the end for this part of town.
Strange, though. Being here. He wasn’t sure what he’d imagined Hampton to be, but it wasn’t this.
No matter. As Zeus was finishing his food, he wondered how long it would take to find her. The woman in the photograph. The woman he’d come to meet.
But he would find her. That much was certain. He hoisted his backpack. “You ready?”
Zeus tilted his head.
“Let’s get a room. I want to eat and shower. And you need a bath.”
Thibault took a couple of steps before realizing Zeus hadn’t moved. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Don’t give me that look. You definitely need a bath. You smell.”
Zeus still didn’t move.
“Fine. Do what you want. I’m going.”
He headed toward the manager’s office to check in, knowing that Zeus would follow. In the end, Zeus always followed.
Until he’d found the photograph, Thibault’s life had proceeded as he’d long intended. He’d always had a plan. He’d wanted to do well in school and had; he’d wanted to participate in a variety of sports and had grown up playing pretty much everything. He’d wanted to learn to play the piano and the violin, and he’d become proficient enough to write his own music. After college at the University of Colorado, he’d planned to join the Marine Corps, and the recruiter had been thrilled that he’d chosen to enlist instead of becoming an officer. Shocked, but thrilled. Most graduates had little desire to become a grunt, but that was exactly what he’d wanted.
The bombing of the World Trade Center had little to do with his decision. Instead, joining the military seemed the natural thing to do, since his dad had served with the marines for twenty-five years. His dad had gone in as a private and finished as one of those grizzled, steel-jawed sergeants who intimidated pretty much everyone except his wife and the platoons he commanded. He treated those young men like his sons; his sole intent, he used to tell them, was to bring them back home to their mothers alive and well and all grown up. His dad must have attended more than fifty weddings over the years of guys he’d led who couldn’t imagine getting married without having his blessing. Good marine, too. He’d picked up a Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts in Vietnam and over the years had served in Grenada, Panama, Bosnia, and the First Gulf War. His dad was a marine who didn’t mind transfers, and Thibault had spent the majority of his youth moving from place to place, living on bases around the world. In some ways, Okinawa seemed more like home than Colorado, and though his Japanese was a bit rusty, he figured a week spent in Tokyo would rekindle the fluency he’d once known. Like his dad, he figured he’d end up retiring from the corps, but unlike his dad, he intended to live long enough afterward to enjoy it. His dad had died of a heart attack only two years after he’d slipped his dress blues onto the hanger for the last time, a massive infarction that came out of the blue. One minute he was shoveling snow from the driveway, and the next minute he was gone. That was thirteen years ago. Thibault had been fifteen years old at the time.
That day and the funeral that followed were the most vivid memories of his life prior to joining the marines. Being raised as a military brat has a way of making things blur together, simply because of how often you have to move. Friends come and go, clothing is packed and unpacked, households are continually purged of unnecessary items, and as a result, not much sticks. It’s hard at times, but it makes a kid strong in ways that most people can’t understand. Teaches them that even though people are left behind, new ones will inevitably take their place; that every place has something good—and bad—to offer. It makes a kid grow up fast.
Even his college years were hazy, but that chapter of his life had its own routines. Studying during the week, enjoying the weekends, cramming for finals, crappy dorm food, and two girlfriends, one of whom lasted a little more than a year. Everyone who ever went to college had the same stories to tell, few of which had lasting impact. In the end, only his education remained. In truth, he felt like his life hadn’t really started until he’d arrived on Parris Island for basic training. As soon