But he said nothing, glancing at Vicki Twigg. She nodded slightly, as if to say,
Horn was again humbled by the realization that what was profound in life usually lay unspoken.
And what needed to be said was usually spoken too late.
51
The next evening at base camp, Aaron Mandle spoke to his commanding officer in private in the captain’s tent.
Kray listened silently, rubbing his chin.
When Mandle was finished, Kray said, “You’re telling me you and Vine killed this Afghan girl without provocation?”
“Vine was only the accessory, sir. I administered the fatal wounds.”
Kray stared at him in disbelief. “Why the fuck are you telling me this, Aaron?”
“Because I knew you’d understand.”
Kray studied him carefully, the pockmarked face, the creepy dark eyes. It was a face that was impossible to read. Kray often thought Mandle would make a hell of a poker player; he wondered if he might be playing poker now.
“Why might I understand?”
“Because we’re all brothers, here or in hell. You’ve said so yourself, over and over. And we have to look out for each other no matter what. You, me, Vine.”
Kray felt himself tighten inside. “I don’t quite follow.” But he did follow.
“I mean,” Mandle said, “what would it do to your military career, two of your men doing murder under your command? What would it do to our unit and others like ours? Those pussy politicians in Washington get hold of this information and we’ll all go down hard. Nobody’ll be without blame. They’ll go right up the line far as they can, chopping off heads, one right after the other, and not much worrying about whose heads they are.”
“That’s the way it works,” Kray agreed.
“The word gets out,” Mandle said, “it’d ruin a lot of careers, a lot of lives. Have an adverse effect on everybody it touched. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Those things never are.”
“So I figured I’d keep quiet about this, and I thought you’d see it the same way. It’s not really like we have much choice, ‘less we want to be brothers in the brig or gas chamber. We all owe each other, sir. It’s like combat-if we’re gonna survive we have to care for each other. Brothers all the way.”
“You’re saying we’re in the same boat,” Kray said carefully. “But the fact is, your end of the boat has a bigger leak in it.”
“Whole boat sinks, though, sir. Who’s even to say you didn’t know about the murders from the beginning?”
“I figure we all three keep quiet, everything’ll be fine, sir.”
“That would be my suggestion, Aaron.”
“Joe Vine, he’s a good man but he needs to understand.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“He waited too long already before saying anything. And hell, it mighta been him killed the girl, if push comes to shove.”
“It won’t come to shove, Aaron. I’ll speak with Trooper Vine. He’ll understand that in time of war-in the world we live in-some things should be left unsaid.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I suppose we should thank each other, Aaron.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mandle about-faced and was gone from the tent. Kray had to fight himself so he wouldn’t go after him and kill him.
Mandle, Vine, and Captain Kray never mentioned the matter again.
Four days later, on the outskirts of an Afghan village they were clearing of Taliban, Kray led Mandle, Vine, and a trooper named Reever into a mud-brick dwelling at the end of a narrow street.
At first the place looked empty. Then they saw that what looked like a rag pile in a corner was actually three huddled Afghan women in burkas.
They stood up slowly. Two of them raised their hands. The third flipped her wrist and expertly tossed a knife that stuck in Reever’s throat.
The women went for the door.
Kray, Mandle, and Vine stopped them.
And didn’t stop themselves.
The counterattack on the women turned into a gory struggle and then a sadistic bloodletting.
Crossing the river Styx, Mandle thought, watching life leave the women one by one. Their eyes. It was wondrous what happened to, what happened
It was a bonding in blood for the killers.
They dragged Reever’s body outside the mud dwelling, then Kray tossed a grenade in through the doorway.
Artillery and rocket fire were coming in on the other side of the village. In the hell and panic of the greater din, the muffled sound of the exploding grenade was barely noticeable.
52
The night after Cindy Vine’s statement, Will Lincoln rotated the valve to extinguish the flame of his welding torch. A wisp of smoke and the stench of hot metal lingered.
He’d come out to his garage studio to work, thinking it would take his mind off what he’d just seen the TV news saying: that the police suspected Joe Vine of killing the last four Night Spider victims.
When he’d heard that, Will set down the Budweiser he’d been drinking. Kim had bitched, telling him the bottle would leave a ring on the table, he should use a coaster. Didn’t he see the stack of coasters right there on the table?
At first Will hadn’t even heard her, then he calmly told her he didn’t care if the bottle left a ring. She was yelling at him as he stood up and walked out of the house. He heard her for a while after he shut the front door, even after he entered the garage, until he’d turned the air conditioner on high.
Then he set to work on
But it hadn’t helped. He hadn’t been able to shake his concern for Vine.
Joe Vine. .
Will remembered Vine very well. He could recall his face in minute detail: tense going into action; relieved and looser around the eyes and mouth afterward. He was never really afraid enough for it to show. Watching Vine
