Abreaction: A Travers and Karpinski Novel

Copyright © 2013 C. Carl Roberts.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Abbott Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Abbott Press

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.abbottpress.com

Phone: 1-866-697-5310

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Cover design by Travis J. Fike

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0933-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0934-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0932-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013908348

Abbott Press rev. date: 6/10/2013

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

For Frank, Mike, Andy and Ross. Friends, classmates, neighbors; young men who never had a chance to grow old. Their names are engraved on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C.

Abreaction: A psychoanalytical term for reliving an experience in order to purge it of its emotional excesses; a type of catharsis.

ONE

Life is good. It took me almost three decades to realize that. Oh, it was good when I was young, of course, but I was too stupid or too naïve to know it at the time. I was always focused on whatever I thought would make it good, like money, girls, parties, pizza, alcohol, and cars. In those days I was not mature or wise enough to understand the things that truly were important. The things that really made life good, like friendship, love, tolerance, patience, or peace of mind.

Vietnam was the emotional roadblock that disrupted my ability to recognize the good things that were possible. Because Vietnam scrambled my perception of reality. It took the handholds I used to navigate through life, immature and poorly developed as they were at the time, and mangled them into a knot of pain, misery, guilt and recrimination. I was transformed from a callow, wide-eyed innocent into an angry, hateful person who had no faith, no serenity and no hope.

It happened one horrific day in 1972; August 27th, to be precise. I made a mistake that led to the death of nine good men. Men who I was leading. Men who I respected. Men who depended on me to make good decisions. Men who died because I made a bad decision. I left that rainy, muddy, terrible place in a Medivac chopper, while my men left in heavy plastic bags. Twelve of us went in that day, and only one came out physically unscathed. I was not that man, because I left my blood and tissue and part of my soul there in the jungle.

Having said all this, you might be wondering what great insight I had that suddenly changed me, and why, after thirty years of self-hatred and bitterness, I am able to come to the conclusion that life is good. It was not a bright light accompanied by singing angels and loud trumpets. It was not an epiphany that drove me to the nearest church to praise the Almighty. That would be too much to ask for, and even though I am more comfortable looking at life through those rhetorical rose-colored glasses, it has nothing to do with religion or my acceptance of God’s heavenly grace. I still have some major issues with God and how He dealt with me some thirty years ago.

I guess I just woke up after a thirty-year stupor. Maybe it would be more accurate to say I was jostled awake by people who saw some redeeming qualities in me. It was like they grabbed me by the ears and shook me, until I opened my eyes. That and a few close scrapes seemed to move things into better alignment; highlighted some issues and priorities. While I lost a number of good years wandering around in the swamp of self-pity, in retrospect maybe that experience made my new life all that much better. Because I am aware of what I lost, and am better able to cherish what I now have. So yes, life is good—at last.

My name is John Travers. Most people call me JT. I prefer the short version, because whenever somebody calls me John I’m often reminded by my friend and business partner, Wally Karpinski, that john also refers to a toilet. The more you are around Wally, the more you stay away from terms or words with which he can torment you.

I am well through my fifties, although physically and mentally I would like to think I am younger. But aches and pains, the demonstrable forces of gravity, and higher health care costs remind me of where I am in the grand scheme of things. I live in Alexandria, Virginia, with my new wife and adopted son, and work across the river in Washington D.C., where I have a private investigation business. Since Wally and I have been together, some seven years now, we have built up a pretty good enterprise, although I have to say there was some very rough sledding for the first six of those years. But lately things are booming, thanks in part to our successful completion of a couple of high-profile cases that put our names in the paper and led directly to a lot of new, and very good, business. In fact, the upswing allowed us to move into a new office where the electricity and the running water in the washroom are dependable, twenty-four seven.

Most of our work over the years consisted of putting in sophisticated home security systems, following unfaithful spouses, dragging deadbeat fathers into court to make them pay child support, or ferreting out embarrassing revelations that could be used to pull someone back into line. But with our recent notoriety, we now are being paid to do other things, like digging up information for well-placed and highly paid individuals, shadowing the offspring of those same people, or looking into suspicious activities or behaviors of people whose position makes them particularly vulnerable to the corrosive forces of power or money. Because of our successes we have to behave in a civilized and mature manner, and even wear coats and ties now and then. Thank God, it’s only now and then.

