Page 59 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

JOHN: A LEAP OF FAITH

They left Phakding early, around nine. Their hike in Nepal that day was only six, seven miles, but the last three-quarters of a mile to Namche Bazaar was supposed to be a real killer: straight uphill, no nice level turnouts where you could look at the view and catch your breath.

One guy they met in Phakding said they could count on two hours of steady uphill easy before they hit the valley: Nothing but up and more up and they got some steps that are real killers.

Even if you do get to see Everest for a couple two, three minutes, those stairs?

Do them and then tell me if they aren’t the worst experience of your life.

He was tempted to say that, no, he really had experienced far, far worse and killed several people along the way but kept his mouth shut.

The day was clear, which he thought was a good omen.

An hour out, he figured the guy was exaggerating.

The way was downright pleasant, a nice ramble through thick forests of pine and rhododendron studded with pink blooms. The river kept them company along the way, gurgling and chuckling over rocks, churning itself the color of milk.

There were several suspension bridges along the way, but they’d been relatively tame affairs: not very high, not very long, all of them bedecked with colorful prayer flags tied to either side.

He’d been reassured of the bridges’ sturdiness by the constant stream of yaks, burdened with sacks and bulging panniers, clopping along.

(Yak caravans always had the right of way.

He didn’t know if this was written down anywhere, but the yaks were wide and their burdens even wider.

So, best to let them just have the bridge for as long as it took.

But, boy, you had to watch your step. He hadn’t seen so much yak poop since Amu’s camp.)

About two hours out, he spotted a perfect rhododendron blossom on the ground which he plucked up then slid over Roni’s right ear. When they kissed, her lips tasted of sweat and salt, and he thought, Yeah, just do it. Take the leap. Don’t second-guess. The time’s right.

So, all in all, the day had been good so far. He was jacked up, filled with good intentions and love for his fellow man, hopeful about the future, feeling just great because the world was his oyster, baby…

And then they got to the Hillary Bridge.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s…that’s, you know, that’s pretty high.”

“Five hundred feet above the river,” she said. “More or less.”

“Uh-huh.” Thankfully, they were at the rear of a large group of backpackers, all of whom seemed to be together and, like them, waiting for a yak caravan to make its way from the opposite side of the gorge.

Yaks were a mixed bag. The nice thing about yaks was they were slow.

This was also the bad thing about yaks because he had too much time to think of all the thousands of things that could go wrong.

On the other hand, all those people would have to cross ahead of them and if no one plunged to his death?—

“You know what I think?” she said. “The wait’s the killer.”

“No, I’d say it would be that last step. You know, the one you take before your Wile E. Coyote moment.”

“Well, we have to cross if we want to get to the other side, John.”

“Wait, are you calling me a chicken?” he asked. “ Me ?”

“Well, if the shoe fits…” She let go of a small bwrawk-bwrawk . “Do chickens even wear shoes?”

“Oh, ha-ha.” He studied the continual snap of seemingly trillions of multicolored prayer flags tied to the chain-link on either side of the bridge.

The surface seemed sturdy, no gaps, all nicely bolted together.

Although the thing did kinda bob and sway, and his mind kept jumping to the second Indiana Jones movie, which had been meh, not the best. But I’m pretty sure that’s the one where the suspension bridge snaps.

Because didn’t they all? By definition? A suspension bridge was like a gun.

You knew that thing was gonna go off in the third act.

“It might be awhile.” Roni touched his arm. “Can we…do you mind if we sit down for a little while? If that’s okay? I feel kind of funny all of a sudden.”

“Sure.” Concerned, he lead the way to small outcropping of rock away from the bridge. “Are you not feeling well?” he asked as they sat. “What’s wrong? Is it the altitude?”

“No.” Crossing her arms, Roni hugged herself. “I think it’s the bridge.”

“Are you worried? Look, honey, I was just joking, it’s just me ?—”

“No.” Her eyes were suddenly shimmery. “It’s me . All of a sudden, I’m looking at the bridge and then I’m thinking this is like crossing from one side of my life to the next. And don’t make some crack about metaphors.”

“Me? Joke about something like that?” It had been on the tip of his tongue. “Never.”

