Infected Page 39

least not until his head felt better. He told himself he’d call in and try to explain things, but only after a shower.

The Tylenol bottle sat on the microwave, right next to the wooden cutlery block that held the knives. His eyes rested on the chicken scissors. Only their brown plastic handles showed, but hidden inside the block of wood were the scissors’ thick, stubby blades that could easily cut through raw meat as if it were paper and chicken bone as if it were a dry twig. They held his fascination for a moment, then he reached for the Tylenol bottle.

He tossed four pills into his mouth, made a bowl out of his hands and gulped tap water to swallow them down.

That done, he shambled back toward the bathroom, stripping off clothes as he went. He stepped into the steaming shower and basked in the spray, tilting his head to let the water wash the slime from his hair and face. The stinging-hot water revived his flaccid muscles. The fog in his brain lifted a touch. He hoped the Tylenol would kick in soon — his head hurt so bad he could barely see.

29.

MOTIVATION

Dew refused to cry. Just wasn’t going to happen. It wanted to come out, and he had trouble fighting it back, but no way in h.e.l.l. He wasn’t in this business to make friends. It hurt, sure it did, but Malcolm Johnson wasn’t his first friend to die in the line of duty.

How much of this did he have to deal with? How much could he take? How many more people did he have to see die?

How many more people . . . did he have to kill?

He sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He needed to reconnect.

Dew picked up his small cell phone, the normal one, and dialed. It rang three times before she answered.

“h.e.l.lo?”

“Hi, Cynthia, it’s Dew.”

“Oh, hi, how are you?” Her words carried history, decades of back story, if you will. Dew and Cynthia had hated each other once, hated each other with a pa.s.sion that went even beyond what he felt for the enemy during a battle. That hatred was born out of love, deep, allencompa.s.sing love for the same person.

That person was Sharon, Dew’s only child.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve been a lot better, a lot of times,” Dew said. “But don’t tell Sharon that, okay?”

“Sure thing. You want me to put her on?”

“Please.”

“Hold on one sec.”

They would never, ever be friends, he and Cynthia, but at least they had respect for each other. They had to, because Sharon loved them both, and when Dew and Cynthia fought, it tore Sharon apart.

It had been hard to hear that his little girl thought she was a lesbian. But that was nothing compared to the pain and anger he felt seven years later when he heard Sharon and Cynthia were more than “partners” — they had performed some union ceremony or what have you, and they were basically married. Wife and wife. He’d raged, screamed at them both, called

them names he wished he hadn’t. Cynthia, of course, had screamed back. She wanted to protect Sharon, Dew understood that now. Cynthia also happened to despise men in general, especially gruff, bossy, unemotional military men — which happened to sum up Dew Phillips in a nutsh.e.l.l. But Cynthia’s constant attacks on Dew, both when he was there and when he wasn’t, took their toll on Sharon. Dew hated. Cynthia hated. Sharon just wasn’t wired that way. Sharon loved, pure and simple.

It took another two years after the “union” bulls.h.i.t, but Dew finally understood that this was the real deal for his daughter. This wasn’t a pa.s.sing fancy — she was going to be with Cynthia for the rest of her life. Once he came to that realization, he did what any good soldier would do — he sucked it up and he got the job done. He’d met Cynthia at what they both called the SDMZ, or the “Starbucks Demilitarized Zone,” and they agreed on an uneasy détente. They could hate each other all they wanted, and nothing could change that, but they agreed to be civil and to treat each other with respect. And over the years, in the process of being civil, he came to understand that Cynthia was a good kid — as far as bull d.y.k.es go, that is.

“Hi, Daddy!” Sharon’s voice, unchanged from the time she was five. Well, that was bulls.h.i.t, and Dew knew it, but that’s exactly what his ears heard every time she talked.

“Hi, sugar. How are you?”

“I’m doing great. I’m so glad you called. How are you?” “Tip-top. Couldn’t be better. Work is going well.”

“You’re still doing the desk job?” He heard the worry in her voice.

“They’re not making you go out in the field anymore, right?” “Of course not, at my age? That would be crazy.”

“It most certainly would.”

“Listen, sugar, I only have a minute. I just wanted to call and hear your voice.”

“Well here it is. When are you coming to Boston again? I want to see you. We can go out, just you and me.”

Dew swallowed. If a gutted Malcolm Johnson wasn’t going to make him cry, he sure as s.h.i.t wouldn’t let the waterworks go over a phone call with his daughter.

“Come on, sugar, you know I’m okay with Cynthia now. We’ll all go out, spend some time together.”

Dew almost laughed when he heard Sharon sniffle. Whereas he could hold back tears seemingly forever, she cried if the wind blew funny. “Yeah, I know, Daddy. And you have no idea what that means to me. What it means to us.”

“Stop with the crying already. I got to go. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye now.”