Wally and I were sitting together in my office reviewing cases one morning in May. Our friendship had evolved to such an extent that we were so comfortable together we did not need to make a lot of small talk; kind of like how an old pair of shoes is comfortable. He was reading something and his brow was wrinkled, as if he were confused. I was still getting used to my new blended trifocal spectacles, and was moving my head up and down like a teeter-totter to find that little sweet spot in the lens that allowed me to read what was printed on the page.

You know those stupid little bobblehead toys all those dim bulbs get at baseball or football games? Wally asked, looking up. His penetrating stare almost hurt. Or those hula dancer girls you put on your dashboard that jiggle around when you hit speed a bump or something? The ones with the little grass skirts?

I leaned my head back to find that intermediate range in my lenses that would allow me to focus on him. I nodded and noticed his face had taken on a distressed character.

Well, that’s what you look like wearing those stupid goddamned glasses. Keep your head steady, for Christ’s sake, before I get seasick and barf on the desk.

I laughed out loud and purposely moved my head around erratically. Wally is wonderfully critical and opinionated about virtually everything there is. He also sensitive, witty, impatient and loud. It seems like one of his main interests is to study the eccentricities of people, and if given the opportunity, to use them to his advantage, for fun or profit. He laughs at himself as well as others, and I have to say, he is the best friend a man could possibly have.

I smiled at him and reached out to grab the container of yogurt to my right. I put a spoonful in my mouth while I went back to studying the paper on my desk. I heard a grunt and looked up. Wally’s upper lip was drawn up over his front teeth and his mouth was slightly open. I could not help but think about my cat’s expression when he smelled something particularly offensive on the bottom of my shoe. Wally did not join me as I chuckled.

How can you eat that shit? he barked. Christ almighty, it’s made out of spoiled milk. If I want to eat spoiled milk I’ll go down to Chinatown and drink out of the gutter.

Thanks for that.

Have some bacon and eggs for Christ’s sake. Goddamn it, JT! All yogurt is good for is ant bait.

I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about milk products. Have you ever tried yogurt, or are you doing as you usually do, making definitive statements based wholly on ignorance?

Well, kiss my ass, Mister Holier-Than-Thou. And yes, I’ve tried it. To lose weight one time.

It didn’t work, I assume? I sat up and craned my neck to look at his belly. It was pretty firm, all considered, because he was a solid and low-fat kind of guy. But I was making a point.

Oh, it worked all right. Just not the way it was advertised. I lost some weight, but only because it gave me a bad case of the green apple quickstep.

The what?

The green apple quickstep. The scours. The shits. You really are uninformed, JT.

The green apple quickstep. Again Wally mystified me with his unique use of the English language.

I see. I began laughing and could not seem to stop. Wally had more stupid, inane idioms and the most unique perspective than anyone I had ever known in my life. It was a constant source of entertainment and enlightenment.

I kept eating the yogurt and did my best to make obnoxious slurping sounds as I did so. He just looked down and shook his head.

About that time I heard a knock on my door. It was a nice solid sound, and it pleased me. In our old place across town, a knock on the cheap hollow-core door sounded like somebody beating on an empty oil drum. Our new solid doors had the sound of quality, which added to the nice ambience of the place. Now we actually had three offices, a reception area and our own bathroom facility with reliable water and efficient flushing capabilities. Wally and I had rooms of about the same size and the third, and smaller office, accommodated our part time workers, Bill Ferguson and Chas Davenport. Bill was the resident head buster who was used when we needed to perform blue-collar negotiations, and Chas was our goofy but brilliant computer specialist. Both had worked with us in a previous case and were outstanding experts in their fields.

I looked up to see Andrea Jennings standing in the doorway, a troubled smile on her face. We met her a couple years previously during a case we were working, and she had been helping us out as a receptionist ever since. When we met her she was an emaciated young woman with a terrible past, a dismal present and a hopeless future, based in part on some decisions she made that did not quite work out. It only took some time, compassion, and an occasional hug to turn her life around. She was a wonderful addition to our business and her sunny disposition and child-like enthusiasm was a critical buffer between Wally and I when we would get into one of our relentless pissing contests. Recently she had fallen for our odd but likable computer man, and it was wonderful seeing their budding romance bloom before our eyes.

You look nice today, Andrea, I said. What’s the occasion?

It’s Tuesday, JT, Wally remarked. Chas will be in later.

