The War Whisperer: Book 7: Changes

  The War

  Whisperer

  The War Whisperer

  __________________________

  Book 7:

  Changes

  Barry B. Longyear

  Enchanteds Publishing

  New Sharon, Maine

  The War Whisperer, Book 7: Changes is a work of fiction. The contents of this work are either products of the author’s invention or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events are coincidental.

  Enchanteds edition, The War Whisperer, Book 7: Changes copyright © 2020 by Barry B. Longyear, all rights reserved including the right to reproduce this work or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information write: Barry B. Longyear, PO Box 100, New Sharon ME 04955.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Not so very far into the future

  The Leon Hunter

  Blood.

  That’s what Tim Winthrop wanted to see on the pages: blood. That was his catch-all term for tears, sweat, blood, piss, and other bodily secretions representing extreme degrees of loss, pain, love, terror, excitement, humor, confusion, and lust.

  “Most great fiction,” he once said to me, “is at least fifty percent nonfiction. If you can’t yank out your still-beating blood-covered heart and shove it in the reader’s face, all you’ll have on your pages is chicken feathers. And yes,” Tim added, “‘chicken feathers’ is like ‘cowardice’. It takes a singular verb.”

  I’ll leave the issue of courage to those who enjoy expounding on such subjects. Blood, on the other hand, is more in my area of expertise.

  In this story I have shown my heart many more times than make me comfortable. I have confessed to things that have left me beset by battalions of ghosts. I would love to point with pride at my brilliant accomplishments, but my problem solving knack was an accident of hellishly delivered brutal genetics. It was nothing I worked for and achieved, although through my education and training I and my instructors put some polish on it. Even so, my use of that gift has filled graveyards and cloaked homes, mansions, barracks, and office hallways in both hemispheres with loss, pain, and fear. A hundred years from now historians, if they remember me at all, will most likely include my name in their top-ten lists of history’s darkest monsters.

  When I resigned as iBlack Director, the vast cavity, the massive emptiness inside my soul, almost made me turn back and resume my post to continue filling up my attention with threats, killings, and burials at Diamond Hill. I didn’t do that, though. I still had promises to keep. Reb, my brother and dearest friend, was dying. More blood and tears on my pages.

  My charter flight from Austin landed at San Antonio International. Pop and Checo met me, exchanged a few hugs, but the moment I stepped outside the Indigo Terminal I stopped dead and said, “I hate Texas.”

  Both Pop and Checo looked at me with astonishment. I didn’t know why I said it. As with almost anywhere on Earth, there were good times in Texas as well as bad. Right then, however, my feelings concerning all the bad things in my life wherever their origins shucked their chains at the same time and came bubbling to the surface, blotting out any memories of good. Reb was dying and I didn’t believe I could survive the loss.

  Pop didn’t say anything and neither did Checo. The emotional cloud of darkness that held me in its shadow had been obvious to others for months. According to Jazmín, the black cloud had been following me for decades.

  I shrugged out a half-assed apology and while Pop drove us to his place, I forced myself to light a few mental candles to drive back my mental night: In Texas there had been Thiago, Dylan, Abril, Nacho and his family, Pop, working the ten for the Kings, Señora Rodriguez, the footrace victory, Pablo Gringo, watching Bingwen Lee die, and there was Valentina Castro, the tough sheriff who became my Mamacita. There was that wonderful Christmas with Jazmín and I playing Santa from Dylan’s prayer jar, and the smile on Dorothy Kinney’s face as I praised her beef carbonara. It is always people that make the good and the bad of a place. It is never the fault of dirt, particularly not the dirt of Texas. At last I nodded, took a deep breath, looked across at Pop and said. “I don’t really hate Texas.”

  “I know,” he said.

  I turned around and looked into the back seat at Checo Rajoy. “Thanks for getting my stuff to Pop’s. Are you heading back to Tampico soon?”

