Thinking she'd get the paperwork ready for the stranger to drop off his dog, she grabbed a sheet from the file cabinet and attached it to the clipboard. She rummaged through the desk for a pen and set both on the counter just as the stranger and his dog walked in. He smiled, and when their eyes met, it was one of the few times in her life that she felt at a complete loss for words.
It had less to do with the fact that he was staring than with the way he was staring. As crazy as it sounded, he was looking at her as though he recognized her. But she'd never seen him before; she was sure of that. She would have remembered him, if only because he reminded her of Drake in the way he seemed to dominate the room. Like Drake, he was probably close to six feet and lean, with wiry arms and broad shoulders. There was a rugged edge to his appearance, underscored by his sun-bleached jeans and T-shirt.
But that's where the similarities ended. While Drake's eyes were brown and rimmed with hazel, the stranger's were blue; where Drake had always kept his hair short, the stranger's hair was longer, almost wild looking. She noted that despite having walked here, he seemed to be sweating less than she was.
She felt suddenly self-conscious and turned away just as the stranger took a step toward the counter. From the corner of her eye, she watched him raise his palm slightly in the dog's direction. She'd seen Nana do that a thousand times, and the dog, attuned to every subtle move, stayed in place. The dog was already well trained, which probably meant he was here for boarding.
"Your dog is beautiful," she said, sliding the clipboard toward him. The sound of her own voice broke the awkward silence. "I had a German shepherd once. What's his name?"
"This is Zeus. And thank you."
"Hello, Zeus."
Zeus's head tilted to the side.
"I'm just going to need you to sign in," she said. "And if you have a copy of the vet's records, that would be great. Or the contact information."
"Excuse me?"
"The vet's records. You're here to board Zeus, right?"
"No," he said. He motioned over his shoulder. "Actually, I saw the sign in the window. I'm looking for work, and I was wondering if you still had anything available."
"Oh." She hadn't expected that and tried to reorient herself.
He shrugged. "I know I probably should have called first, but I was out this way anyway. I figured I'd just swing by in person to see if you had an application. If you want me to come back tomorrow, I will."
"No, it's not that. I'm just surprised. People usually don't come by on Sundays to apply for a job." Actually, they didn't come by on other days, either, but she left that part out. "I've got an application on file here somewhere," she said, turning toward the cabinet behind her. "Just give me a second to grab it." She pulled out the bottom drawer and began rummaging through the files. "What's your name?"
"Logan Thibault."
"Is that French?"
"On my father's side."
"I haven't seen you around here before."
"I'm new in town."
"Gotcha." She fished out the application. "Okay, here it is."
She set it in front of him on the counter along with a pen. As he printed his name, she noted a certain roughness to his skin, making her think that he spent a lot of time in the sun. At the second line of the form, he paused and looked up, their eyes meeting for the second time. She felt her neck flush slightly and tried to hide it by adjusting her shirt.
"I'm not sure what I should put for an address. Like I said, I just got to town and I'm staying at the Holiday Motor Court. I could also use my mom's mailing address in Colorado. Which would you prefer?"
"Colorado?"
"Yeah, I know. Kind of far from here."
"What brought you to Hampton?"
You, he thought. I came to find you. "It seems like a nice town, and I figured I'd give it a try."
"No family here?"
"None."
"Oh," she said. Handsome or not, his story didn't sit right, and she heard mental alarm bells starting to go off. There was something else, too, something gnawing at the back of her mind, and it took her a few seconds to realize what it was. When she did, she took a small step back from the counter, creating a bit more space between them. "If you just got to town, how did you know the kennel was hiring? I didn't run an ad in the paper this week."
"I saw the sign."
"When?" She squinted at him. "I saw you walking up, and there was no way you could have seen the sign until you got to the front of the office."
"I saw it earlier today. We were walking along the road, and Zeus heard dogs barking. He took off this way, and when I went to find him, I noticed the sign. No one was around, so I figured I'd come back later to see if that had changed."
The story was plausible, but she sensed that he was either lying or leaving something out. And if he had been here before, what did that mean? That he'd been scoping out the place?
He seemed to notice her unease and set the pen aside. From inside his pocket he pulled out his passport and flipped it open. When he slid it toward her, she glanced at the photo, then up at him. His name, she saw, was legitimate, though it didn't silence the alarm bells. No one passed through Hampton and decided to stay here on a whim. Charlotte, yes. Raleigh, of course. Greensboro, absolutely. But Hampton? Not a chance.
"I see," she said, suddenly wanting to end this conversation. "Just go ahead and put your mailing address on it. And your work experience. After that, all I need is a number where I can reach you and I'll be in touch."
His gaze was steady on hers. "But you're not going to call."
He was sharp, she thought. And direct. Which meant she would be, too. "No."
He nodded. "Okay. I probably wouldn't call me based on what you've heard so far, either. But before you jump to conclusions, can I add something else?"
"Go ahead."
Her tone made it plain that she didn't believe anything he said would matter.