Wally! Andrea blurted, a blush rising on her cheeks. She nervously pulled on the long ponytail that was cascading over her left shoulder onto her chest.

I looked over and smiled with my partner and then turned my attention back to Andrea. What’s up?

I noticed her face was strained, and she suddenly appeared uncomfortable. There’s a man here to see Wally.

The big guy looked up and shrugged. Who is he?

There was an acute pause before she answered. He says he’s your father.

Darkness crept over Wally’s features like an eclipse. I did not know too much about his father except that he ran away with another woman, breaking up the family when Wally was about eight years old. The big guy rarely talked about that time in his life except to say after his father left, his mother went quickly down hill.

I was unsure about what to say or do, so I just watched Wally as he sat up straight. His eyes narrowed and I could see his jaw muscles moving like he was trying to chew up a hard rubber ball.

My father? He said that?

Yes. He’s an older gentleman who kind of looks like you. Andrea lifted her hands, palms up, and shrugged her shoulders. Wally pulled himself out of the chair and looked at me.

This is not good, JT. If that’s my dad, I may have to kick the shit out of him. You best come along and make sure I don’t end up in jail.

I threw my glasses on my desk and led the way into the reception area. The man standing there was tall, nearly Wally’s height, but was rail thin. He was dressed in khakis and a blue Oxford cloth shirt that looked too big. He stood with a slumped posture and was rubbing his hands together like he was trying to rid them of something that itched. He had thin, gray hair, cut short, and I could see by looking at him where Wally got his striking blue eyes. The man had a pasty complexion and there were dark bags beneath his eyes. He gave us an edgy smile and I noticed his straight teeth were yellow and old looking.

I introduced myself and we shook hands. He had a solid grip, but only made eye contact with me for a few brief moments. He was most intent on gazing at Wally, who stood right behind me. He took a shaky step forward and offered his hand.

Hello, Wallace. Son.

Wally ignored the handshake and stood there like a statue. What do you want, Jacob? Why are you here?

It’s been a long time, Wallace.

Not nearly long enough.

I watched the old man’s pained expression and noticed how his eyes passed from Wally to me to Andrea. I felt very uncomfortable, and suggested we go into my office and sit down. Wally shook his head.

This is fine, JT. He won’t be staying long.

I read about you in the paper, Jacob said, putting on a friendly face. He was working his hands again. I guess you are doing well.

Well enough. If you came looking for money you’re shit outta luck. Now what do you want?

Wallace, I’m sorry for—you know—for everything. I just wanted to see you again. Maybe make things better for us?

Wally peered at his father, his laser-like stare unsettling. That ain’t happening. You just go back to your top-heavy girlfriend and forget about me. I’m doing just fine without you.

She—Eleanor—died last June. I noticed a sadness descend over Jacob’s face.

Too bad.

And Wallace. I’m sick. I’m dying too.

It happens to the best of us. Good luck, Jacob. I’ve got work to do. You can find your way out. With that Wally turned around and walked into his office. His door closed with a solid click.

I looked at the old man and saw his eyes fill with tears. He just shook his head and started to turn around.

I’m sorry Mr. Karpinski, I said. I think seeing you after all this time is a pretty big shock for Wally.

His eyes met mine. He hates me. I suppose that’s understandable. I wasn’t a good father to him. I hurt him terribly. I wish I could undo it, but I can’t. I was hoping he could find it in his heart to forgive me.

Maybe he can. Give him some time.

Jacob gave me a tired smile. I don’t have much time. Besides, have you known Wallace very long, Mr. Travers? If so, you know when he makes his mind up, it stays made. Even as a boy he was hard-headed and as inflexible as an iron rod.

I knew that statement to be true. But I also was aware of Wally’s sensitivity and good heart. He was an advocate for what other people sometimes referred to as the fringe population; the poor, going nowhere types you could find on any street corner in the city. He always had compassion for people who made bad decisions and were paying the consequences. But at that moment I had no clue if forgiveness was something Wally was capable of, at least with respect to his father. Jacob saved me from my discomfort by offering his hand, again.

I’m staying at the YMCA downtown, if Wallace should want to talk to me. Then he nodded towards Andrea and let himself out. I turned and looked into her startled face.

That was something, wasn’t it?

Wally was so mean to him, she said. That’s not like him.

