Petros had tried to eat—Collin had watched him pick up a sandwich—but he couldn’t. He’d put it down almost immed-iately.
“You have more epinephrine?” Petros asked. “Is that true?”
“Yes. I had him bring two vials. In case something happened and we couldn’t take off—because of the weather,” Collin said.
Petros looked at him a moment. “I would have done the same,” he said. “We’re a lot alike.”
“Not at all. I took an oath to do no harm,” Collin said.
“I did, too.”
“Then don’t.”
“Tell that to your President,” Petros said.
“He’s not a doctor,” Collin said.
“No. He’s the Hitler. He killed my son. Why?”
“It was wrong,” Collin said.
“He took my hand,” Petros said.
“I’m sorry for that. But it doesn’t give you the right to murder people.”
“It’s a war. We just want them out of our country. We don’t have anything to do with bin Laden and his bunch. We aren’t religious,” Petros said.
“Don’t kill civilians, and I’ll believe you,” Collin said.
“What do you want us to do? We don’t have an air force or an army anymore. All we have is ourselves,” Petros said. “Your side kills civilians every day.”
“Are you trying to convince me you’re not a murderer?” Collin said. “You can convince me by leaving in the jeep and not doing this.”
“You’re so sure of yourself,” Petros said.
“Yes, well. I’m not mad,” Collin said.
“You really think I’m mad?”
“Absolutely,” Collin said.
“And killing civilians. How many do you think have died in Iraq?”
“It’s madness. All of it,” Collin said. “None of it’s right. I see that now.”
“Mohammad, you can’t take him,” Dolores said.
“Yes, I can. He’s right. I don’t want you to go. He’s right about that.”
“Good,” Collin said. “Good. I’ll get my things. And I’d like to write a note to my family. I’d like to do it in peace. You know I won’t try to run away.” He stood up. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Do you really love her?” Petros asked.
“Yes, I love her.”
“She won’t have either one of us if you go.”
“That’s right,” Collin said. “We missed our chance . . . like your son missed his. It happens. You’ve seen it, as a doctor. Bad things happen to people that shouldn’t, and sometimes there’s nothing we can do about it.”
The tall one came back into the lobby. He had Marita by the shirt. He’d slapped her, her nose was bloody.
“He’s going to his room,” Petros said. “Leave him be.”
“You can’t let him just walk out,” the tall one said.
“Shut up, fool, and do as I say. Put the girl in the office,” Petros said. “I’ll kill the girl if you aren’t back here in twenty minutes,” he told Collin. “And you’re right, we’re not at all alike.”
Collin closed the door to his room. The rain had slowed for a moment, and he leaned against the door and listened to it. It sounded beautiful.
He’d been around death since medical school, but he’d never thought about his own death. It was a strange feeling. He was frightened. He’d seen other people, countless people, face death. It was always worse if they were afraid. He tried not to be now.
He wanted to write a note to his mother and father, something that would make them feel better about it. He went to the desk and took out a piece of stationery from the drawer. He looked and found a pen, but it was dry and skipped. It took a minute for the ink to start to flow.
He wrote in his neat hand that he loved them, that he’d done what he had because he was a doctor and had a responsibility to fight to save people, even like this. It was all very simple and clear to him. He hoped they would understand. He signed it. It seemed too short, but he had no more time.
He looked at his watch. He began to fold the note, then suddenly unfolded it and put a PS at the bottom. He left the paintings in his apartment to his sister, he said. Then he put “Mexico” at the top, for some reason. Satisfied, he folded it up, put it in the envelope, and sealed it. I’ll give it to Dolores and she’ll see they get it, he thought.
He looked around the room. He got his coat. He went to his painting things and picked them up. He should never have been a doctor, he thought. That was a mistake. It hurt a little, because he couldn’t go back and start again. That was the problem with life; you could never go back and start over and do it right.
“Why are you doing this?” Dolores had followed him to the room and came in while he’d been standing there.
“I told you,” he said. He put his coat on.
“Do you love me?”
“Very much,” he said.
“Then how can you leave me?”
“I told you why,” he said.
“I can’t lose you,” she said. “Do I have to beg you?”
“I have to go,” he said. “There’s a man called Alex Law. He’ll come soon, once he hears what’s happened. You have to leave before he gets here.”
“The one called Tom?” she asked.
“Is that what he said his name was?”
“Yes. He thinks you’re involved with this. He’s a policeman, too.”
“Yes.” He wanted to explain to her, tell her the whole story. But there was no time.
“He’s arrested my mother and sisters,” she said.
“I’m sorry.” Collin said.
The door swung open; it was Petros. “I want to see the epi-nephrine,” he said. He was sweating and looked terrible.
“You won’t make it, Mohammad.” she said. “Why go at all? Collin is right; they’re all mad.”
“I’m a soldier. I have to go,” Petros said. “Let me see the epi-nephrine.”
He thought he could kill Petros, but what about the tall one? If they could fly, he’d never stop them. “Do either of the other ones fly?” Collin asked as he lifted the vial out of the makeshift medical bag Hidalgo had brought him. He handed it to Petros.
“Yes. The one in the suit, he’s had a little training. But probably not enough to take off. I was in the Iraqi air force. They sent me to medical school. I know what I’m doing.” Petros looked at the vial’s label carefully as he spoke. “You give me the shot, then, if I need it. I’m going to have to trust you. To give it to me. . ..”
