“I know this goes without saying,” her father began, and she hated that phrase, because naturally if something went without saying, it wouldn’t be necessary to say it. Ross continued, “But if, and I say if, by any chance he should try to contact you, try to get in touch, you’d tell me now, wouldn’t you?”
She actually laughed at that. Once upon a time, what she was about to say would have annoyed the hell out of her. Now she just found it funny, having surrendered to the Big Brother absurdity of her life. “No, I wouldn’t. You know as well as I do, I wouldn’t have to. My phones are bugged, my house is under surveillance, my computers are tapped. So contacting me is the last thing I’d ever want Bruce to do, because—” Betty hesitated, her voice choking slightly. Suddenly this had become a good deal harder than she thought. “—because I love him; I always will. And I pray to God every night and every morning that he never tries to see me or talk to me again for the rest of my life.”
There was a long pause, and her father, whom she had thought for so long didn’t give a damn about her, said, with utter sincerity, “I’m so sorry, Betty. I am so sorry.”
“I know you are, Dad. I know,” Betty said.
And as she looked out the window, the phone still against her ear, she looked out at a couple of trees in the parking lot, swaying in the wind.
She didn’t believe he was dead. Not for a moment. As corny as it sounded, she would have felt it if he’d died. Then she turned and looked at the framed photo she’d taken from his office, the one of them up in the woods, at the cabin. She hoped, wherever he was, there were trees. Tall, strong . . . and plenty of green.
He’d probably relate to that.
In the jungle clearing palm trees thrashed around in a stiff wind that lashed against a makeshift canvas covering the shelter. Three white-clad Red Cross workers tended to a few rural families; kids, their parents, grandparents. One of the Red Cross workers was a man wearing longish hair and a beard. The other two were fairly new to the job and a bit tentative in their actions, but the man with the hair and beard moved with an ease that underscored his confidence.
He examined an eight-year-old boy being held lovingly by his father. The child looked feverish, glassy-eyed and slack-limbed. The worker looked at the boy’s father and pulled a pill bottle out of his kit.
“You need to give him this three times a day, for ten days, okay?” the Red Cross worker told him in flawless Spanish.
“Gracias,” said the father. “Thank you.”
The worker turned to the boy and said with mock severity, “You listen to your father when he tells you to take this medicine, okay?” The boy bobbed his head and said he would. Then he exchanged glowing smiles with his father, secure in the knowledge that all was right with the world, and that all would be right with them. The bearded man looked from one to the other and sighed in a manner that might have been seen as wistful, or envious, or just a bit sad.
Then he heard a gasp from another Red Cross worker, a pretty young local girl named Anita. He glanced in her direction and his brow furrowed. He saw what she did: a group of heavily armed men coming out of the jungle. A look of concern crossed her face. The bearded man saw her gesture to the next child on line and smile reassuringly. But it was a very forced smile, and the bearded man knew it, just as he knew that this had the potential to develop into a situation.
The armed men came into the tent, driving the locals out. They began rifling through the supplies.
Without hesitation, the bearded man approached the fellow who was clearly in charge of this little paramilitary organization. It was always easy to tell who was in charge, for some reason. Speaking quietly but firmly, he said, “We need these medicines for the people who live here.”
The soldier glowered down at him, towering over him by at least a head. “Who are you to say what is needed, foreigner?” he said disdainfully. “These people are helping our enemies. And maybe so are you.” With the implicit threat that the bearded man wouldn’t want to be considered an enemy, the intruder grabbed the medicine kit and snarled, “We need these too. They are now the property of the government.” And just to show what a big, tough guy he was, the paramilitary soldier pushed a child into the rain and raised his AK-47. His men stood up and gathered around menacingly.
They expected him to back down. Why wouldn’t they? He looked like nothing.
He felt a distant thudding in his head. And he did nothing to restrain it. “You shouldn’t have done that,” said the bearded Red Cross worker. “Now say you’re sorry and get out of here.”
The paramilitaries raised their eyebrows and chortled. “What?” said one.
The pounding increased, growing in strength and intensity. He wondered how no one else could hear it. Then again all that mattered was that he heard it.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “You’re making me angry,” said the Red Cross worker, and the men were laughing, and then they heard a growl from his throat that sounded like nothing human as his eyes snapped open, glowing a deep shade of green as the voice within his head intoned,
. . . smash . . .
And the last words he spoke before the screaming began were, “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”
Hulk is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Del