There’s some very ugly history there, Andrea. His father ran off with another woman when Wally was just a boy. His mother started drinking right afterwards and it progressed to such a point that she tried to kill herself with alcohol and sedatives. It left her pretty much debilitated and she ultimately died, alone and miserable in a nursing home. Fortunately, Wally had his maternal grandparents to raise him, or he probably would have ended up in a state run facility. He doesn’t have any good feelings left for his dad. Believe it or not, I think he was relatively civil to the man given their history. But I have to say, it was uncomfortable. I think he’s pretty upset right now. I better check on him.

I went over and knocked on the door. I did not hear anything, so I opened it and leaned in. Wally was sitting at his desk, with his head in his hands. I let myself in and sat down across from him.

You OK?

No. He looked up and his face was drawn. I could see the pain in his eyes. Why did that asshole show up now? My life is great. I have a wonderful wife and a gorgeous little girl. Why now? Why dredge it all up?

He’s dying, Wall. He wants some closure.

Fuck him! Closure? He killed my mother and nearly destroyed me. For what? So he could get rogered by that bitch with the big tits? Was she worth destroying our family? I knew Eleanor, JT. She was one of my mom’s friends. She was a slut. I didn’t know that as a boy, of course. But I heard people talk. Men used to laugh about her and I overheard it from time to time. And then she takes my father away? What does that say about him? Why would he turn his back on me for her? Because she had big tits? Were mom and me worth so little to him that he’d throw us away for a rack of hooters?

I’m sure there was more to it than that.

Maybe. But we’ll never know, will we? And I don’t want to hear about it. All I know is we had a nice little life, there in Kansas. I was happy and I thought my folks loved me. Then he runs off. He clearly didn’t love me. Then mom slides into the bottle. Apparently she didn’t love me, either. Thank God for grandma and grandpa. If they hadn’t been there I’d probably be in prison somewhere. Or dead. He looked back down at the table and heaved a big sigh.

Jesus H. Christ, he said.

He told me he’s staying at the Y down on 16th Street. He’s hoping you’ll forgive him.

He can hope all he wants. He screwed over his family, and he’s damn sure not going to screw over mine. For all I care he can just dry up and blow away.

I looked at Wally and nodded. I could see his anger but I also could see the hurt. I knew right then and there that this was not going to go away any time soon.

TWO

I was sitting at my desk, worrying about Wally and wondering what he was doing; what he was thinking. To have something so painful yanked up from the depths of your very being was not something easy to deal with, and I was hoping he could manage it. And as I was considering that, I began to think about similar things in my own life. Things that were not yet resolved; issues that I had kept under wraps, just sitting there, waiting for the right time to come out and begin festering. Anyone who has lived as long as I have has a long list of such items, but for me there was one that sat right at the top. It was the elephant on the table, the one incident in my life that dominated all others. The one event that had influenced everything that came afterward. Vietnam.

My time in country had pretty much been like everyone else’s. There were long stretches of mind numbing boredom where all you wanted to do was keep your feet dry and your brain engaged. Those times were interspersed with short but highly charged events where survival was the one and only concern, and where you would give anything to have your brain dulled so you would not have to think about what you were seeing—or doing. I was a second lieutenant who led long-range reconnaissance patrols, and it was my job to be the eyes and ears for my commanding officer. In short, we looked for bad guys and reported where they were and what they were doing. We would run into trouble from time to time, but I suppose one could say we were lucky, at least when compared to other units. For just over six months we operated in some pretty harrowing conditions, and I was proud that I did not lose a single man. We had a few wounded, of course, but nothing close to what some other squads had experienced. We searched villages, crept through rice paddies and occasionally engaged small groups of armed men who did not seem all that organized or motivated. And we managed to do all that in relative safety. However, I did see some bad things along the way; images that I carried with me for years. Dead soldiers on both sides, dead civilians, rampant drug use, mistreated villagers—everything that had been described ad nauseam in the newspapers and television shows at the time. All I could say with absolute certainty, was that it was not a good time for me or anyone else who saw action there.