“Yes,” Collin said.
“I’m not a monster,” Petros said to him. He was looking at both of them now. He handed the vial back.
“Give us a moment, Mohammad, please.” Dolores kissed her husband. He held her with his bad hand. They hugged and didn’t speak. Then he was gone.
“I have a letter for my mother and father,” Collin said, holding it out.
She took it. “I thought, that first day you came to see me at the Gobi, you were too young to really be a doctor,” she said.
“You’ll make sure the postage is right? They always get it wrong,” he said.
“I’ll make sure,” she said.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I would have asked you to. . ..”
“I would have said yes,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Thank you for understanding.” They kissed. “I wish I’d known you in London,” he said. “That would have been good.” Then he walked out, and she let him go.
He and Petros sat in the back seat, the tall one next to the driver. They drove through the town. The streets were empty, the night sky clear now. He could see the stars. It was just past midnight. The passing of the storm left a peaceful feeling.
“Did you know all the time about her?” Petros asked. They drove by the church. Collin realized he’d never gotten a good painting of the church or even gone inside, and he wondered what it was like.
“No,” Collin said. He didn’t feel like talking. They passed a few houses that, for one reason or another, had been abandoned over the years, as if the town couldn’t grow beyond the church. He remembered how happy he’d been that morning, coming back from the Rancho. Alfredo had showed his painting off at lunch and told Collin he should be a painter. Sometimes, he realized, you’re as happy as you’re going to get and don’t even realize it.
They drove into the palm trees. He closed his eyes. In his imagination the sun was beginning to rise over the mountain, and it was flashing though the trees. Collin heard Petros talking, but he didn’t bother to pay attention. He just wanted to watch the morning unfold as it had when he’d come here to paint the palms.
He remembered the way the bottoms of the palm trees were dark from the rain, almost black in places. His mind started to fashion a painting with the sharp moments of glare dropping under the fronds and hitting the desert floor, making light pools, magical looking.
He opened his eyes and saw Jimmy Hidalgo’s body as they drove by it. It startled him. In a moment they were out onto the muddy dark airstrip.
They got out of the Jeep. Petros looked at him. It was surpri-singly cold out. Collin looked at the airstrip as he climbed out of the car. It was muddy and badly puddled. “Go on. Get in,” Petros said. Collin followed the tall one up into the cargo door. Petros made an inspection of the plane. They watched him walk around it, his shoes sinking in the mud.
Collin put his improvised medical bag on the pile of webbing. The tall one sat in the co-pilot’s seat. He knew enough to turn on the engines; the port side coughed and started, then the starboard. The sound was queerly beautiful, even now.
Petros came to the cargo bay door and tried to pull himself up, but he couldn’t. He looked at Collin and held his hand out for help. They stared at each other a moment; then Collin gave him a hand, and he was in.
“Give me the injection if something happens,” Petros said. Collin turned around; the one in the suit was pointing a pistol at him. “He’ll shoot you if you don’t. Do you understand?” Petros said. “If you do anything wrong, he’ll kill you.”
“Yes,” Collin said. “I understand.”
Petros went forward and got in the pilot’s seat. Collin looked out at the palm trees lining the bottom of the runway. He could see the town, its metal roofs in the starlight. He saw the ailerons being tested. They’d be taking off soon, and he thought for a moment of jumping. The problem is that no one wants to die, he thought. He knew that. But there’s always a place where it happens. He knew that, too. What difference does it make where?
He slid down and sat on the stack of webbing. He touched where the webbing was bolted to the fuselage, looking at the bolts. Satisfied, he clutched his bag. The plane started to move, the engines getting louder.
They taxied down toward the base of the mountain. Collin watched through the cargo door as they turned back around and were finally pointed west. The engines went hard; suddenly they were bouncing down the runway, picking up speed.
Collin stood up. The one with the suit was standing, holding onto a strap. They looked at each other. Collin glanced towards the cargo door and saw the desert floor rushing by, quicker now. He could see the tree line and then he felt that moment when they were airborne, and everything changed inside of him.
He’d been afraid all his life. He understood that as he turned and looked at the man with the suit. He glanced into the cockpit. Petros was fighting to bring the plane’s nose up, fighting to clear the palm trees. Collin remembered his own father in the cockpit: in control, so sure of himself. How he’d admired his father like that. He closed his eyes and felt that joy again, a child’s joy, and felt safe—the way he had always felt flying with his father as a boy.
Collin reached down then and grabbed the webbing, bringing it up with him. He wondered if there would be enough; Hidalgo had said six feet. He was hoping it was enough. The one with the suit didn’t understand at first, just looked at Collin as he stood up and started to walk towards the cargo door. Then he understood, and fired twice.
The doctor didn’t hear the bullets. The first one missed, but he fell forward, looked down and saw the tops of the palm trees. Six feet; Hidalgo had been right, he thought. The second bullet hit him in the back; and when he spilled out of the cargo door, the webbing went, too. It didn’t catch the first palm, or the second, but it caught the fourth one and held.
They heard the explosion in the town. People came out into the street and saw the fire in the tops of the palm trees—a bright yellow, just like the sun coming over the mountain.