“Liar.” Her mouth wobbled into a grin that quickly slid away.

“We’ve got this time now, but we can’t travel forever.

We’re not independently wealthy or anything.

We need to stop moving eventually. The thing is, I don’t know where I belong or if I can go back.

To the Army, I mean. They’ll take me. That much was clear when I got checked out in Ramstein. ”

“Are you really just saying you don’t know if you can go home again?

” He’d wondered how the Army would stage-manage that.

The official word was that no one had been left behind.

If Roni did return, it would have to be on the down-low.

Roni might even get the same coaching he’d gotten when he was fifteen and his name was…

Oh, by God.

“Hey?” She touched his arm. “Are you all right? You look like you just got the shock of your life.”

“Me? No.” Of course, he had, because just now the pieces to a puzzle he’d not even realized he’d been working had snapped into place. “Go on,” he said. “I’m sorry. You were talking about going back to the States and picking up the pieces.”

“Uh-huh. Thing is,” Roni said, nibbling at her lower lip, “I’m not sure I can. I don’t know if I want to go back home and stay there.”

“Whoa, whoa.” He cupped her cheek with a hand.

“Honey, I think you’re taking this in leaps and bounds instead of baby steps.

No one’s forcing you to do anything.” She wasn’t ready anyway; not someone who had nightmares more often than not, who needed the lights on and to be held until the shakes went away.

That person just wasn’t ready. “Unless your parents are pushing you?”

“No.” Her lips moved into a wobbly smile.

“I mean, they’re relieved, they’re happy, but I don’t belong at home anymore.

I also don’t see, though, how I can just pick up after so long and put on that uniform again.

I’m not scared,” she added, quickly. “That’s not it.

After that mine, after Sarbaz…I think I can pretty much live through anything. It’s not fear.”

He could buy that. When he was fifteen, he thought he’d die, but life continued and time passed. He had learned to put that past in a box and then the box on a high shelf in a dark closet at the back of his mind.

“Everything takes time,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he wasn’t also talking about himself.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Me, put on the uniform again? I’m out of the Army, remember?

They wouldn’t have me back even if I wanted in.

” Actually, he doubted that, if only because of Mac, who seemed have the power to do a great many things.

Look at Driver and his men, and the secret Flowers had told him on the way to the aqueduct.

As before, he wondered if Roni knew what the men had done.

Perhaps, but this was not his secret to tell, and so he packed that up, too, and slotted it in that closet and turned the key.

Driver’s secret, like his past, was a story for another day.

“Before all this started, I had plans,” he said. “I was going to build a cabin in the mountains, start up a little practice, ride horses and, you know, sit in front of a nice fire at night.”

Just like Dare. He wondered if his uncle was still alive. If, maybe, after all this time, he could return to Texas to see him. Probably not. Stan would have a cow.

Although Mac knew about his past. That crack about living a lie. Yet Mac had kept John’s secret. Was that a signal of some sort? A sly way of saying, I know who you are, I know what you’ve been and so if I come calling…

Which made him wonder about where the others were now and what they were up to.

Mac had been whisked away by the medevac Driver had called before they set off for Sarbaz’s mine.

As luck would have it, the mine’s staging area also made for a makeshift helipad and so the choppers had come in, one after the after.

A couple for Shahida and all those orphans still left at the mine going in one direction.

Driver, Meeks, and Flowers, leaving in another.

There had been no extended goodbyes, just handshakes, hugs, thumps on the back, and then their helo was rising and John had to swallow back a lump.

And, damn, if he hadn’t thought Wait, I don’t want to never see your ugly mugs again .

But then they were gone, leaving Amu with his son and the clan’s other boys, and John and Roni with Poya: a kid with secrets and, in that way, so very much like John.

The last he’d seen, the kid was being ushered into a medical transport.

When John had objected, Poya’s escort said, only, Sir, Mac’s awake and he will tear me a new one if I don’t bring this kid back. At ease, Captain. We got this.

That escort had addressed him by his rank. As if John was still in the fight.

Was he? Was this Mac’s way of hinting he could be, again, if he chose?

“Why are you smiling?”

