Time to Hunt Part 3

"Roger says Keith was a tiny, bitter little man. He had a terrible burn as a kid and he was always compensating for it. They had a falling out. Elmer just wanted to shoot and shoot. He couldn't see any sense to a limit. Roger doesn't shoot anymore."

"Well, after 'Nam, I don't think I will either," Donny said.

"You sound okay for a Marine, Donny. Crowe was right about you. Maybe you'll join us when you get out." He smiled, his eyes lighting like a movie star's.

"Well..." Donny said, provisionally. Himself a peacenik, smoking dope, long hair, carrying those cards, chanting "h.e.l.l, no, we won't go"? He laughed at the notion.

"Trig! When did you get here?" It was Crowe and his crowd, now with girls in tow, all leading what seemed to be a kind of electric ripple toward Trig.

And in seconds, Trig was gone, borne away on currents of some sort of celebrityhood that Donny didn't understand.

He turned to a girl standing nearby.

"Hey, excuse me," he said. "Who is this Trig?"

She looked at him in astonishment.

"Man, what planet are you you from?" she demanded, then ran after Trig, her eyes beaming love. from?" she demanded, then ran after Trig, her eyes beaming love.

CHAPTER T THREE.

"Trig Carter!" Commander Bonson exclaimed.

"Yeah, that was it, I couldn't quite remember the last name," said Donny, who could remember the name very well but couldn't quite bring himself to say it out loud. "Seemed like a very nice guy."

Bonson's office was an undistinguished chamber in a World War II-era tempo still standing in the Washington Navy Yard about a half mile from Eighth and I, where by dim pretext Donny had been sent the next day for his debriefing on his first day as spy hunter.

"You saw Trig Carter and Crowe together. Is that right?"

Why did Donny feel so sleazy about all this? He felt clammy, as if someone were listening. He looked around. President Nixon glowered down at him from the wall, enjoining him to do his duty for G.o.d and Country. A degree from the University of New Hampshire added to the solemnity of the occasion. A few ceremonial photos of Lieutenant Commander Bonson with various dignitaries completed the decor; the room was otherwise completely bereft of personality or even much sense of human occupation. It was preternaturally neat; even the paper clips in the little plastic box had been stacked, not dumped.

Lieutenant Commander Bonson bent forward, fixing Donny in his dark glare. He was a thin, dark man with a lot of whiskery shadow on his face and a sense of complete focus. There was something pilgrimlike about him; he should have been in a pulpit denouncing miniskirts and the Beatles.

"Yes, sir," Donny finally said. "The two of them ... and about one hundred other people."

"Where was this again?"

"A party. Uh, on C Street, on the Hill. I didn't get the address."

"Three-forty-five C, Southeast," said Ensign Weber.

"Did you check it out, Weber?"

"Yes, sir. It's the home of one James K. Phillips, a clerk to Justice Douglas and a h.o.m.os.e.xual, according to the FBI."

"Were most of the people there h.o.m.os.e.xuals, Fenn? Was it a h.o.m.o thing?"

Donny didn't know what to say. It just seemed like a party in Washington, like any party in Washington, with a lot of young people, some gra.s.s, some beer, music, and fun and hope in the air.

"I wouldn't know, sir."

Bonson sat back, considering. The h.o.m.os.e.xual thing seemed to hang in his mind, clouding it for a time. But then he was back on the track.

"So you saw them together?"

"Well, sir, not together, really. In the same crowd. They knew each other, that was clear. But it didn't seem anything out of the ordinary."

"Could Crowe have given him any deployment intelligence?"

Donny almost laughed, but Bonson was so set in his glare that he knew to release the pressure he felt building in his chest would have been a big mistake.

"I don't think so," he said. "Not that I saw. I mean, does Crowe have have any deployment intelligence? I don't. How would he?" any deployment intelligence? I don't. How would he?"

But Bonson didn't answer.

He turned to Weber.

"We've got to get closer," he said. "We've got to get him inside inside the cell. Trig Carter. Imagine that." the cell. Trig Carter. Imagine that."

