there. Dark as dust in the bedroom, but the man saw what he was up to.