Page 31 of What is Found

CHAPTER 2

One night on-call.

They watched an old TV-movie from the 80s when nuclear war was a big topic. The movie centered on what happens in this little California town after a nuclear attack. By the end, everyone is dead from radiation poisoning except for the mom, played by Jane Alexander, and one of her kids, Brad, and this mentally disabled boy, Hiroshi, they take in afterhisdad dies.

The scenario is bleak. There reallyisno hope. Brad’s dad isn’t coming back; his sister dies; his friends die. Over time, the town’s population spirals into the terminal dwindles. After she coughs up blood, Jane Alexander has Brad and Hiroshi pile into the family car in a closed garage and turns on the engine. (Not an original way to go out in that scenario: Fred Astaire did the same thing inOn the Beach.) Only Alexander can’t go through with it.

Instead, they just go on living. Day after day, waiting for the end. They celebrate Brad’s birthday with a candle stuck on a graham cracker. When Brad says he doesn’t know what to wish for, Jane Alexander says they should remember everything, the good and the awful—and then she blows out the candle. And that’s when the movie ends.

When the movie was done, they were both quiet for a long time afterward. Then Roni, smearing tears from her cheeks, said,Would you have done that? Would you have kept going until the end?

He hadn’t answered right off the bat. Her question was valid. Honestly, whatwouldit be like to know you were going to die and there wasnothingyou could do? All of a sudden, Death wasn’t a foggy something way in the future. You and Death were on a collision course, and Death wasn’t going to swerve at the last second.

He also didn’t reveal that he had watched that movie at least five or six times. He never understoodwhyuntil Stan suggested that, maybe, what happened in the movie was a parallel to John’s past:No matter how many times you go back over it in your head, son, there’s nothing different you could have done. You got to just keep on keeping on.John often wondered if all federal marshals doubled as psychiatrists.

Anyway, back then with Roni, he’d turned the question around. This was something at which he excelled, this art of deflection and evasion. After all, he’d been doing it for almost fifteen years by then.

What would you have done?he’d asked.Killed yourself or kept on?

He never did find out. Oh, she was going to answer, had actually started to say something—but then they were both paged to the ER and just never got around to finishing up that conversation.

In a way, wasn’t the situationnowthe same? He wasn’t going to die, but there was no escaping reality. It was like what Elliot says when a friend wonders why E.T.’s people can’t just beam him up to the mother ship:“This is reality, Greg.”

Well, the reality here was very simple. Davila was done.

But the question: was he?

CHAPTER 3

Hunchinghis shoulders up to his ears, he flicked on his flashlight and crunched around to the back of the cargo container. Bypassing an ice-encrusted set of wooden stairs—a death trap waiting to happen—he started down the path he’d taken before, picking his way with care and using the guide rope to slow his descent.

If he were honest with himself, he’d known Davila was done back on the mountain, with Parviz’s body still warm, the big guy down, and the young guy with the bashed-in nose bubbling his last. Davila’s concussion and scalp wound wouldn’t necessarily have been the game-changers. He’d heard Vietnam stories from Dare of men who kept on after getting fragged or wounded. Arnold Schwarzenegger wasn’t the only guy who could handle a long weapon one-handed.

So, Davila might manage that. Except that coughreally bothered John. So did the way Davila was splinting that left side. People tended to hold themselves gingerly after an injury like that for the simple reason that a cracked rib hurts like hell. Plus, the surest way to turn acrackedrib into a ribfractureis to go traipsing up and down mountains. While lying on his back all day was also a bad idea, Davila going on a forced march through rough terrain wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered. That cot probably wasn’t doing the man any favors either; evenJohnmight be pretty stiff after lying on rickety springs with only a mat and sleeping bag for cushioning.

So, the only question now was, like that old movie, very simple: either-or.

Either he went on, with Davila or without him.

Or he packed it in and got them both the hell out of here.

Although there was also Matvey, the wild card, a random element but one that felt, a bit, as if he’d come full circle because the question now was as it had beenthen, during the evacuation.

What to do about a boy like Matvey?

CHAPTER 4

Parviz’s vanlooked like a badly frosted cupcake. Driven by a crosswind, snow spackled the passenger side, while only a thin layer of ice glazed the driver’s side door and window. He’d left the van unlocked and the key in the ignition. As with the cargo containers, icy winters in Wisconsin had driven home that unless you had thought ahead to spritzing lubricant into the keyhole, you locked that sucker at your peril. Even so, he had to use both hands and his weight to haul the driver’s side door open. The door finally gave with a glassy crackle and scream of balky hinges. Running his flashlight beam over the door’s rubber stripping, he spotted a telltale glimmer where moisture had solidified to ice. Tugging off a glove, he leaned inside and dragged a finger over the windshield. There was ice, but it was patchy. He wondered if the van’s engine would even turn over if he triedthe ignition and then decided not to try. Clambering inside, he pulled the door shut behind, shucked his crampons then stepped over the center console and into the cargo bay.

He’d done a cursory search of Parviz’s van once before. The extra cans of gasoline would come in handy. If he decided to load Davila into the van, backtrack to Dushanbe, and get them on the next plane out of the country, he’d swipe a couple more jerry cans from that shipping container.

Emptied of their duffels and weapons, the van’s cargo bay looked a little barren. There was a cardboard box holding a half dozen bottles of vodka. A couple of toolchests, the tarps, an air pump that ran off the van’s battery. Four sets of chains for the tires, as well; John remembered what Ustinov had said about the bukhanamaking like a mountain goat. Based on his experience, he thought this particular goat was both arthritic and asthmatic. Still, better than nothing, and theyhadmade it up to the springs without a problem. The van might have four-wheel drive, but its blocky, loaf-like shape was less than aerodynamic. Those chains would come in handy.

Nested in with the four fuel cans were several quarts of engine oil and something he’d missed: two very large plastic bags. One held spools of wire, both insulated and not. The other was stuffed with rolls of duct tape, which was good. You could never have too much duct tape.

No spare tire, though. He turned his flashlight to either side of the van and found nothing. Where would that be stored? Maybe tucked under the chassis or in an under-the-floor storage bin as with some American SUVs? He’d check once he was outside again.

Popping open a large gray toolbox, he let go of a soft whistle. The thing was packed with tools. The removable tray held screwdrivers of various flavors and sizes; hex keys; a metric tape measure; a level; a Leatherman similar to his own. A flexible plastic storage roll that contained a socket wrench and various-sized metric sockets.

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