CHAPTER FORTY

By the time he reached the Wickenburg city limits, Al was beginning to feel the effects of doctoring himself with a bottle for forty-eight hours. He hadn't thought that he had drunk that much: a sip here, a swallow there, but as he pulled off the turnpike and started towards the trailer park he couldn't deny that he was on the very cusp of being absolutely plastered.

He took the home corner too quickly, and the bike slid on gravel kicked into the street by kids terrorizing those neighbors with unpaved driveways. Al tried to compensate, but his reflexes were slowed by his illness and the liquor, and he went into a skid. There was a squalling of tires and a rumble of protest from the engine and he was down. His left foot caught in the fender, and the bike dragged him along as he hit the pavement with sundering force. When he came to a halt he lay there for a minute, winded and numb with shock. Then he started to feel the throbbing agony in his hands, and raised them above his face, which was protected by the visor of the helmet.

They were scraped raw, bleeding from dozens of tiny contusions and deeply ingrained with dirt and small stones. Al stared at them, momentarily detached. Should've worn gloves, he reflected inanely.

At least he was wearing a helmet, he realized, as similar discomfort began to prickle along the left side of his neck. There was a dull, shooting pain in his tailbone, which he suspected was a result of hitting the asphalt at forty miles an hour. Still dazed, Al was dimly aware of a burning in his legs and all up his left side, where he had done a little body-skating. His bad shoulder, strangely, didn't hurt a bit.

Dazed and a little disoriented, he sat gingerly up, looking at the bike lying on its side by his feet. His left ankle had been wrenched, which wasn't really a surprise, but he didn't realize it until he tried to get up. The compromised joint buckled, and down Calavicci went, catching himself with a cry of anguish as his battered hands were assaulted again by the gravel.

The second attempt to stand was executed with greater care, and at last Al had his feet, shaky but definitely upright. With no small effort he grabbed the handlebars and righted his vehicle, then wheeled it towards his own driveway, limping painfully.

"Damn it," he muttered, looking down at the shredded leather of his left chap. He'd have to get new ones. That was a pain in the neck.

He laid the bike on the lawn, not feeling up to groping for the kickstand, and stumbled unsteadily toward the trailer. His bloodied hands were clumsy, and he dropped the key three times. He was glad he was a little sloshed. He wasn't feeling his injuries as much as he should.

Inside, he switched on the light in the entryway. That gave him a chance to get a better look at himself.

"God, what a mess," he breathed, peeling off his mangled jacket. He was lucky he hadn't been going any faster. His left arm was scraped and bleeding. He touched the worst of the wounds and noted that there wasn't any pain. With effort, he bent and removed the chaps. His uniform pants were ruined. Both knees were out, and the whole left side was a bloodied mess of tatters. Shuddering convulsively, he stripped them off and stood there with his shirttails flapping over his shorts. He tried to roll his ankle around a little, but the pain of that was too much to put up with. Barefoot, he hobbled into the kitchen, leaving the light on so that he wouldn't have to risk waking Sharon. She was going to have a conniption fit when she saw this. She had warned him to be careful on that bike…

He routed around in the liquor cabinet and dug out the whiskey. A glass. Eight ounces that burned against his inflamed throat and settled the tremors ripping through his body. Damn. He could've been roadkill. He had to clean up a little. He fumbled in the linen drawer and brought out a tea towel. He wetted it and dabbed at the scrapes running up and down his leg. He was bleeding profusely from a broad abrasion just below the hem of his shorts. The water stung, and he hissed in discomfort.

There was soft whine, and a loving tongue lapped at his heel. Al twisted to look over his shoulder, and immediately wished he hadn't as his congested heat spun. He leaned against the counter and coughed thickly, trying to muffle it with his hand. The last thing he wanted was to have Sharon come out and find him like this.