"Yes, I'm temporarily staying at the motel, but I do intend to find a place to live around here. I will also find a job here." His gaze did not waver. "Now about me. I graduated from the University of Colorado in 2002 with a degree in anthropology. After that, I joined the marines, and I received an honorable discharge two years ago. I've never been arrested or charged with any crime, I've never taken drugs, and I've never been fired for incompetence. I'm willing to take a drug test, and if you think it necessary, you can have a background check run to confirm everything I said. Or if it's easier, you can call my former commanding officer, and he'll verify everything I've said. And even though the law doesn't require me to answer a question of this type, I'm not on medication of any kind. In other words, I'm not schizophrenic or bipolar or manic. I'm just a guy who needs a job. And I did see the sign earlier."
She hadn't known what she'd expected him to say, but he'd certainly caught her off guard.
"I see," she said again, focusing on the fact that he'd been in the military.
"Is it still a waste of time for me to fill out the application?"
"I haven't decided yet." She felt intuitively that he was telling the truth this time, but she was equally certain there was more to the story than he was revealing. She gnawed the inside of her cheek. She needed to hire someone. Which was more important--knowing what he was hiding or finding a new employee?
He stood before her erect and calm, and his posture spoke of easy confidence. Military bearing, she observed with a frown.
"Why do you want to work here?" The words sounded suspicious even to her. "With a degree, you could probably get a better job somewhere else in town."
He motioned toward Zeus. "I like dogs."
"It doesn't pay much."
"I don't need much."
"The days can be long."
"I figured they would be."
"Have you ever worked in a kennel before?"
"No."
"I see."
He smiled. "You say that a lot."
"Yes, I do," she said. Note
to self: Stop saying it. "And you're sure you don't know anyone in town?"
"No."
"You just arrived in Hampton and decided to stay."
"Yes."
"Where's your car?"
"I don't have one."
"How did you get here?"
"I walked."
She blinked, uncomprehending. "Are you telling me that you walked all the way from Colorado?"
"Yes."
"You don't think that's odd?"
"I suppose it depends on the reason."
"What's your reason?"
"I like to walk."
"I see." She couldn't think of anything else to say. She reached for the pen, stalling. "I take it you're not married," she said.
"No."
"Kids?"
"None. It's just me and Zeus. But my mom still lives in Colorado."
She pushed a sweaty lock of hair back from her forehead, equal parts flustered and bemused. "I still don't get it. You walk across the country, you get to Hampton, you say you like the place, and now you want to work here?"
"Yes."
"There's nothing else you want to add?"
"No."
She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind. "Excuse me for a minute. I have to talk to someone."
Beth could handle a lot of things, but this was beyond her. As much as she tried, she couldn't quite grasp everything he'd told her. On some level, it made sense, but on the whole, it just seemed . . . off. If the guy was telling the truth, he was strange; if he was lying, he picked strange lies. Either way, it was weird. Which was why, of course, she wanted to talk to Nana. If anyone could figure him out, Nana could.
Unfortunately, as she approached the house, she realized the game wasn't over yet. She could hear the announcers debating whether it was right for the Mets to bring in a relief pitcher or something along those lines. When she opened the door, she was surprised to find Nana's seat empty.
"Nana?"
Nana poked her head out from the kitchen. "In here. I was just getting ready to pour myself a glass of lemonade. Would you like some? I can do it one-handed."
"Actually, I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute? I know the game is still on . . ."
She waved the thought away. "Oh, I'm done with that. Go ahead and turn it off. The Braves can't win, and the last thing I want to do is listen to their excuses. I hate excuses. There's no reason they should have lost, and they know it. What's going on?"
Beth walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter as Nana poured the lemonade from the pitcher. "Are you hungry?" Nana inquired. "I can make you a quick sandwich."
"I just had a banana."
"That's not enough. You're as skinny as a golf club."
From your mouth to God's ears, Beth thought. "Maybe later. Someone came in to apply for the job. He's here now."
"You mean the cute one with the German shepherd? I figured that's what he was doing. How is he? Tell me that it's always been his dream to clean cages."
"You saw him?"
"Of course."
"How did you know he was applying for the job?"
"Why else would you want to talk to me?"
Beth shook her head. Nana was always a step ahead of her. "Anyway, I think you should talk to him. I don't quite know what to make of him."
"Does his hair have anything to do with it?"
"What?"
"His hair. It kind of makes him look like Tarzan, don't you think?"
"I really didn't notice."
"Sure you did, sweetie. You can't lie to me. What's the problem?"
Quickly, Beth gave her a rundown of the interview. When she was finished, Nana sat in silence.
"He walked from Colorado?"
"That's what he says."
"And you believe him?"
"That part?" She hesitated. "Yeah, I think he's telling the truth about that."
"That's a long walk."
"I know."
"How many miles is that?"
"I don't know. A lot."
"That's kind of strange, don't you think?"
"Yes," she said. "And there's something else, too."
"What?"
"He was a marine."
Nana sighed. "Why don't you wait here. I'll go talk to him."