The war was winding down in 1972. There were only about 130,000 U.S. troops remaining, and the South Vietnamese were taking over the primary responsibility for the ground war. The Paris Peace Accord was beginning and we all believed if we could just get though a few more months, we could go home, safe and sound. There was word out that the North Vietnamese were scaling up for an offensive that was to be launched from the Demilitarized Zone. Since the DMZ was not far from our theater of operations, we were often called upon to go out on reconnaissance missions to see if we could spot any increased activity. Fortunately we had not seen much, and the whole place seemed relatively quiet. One morning I was told by my CO that we needed to go out on a routine patrol. He told me some villagers had information about NVA troop movements in the area. My sergeant, Everett O’Riley, was in his second tour and he was as knowledgeable as anyone in the field. He did not like the situation and felt something was wrong or some information was being ignored. I, being young and having all the answers, bought into the whole story and ordered him to carry on and dig out the villagers so we could have a chat. In retrospect, I was stupid and impulsive. I did not stop to think about what we were doing or what Everett was feeling. I should have trusted his instincts rather than my callow and flawed intuition.

It was an ambush, plain and simple. NVA troops surrounded us while I was naively having my people look for friendly villagers, and when the lead started flying, my guys started falling. They slaughtered us and when it was all over, only three of us were still alive. The other nine, including Everett O’Riley, were on the ground, in pieces. Two of us were taken out by helicopter, me with a destroyed left shoulder and arm, and another soldier with a bullet in his spine. The last one, Philip Mackey, was able to walk out with the men who came in to save us. I never saw him again, but he had saved my life, pulling me out of a stagnant canal where an exploding mortar shell had thrown me. I wished I could have thanked him. At least sometimes I wished that.

For almost thirty years I grieved and hated myself for what happened that day; for the decisions I made and the orders I gave. However, the pain subsided some over the years. But watching Wally interact with his father and relive that terrible period in his past, yanked my unresolved issues up and threw them right on the table again, where they sat, raw and ugly. I had no idea whether or not I could ever resolve them completely, but there they were, like a red flag in front of a bull. So I threw my glasses down on my desk, grabbed my light jacket and decided to go right into the bullring and face my demons.

I took the Metro Blue Line to the Smithsonian stop and walked west toward the Lincoln memorial. The National Mall was a great place to walk, if you were so inclined. There were monuments in the middle, and the entire Smithsonian complex was situated on either side. There also were scores of tourists there, and I sometimes got tired of watching and listening to roaming groups of preteens as they ran around, mouths agape, screeching at the top of their lungs. That was the price you paid for living in such a nice, historic area, I supposed, and I would rather have them running around screeching, where at least there was something of value to experience, than sitting at home with their video games eating cheese puffs and drinking soda pop.

Abe Lincoln sat at one end of the Mall and the Capitol sat at the other, with the towering Washington monument in the middle. The reflecting pool was blue and sparkling that day, its smooth-as-glass surface broken only where a handful of ducks were gliding by, occasionally dipping their heads beneath the surface. I walked beside the pool, listening to the sounds of tourists and joggers, until I reached the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The Wall. I always thought in its unique and somber way it was a beautiful monument. But I was troubled by the idea that a monument to tens of thousands of dead people could be considered beautiful. It seemed ironic to have something pretty to look at with the sole purpose of memorializing something so terrible, so bloody and so costly. On the other hand, that particular monument put a name—thousands of names—right there for you to think about. You could not hide from reality by simply appreciating the design and simplicity of the shiny black wall. Because the names of all the lost lives, hopes, and dreams were right there in your face. You could run your fingers over the engraved names of countless men who never again would see a sunset, kiss a lover, hug a parent or walk on the beach. I agreed with whoever designed it that it was important for people to see those names; to put a price tag on that bit of history—my generation’s unhealed sore.

I walked to the panel upon which my men were memorialized and stood there for almost thirty minutes, reading the names and reminiscing. In the polished marble surface I could see my own reflection superimposed on the names. It was like a vivid indictment of my responsibility, and I shuddered as I gazed upon my own countenance. I spent a lot of time looking at Everett O’Riley’s name in particular, and as I had done so many times before, I apologized to him and begged his forgiveness. I would have said a prayer for his soul, but I did not do that any more. I was not that much of a hypocrite.

For most of the last two decades, my visit generally evoked a deep visceral discomfort that was worse when I walked away than before I arrived. For reasons that I could not easily articulate, now I felt better after I had my visit. I could not understand it, but I think I had somehow managed to compartmentalize everything to mute my culpability. Did that mean I no longer felt guilty, and that I was finally at peace with what happened? No, not really. But I was working on it. And that gave me some peace.

