La Légion held all kinds of men, the full range of the human spectrum.

  But we lived under the same rules, some official, some cultural.

  To ignore orders when there were no officers around to enforce them was part of that culture. As was hero worship of men who had most flagrantly disobeyed all rules, those who chose a life of violence, despite knowing how all such lives must end.

  That was why a famous criminal named Mesrine was admired by every légionnaire. First for his battlefield courage in North Africa, later for his international string of bank robberies, the beautiful women he always seemed to have with him, and his many escapes from custody.

  It was assumed some of his exploits had been financed by the Organisation Armée Secrete—those former soldiers who still regarded de Gaulle as a traitor for abandoning the fight to keep Algeria a French colony.

  But Mesrine’s journey proved to be longer than the distance between continents. He slid all the way from the fascist-loving Right to the overthrow-obsessed Left, moving like a superb tango-dancer, never missing a step. Or losing a single worshipper.

  To a légionnaire, it was not whether Mesrine stood to the left or to the right—it was that he stood with us. Politics were for fat men who sat behind desks—fighting was for the soldiers they sent out like one-way carrier pigeons. We existed solely to deliver death messages. Whether we returned or not was of no great interest to them. So Mesrine’s motivations meant nothing to us—what mattered was that he represented everything we respected.

  I remember a passage from a pamphlet one of the men in my unit showed me:

  La prison, cest un puit nausabond de haine, de peur et de désespoir. La bourgeoisie bien-pensante veut nous faire croire que sa fonction est de nous “transformer.” Après tout, quel esprit sain aurait envie de retourner dans cet enfer? Mais comme le bourgeois na aucune idée de ce qu’est vraiment le désespoir, il ne peut pas comprendre ses effets.

  He glanced up to see if I was still looking over his shoulder; then his eyes returned to the page, stopping only when he reached the point where his own life was a tribute to his hero.

  Je fais le vœu de porter le titre de HORS-LA-LOI jusqu’à ma mort. Et je fais le vœu de mourir dans la lutte sans merci qui m’oppose aux ennemis de tous ceux qui ont un vrai respect pour la justice.

  I could have translated the gist of it easily enough. But, as Patrice had cautioned me many times, I never spoke more than a few words of French aloud—only those words the officers required us all to know. So I just glanced at the passage and shook my head in frustration. That didn’t matter. The man who held the pamphlet was very passionate about it—he couldn’t wait to recite it for me in English, with a few embellishments of his own. He was an Aussie, maybe as much as twice my age. All I knew about him was that he called himself “Mal.”

  “Listen to this, mate. Here speaks a man who knows the truth of things.” He translated: “Prison is a foul pit of hatred, fear, and despair. The pious bourgeoisie claim that living in pain will ‘rehabilitate’ us. After all, what sane man would want to return to such a palace of horrors? But they do not understand: the pain they inflict produces only total desperation. True, none of us wish to be thrown back into Hell. And perhaps such a prospect frightens the weak and the cowardly. But for the warrior, there are only the choices of the jungle: kill, or be killed. Prison itself is an instrument of evil, designed not to ‘change’ convicts, but only to protect the wealthy from the poor. I reject their bourgeois ‘values’ as I reject them all. I vow to proudly wear the brand of OUTLAW until I die. And I vow to die in battle, in mortal combat against the enemy of all who truly revere justice.”

  Mal knew I was much younger than him, but not so young that I might not have already tasted prison wine and found it too sour to ever drink again. I didn’t know if those words he quoted had actually come from Mesrine himself, or if the Aussie was reading some leftist French “analysis.” In France, the Left specializes in explaining things to those too uneducated to understand them. They are certain that no one is too ignorant to understand the messages of the Right.

  I knew that the Aussie had no plans to earn a living by unskilled labor. And I guessed that “Mal” wasn’t short for “Malcolm,” just his way of proclaiming that he would be a bad person to have as an enemy. He didn’t mind fighting—he was a courageous man, and adept as well—but the only work he’d ever do would end in his death. Or, worse, capture by the enemy. Either way, OUTLAW boldly tattooed on the outside of his thick right forearm would be with him always, even if only in a shallow grave.

