‘Yeah.’
And Hatcher thought to himself, I owe you a lot, Jimmy. Cirillo had been surrogate father, friend, teacher and confidant, had even arranged his appointment to Annapolis.
A small mule deer hardly any bigger than a Great Dane darted across the road in front of them and dashed off into the woods.
‘Sloan wants me to do a job for him,’ Hatcher said.
‘No kidding,’ Cirillo snorted, slowing the car and shining his spotlight in the window of a tiny bait shack. Satisfied that the place was secure, Cirillo drove on.
‘I’m going to have to do it, Jimmy,’ Hatcher whispered in his strange cracked voice.
Cirillo drove for a few moments, then said, ‘Okay.’
‘It hasn’t got anything to do with Sloan,’ Hatcher went on.
‘Okay.’
‘A classmate of mine at Annapolis was supposedly killed in Nam in 1973. Apparently he’s turned up alive in Bangkok. It’s a touchy situation.’
‘And you’re the only one that can find him?’
‘I’m the only one who knows the subject — and who Sloan trusts.’
‘And do you trust him?’
‘Never again.’
‘You believe this story?’
‘Enough to find out.’
‘Lot of devils over there waiting to be dredged up,’ Cirillo said quietly.
‘Yeah,’ Hatcher answered.
‘Is that part of it, Hatch?’
They drove quietly. Hatcher thought about the question and said, ‘That’s part of it. Been off the wire too long, too.’
‘A real seductive lady, danger is.’
‘Yeah. Well you’re the one who introduced me to her.’
Driving through the overhanging moss, Cirillo was remembering that day on the mountain. ‘You looked pretty good that day,’ he said. ‘To tell you the truth, I never thought you’d do it. That was the day I decided you might turn into something.’
From Cirillo, Hatcher had learned a sense of obligation and duty, a simple code of honour, but a code easily exploited by a man like Sloan. The irony was that Cirillo had joined the Boston SWAT Squad at almost the same time Sloan had proselytized Hatcher. Like flies, both men were drawn into a web of violence that would shape their lives for years to come. Now both had come to this island to break the patterns.
Hatcher broke into both men’s silent reverie. ‘I need to check out the Aug, make sure it’s A-1.’
‘You need an Aug to look for a guy in Bangkok?’ Cirillo said, obviously surprised.
‘I’ve got a lot of enemies between here and Bangkok.’
‘So make your peace with them.’
‘It’s a nice thought,’ Hatcher said. ‘There’s only one way to make peace with some of these people.’
‘Then I guess you’ll have to do that, too,’ said Cirillo.
‘I hope not,’ Hatcher said. ‘You’ll keep an eye on the boat?’
‘I got the key. Any way I can reach you?’
Hatcher thought for a moment. “The Oriental Hotel in Bangkok. Just leave a message for me.’
‘Right.’ Cirillo paused and added, ‘You’re not a little too rusty for this kind of stuff, are you, kid?’
Hatcher thought for a few moments and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
BUFFALO BILL
It was raining in Washington, a steady spattering downpour from a cold leaden sky that etched teardrops down the black polished face of the memorial. The rain collected in the shallow letters chiseled into the stone, overflowed and dribbled erratically down to the floor of the chevron scar in Constitution Gardens. There, memories of the fallen had been placed: a purple heart, a vase of daisies, the tattered photograph of a perfectly restored ‘56 Chevy, a now soggy worn teddy bear.
The rotten weather had not discouraged visitors. There were dozens, standing like statues. staring at the vast granite slab, searching, discovering, reaching out, and touching the names of daughters, sons, lovers, fathers, husbands, best friends or college pal s, saying good-bye as the sky wept with them.
Hatcher knew a lot of names on that solemn roster. He had fought but not served in Vietnam; a civilian, he had