  He stared at me in disbelief for a second, shook his head, and said, “No, man. I took on the job of keeping you alive, Storm Cloud. So far, so good. iBlack intelligence, though, shows that there is still a sizable number of old ex gang bangers, ex cops, and ex politicians in this city as well as around the planet who still want to see you toes up. There are still open CIA, cartel, and Mexican Federal Police contracts out on you. Your sister told me my job is done when I fail and you die, and then if I’m still alive she comes looking for me.”

  “My little sister?” I muttered. I looked at Pop. “From the local gangs? Still?”

  He nodded. “You never heard of San Antone Alzheimer’s? You forget everything but the grudge?”

  “Yeah. I get it,” I said resignedly. I looked back at Checo. “You’ve used up a good couple of decades watching my back. Don’t you want to go out, make some money, start a family?”

  “You adopted me, Jerry.” He held his hands out to his sides, palms up. “I got stock in Cambio, Miyoshi, International Education, Boing, Agua Sierra Chiquita, Soto La Marina Power, and a few more. I am very pleased with my bank account. And iPink is keeping me on full pay to make certain nothing heavy falls on you. If I had any more money I would have to buy a bigger bank.”

  “What about a family, Checo?”

  Long silence. I turned to look back at him and Checo was looking through the side window. “You are my family,” he said.” He turned his head and faced me. “And I am doing all I can to keep it alive.”

  I had a son. Not a blood son, but a son-in-fact as I was to Pop. “Sorry,” I said. “I won’t mention it again.”

  He nodded once and continued looking through the window.

  I turned back in my seat, my head buzzing. Orphans have their own meanings for things. We tend to build what we feel are families from associations, accidental meetings, or in Reb’s case, from an obscure historical figure, a slave who fought in the Civil War with Company “C” of the Texas 5th Infantry in exchange for his freedom and the freedom of his descendants. That and life were the only gifts handed down from his line, and from it he had created a family.

  I’d had Checo for my shadow since before the form of defensa asimétrica came to me. I had regarded him as something of an aging little brother. But Checo was almost forty, and I had adopted him. I needed to make the mental adjustments necessary for my newly realized role as father figure.

  I nodded. “Checo, I want you to come with me to Centerville tomorrow to see my brother Reb.”

  “Sí. Uncle Jack.”

  No. Texas wasn’t so bad. It was the world’s newest freeland, if we could keep it. If we could keep it, whatever might this land become? Look at what had happened to Tamaulipas. It was the power of Juan Diego’s White Diamond. Now, if it succeeded, Texas would become the White Diamond for other states, other lands.

  Pop had some of his jazz on the sound system. It was playing the ancient Benny Goodman “Why Don’t You Do Right?” sung by a very young Peggy Lee. It was one of Pop’s favorites, and one of mine, as well. I turned and saw Checo silently mouthing the lyrics. When the piece was almost done, I poked the double left arrowheads and started it over again and began singing along. Pop joined in and so did Checo. It was the first time I had ever heard either of them sing.

  Sometimes when being crushed and
cut off by that heavy dark curtain of grief and despair, arms so weakened the curtain cannot be moved, it is necessary to flame a hole through the damned thing. The curtain will eventually get patched, but meantime those trapped beneath it get a breath of happiness, joy, and peace making the burden of grief the next day not any lighter, but with a little bit of added strength to withstand its weight.

  At home Mamacita was looking very good. The injection of AIN-inspired medicine into San Antonio healthcare was going to help everyone live longer, happier, and more pain free as well as spending less time and money doing so. She had taken up gardening and had a job consulting with the Bexar County Security and Adjudication Association (BCSAA). After we ate, we talked about Texas, Tamaulipas, the many changes to come, and those we loved and knew. When Pop and Mamacita went to bed for the night, Checo and I sat up until I was certain they were both asleep.

  Once I was certain, I nodded to Checo, he picked up our duffels, we went outside, locked the door behind us, walked west on Arbor until we came to where it ended at Alazan Creek, walked the north bank of the waterway, this time with a couple feet of water in it, past the Tortilla factory to Zarzamora.