Al poured some more whiskey and petted Chester's chin with his left big toe. The dog made a noise of contentment and licked his foot. His skinned elbows were oozing blood, and no matter how many times he wiped them more kept coming. His hands were already starting to stiffen up as the scabs began to form. He took another couple slugs of whiskey and wiped his nose on the tea towel. His side hurt like hell, and he fumbled with the buttons on the front of his shirt, reaching in to touch the sore place. The blood was still trickling down his leg. He needed help. He hated to admit it, but he needed help. He couldn't clean himself up alone. His mind was getting fuzzier and more disoriented with each passing minute. Another glass of whiskey. He was very, very drunk.

He stumbled as he limped towards the living room, catching himself against the wall and clapping his hand over mouth and nose to stifle the sneeze that shook his whole body. He didn't want to wake Juan.

The door to the bedroom was closed, and a thin line of light showed beneath it. As Al approached he thought he could hear quiet laughter, but of course that didn't make sense. He gripped the doorknob as hard as his hurt hand would allow, and opened the door.

He stood, frozen, staring at the scene in front of him.

Bare-chested and olive-skinned, Juan Penja was lying against the pillows. Sharon was on top of him, tracing patterns on his breastbone and giggling softly as she kissed his collarbones. He was toying with her hair. They weren't actually doing anything, but it was obviously what they had been up to. Al was dimly aware that he was clutching the doorframe for support and that his jaw had gone slack. They did not immediately notice the intruder, but then Juan raised his head and gasped. Puzzled, Sharon looked at his face, then followed his gaze and sat up with a little shriek of horror, snatching up the coverlet to hide herself.

"Al!" she cried.

Silence.

Juan cleared his throat. "Look, Mr. Calavicci…"

Al gestured that he should shut the hell up. He obeyed. When the captain had that look in his eyes, even civilians did not dare to defy him. Sharon smoothed her hair self-consciously. "Al…" she murmured.

His hands began to shake. He looked at his wife, in bed with Celestina's brother-in-law, and he couldn't believe it. He wanted to kill them… he wanted…

The door shut with a shuddering slam. Al stumbled into the darkened living room, blinded with consternation and rage. He crashed against the end table and sent the dishes—the dirty dishes—from what had probably been a frenetically romantic dinner crashing to the ground. The sound sparked his rage. He tore through into the kitchen and dragged open the first cupboard that came to hand. He grabbed a plate and threw it against the wall. The sound made him feel marginally better, but the second the echo faded away the pain in his chest was back. He grabbed another. Smash! And another.

Chester began to bark, hiding behind the armchair and trembling, frightened by this display. Al was dimly conscious as he threw another plate that tears were streaming down his cheeks, but he couldn't stop them. It all made sense now. No wonder Sharon had been giving him the cold shoulder… how long had this been going on?

Another plate. His hand closed on the half-empty whiskey bottle, and he took a long gulp straight from it. His free hand found another bottle, and he stumbled for the door. He had to get out of here. He couldn't breathe properly in this lousy little trailer.

He stumbled out onto the lawn. His ankle buckled and he fell to his knees, jolts of fire shooting through his hurt legs. He raised the whiskey to his lips and took a long draught. He hammered the grass with his fist and let out a wet, choking cough. It was followed rapidly by an enormous sneeze. Another drink. The whiskey spilled down his chin, soaking the front of his shirt. She was in there… in his bed… with… with…

He shook his head, trying to control the shaking in his limbs. He tilted his head back and drained the bottle. It fell to earth with a soft thump. The other bottle… it was almost empty… it wouldn't enough… but it was all he had. He struggled to open it…

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Juan shot the deadbolt. Sharon stood, clutching her robe closed and staring at the destruction in the kitchen. Fragments of glass and ceramics, a bloody cloth, dirty and mangled clothing. She thought about the specter who had interrupted their lovemaking: a pale, bloodied ghost, one side of his body torn up and battered, his face numb with disbelief. Then suddenly gone, and sounds of World War Three coming from the other room. Chester was cowering behind the armchair, his head hidden beneath it. Sharon picked him up and hugged him to her breast, stroking his quivering little body.

"What's he doing?" Sharon whispered, looking at Juan. He came over and put his arms around her.

"Just sitting there."