  If it hadn’t been for Dolly, I might have followed him. Not to any political ideology. La Légion had shown me that those are all the same—excuses to take power, or to keep it. No, I would have followed Mal to the only two depots where the trains for men like us ever stopped: prison or death. And for those willing to risk death to escape prison, even those two were really only one.

  It was as the Aussie had said—those with the power to make the laws can brand “outlaw” on whoever they choose.

  And even if those with that power took it by force, so what? No real power is ever acquired legitimately, because the conqueror is always the final authority.

  I will never forget two men I’d served with. Hard men from America. They didn’t look alike, but they had the same look.

  One was a Cherokee, I think. I knew he was from one of those tribes that fought to the death rather than be captured and enslaved, and I knew that this was no political position—it was something inside him. The other one was black—not an African, like Idrissa, a Senegalese who preferred to fight with his sword—but an African born in America. His English was the same as mine, but he never talked to me. And I never started a conversation in all the time I was a légionnaire—more advice from Patrice.

  I thought that maybe the Indian blood in Dolly’s friend Laura had risen to the surface—better to fight than surrender, tribe trumping race, as it always does—but I never said anything.

  Why would I? She had a really good way with those girls who were always around. And I knew she had Dolly’s trust. Otherwise, she would never have allowed Laura to take one of the girls into our bedroom—the only place in the house that was unmonitored.

  Rascal—a mutt Dolly had rescued from the shelter—made a noise deep in his chest. Not a threat, just an alert. People usually didn’t come near the house after dark. If I wasn’t around, he’d guard Dolly. When Dolly left the house, Rascal would go along. I guess he figured I could take care of myself. Or he didn’t give a damn.

  I understood that. All of it. Rascal had his job, and he’d do it—that was all that counted, no matter what it might cost.

  I’d already seen a car pull in. The camera we had set up in the driveway didn’t throw a monitor image sharp enough for me to see exactly what kind of car it was, but I could tell it was a good twenty years old … and it hadn’t been an easy twenty years.

  I heard a car door close—sounded more like a screen door than a bank vault. Watched an unfamiliar figure walk around to the back entrance. Soon as Rascal got the man’s scent, he relaxed.

  “This is Mack,” Dolly said. “Laura knows him, too.”

  No more “Maksim” for you, huh? flashed in my mind. I know a Russian when I see one, and this guy was right off a recruiting poster: close-cropped blond hair, flat blue eyes, heavy cheekbones, and that squared-up stance they always took—relying on strength, not flexibility.

  We shook hands. He didn’t go for a bone crusher, like some do when they first meet me, but he let me feel he had more in the tank if he needed it.

  Dolly moved her head and he sat down. No surprise to me. Dolly never played hostess—if anyone wanted something, they knew where the refrigerator was. And the coffee urn, where you could mix your own brew.

  “I work two jobs,” Mack said. Speaking to me, no preamble—I guessed that Dolly already knew whatever he was telling me. “Actually, three. But they all overlap. I deal with two of the permanent homeless populations, and I’m on call if the jail gets a prisoner who could be losing it.”

  “I never heard of a shrink that worked with homeless people.”

  “You mean, worked with them outdoors, right?”

  “I guess so. I never really thought about it.”

  “I’m not a medical doctor. I’m a social worker.”

  “A guy’s on suicide watch in the jail, they call in a social worker?”

  “Mack is an L.C.S.W.,” Dolly said, “a licensed clinical social worker.” She wasn’t being defensive with me. She wasn’t really talking to me at all. Mack wasn’t going to play the credentials game, fine—but she’d be damned if he allowed modesty to get in the way of information.

  I just nodded, as if I understood what she meant—I knew Dolly would explain it to me later.