  Where Dylan had died, and where Nacho, Ip Man, and Jonny Brake had died after I shot them was now an expanse of asphalt parking lot for the factory employees. The billboard looking down on the spot no longer advertised tequila. Instead there was an advertisement for Cambio. They were hiring code clerks, software engineers, out-of-work government employees familiar with the maze of discontinued programs, offices, and benefits. Checo saluted the sign and I laughed. Our dividends on our Cambio investments were literally golden.

  Across the street from the factory, where the junkyard in Reds grass used to be, was a brightly illuminated car rental. No humans. I presented my card, the pleasant image of a woman on the screen said in Liz’s voice, “Welcome, Jerónimo. Very good to see you again. Would you like to rent another Miyoshi?”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  Liz picked out a light gray Miyoshi Tampico 960 SUV. When I got into the vehicle, Liz welcomed me again, adjusted my seat and mirrors, and headed for Centerville without being asked, but only after reminding Checo to buckle his seatbelt.

  I got some sleep as Liz and the vehicle drove at the old road speed limits toward Leon County. There were several detours due to poor road conditions. Who would do the roads had been decided, but rebuilding a land’s road contracting industry from scratch would take time. Highway contractors though were hiring and at top wages. The ride took about seven hours, the last three of which I drove, insisting that Checo flatten out in the passenger seat and get in a couple hours of sleep.

  We came into Centerville going north on old Interstate 45. The first thing that struck me about the town was how green it all seemed. Pines, oaks, maples, cottonwoods seemed to shade the homes and streets on the way to the center of the city, almost all the lawns green and healthy looking. Texas in my mind was always a dusty patch of flatland broken by an occasional mesquite or pear cactus. The towns were always wide dusty streets baking in the sun, the lawns burnt brown, scorpions and rattlesnakes cooling in the shadows. The greenness of Centerville reminded me more of eastern Colorado.

  In the built up portion of town, although the streets were Texas wide, still the trees and the grass were green. After traveling east on St. Mary’s, I turned right on North Cass which continued south through fine residential neighborhoods, the street curving toward the east until Liz had us turn left onto Teakwood Road.

  The nursing home was a modest single story structure on Teakwood with seven wings radiating from a central hub. It was an old building, but in good repair. I put the flash drive containing those very special features designed by Pinky and Sara Mae into one of the car’s USB ports.

  “Got that, Liz?” I asked.

  “Got it,” she answered. “I’ll keep watch outside.”

  “Why you have the car keeping watch?” asked Checo.

  “You’re watching my back, right?” I asked.

  “Right.”

  “Well, my back is going into that building over there and will be walking the halls. You can’t watch it from out here.” I placed my hand gently on his shoulder. “Besides, mi hijo, I think you want to say goodbye to your Uncle Reb.”

  Checo stared at me, for a long second, then said, “You keep making me cry, Popi, and you going to make me kiss you.”

  I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Forgive me, Checo. I have almost no experience in being a parent. We’ve spent so many years trying to stay ahead of the bullets I tend to regard you less as a son and more as a colleague.”

  “That’s good, no, Popi?”

  I nodded, sighed, and turned to enter the nursing home. As long as I didn’t see him, Reb’s dying was something I could mentally place aside. Now it was time to brush away illusions and once again have Uncle Reaper rub death in my face.

  Reb was in a private room, his usual chocolate complexion more gray than brown, all his hair was gone, and even though the temperature in the room was close to 30 Celsius, he was bundled in an electric blanket and shivering. The Centerville Health Care nursing home had gotten a substantial bequest from Reb, and so he was as comfortable as luxury and a well-paid staff could make him. Great TV access to all the content channels for all the residents with ICI remote control option. Reb also had pipes dripping stuff into him and more pipes drawing off stuff and dripping it into bags.

  “Hey, Reb,” I said.