"Should we… I mean, it's cold out there…"

Juan looked at her in mild disbelief. "You see that mess?" he asked, gesturing at the shrapnel littering the kitchen floor. "You want that to be us?"

"He wouldn't… he's harmless…" Sharon shivered and let the strong arms wrap more tightly around her as she cuddled Chester closer. She could feel shock taking hold of her. She was losing command of mind and body.

"Does that look like something a harmless person would do?" Juan queried, nodding again at the razed room.

Sharon had to admit it didn't.

"Let him cool down overnight," Juan said. "When he's sober we can talk about it like adults."

"But he's hurt," Sharon protested feebly, gesturing at the towel.

"Just a little scraped up. Probably fell off that bike. Serves him right for riding drunk. He's plastered, baby. Better for everybody if he sobers up."

Sharon nodded, a lump in her throat. "He'll be okay?"

"Sure. Guy's been married four times, right? Like he's never cheated. Come on, sweetheart." He kissed her neck. "Let's not let him ruin our fun!"

His hand found its way inside her robe. Sharon pulled away almost violently. "No!" she cried, her voice cracking. "No! I… I can't! I can't! Please… just leave me alone…"

She retreated into the bedroom. Juan followed with an exclamation, but she closed the door in his face, leaning against it as she slid to the ground. She held Chester, pressing her lips against his soft little head as she began to sob uncontrollably.

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Al was shivering so violently that he could hardly breathe through his clicking teeth. It was cold, that particular dry cold that you could only find in the desert. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to drag the halves of his shirt closed over them. He couldn't. A sneeze shook him, and he groped for the bottle nearest him, but it was empty. So was the other one. He moaned softly. It hurt. It hurt so much.

His leg was throbbing, and his hands pulsed in anguish. Worse than everything was the dim recollection he had of Sharon and that… that bricklayer…

He struggled to his feet and stumbled towards the bike. He had to get out of here. He had to ride. He had to hit the road…

He mounted up, but stopped abruptly when he realized that he didn't have his helmet or boots. He dismounted, letting the bike fall back on the lawn, and limped for the door. It was locked. He rattled it, then dug in his breast pocket for his key. He didn't have it. All he had was a wash-worn piece of heavy card, forgotten there and laundered several times. He took it out. It was rough, but the ink was still almost legible. He could make out an eleven-digit telephone number. He squinted, trying to focus on the figures. He couldn't, so he threw the card away and hammered on the door.

"Sharon!" he roared drunkenly. "Sharon, open the door! Open the door! Damn you, OPEN THE DOOR!"

She didn't. He knew she wouldn't. In her place, he wouldn't either. He knew that, but still he had to try. He hammered again. It was useless. He tried to turn, but he slipped and landed painfully, the edge of the cinderblock scraping up his back. He moaned and fought to crawl away from the trailer. He had to hide. He had to find somewhere to hide. It wasn't safe out in the open. They'd find him. They'd follow the tracks and they'd find him. Then they'd drag him back and beat him until he couldn't breathe, and put him back… back in the tiger cage. He couldn't bear that. He couldn't. He just couldn't.

His hurting hands found the coarse cement of the sidewalk. He tried to walk, but couldn't. His legs crossed and uncrossed, stumbling and falling and struggling to move in a coordinated manner. He couldn't. He had to crawl, which hurt his bare legs and raw knees horribly, but it was the only way. He had to get deeper into the jungle. They would expect him to keep to the trails. With his bare feet, he had to keep to the trails… at least that's what Charlie thought. Well, Charlie was wrong.

He had to hide. He had to find somewhere safe. Somewhere safe. Safe.

He crept towards the end of the street, each inch of progress excruciatingly hard-earned. But he had to find somewhere safe. Safe. Somewhere Charlie wouldn't ever find him. He was weak from the last torture session. Weak, and in so much pain. He tried to compartmentalize it, shut it away. He had to. He had to forget the pain and the weakness.