“What? Oh.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing.” He craned his head over a shoulder for a quick peek.

The last yak was just stepping off the bridge.

This seemed to be the signal for the backpackers to start surging forward like shoppers at a Wal-Mart on Black Friday.

Maybe they’d just hang here for a few more minutes, let that gaggle get across.

“So, do you want that now ?” Roni asked. “That nice fire at night in the mountains?”

“It’s got its appeal, but I don’t know. I mean, it is possible to build a fire anywhere. Just so long as I share that fire with you, I almost don’t care.”

Which was his cue, he thought.

“Come on now.” Getting down on a knee, he carefully tweezed out the top tissue from a packet in a side pocket. “Here, blow your nose before you get your snot all over the place. Don’t worry, the tissue’s not used or anything.”

“Thanks.” Letting go of a watery laugh, she unfolded the tissue. “That is probably the most romantic thing you’ve ever?—”

She stopped.

He waited, and then when she didn’t say anything more, he thought, Oh, crap.

“I…you know, we were in Phakding, and I saw a bazaar and I remembered, you know, your sister…what you said about her fiancé proposing on top of a mountain and then I saw that and the color, it’s like your eyes, and so I thought?—”

“Yes.” She slipped the gold band onto her left finger then turned her hand, so the rosette of emeralds caught the sun and glowed a deep rich green. “Yes, John.”

Oh, God, thank you, thank you for this. Every bit of him ached to kiss her, to hold her, and shouldn’t there be a swell of movie-music, schmalzy violins? Tonight, when we rest. We have plenty of time. Pushing to his feet, he held out a hand. “Then, come on, hon. Let’s get going.”

There was no crowd at the bridge now. The last of the group before them was just stepping off on the opposite side of the valley. No yaks, in sight either.

The Dudhkoshi River churned five hundred feet. The valley seemed impossibly wide, an expanse that, like life, they had to cross if they were to keep on keeping on. A leap of a faith, perhaps, but her hand was in his, his heart was in her keeping, and that beat Indiana Jones by a mile.

Okay, almost. Because what he wouldn’t give for a fedora.

“Before we cross, can I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Shoot.”

“Do you remember what Mac said way back in Kabul, when we were going to go AWOL, and you asked what we were supposed to tell Command?”

“Yes.” He was glad they were both wearing sunglasses. “He said we should lie.”

“He said more than that. He said lying should be something at which you excelled because you’d had years of experience.” She let a moment go by. “John, what did he mean?”

Mac knew, of course. Then, again, so did Ustinov. The hints Ustinov dropped hadn’t clicked until just now, when he’d been thinking about himself as a fifteen-year-old boy.

The Russian had planted the hints in the first few minutes when he’d handed John and Davila their passports and papers. When he’d told John—whose alias was Mr. Child —how very much he’d liked Die Trying . His favorite novel by Mr. King—Davila’s alias—was Desperation.

The code was so easy, a blind person could see it with a cane. Die Trying featured a woman with guts and brains, a real fighter— who was being held captive .

A woman like Roni. In that book, too, John thought the lead character had taken an impossible shot. Just like John.

But the clincher? The lead character in Desperation , the true hero, was a boy of faith. A boy who beat the monsters. A boy who did what was right—and still lost everything.

That boy’s name had been John’s, too, once upon a time.

So, Ustinov and Mac knew who he was. They knew his story. Which meant they just might come knocking?—

And then, his phone rang.

They both jumped.

His phone rang, again. Well, burbled out his ringtone.

“Darth Vader ?” Roni said. “You have the Darth Vader march as a ringtone?”

“Hey, in my experience, no one calls just to shoot the breeze.” Although talk about saved by the bell. Would he ever tell Roni about who he’d been and what he’d done? Maybe not for a while. Maybe not ever.

Backing away from the bridge, he fished his cell from a pocket. Unlike Afghanistan, Nepal had excellent cell service. He stared at the number, didn’t recognize it, shrugged, then slid the little answer arrow to the right and put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Static crackled, as if the phone was clearing its throat—and then there was a voice he knew.

“Hello, Mr. Child. So good of you to take my call. I wonder,” Ustinov said, “how are your teeth?”