"A wire, sir? Could we wire him?" asked Weber.

Oh, Christ, thought Donny. I'm really not going anywhere with a tape recorder taped to my belly.

"No, not unless we could get time to set it up quickly. He's got to stay fluid, flexible, quick on his feet. The wire won't work, not under these circ.u.mstances."

"It was just a suggestion, sir," said Weber.

"Well, Fenn," said Bonson, "you've made a fine start. But too many times we see fast starters are slow finishers. You've got to really press now. You've got to make Crowe your pal, your friend, do you see? He's got to trust you; that's how you'll crack this thing. Trig Carter, Weber. Isn't that the d.a.m.ndest thing you ever heard?"

"Sir, if I may ask, who is Trig Carter?"

"Show him, Weber."

Weber looked into a file and slid something over to Donny. Donny recognized it at once: he'd seen it a thousand times probably, without really noticing it. It was just part of the living-room imagery of the war, the scenes that were unforgettable.

It was a cover of Time Time magazine late in the hot summer of 1968: Chicago, the Democratic National Convention, the "police riot" outside on the last night. There was Trig, in shirtsleeves, a gush of blood cascading down from an ugly welt in his short, neat hair. He was bent under the weight of another kid he was carrying out of the fog of tear gas and the blurs that were Chicago policemen pounding anything that could be pounded. Trig looked impossibly n.o.ble and heroic, impossibly courageous. His eyes were screwed up in the pain of the CS gas, he was b.l.o.o.d.y and sweaty, and the veins on his neck stood out from all the effort he had invested in carrying the dazed, b.l.o.o.d.y, traumatized boy out of the zone of violence. He looked like any of a dozen insanely heroic Corpsmen Donny had seen pull the same thing off amid not cops but tracer fire and grenades and Bettys over in the Land of Bad Things, none of whose pictures had ever ended up on the cover of magazine late in the hot summer of 1968: Chicago, the Democratic National Convention, the "police riot" outside on the last night. There was Trig, in shirtsleeves, a gush of blood cascading down from an ugly welt in his short, neat hair. He was bent under the weight of another kid he was carrying out of the fog of tear gas and the blurs that were Chicago policemen pounding anything that could be pounded. Trig looked impossibly n.o.ble and heroic, impossibly courageous. His eyes were screwed up in the pain of the CS gas, he was b.l.o.o.d.y and sweaty, and the veins on his neck stood out from all the effort he had invested in carrying the dazed, b.l.o.o.d.y, traumatized boy out of the zone of violence. He looked like any of a dozen insanely heroic Corpsmen Donny had seen pull the same thing off amid not cops but tracer fire and grenades and Bettys over in the Land of Bad Things, none of whose pictures had ever ended up on the cover of Time Time magazine. magazine.

THE SPIRIT OF RESISTANCE, said the cover.

"He's their Lancelot," said Weber. "Was beaten up in Selma by the Alabama State Police, got his picture on the cover of Time Time in sixty-eight at the convention. He's been everywhere in the Movement since then. One of the early peace freaks, a rich kid from an old Maryland family. Just came back from a year in England, studying drawing at Oxford. Harvard grad, some kind of painter, isn't that it?" in sixty-eight at the convention. He's been everywhere in the Movement since then. One of the early peace freaks, a rich kid from an old Maryland family. Just came back from a year in England, studying drawing at Oxford. Harvard grad, some kind of painter, isn't that it?"

"Avian painter, sir. That's what he told me."

"Yes. Birds. Loves birds. Very odd," said Bonson.

"Very smart boy," continued Weber. "But then, that seems to be the profile. It was the profile in England, too. The smart ones, they can figure everything out, see through everything. They'll be the elite after the revolution. Anyhow, he's big in the People's Coalition for Peace and Justice, a kind of glamorous roving amba.s.sador and organizer. Lives here in DC, but works the campus circuit, goes where the action is. The FBI's been monitoring him for years. He'd be exactly exactly the kind of man who'd get to Crowe and turn him into a spy. He'd be the kind of man who'd get to Crowe and turn him into a spy. He'd be perfect perfect. He's exactly who we're looking for."

