They’d just passed into New Mexico and gotten fueled up in Lordsburg when Matt finally woke up. His face was pale, and his breathing was labored. Ethan stayed in the right lane, letting almost everyone pass him. When the Mustang was made, seventy-five miles an hour had been considered speeding. Now that it was the normal highway speed, he was concerned that it might overtax the engine, so he kept the vehicle at seventy. Luckily the Fastback was the luxury version of a Mustang and its air-conditioning kept them from melting in the New Mexico heat.
He passed Matt a bottle of water. “You okay, man?”
Matt accepted it and drank long and slowly. When he was done, he capped the bottle and held it to the side of his head. “Yeah. Doing better. I think I just needed some rest.” He paused, then said, “Probably dehydrated from blood loss.”
“You had me worried there.”
“I was kind of worried myself. Been a long time since I was shot.”
“About that. You said you’d tell me the story about my dad and you in Vietnam.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “So many war stories. Some things are best left alone.” Matt shifted his gaze out the side window. “You know that the Brown kid was evac’d four times. I was involved in one of the evacs, so he could have actually gotten on my bird, although I’d never know. As fast as we were scooping up the dead and dying, he could have introduced himself and I wouldn’t have remembered.” He coughed again. “Those birds that attacked at Freivald’s were upgraded models of the ones that flew in ’Nam. We called them Hueys, but they were really UH-1 Iroquois.”
Ethan noted a police car had pulled in behind them and slowed down.
“Wounds like that, he could have been sent home. But he decided to stay. You know, I think that’s what gets the Browns the most. They can’t understand why their kid didn’t come home when he had the chance.”
The police car suddenly flashed its lights. Ethan was about to slow down when the police car pulled into the passing lane, accelerated, and headed down the road after someone else.
Ethan breathed a sigh of relief. “Why do you think he stayed?”
“Who knows? Patriotism. Maybe Harry and Charlene weren’t good parents. Maybe the kid wanted nothing to do with them. Maybe it took them forty-five years to become the parents he never had. Or maybe he just liked killing.” Matt coughed. “I’ve seen all kinds.”
“What kind was my dad?”
“Your dad was a little of both, but from what I heard, your grandfather was a piece of work.”
“Congressman Irving McCloud. He was about as right wing as you could get,” Ethan said. “He was against pretty much anything that wasn’t white, straight, and Protestant.”
Matt nodded. “Your dad told me. Do you know it was your grandfather who made him go to war? Your dad could have gotten a deferment, but his father would have nothing of it. Your grandfather thought it would hurt his political career if his son didn’t fight and get shot at. Your dad always secretly believed that his father wanted him to die. After all, who wouldn’t reelect the father of a dead war hero?”
Ethan made a face. “Sick. You know, I never loved my grandfather. I was scared of him for sure, but never loved him.”
Ethan glanced at Matt. His eyes were fluttering, and he seemed to have trouble breathing.
“Matt! Matt! Are you okay? Stay with me.”
Matt’s eyes opened. “Was I sleeping?”
“Looked like you were having an attack or something.”
“I dreamed of being a giant. You ever had that dream? Because I have it all the time now.”
Ethan had had the dream, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to hear more about his dad. “When was it you were with my dad?”
“Sixty-seven and sixty-eight.” Matt grabbed his left side and moaned. “Ahh. Now that hurts.”
“What hurts?” He’d held off going to the hospital because Matt had seemed to be doing better. Now he doubted his decision. Not that they’d passed a medical facility since they’d gotten on the interstate. Deming was the next big city. If Matt could hold off until then, Ethan would drop him off.
“My side.” Matt’s eyes shot wide. “Whew! Felt like I got shot again.”
“I’m pulling over,” Ethan said, slowing down.
“Why? Are you suddenly a surgeon?” Matt laughed, and blood spurted on the dash. “Oh no, that’s not good.”
The sound of the car changed as the tires began to bite into the gravel on the shoulder. A semi passed, blaring its horn.
“Matt! You can’t die, Matt!”
Matt’s eyes were wide, and his mouth was open.
Jesus, he is dying right here in front of my eyes, thought Ethan.
He pulled the car to a stop, unbelted, and leaned across the center section. Blood was seeping out of the bandage in massive quantities.
“Matt.” Ethan slapped the side of Matt’s face gently. “Matt, wake up. Who was it we’re going to see? What’s his name?” Matt was unresponsive. “Matt?”
Matt coughed one more time, blood pooling out of his mouth and dribbling onto his chest. Then nothing more.
Ethan stared at Matt, not believing that the guy could die just like that. It was like something had broken inside of him, and the blood just kept coming until there wasn’t any more. He sat, staring for a long time. Only when another semi came by and blared its horn, the push of the wind from its passage rocking the small car, did he break free of his shock.
Gently Ethan pushed Matt’s eyes closed. Then he put the car in gear, waited for a break in traffic, and merged back onto the highway. He drove for the next thirty miles, thinking of nothing at all, his mind entirely wiped. When he saw the exit for Deming, he took it.
It wasn’t much of a town. Small, dusty, definitely surviving on interstate traffic. Ethan searched for the most deadbeat hotel he could find. The problem was it looked as if all the motels were vying for that prize. He was forced to try several, because they insisted on seeing ID. But when he used Matt’s credit card on the third hotel, they accepted it with a quick swipe and handed him a sticky key to room 19.
Ethan parked right in front of the door to the room and dragged Matt inside. He laid him on the bed, said a few words, then got back in the car and left. Someone would find him. A maid. The manager. At least Matt would get a decent burial this way.
After topping off his fuel and using the window-washer towels to clean Matt’s blood from the vinyl seat and the dashboard, he resumed his journey to San Antonio. What he would do when he got there, he had no idea, because Matt had taken the name of his contact to his grave. But it was all he had.
The other alternative was to quit, and that was something he wouldn’t do.