I stepped away from my men and meandered down the length of the Wall, looking at random names and wondering about the man whose name I just read. I noticed lots of tourists there, many of them putting mementos at the base of the wall. Some people were crying, some were laughing, but all were showing respect. There were lots of aged vets there too, but not as many as in the old days. I realized we were starting to die off, or maybe the wound was not as raw as it used to be. I was walking toward the entrance to the monument, where the books were; the indices that listed the names of the dead and gave the panel on which their names were engraved. I noticed an old man at one of the books, turning the pages. He was dressed in a shabby pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and he was wearing filthy running shoes. He was shorter than me, probably just under six feet, and he was skinny, almost unhealthy looking. He had lank, stringy hair and his weathered face was wrinkled and worn. He was reading names silently, but his lips were moving. He looked familiar, but I could not figure out from where. I continued to stare at him for a few more moments, shook my head, and walked toward the Lincoln memorial.

I always liked to go to the huge, open, marble monument within which sat the great President facing the Capitol in the distance. On the walls around him were some of the words he spoke during his tenure as our leader. They were from his famous orations, his second inaugural speech and, of course, the Gettysburg Address. As I read them for probably the hundredth time, I wondered why the current crop of politicians could not write with such passion. Maybe, I thought, because nowadays they were too interested in raising money or putting the right spin on things, rather than healing wounds, instilling confidence or doing what was right. As I turned my back on Abe and looked down the length of the National Mall, I thought I was becoming way too cynical in my old age.

I was back in my office a few hours later and Wally was sitting there with me, drinking a cup of coffee. He seemed to have rebounded from his confrontation with his father and was his normal jolly self. His large muscular frame was wedged into one of the upholstered armchairs in front of my desk, and as he was explaining something I thought the old chair would disintegrate with his enthusiastic gyrations. We were laughing when Andrea knocked on the door. She stepped inside and was pulling on her ponytail again. She had the same odd expression she had when Jacob Karpinski showed up.

Now what? I thought. I hoped with all my heart that the old man was not back to drag Wally into some sort of emotional quagmire.

A man is out here who wants to speak to you, JT.

I looked over at the big guy and shrugged my shoulders. Bring him in, I said. Andrea smiled and stepped back into her area. A moment later the door opened wide and she appeared again. She pointed into the room and the man walked in. He was the one I had seen at the Vietnam Memorial, reading the book. To say I was shocked would be an understatement.

He took a tentative step forward and he appeared uncomfortable as his eyes roamed through my office, passed over Wally and then came to rest on me. I could not get over how familiar he looked.

Hello, Lieutenant Travers, he said, looking self-conscious. I noticed how he straightened up, slightly. Corporal Mackey reporting.

I don’t think if someone had hit me on the head with a club that I would have been any more stunned than I was at that moment. When he said his name, all the tumblers fell into place. Like me, he had aged considerably, of course, but it seemed like his aging had been far more difficult than mine. Now, as I looked at him face on, I could see the telltale signs of substance abuse and/or a lifetime of bad breaks. His rheumy eyes seemed sunken and he was missing a good number of teeth. His pasty skin was so thin the underlying vessels looked like engorged tangles of wire, and there were scores of liver spots on his forehead. He did not look like a healthy man.

Mackey? I said, stepping around the desk. Philip Mackey?

The same, he replied. He offered me a friendly face and thrust his hand out. I took it and worked it like a pump handle. I shared his smile and looked into his eyes. But it was like looking through a dark tunnel into my past. I saw him as a young man, scared to death, as he pulled me out of the water where the mortar had thrown me. I saw him as we huddled together, waiting for the ambushers to come in and finish us off. I saw him, wide-eyed and frantic, holding my hand as I was loaded onto the chopper to be airlifted out.

We just stood there, hand in hand, studying one another. I suspect he too was reliving our shared experience. Finally I took my hand away and introduced him to Wally as the man who saved my life. I saw a fine blush cross his face and he shuffled his feet. Then I offered him a chair and he sat down heavily.

I saw you at the Wall earlier today, I said. I didn’t know it was you, of course, but I saw you looking at one of the books.

Really? You were there too? Wow. Yeah, it was my first time. And it was hard. All those names. I wanted to come before, but never had the money. Or I wasn’t sober enough. I’m not sure I feel better having been there. It was tough.

I know. What made you come out now?

He peered at me and gave me another awkward smile. I saw your name in the paper. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know if you survived or not. You were pretty beat up last I saw of you. I see you managed to keep your arm. I’m glad.