Al reached the edge of Celestina's yard, and fell again, his arms shivering and buckling. He moaned in torment and crawled just a little farther. Then just a little farther than that. Then he rolled underneath the trailer hitch, and drew his limbs in towards his chest, shaking violently. He sneezed and snuffled. His jaw started to ache. He was cold. So cold. So very cold.

There was a noise, and Al cringed, trying to scrabble further underneath the trailer. Then a shadow moved across the streetlamp's amber glow.

"Who is there?" a thickly accented voice asked. "Please, who is out here?"

Celestina. Al tried to answer her, to explain about the "V", to tell her he had to hide, but the words couldn't come. He moaned.

Suddenly there was a bleary image of a nightgown-clad wraith crouching to peer under the trailer. "Senor Calavicci? What is this?" she breathed.

Al shrank away, not sure what he was seeing or hearing or feeling anymore. Then a cool, soothing hand brushed his fevered forehead, and suddenly she was drawing him out into the open. She cast her eyes down. "Your hands," she mourned. "Your poor hands."

Al looked dumbly at the kind eyes as Celestina stroked his cheek. His throat was closed and he couldn't speak. He was so numbed with alcohol and pain and grief that he couldn't even really comprehend what was happening. Her words reached his ears, but he didn't' understand them.

"You are cold," she said. "You are sick. Where is Senora Calavicci? Why you not go home?"

Al shook his head to show he didn't understand. Celestina smoothed his hair and brushed her hand along his bare leg, touching the scrapes. "You are hurt," she said. "You come inside."

She rose and tried to draw him to his feet, but her offer had penetrated through the fog of alcohol. Al shook his head frantically. "No," he said. "No. I'm sick. I'll make Stevie sick."

"Esteban sleeps," Celestina told him. A fit of ague made Al double up on himself, quivering with cold and fever. "You come inside. You get warm."

Al tried to fight her, but he was too weak, too drunk, and in his agony too vulnerable. He let her help him to his feet and limped towards the door of the tiny trailer. Soon he was inside, and then suddenly she was easing him into the bed next to the sleeping child, and a cool cloth was bathing his forehead.

Then the booze finally caught up with him and he passed out cold.

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The tiny camera clicked, and Dan Penvenen sat back. Well, well. Very interesting. He closed his eyes as his finely honed brain sifted through the scene he had witnessed. Sounds of mayhem had come out of the trailer, followed quickly by Calavicci, half-naked and barefoot, with a bottle in each hand. He had collapsed on the lawn and proceeded to get absolutely plastered. Another man, wearing boxer shorts, had come and shut the door. The wife had a lover! She was making a cuckold of Calavicci.

It hadn't ended there. The inebriated naval captain had crawled—not walked or even staggered, but actually crawled!—up the street to the smallest and trashiest trailer on the block. He had tried to hide under it, but a beautiful young Mexican woman in a long blue nightgown had come out and brought him into the open. She had petted his face and kissed his hair, and then taken him into her trailer. So what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, and Calavicci himself was enjoying the finer things in life from the comfort of his own little clapboard slum.

It was fascinating, and one day the pictures might come in handy, but alone it was still not enough to discredit Calavicci. It was still not enough to justify intervention in the running of Starbright. If the man wanted to drink and womanize and crawl around the world in his jockey shorts on weekends, there was nothing that Dan could do to stop him. Such behavior would have been grounds for dismissal in disgrace from certain federal bodies, but his particular branch of the service wasn't one of them. Of the vices, the Navy favored liquor and women above all, and they weren't likely to frown on a little recreational indiscretion. After all, American sailors had been doing such things for two hundred years. Unless Calavicci made the unforgivable error of bringing his personal life to work, there was nothing that could be accomplished by bringing this scandal to light. If Dan tried, he would only tip his own hand.

Therefore, there was no better solution than to keep these photos in a safe place, write up a detailed account of the evening's proceedings, and keep a very close eye on Calavicci. From the way the man had been drinking tonight, it was only a matter of time before he brought the booze and the anger to Starbright.

And when he did, Dan would have him.

After all, Penvenen always got his man in the end.