For the next ten minutes, Beth watched them from behind the living room window curtains. Nana hadn't stayed in the office to conduct the interview; instead, she'd led them to the wooden bench in the shade of the magnolia tree. Zeus was dozing at their feet, his ear flicking every now and then, shooing away the occasional fly. Beth couldn't make out what either of them was saying, but occasionally she saw Nana frown, which seemed to suggest the interview wasn't going well. In the end, Logan Thibault and Zeus walked back up the gravel drive toward the main road, while Nana watched them with a concerned expression on her face.
Beth thought Nana would make her way back to the house, but instead she began walking toward the office. It was then that Beth noticed a blue Volvo station wagon rolling up the drive.
The cocker spaniel. She'd completely forgotten about the pickup, but it seemed obvious that Nana was going to handle it. Beth used the time to cool herself with a cold washcloth and drink another glass of ice water.
From the kitchen, she heard the front door squeak open as Nana came back inside.
"How'd it go?"
"It went fine."
"What did you think?"
"It was . . . interesting. He's intelligent and polite, but you're right. He's definitely hiding something."
"So where does that leave us? Should I put another ad in the paper?"
"Let's see how he works out first."
Beth wasn't sure she had heard Nana right. "Are you saying you're going to hire him?"
"No, I'm saying I did hire him. He starts Wednesday at eight."
"Why'd you do that?"
"I trust him." She gave a sad smile, as if she knew exactly what Beth was thinking. "Even if he was a marine."
8
Thibault
Thibault didn't want to return to Iraq, but once more, in February 2005, the First, Fifth was called up. This time, the regiment was sent to Ramadi, the capital of Al Anbar province and the southwest point of what was commonly referred to as "the triangle of death." Thibault was there for seven months.
Car bombs and IEDs--improvised explosive devices--were common. Simple devices but scary: usually a mortar shell with a fuse triggered by a cellular phone call. Still, the first time Thibault was riding in a Humvee that hit one, he knew the news could have been worse.
"I'm glad I heard the bomb," Victor had said afterward. By then, Victor and Thibault nearly always patrolled together. "It means I'm still alive."
"You and me both," Thibault had answered.
"But I'd rather not hit one again."
"You and me both."
But bombs weren't easy to avoid. On patrol the following day, they hit another one. A week after that, their Humvee was struck by a car bomb--but Thibault and Victor weren't unusual in that regard. Humvees were hit by one or the other on almost every patrol. Most of the marines in the platoon could honestly claim that they'd survived two or three bombs before they went back to Pendleton. A couple had survived four or five. Their sergeant had survived six. It was just that kind of place, and nearly everyone had heard the story of Tony Stevens, a marine from the Twenty-fourth MEU--Marine Expeditionary Unit--who'd survived nine bombs. One of the major newspapers had written an article about him entitled "The Luckiest Marine." His was a record no one wanted to break.
Thibault broke it. By the time he left Ramadi, he'd survived eleven explosions. But there was the one explosion he'd missed that continued to haunt him.
It would have been explosion number eight. Victor was with him. Same old story with a much worse ending. They were in a convoy of four Humvees, patrolling one of the city's major thoroughfares. An RPG struck the Humvee in front, with fortunately little damage, but enough to bring
the convoy to a temporary halt. Rusted and decaying cars lined both sides of the road. Shots broke out. Thibault jumped from the second Humvee in the convoy line to get a better line of sight. Victor followed him. They reached cover and readied their weapons. Twenty seconds later, a car bomb went off, knocking them clear and destroying the Humvee they'd been in only moments before. Three marines were killed; Victor was knocked unconscious. Thibault hauled him back to the convoy, and after collecting the dead, the convoy returned to the safe zone.
It was around that time that Thibault began to hear whispers. He noticed that the other marines in his platoon began to act differently around him, as if they believed Thibault were somehow immune to the rules of war. That others might die, but he would not. Worse than that, his fellow marines seemed to suspect that while Thibault was especially lucky, those who patrolled with him were especially unlucky. It wasn't always overt, but he couldn't deny the change in his platoon members' attitude toward him. He was in Ramadi for two more months after those three marines died. The last few bombs he survived only intensified the whispers. Other marines began to avoid him. Only Victor seemed to treat him the same. Toward the end of their tour in Ramadi, while on duty guarding a gas station, he noticed Victor's hands shaking as he lit a cigarette. Above them, the night sky glittered with stars.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm ready to go home," Victor said. "I've done my part."
"You're not going to reup next year?"
He took a long drag from his cigarette. "My mother wants me home, and my brother has offered me a job. In roofing. Do you think I can build roofs?"
"Yeah, I think you can. You'll be a great roofer."
"My girl, Maria, is waiting for me. I've known her since I was fourteen."
"I know. You've told me about her."
"I'm going to marry her."
"You told me that, too."
"I want you to come to the wedding."
In the glow of Victor's cigarette, he saw the ghost of a smile. "I wouldn't miss it."
Victor took a long drag and they stood in silence, considering a future that seemed impossibly distant. "What about you?" Victor said, his words coming out with a puff of smoke. "You going to reup?"