  “One homeless population has really advanced coping skills,” Mack said. “For them, being homeless is a lifestyle, not something they were forced into. Maybe they were travelers, once”—he paused just for a second, maybe he could see the gitan in my blood as easily as I saw Russian in his—“like they jumped off a freight just to see what they could scrounge, and found they liked it here. The weather is good year-round—that could have played into their choice, too.

  “The other group is completely different—mentally ill or addicted to something. Or both.”

  “Drunks?”

  “Alcoholism, sure. Around here, meth is more common. But anything you can drink, snort, shoot, or … It’s a long list. Still, just about any way you play that, getting locked up somewhere along the way is part of their deal.”

  “Wouldn’t some of those ‘advanced coping skills’ get you locked up, too?”

  “That’s the truth,” he said, smiling thinly. “But there’s a difference between the merchants who don’t want homeless camps blotting the scenery during tourist season and locals who are scared of people walking around who smell bad, look worse, and talk to themselves.”

  “I’ve seen those. Both of those, I guess. But I’ve never seen you before.”

  “You never saw my face,” he said. “And I don’t wear a suit and tie to work.”

  I nodded. No reason for this guy to know I could pick a visitor out of a crowd just by his stance. It was as easy for me as picking up a red dot on a black screen. Or putting one on an enemy’s chest.

  “The cops usually don’t bother them. Any of them. The MICAs—Mentally Ill, Chemically Addicted—they could be carrying everything they own with them, or else they’ve got some kind of ‘residence’ … you know, a place to sleep, or even get help. The ones who chose the outside life, they don’t want anything to do with the government. No ‘programs’ for them. If they’ve got a check coming—maybe from the VA—they’ll have some local address, give the owner a piece to hold the checks. Just go down to the library any morning right before it opens, you’ll always see a few of them. Waiting to check on their e-mail.”

  “Their e-mail?”

  “Yep,” Mack said, showing that thin smile again. “The library has free Internet access. It’s a lot cheaper than a PO box. So many of them use it that there’s a sign-up sheet.”

  “And this guy they grabbed—?”

  “Homer. He’s an ambulatory schizophrenic. Stays outside as much as possible, because the voices can’t get to him as easily if he’s not indoors. But he only really feels safe after dark.”

  “So how did he get that guy’s watch?”

  “God gave it to him,” Mack said, not the faintest touch of sarcasm in his voice. “He was walking along the beach. Just before the sun comes up, you can see the sky start to lighten. The voices are really strong in the daytime. But Homer knows you can’t rely on the sun—it can get so foggy near the ocean that you can hardly see it at all at sea level. That’s why God gave him the watch—so he could keep track of time.”

  “He took it off the body?”

  “That’s my guess. It’s not like they matched a serial number or anything. But who else besides a White Power guy would have an ‘88’ with a pair of lightning bolts through it engraved on the back of his watch?”

  “If the … crazy guy, okay? … if he was wearing that watch, how would the cops have seen the back of the case?”

  “Homer took it off and showed it to them. He wanted them to know he’d have better control over the voices now.”

  “They weren’t even looking—?”

  “For suspects? Probably were. Not thinking any homeless guy actually did the killing, but they know those folks—the permanent ones, I’m saying—they don’t miss much that goes on around here, so …”

  “But wouldn’t those people, the ones who are homeless by choice, wouldn’t they keep lunatics out of their camps?”

  “Well, see, there’s more than one homeless-by-choice crew. The older ones—the ones with e-mail addresses and camping gear—they stay to themselves. But there’s also the kids. The ones we call ‘emancipated by abandonment.’ Not runaways, throwaways. They won’t have ID, won’t have prints on file, and their parents—their biological parents—wouldn’t file Missing Persons on them.”

