Part 21 (1/2)

We all look at Coach now, and no one says anything.

Coach, oh, Coach, why did you ask?

”Then we'll see your blood on the mat,” Coach says, planting a foot on the bottom bleacher.

Oh, Coach...these two, toe-to-toe, puffing their chests out, practically thumping them.

”I'd like to, Coach,” she says. ”Really, I would. But haven't we all seen enough blood lately? Shouldn't we really be thinking of our loss?”

Coach's face motionless, but I can see something in there, something caving in deep.

Look at her, Coach, I want to say. I want to say. Look at it. See how she is fearless now. See how long she has been waiting for her chance and now she has it. Look at it. See how she is fearless now. See how long she has been waiting for her chance and now she has it.

I have to make Coach see.

And I have to keep my eyes on Beth, ceaselessly.

We drive side by side down Curling Way, Beth play-gunning the gas. We're driving out to Sutton Ridge, where the red-scalped PFC, Jimmy Tibbs, agreed to meet with Beth.

She's pumping him or someone's pumping someone, and suddenly they are like comrades, pa.s.sing briefcases and taping Xs on telephone poles.

The spooky rustlings of the ridge are spookier than ever now that the air's gone cold and everything's gla.s.s-bright. Or maybe it's the cryptic pause I feel in Beth. Like a thing arrested between coming and going. Like the second before a crouch becomes a bound.

We're to meet the PFC in a clearing up by the easternmost edge, and we walk in a hush, sneakers tramping, ankles twisting on strange clumps and roots and other things of nature. Why can't the world be as flat and smooth as a spring-loaded floor, as hard and certain as a gym's merciless wood?

We hear him before we see him because someone is whistling tinnily somewhere. It seems to put a little scare even in Beth, who doesn't suffer the red-tinted terrors behind my eyes.

But we get closer and the whistle sounds more like a young boy's. A whistle to ward off demons and night terrors.

He's whistling what I finally recognize as some quavering version of ”Feliz Navidad.”

Waving from the clearing, he heads toward us, jogging soldierlike and extending his hand as we nudge down the crest of our twining pathway, shoes skidding.

Beth gives him her golden hand and a look of great charm, the powerful illusion of delicate girlhood.

I see how this is with them.

Beth knows her mark.

”Listen, girls, I don't want to get anyone in trouble.”

His freckle-rubbed face looking rubbed twice over, the PFC paces as he talks, scratching the back of his neck until it turns red.

”He was our Sarge,” he says. ”And he's still Sarge to me. And I got his back.”

”Of course you do,” I say. ”None of us want any trouble.”

”But the thing is, now our superiors are involved. The Army's doing their own investigation,” he says. ”And we have to cooperate fully.”

He looks at us and it's then I realize he knows we know about Sarge and Coach, and I am guessing Beth told him.

”We understand,” Beth says, all big-eyed sympathy. ”It's your duty. What choice do you have?”

”We just want what's best for Sarge,” he says, n.o.bly. ”And I want to protect your...sarge too.”

Beth nods, slowly, her slowness a hint to him that maybe she has no ”sarge” other than the truth.

”So they can't rule out anything yet?” she asks, fis.h.i.+ng. I marvel at her big-eyed frail routine. It's like she can make her body smaller somehow just standing there. She can make her rough-skinned voice go soft and helpless.

”Well, the detective said that a lot of times the autopsy only tells you so much,” he says, talking slowly so we can understand. ”You have to look at the behavior the weeks, days, hours leading up to the death. That's how you figure out what was going on in a guy's mind. To figure out if it's a suicide or homicide.”

”Homicide?” I blurt, almost a laugh. Then it is a laugh.

He's not laughing, though.

There is a long second when both of them look at me.

”What are you two talking about?” I ask, trying to keep the laugh going.

”A young guy, prime of his life,” the PFC says, swapping a grave look with faux-grave Beth, the two of them admonis.h.i.+ng me. ”There wasn't any note. They have to look at all possibilities.”

”But his wife...he...”

He bows his head, sighs, then looks at me intently. ”The point is, they're trying to figure out what was going on with him, they're going to ask questions, and I've got to answer them.”

I look at him, at Beth squirming delightedly beside him. These two. Who do they think they are, citizen soldier and good Samaritan?

”Just say it. You're going to tell them about how it was,” I say. ”With Coach.”

”I have to.”

I look at him, a bristling rising up in me.

”Sorry,” I say, after a pause. ”I was just thinking of the last time I saw you. Watching me knot this one's legs together in the parking lot of the Comfort Inn.”

He looks at me, stricken.

”But back to your point,” I say. ”Yes, I guess you're going to tell him everything then. Like about all the booze you fed us, even fourteen-year-olds. You do know that JV is fourteen. And about Prine.”

The PFC's face bursts redder than ever, a blaring siren.

Beth harrumphs like she's both annoyed and impressed. My lieutenant, my lieutenant. My lieutenant, my lieutenant.

”Girl looks out for her Coach, like she's a mama t.i.t,” Beth says to PFC, shrugging. ”Point is, scrub, we all wanna protect our top dogs.”