“This boy, he say his uncle has a good body in his field,” the interpreter said. “He will let you have it extra cheap.”
“Now, why would he do that?” Parker asked, and tossed the kid a Tootsie Roll. “Not out of the kindness of his American-hating heart.”
“The GIs, they burn his poppies, so he need money.” The Afghan asked the boy something, and then chortled. “He say his uncle scared of it. Say it watches him. That’s why you get it half price.”
Parker heaved a sigh. “How far away is the uncle?”
“Two miles north.” The interpreter looked hopeful. “On our way, boss.”
He scowled at the boy. “This body better have all its parts, boy, or I’m coming back here to personally whup your ass.” He nudged his driver with the butt of his rifle, and pulled his bandanna up over his mouth and nose to keep the dust out as the jeep rattled over the dirt roads.
Parker wasn’t especially fond of being this close to the Pakistani border, where skirmishes between the U.S. and Al-Qaeda regularly turned into all-out massacres, but the demands for suitable cadavers had tripled since the project had moved into its last phase. Besides, he only had to retrieve the bodies and send them up the line; that was a lot better than marching them out in the jungle where they knew what was going to happen the minute they looked into the bottom of the pit. Dead men didn’t try to up and run for their lives.
The farm turned out to be little more than a shack sitting in the midst of five acres of scorched ground, and the boy’s uncle was a weathered rail of an old man, the type Parker’s father had often called a Moses-through-a-reed.
The interpreter exchanged greetings, and after he explained what had brought them to the farm, the old man pointed to a bundle of rags hanging from a crude cross.
“He says we go out, boss, look first,” the interpreter said.
“Damn straight we are.” Parker wasn’t buying a bunch of bones wrapped in rotten meat.
The body was male, long and lean, and still dressed in close-fitted pants and an undershirt. Long black hair hung over the man’s face, covering it completely.
“Not American.” Parker covered his mouth and nose again before stepping close enough to lift the head and check to see that the birds hadn’t been at the eyes or nose.
The man’s skin was burnt black, but his eyes were only faintly milky, and his nose and lips were still in place. Parker groped the rest of the corpse’s limp, cold flesh until he was satisfied.
“All right,” he told the interpreter. “Cut him down. We’ll take him.”
The farmer accepted the money, but refused to go near the jeep as the driver and the interpreter were loading the cadaver in the back. He kept his face turned, and made several finger gestures in the direction of the corpse as he chattered on in a low, disgusted voice.
“Why’s he getting all worked up?” Parker demanded.
The interpreter came over and asked the old farmer, who snapped something at Parker before he retreated into his shack.
“He say, dead man worse when guerrillas dump him in the field. Guerrillas not want long-haired man; he not American. They say dead man fall on grenades and … ” The interpreter mimicked the sound of an explosion, and flung out his arms. “Now he look better.”
“Worse? Better?” Parker scratched his cheek. “Shit, he’s dead. This is as good as it gets.”
The interpreter shrugged.
“Why was he pointing his fingers at him like that?” Parker asked.
“Keep-away-evil fingers.” The interpreter grinned and imitated the gestures. “Demon no take my land, demon no take my life, demon no take my children, demon you have my wife.”
Parker chuckled. “I know that one.”
That night, as Parker arrived at the private airstrip with the five bodies he’d managed to collect, he stopped to have a smoke while the corpses were wrapped and loaded onto the contract cargo plane. Genaro ran a sweet scam with his special-delivery planes, which brought over tons of church donations, packages from home, and other morale boosters for the troops every month. Genaro’s generosity was such that no one ever bothered to check where the planes went once they’d dropped their precious cargo, or what exactly was in the planes when they made the trip back to the States.
“Hey, George.” The pilot, who had finished his preflight, stopped to bum a cigarette. “How’s the grave-robbing business?”
“Shit, Judd, they weren’t in no graves,” he chided. “Found one this week hanging from a cross in the middle of a burned-out opium farm.”
“What a friend we have in Jesus.” Judd snickered. “You run ’em through the metal detector?”
“Don’t I always?” Parker spit on the ground. He’d learned the hard way that the guerrillas liked to leave bodies booby-trapped so they could relieve the U.S. military of a few medics without even having to be there. “Just watch out for the long-haired one. Old fart that sold him to me says he watches you like a hawk.”