"Fenn, I can't emphasize this enough. You've got less than two weeks until the big raft of May Day demonstrations is set. Crowe will be pressed to uncover deployment intelligence, Carter will be on him for results. You've got to monitor them very carefully. If you can't get tape or photos, you may have to testify in open court against them."

Donny felt a cold stone drop in his stomach: he saw an image, himself on the stand, putting the collar on poor Crowe. It made him sick.

"I know you'll make a fine witness," Bonson was saying. "So begin to discipline your mind: remember details, events, chronologies. You might write a coded journal so you can recall things. Remember exact sentences. Get in the habit of making a time check every few minutes. If you don't want to take notes, imagine imagine taking notes, because that can fix things in your mind. This is very important work, do you understand?" taking notes, because that can fix things in your mind. This is very important work, do you understand?"

"Ah-"

"Doubts? Do I see doubts? You cannot doubt." Bonson leaned forward until he and he alone filled the world. "Just as you could have no doubters in a rifle platoon, you can have no doubters on a counter intelligence mission. You have to be on the team, committed to the team. The doubts erode your discipline, cloud your judgment, destroy your memory, Fenn. No doubts. That's the kind of rigor I need from you."

"Yes, sir," said Donny, hating himself as the world's entire melancholy weight settled on his strong young shoulders.

Crowe was particularly derelict that afternoon in riot control drill.

"It's so hot, Donny. The mask! Can't we pretend pretend we're wearing our masks?" we're wearing our masks?"

"Crowe, if you have to do it for real, you'll want to be wearing a mask because otherwise the CS will make you a crybaby in a second. Put the mask on with the other guys."

Muttering darkly, Crowe slid the mask over his head, then clapped his two-pound camouflaged steel pot over his skull.

"Squad, on my command, form up!" up!" shouted Donny, watching as his casket team, plus a.s.sorted others from Bravo Company a.s.signed riot duty in Third Squad, formed a line. They looked like an insect army: their eyes hidden behind the plastic lenses of the masks, their faces made insectoid and ominous by the mandiblelike filter can, all in Marine green, with their 782 gear, their pistols, their M14s held at the high port. shouted Donny, watching as his casket team, plus a.s.sorted others from Bravo Company a.s.signed riot duty in Third Squad, formed a line. They looked like an insect army: their eyes hidden behind the plastic lenses of the masks, their faces made insectoid and ominous by the mandiblelike filter can, all in Marine green, with their 782 gear, their pistols, their M14s held at the high port.

"Squad, fix ... bayonets!" bayonets!" and the rifle b.u.t.ts slammed into the ground, the blades were drawn from their scabbards and in a single clanking, machinelike and the rifle b.u.t.ts slammed into the ground, the blades were drawn from their scabbards and in a single clanking, machinelike click click locked onto the weapon muzzles. Except one. locked onto the weapon muzzles. Except one.

Crowe's bayonet skittered away. He had dropped it.

"Crowe, you idiot, give me fifty of the finest!"

Crowe was silenced by his clammy mask, but his body posture radiated sullen anger. He fell from the formation.

"At ease," said Donny.

The squad relaxed.

"One, Corporal, two, Corporal, three, Corporal," Crowe narrated through the mask as he banged out the push-ups. Donny let him go to fifteen, then said, "All right, Crowe, back in line ASAP. Let's try it again."

Crowe shot him a bitter look as he regathered his gear and rejoined the line.

Donny took them through it again. It was an extremely hot day and the darkness of his mood was such that he worked the men hard, breaking them down into standard line formation, flank marching them into an arrowhead riot element, counting cadence to govern their approach to the imagined riot, wheeling them left and right, getting them to fix and unfix bayonets over and over again.

He worked them straight through a break as great wet patches discolored their utilities until finally the platoon sergeant came over and said, "All right, Corporal, you can give them a break."