  “There’s another group of kids you haven’t even mentioned,” Dolly cut her way into the conversation, the edge of her voice razor-ready. “Some of my girls are ‘homeless,’ too. Their parents may not have a place to live, but they’re trying, not giving up. You can be the best father in the world and still lose your job. You can be the best mother and get so sick—diabetes, cancer, it doesn’t matter—that your medical bills drive the whole family into bankruptcy. That’s the address some of my girls have: ‘homeless.’ And you know where that address appears? On their school records! And if you think their parents don’t go over their homework with them, or that any of my girls treat them any differently, you’d be dead wrong.”

  You’d be dead to Dolly, I thought to myself. You bring some weed over here, Dolly gives you a second chance. But you look down on other girls because your parents have money and theirs don’t, you’re not welcome in Dolly’s house. Ever.

  Mack set his jaw, bowed his head very slightly, said, “I know,” to Dolly. “Everybody knows.”

  Dolly flashed him a smile, unclenched her fists, and just barely stopped short of giving him a kiss on the cheek. Mack’s posture changed, too—not as dramatically, but you couldn’t miss how relieved he was. Alienating Dolly wasn’t something a man who did his kind of work would ever want to do.

  “I was talking about those kids who don’t have anyone but themselves. Some were in custody. Abused kids in ‘group homes,’ JDs from ‘community corrections,’ all the same once they take off. They all hang together. And they don’t ask questions. The only rule they have is that you don’t get aggressive with them.”

  “You’re saying it was those kids who let Homer hang around?”

  “Yep. The permanents, they’re scared of crazy people. Even the circuit riders, the ones who drop off for a while but never stay, they’ve got enough sense to keep their distance from them. But the kids, they seem to actually like them. Damaged adults, I mean.”

  “As long as they’re not violent,” Dolly added.

  “Yeah,” Mack agreed. “Whatever’s going on in their heads doesn’t matter, so long as it’s not telling them to get physical.”

  “And there’s no way this Homer could possibly have killed that guy they found on the beach?”

  “Possible? Sure.” Mack shrugged. “Anything is, right? But that doesn’t make any more sense than Homer does when he tries to ‘explain’ something. He’s never … physical. Not with anyone.

  “Plus, he’s scared of adults. He knows they don’t like him—that’s the way he puts it—and he knows, from the state hospitals he’s been in and out of all his life, that what he calls ‘big people’ will hurt you.”

  “Orderlies, you’re saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything; I’m repeating what Homer told me,” he said, his voice going just a little softer. From the way Dolly put her hand on his forearm, I guessed his voice got softer when his temper got closer to the surface.

  I just held his eyes, waiting for some information I could actually use.

  “Homer’s about five foot two, and he’s damn near emaciated. On top of that, he’s almost sixty.”

  None of that meant much to me. I once watched a little Filipino guy who was probably older than this Homer cut a man’s throat so fast I barely saw his hand move. The other guy was a big merc with a bigger mouth. But nothing would have happened if he hadn’t decided it would be funny to snatch the Filipino’s beer off the counter and pour it over his head.

  The merc should have known better—it was the kind of place where part of the help’s job was to drag unconscious men out by their ankles and dump them in the alley, then throw some fresh sawdust over the floor. The merc didn’t size up the bar, and he’d walked in alone. Maybe he spotted me and thought I’d back him up. Maybe he was already drunk. That wouldn’t have made a difference—he was a stupid bully even when he was sober.

  “He ever get beat up?”

  “Homer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I told you—”

  “Not in some hospital. Or criminally insane wing of a prison. I mean on the street.”

  “Not that I ever heard of. Why’d you ask?”

  “To see if he was good at protecting himself.”

  “Yeah, all right. No, not a chance. Screaming’s the only weapon he’s got. And that’s never helped him much.”

  “Then what’s the big deal?”

  I could feel Mack stiffen. Watched his eyes try to look through my skull to the wall behind me. When he took a breath, it was through his nose. The little whistling sound told me that whoever had tried to fix the break hadn’t done a great job of it. Probably had a deviated septum by now. And health insurance. But he’d never gotten it fixed.

  He was a young man, not a kid. But I’d seen harder stares, from harder men, before I was half his age.