“Back to the bog,” Angie said.
“Back to the bog.”
Christopher Dawe’s cell phone rang just as we pulled off the expressway into Plymouth. I held it to my ear as Bubba’s taillights flashed red at the stop sign ahead, palmed the shift into neutral.
“You’re late, Doctor.”
“Scottie!” I said.
Silence.
I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, shifted up to first, and turned right behind Bubba.
“Patrick,” Scott Pearse said eventually.
“I’m kind of like bronchitis, don’t you think, Scott? Every time you’re sure you’re through with me, I come back.”
“That’s a good one, Pat. Tell it to the doctor when his son’s aorta shows up in the mail. I’m sure he’ll have a good laugh.”
“I got your money, Scott. You want it?”
“You have my money.”
“Yup.”
Bubba turned off the main drag onto the access road that cut through the edge of the Myles Standish forest and would eventually lead us to the bog.
“What sort of hoops do I have to jump through for it, Pat?”
“Call me Pat one more time, Scottie, and I’ll fucking burn it.”
“Okay, Patrick. What do I need to do?”
“Give me your cell phone number.”
He gave it to me and I repeated it to Angie, who wrote it down on the pad held by a suction cup to my glove box.
“Nothing will happen tonight, Scott, so go home.”
“Wait.”
“And if you try to contact the Dawes, you’ll never see a dime of this money. We clear?”
“Yeah, but-”
I hung up.
Angie watched Bubba’s taillights turn off onto the smaller road.
“How do you know he won’t go back to Congress Street?”
“Because if Wesley’s stashed anywhere, he’s stashed here. Pearse is feeling his control slip. He’ll come back here to see his trump card, to feel that control again.”
“Wow,” she said. “You almost sound like you believe that.”
“Ain’t got much,” I said, “but I got hope.”
We drove past the clearing and down another four hundred yards, buried our cars in the trees, and walked back up the access road.
For the first time in at least ten years, Bubba wasn’t wearing his trench coat. He wore all black. Black jeans, black combat boots, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, black gloves, and a black knit hat over his head. We had, per his command, stopped at my apartment on the way out to intercept Christopher Dawe and grabbed black clothes as well, and we donned them before we left the cars behind in the trees.
As we walked back up the road, Bubba said, “Once we locate the house, I walk point. Point is very simple. You stay ten paces behind me.” He looked back at us and held up a finger. “Exactly behind me. Where I step, you step. If I blow up or trip a wire, you run back the same way you came in. You don’t fucking think about carrying me out. Clear?”
This was not a Bubba I’d ever seen before. All traces of psychosis seemed to have vanished. Along with the disappearance of the loose-cannon aspect, his voice had changed, deepened slightly, and the aura of otherness and loneliness that usually hovered around him had disappeared, given way to a total confidence and ease with his surroundings.
He was, I realized, home. He was as in his element as he ever could be. He was a warrior, and he’d been called to battle, and he knew he was born to it.
As we followed him up the road, I saw what men in Beirut must have seen-that if it came to battle, no matter who your commanding officer was, it was Bubba you’d follow, Bubba you’d listen to, Bubba you’d depend on to lead you through the fire and back to safety.
He was a born sergeant; next to him, John Wayne was a pussy.
He unslung the duffel bag from his back and brought it around under his arm. He unzipped it as he walked, pulled an M-16 out, and looked back at us.
“You sure you don’t want one of these?”
Both of us shook our heads. An M-16. I’d probably fire it once, break my shoulder.
“Pistols are fine,” I said.
“You got extra clips?”
I nodded. “Four.”
He looked at Angie. “Speed-loaders?”
She nodded. “Three.”
Angie looked at me. She swallowed. I knew how she felt. My mouth was getting kind of dry, too.
We crossed the planks and passed the pump shed.
Bubba said, “We find this house, and get inside? Anything moves, shoot it. Don’t question. If it’s not chained down, it’s not a hostage. If it’s not a hostage, it ain’t friendly. Clear?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said.
“Ange?” He looked back at her.
“Yeah. Clear.”
Bubba paused and stared at Angie, her pale face and large eyes.
“You up for this?” he asked her softly.
She nodded several times.
“Because-”
“Don’t be a sexist, Bubba. This isn’t hand-to-hand combat. All I have to do is point and shoot, and I’m a better shot than either of you guys.”
Bubba looked at me. “You, on the other hand…”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll go back home.”
He smiled. Angie smiled. I smiled. In the still of the bog and the dark of night, I had the feeling it was the last time any of us would smile for a while.
“All right,” Bubba said. “It’s all three of us, then. Just remember, the only sin in combat is hesitation. So don’t fucking hesitate.”
We stopped at the tree line and Bubba unslung the bag from his shoulder and lay it softly on the ground. He opened it and removed three square objects with head straps tied to the back and lenses protruding from the front. He handed two of them to us.
“Put ’em on.”
We did, and the world turned green. The dark bushes and trees were the color of mint, the moss was emerald, the air was a light kelly hue.
“Take your time,” Bubba said. “Get used to it.”
He removed a huge pair of infrared binoculars and raised them to his eyes, panned across the woods in quarter-inch increments.
The green felt assaultive, nauseating. My.45 felt like a hot poker against the small of my back. The drought in my mouth had worked its way down my throat, seemed to be closing off my respiratory passages. And, quite honestly, with the bulky infrared glasses attached to my face, I also felt really silly. I felt like a Power Ranger.
“Got it,” Bubba said.
“What?”