"Yes, Sergeant!" yelled Donny, and even the sergeant, a s.h.i.t-together but fairly decent lifer named Ray Case, gave him a look.

"Fall out. Smoke 'em if you got 'em. If you don't got 'em, borrow 'em. If you can't borrow 'em, then get outta town because your buddies can't stand you."

Then, instead of mingling with the silently furious, sweating men, he himself walked over to the shade of the barracks and declared himself off-limits. Let 'em grouse.

But soon Crowe detached himself and came over, cheekily enough, secretly irritating Donny.

"Man, you really put me through it."

"I put the squad squad through it, Crowe, not you. We may have to do this s.h.i.t for real next weekend." through it, Crowe, not you. We may have to do this s.h.i.t for real next weekend."

"Oh, s.h.i.t, none of those guys is going to march with bayonets into a bunch of kids with flowers in their hair where the girls are showing their t.i.ts. We'll just hang here or go sit in some f.u.c.king building like the last time. What, you figure, the Treasury again?"

Donny let the question simmer in his mind a bit. Then he said, "Crowe, I don't know. I just go where they tell me."

"Donny, I got it straight from Trig. They're not even coming into DC. The whole thing's going to the Pentagon. Let the Army handle it. We won't even leave the barracks."

"If you say so."

"I thought we were-"

"Crowe, I had fun last night. But out here, in the daylight, I'm still the corporal and squad leader, you're still a PFC, so you still play by my rules. Don't ever call me Donny in front of the men while we're on drill, okay?"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Anyhow, some of us were going to Trig's tonight. I thought you might want to come. You got to admit, he's an interesting guy."

"He's okay for a peacenik."

"Trig's not like that. He was beat up in Selma; he was a f.u.c.king hero hero in Chicago. Man, they say he went out twenty-five times and dragged kids in from the pigs. He saved lives." in Chicago. Man, they say he went out twenty-five times and dragged kids in from the pigs. He saved lives."

"I don't know," said Donny.

"It'll be fun. You need to relax more, Corporal."

Donny actually wished the invitation hadn't come; it was his half plan, dimly formed, just to let his secret a.s.signment peter out, go away in vagueness and missed opportunities. But here it was, big and hairy: a chance to do his job.

Trig, as it turned out, lived off upper Wisconsin, just above Georgetown, in a row house that was one in a tatty block of similar dwellings. The house was crowded; it could be no other way. The furniture was threadbare, almost ascetic. Still, the stench of gra.s.s almost levitated the house and made Donny's nostrils flare when he entered. Everything was familiar but unfamiliar: lots of books, a wall full of shelved alb.u.ms (cla.s.sical and jazz, though; no Jimi H. or Bob D.). But also, no posters, no NVA flags, no commie posters. Instead: birds.

Jesus, the guy was a freak for birds. Some were his own paintings, and he had a considerable talent for capturing the glory of a bird in flight, all the details perfect, all the feathers precisely laid out, the colors all the hues of miracle. But others were older and darker, muted things that appeared to have been painted in another century.

Somehow he found himself talking to a girl about birds and told her that he, uh, hunted them. It wasn't the right thing to say but she was one of those snooty Eastern ones, who wore her hair long and straight and had a pinched look to her.

"You kill them?" she said. "Those little things?"

"Well, where I'm from they're considered good eating."

"Don't you have stores?" stores?"

This wasn't going too well. This grouping was smaller and more intimate than last night's and everybody seemed to know everybody. He felt a little isolated, and looked for Crowe, because even Crowe would have been a welcome ally. But Crowe was nowhere to be seen. And on top of that he felt incorrectly dressed: he was in chinos and Jack Purcells, plus a madras sport shirt. Everyone here wore jeans and work shirts, had long, exotic hair, beards, and seemed somehow in some kind of Indian conspiracy against the ways that he felt it was proper for a young man to dress. It made him uncomfortable.

Some spy, he thought.

"Don't give Donny a hard time," said someone-Trig, of course, simply appearing dramatically, an event for which he had a little gift.