  “White Cloud,” he replied barely above a whisper as he saw me in the doorway. Then came that big smile. “Hi, Shiloh.” He glanced at the door and nodded at Checo. “Hey, Checo. He ever adopt you?”

  “A little while ago. Good to see you, Reb.”

  I turned to Checo. “Go out in the car, open my bag, and get the black hoody out of it. Quick now.”

  Checo nodded and turned back toward the hub.

  “Hey, Mental Horse,” I said as I entered the room. “Thanks for waiting.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to wait much longer, Geronimo. Look at me: bald as an egg and freezing. I’m practically raising blisters on myself with bed warmers and electric blankets, yet I feel cold all the damned time.” He closed his eyes, moistened his lips, shook his head and said, “Jaz?”

  “She’s in Altamira trying to take real human intelligence and cram it along with all mental processes into a machine. I’ll see if I can get her to call.”

  “I heard from her.” He shrugged slightly. “We already talked about her and Sara’s work and said goodbye. Haven’t heard from Tex, though. They still got him in the slams down in Argentina?”

  I sat in the chair by his right side. “Tex is almost in a luxury suite, from what I hear,” I answered. “When the freeland happens there, I’m thinking no one wants to be responsible for anything bad having happened to Tex. Lots of people power behind the Black Diamond down there, army units either bowing out or actually joining the rebels.” We were silent for a moment, then I began, “Reb, are there any arrangements—”

  “No. No, man. I took care of everything. I want you to read something, though, before they throw the dirt on me. Okay?”

  “You got it,” I said. “Still going to be buried next to Jacob Davis?” I asked.

  He grinned and nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced out of his window that was just then catching the morning sun. “Been watching a lot of movies lately about the Civil War and the War with Mexico.”

  “Anything factual?” I asked.

  He laughed as Checo came into the room carrying my black hoody. I nodded my thanks to Checo, took the garment from him, pulled Reb’s bedclothes down, took him by his shoulders, and sat him up. “Wow,” he said, “is this a genuine iBlack hoody? How much is the Blue Negro making from merchandising?”

  “You can tell it’s genuine,” I said, “because it has no markings on it. I figured you’d prefer this to an iPink hoody.”

  He looked at the printed label inside the garment and read out l
oud, “Hecho en Tamaulipas T.L.”

  He showed me how to disconnect the plumbing going into his IV. I helped him on with the hoody, pulled the hood up over his head, reconnected his plumbing, helped him to lie down again, and pulled up his sheet and blankets.

  “Damn, thanks, Jer. This is great. Ever since the radiation took off my rug I’ve been chilly. Someone really ought to get into iBlack merchandising.”

  “What about R.J. Black? ‘Property of Randall J. Black Academy’ with a black mamba on the back,” I joked.

  “‘Changing the world’,” he said, a distant look in his eyes. “We really did that, didn’t we?”

  “We did,” I answered, “And mostly for the good.”

  Suddenly he faced me. “Your friend, the writer Tim Winthrop, he ever write about Black Academy?”

  “No. He just wrote his Walking Horse Chang mysteries. Lots of real feelings and thoughts on the pages, but they are always cast as fiction or ascribed to someone else. Before Misty was disbanded, writing about Black or Misty was a punching offense. Afterward it was still too risky. I hear his wife managed to sneak him in and get him buried on No Star Hill.”

  “That’s good. If I didn’t already have a place, I’d want to be planted on No Star Hill.” He glanced up at me. “I’ve done a lot of traveling on Bing Universe, White Cloud. Black Academy is all overgrown, windows busted out, gang tags and stuff spray painted all over the walls. The cafeteria is burned down. He stared into nothingness for a moment then shook his head. “You ever think about Little Johnson Nub? That trench on No Star?”

  “Almost every day,” I whispered. “Diamond Hill, too. Villa Regina.”

  We were silent for a long time, one of those moments in which one fears all that could be said had been said. There had been so much that had been good at Black Academy, but not enough to erase the image of the trench that morning on No Star: Heller, Simon, the headless four, so many good kids.