Infected

20.

SHORTHANDED

It was hard to believe it had only been seven days since Murray had sent for him. Seven days ago, when he’d never heard of triangles, Margaret Montoya or Martin Brewbaker. Seven days ago, when his partner wasn’t in a hospital bed, a bed that for all intents and purposes, Dew had put him in.

Seven days ago Murray had called for Dew. They’d fought side by side back in the day, but after ’Nam they didn’t exactly keep in touch. When Murray called, it meant only one thing — he wanted something done. Something... unappealing. Something that required getting a little dirt under the fingernails, something that Murray — with his tailored suits and his manicures — wasn’t willing to do. But they’d been through h.e.l.l together, and even though Murray had advanced in the CIA ranks and done his d.a.m.nedest to rise above the s.h.i.+t-stomping lieutenant he’d been in ’Nam, when Murray called, Dew always answered.

It was only seven days ago that Dew had stood in Murray’s waiting room, eyeing the twenty-something, red-haired secretary, wondering if Murray was f.u.c.king her.

She looked up with her sparkling green eyes and a genuine smile. "Can I help you, sir?"

Irish accent, Dew thought. If he’s not banging her, or at least trying, he must be impotent.

"I’m Agent Dew Phillips. Murray is expecting me."

"Of course, Agent Phillips, go right in." The redhead added in a confidential tone, "You’re a few minutes late, and Mister Longworth hates tardiness."

"Does he? Ain’t that a bite in the a.s.s. I’ll have to get on some kind of schedule."

Dew walked into Murray’s sprawling, spartan office. A bullet-ridden American flag decorated one wall. On the opposite wall hung a row of pictures showing Murray with each of the last five presidents. The pictures were like a stop-action movie of Murray’s aging process, from hard-bodied young man to more-than-slightly-overweight, cold-eyed piece of gristle.

Dew noticed the absence of any pictures showing Murray in his army uniform, either dress or fatigues. Murray wanted to forget that time, forget who he’d been back then, forget the things he’d done. Dew couldn’t forget — and he didn’t want

He certainly remembered the flag on Murray’s wall, remembered the firebase where he and Murray and six other men had been the only survivors of an entire company, remembered fighting for his life with all the savagery of a rabid animal. It had been like something from World War I at the end, just before the choppers arrived, fighting hand to hand in wet, sandbagged trenches, the 2:00 A.M. stars hidden by clouds that poured rain and turned the firebase into a slick sea of mud.

Murray Longworth sat behind a large oak desk devoid of decoration, unless you counted the computer. The desk’s empty top gleamed with layers of polish.

"Heya, L.T.," Dew said.

"You know, Dew, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use that nickname.

We’ve had this talk before."

"Sure thing," Dew said. "I guess I forgot all about that."

"Have a seat."

"Nice place you’ve got here. You’ve had this office something like

four years now? Glad I finally get to see it."

Murray said nothing.

"It’s been, what, three years since we talked, L.T.? Seven years since

you needed something from me? Your career in trouble again, is that it? You need Good Ol’ Dew to come in and pull your a.s.s out of the fire? Make you look good, is that it?"

"It’s not like that this time."

"Sure, L.T., sure. You know, I’m not as young as I used to be. My old body may not be up to your dirty work."

Dew stood in front of the flag. A grimy-brown color stained the top left corner; just delta mud, Murray told anyone that asked. But it wasn’t mud, and Dew knew that better than anyone. The flag had once been attached to a flagpole that Dew used to kill a VC, driving the bra.s.s point into the enemy’s gut like some primitive tribal spearman. The bottom right corner held a similar stain, where Dew had tried in vain to stop the blood pouring from Quint Wallman’s throat

after an AK-47 round had all but decapitated the eighteen-year-old corporal.

They hadn’t used the flag for motivation, because at the time none of them had been particularly patriotic. The flag just happened to be where they made their last stand, where they held off the attack until the choppers came and bailed them out. Murray was the last one to board, making sure the other men — all wounded, including Dew — were on before he worried about himself. He grabbed the flag, the bloodstained, burned and bullet-ridden flag, on the way out. No one knew why at the time, probably not even Murray. When they realized it was all over, that they had escaped death, left the corpses of both friends and enemies behind, the flag somehow took on more meaning.

Dew stared at the tattered fabric, the memories pouring back, and it was a second before he realized that Murray was softly calling his name.

"Dew? Dew?"

Dew turned and blinked, quickly returning to reality, to the present. Murray gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Dew thought about antagonizing Murray some more, then walked to the chair and sat down.

Dew pulled a Tootsie Roll from his jacket pocket, unwrapped it, popped the brown candy into his mouth then dropped the wrapper on the floor. He chewed for a moment, staring at Murray, then asked, "Did ya hear about Jimmy Tillamok?"