The pilot leaned in, pulling the plastic shrouds away from the ruined faces until he found the one covered with black hair. “You mean, this old boy?”
Parker grinned as he looked over, and then the butt between his lips drooped. Two black eyes, open, clear, and bright, stared back at him.
“Yeah.” He turned his back on the dead man watching him. “That’s him.” He trotted off, and didn’t puke until he was out of the pilot’s sight.
October 4, 1999
Scarvaville, Oregon
Waking up didn’t seem right to Elle, not after dying. She’d expected the darkness, but not the light. Then there was the place she woke up to. Evelyn had always promised that if she was a good girl, she would end up in heaven, which was decorated by the angels. According to her mother, it was supposed to be a place of pure light and eternal peace.
So why was she on a bunk in a camper? And why was she so thirsty?
The thick layer of gauze over the front of her throat kept her from moving too much, but when Elle worked up the courage to touch it, it felt wrong, too. When you died and went to heaven, you were supposed to become an angel. She’d never seen a picture of one wrapped in bandages.
Carefully she poked a finger under the lowest edge, expecting to feel stitches and pain. The only thing beneath the bandages was her skin. It was tender, the way it felt after she sunburned and peeled, but she couldn’t feel any tears or repairs.
Finally she worked up the nerve to pull at the dressing, wincing as the adhesive tape holding it in place peeled away from her skin. Dark red-brown streaks of dried blood stained the inside of the bandages, but she couldn’t feel so much as a scratch on her throat.
She checked the rest of her body, what she could see of it. Her clothes were gone, and all she wore was a large man’s flannel shirt. She was virtually naked, she’d been attacked by a cougar, and there wasn’t a mark on her.
Be a good girl, Lillian, and you’ll get your reward.
But she hadn’t been a good girl. She’d run away. She’d never done anything so bad as that. What would her mother say now?
The camper shook a little as someone walked back toward her, and she sat up to see a grim, familiar face. “Mr. Huntley?” Her voice came out in a dry, straining rasp that sounded nothing like her.
“Lillian, you’re awake. That’s good. No, don’t try to get up just yet.” He picked up a glass of water from a little table and brought it to her. “Drink,” he said as he held it to her lips. “It’ll help.”
She drank until she had emptied the glass, and then cleared her throat. “Thank you.” Her voice still sounded wrong, but there were more important things she had to know. “Where am I? What happened to me?”
“You’re safe.” He put the glass aside and drew a little camp chair up by the side of the bunk. “How much do you remember?”
Why wasn’t he just telling her what had happened? “I was up in the hills with Dancer, and something spooked him. He took off.” The scratchiness in her throat came back, making her swallow. “Then something knocked me to the ground, and it … my throat … it was a cougar, right?”
He didn’t answer her, but hunched over to look at the floor of the camper.
When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to answer her, she asked, “Why am I here, Mr. Huntley? Shouldn’t I be in the hospital?”
“I couldn’t risk taking you to a doctor.” His head came up. “The thing that attacked you only looked like a cougar. It’s a man, or at least, it was a long time ago. I was sent here to put it out of its misery, but I never got close enough. It’s still human enough to outthink me. I think the only reason it went after you was because it tracked me back to your mother’s land. It must have been waiting up there for me.”
“Mr. Huntley, maybe you should take me home now,” she said carefully. “My mother is going to be really worried about me.”
“Evelyn left California the day after you disappeared. I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think she’ll be coming back.” He sighed. “I know you think I’m crazy right now, girl, but I’m not, and I promise, I won’t hurt you. As soon as I saw how fast you healed, I knew you were special. I don’t understand what you are just yet, but we’ll figure it out together.”
What she was. Elle touched her throat.
He stood. “I’ve got a fire going outside. I’ll bring you some clothes, and we’ll get you up and around a bit.”
Neil Huntley did talk like a crazy man, but he brought her some clothes and left the camper so she could dress in private. As soon as Elle stood, the weak and trembling condition of her body made it plain that she would not be able to run away from the stable manager. She’d have to talk her way out of this, or try to get help from someone else.
Elle realized her second idea wasn’t going to work as soon as she climbed out of the camper. She didn’t recognize the empty hills around the campsite, which was deserted except for the camper hitched to Huntley’s truck. The strange mountains on the horizon didn’t look right, either.