Yeah, but it’s not much use when I have to lift something up or screw in a light bulb. But it’s still attached, so that’s a good thing. I continued to study his face and felt myself being pulled back to the jungle. I was starting to feel clammy. Wally stepped in.

You read about one of our recent cases? he asked. We had been pretty active over the past year or two and had gotten some good press, and lots of new business.

Yeah, he said, still facing Wally. I read about you and the lieutenant. I was impressed.

I’m not a lieutenant any more, Mackey. I’d prefer you use my name. The title drags up too many bad memories.

OK, I can relate to that. Anyway, I saw your name and where you were, and decided I should come see you. He paused and seemed to be staring off into space. And to visit the guys on the Wall.

Nobody spoke for a few moments, and it was uncomfortable. I did not really know anything about Mackey, except that he was a reasonably competent soldier who had saved my life. And I was not sure why he wanted to see me. Our paths crossed a long time ago when we were young and inexperienced. We had nothing in common except an incident we both wanted to forget.

How have you been, Mackey? I asked after a few awkward moments. He shrugged and looked at the floor.

My life—after Nam—has had its ups and downs. Mostly downs, I guess. I went home, to Nevada, and just kind of hung out. Drank too much. Got married and screwed that up. I’ve worked odd jobs and live in a trailer out in Sparks.

Near Reno, right?

Yeah, a real Garden of Eden. I got that post-traumatic stress disorder. At least that’s what the VA people tell me. I don’t think it was called that in the old days. Didn’t they call it battle fatigue or something stupid like that? Doesn’t matter. It just means I’m seriously fucked up. I can’t hold down a job, can’t maintain a personal relationship, and I drink too much. I guess I got some liver problems from all the alcohol I’ve consumed over the years.

I’m sorry, I said, casting a glance at Wally.

I don’t know if I’m better or worse off than the guys on the Wall.

You’re better off, I said, unsure if I was right or not. You’re alive. We’re all messed up by that war. You just have to try and make the best of it.

But it didn’t have to happen, he said.

Tell that to the politicians, Wally replied.

I don’t mean the war. I don’t really understand all that, but that’s not what I’m talking about.

Then what is it you’re talking about? I asked.

The mission? When all the guys died? It didn’t have to happen.

I noticed his eyes were wet. He turned his face to the floor and shook his head.

THREE

Wally and I took Philip to a local restaurant and bought him a hamburger. The place sat on 14th Avenue, in the middle of a block, and it was not far from the White House. It was your average looking spot with wood, brass, ferns, adequate food and high prices. We would have preferred to go to our favorite pub for a pint of Guinness, but given Philip’s alcohol problems, we decided to play fair. Wally and I had a glass of iced tea. The way Mackey tore into the burger, I figured he had not eaten for a while. Finally I got back to it.

In our office, Phil, you said something about the mission. That it didn’t have to happen. What did you mean?

He held the hamburger to his mouth for a moment and then carefully put it on the plate before looking into my eyes. They sent us out to talk to some gooks in a village, remember?

I remember, I said. The reminder of what I already knew felt like an ice-cold hand being wrapped around my heart.

What a bunch of crap. Sergeant O’Riley knew it was crap right away. He said something smelled. He hated badly planned or stupid missions. Mackey passed his gaze to Wally and then he took a sip of his soda and wiped his lips awkwardly, before continuing.

O’Riley told a couple of us that we didn’t need to talk to villagers. He knew the people would lie to us, anyway.

Why did he think we were sent out there? I asked. My own voice sounded mechanical and unreal. Mackey shrugged his shoulders and took another bite of his sandwich.

I don’t know, for sure. His words were mumbled as he chewed with whatever teeth he had left. He just said something was off. He didn’t like it.

None of us liked it, I said, in a quiet voice.

Whitman also said something was screwy.

Whitman?

Yeah, you remember him, don’t you? Nathan Whitman? A PFC from the northwest somewhere. He was kind of a squirrelly guy.

I tried to remember the man, but nothing was connecting. I just frowned and shook my head.

He told a handful of us, a day or two before the mission, that something was wrong.

Can you help us out, here Phil, Wally said. What do you mean?

"Well, Whitman was in another squad for most of his time there at the firebase. He came over to us after we had a couple guys hit. Remember, Lieutenant—John? He was assigned to us for just a couple weeks before