Thai Horse Read online

  ‘Hurry home,’ she whispered.

  CIRILLO

  Hatcher waited near the marina parking lot, listening to the night birds courting one another in the darkness, their melodies echoing across the broad, flat marsh. It was past midnight and the causeway leading to the mainland was almost deserted. Five miles away on the other side of the marsh, the lights of Brunswick twinkled like fireflies. He had one more task to finish before he left on his journey. He had said his good-bye to Ginia and now he waited in the dark, the briefcase sitting beside his leg.

  A pair of headlights appeared far down the causeway and gradually grew larger as a car approached the docks. It turned off the narrow two-lane blacktop that connected the island with the rest of the world. The tan-and-brown police car, its tires crunching on the oyster-shell drive, stopped beside Hatcher. The door swung open.

  Hatcher peered in at the beefy police officer in the brown uniform, a gold lieutenant’s bar twinkling on the open collar of his starched shirt. Jim Cirillo was a muscular man, deeply tanned, his black hair salted gray by time and sun. Powerful hands rested casually on top of the steering wheel.

  ‘You lookin’ to get busted for loitering?’ his deep voice drawled.

  ‘Yeah,’ Hatcher answered with a grin. He got in beside the cop. Cirillo dropped the stick into drive and wheeled out of the lot, turning back across the drawbridge and onto the island. Tall oak trees with Spanish moss hanging from their limbs like gray icicles arched the narrow roads. This was Cirillo’s time. He was a night person who preferred to sleep and fish in the daytime. They drove in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Sloan found me,’ Hatcher finally croaked.

  ‘So? You don’t owe him,’ Cirillo answered with a shrug.

  ‘That’s right,’ Hatcher answered.

  ‘If anything, he owes you.’

  ‘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 done jobs so dirty even the military would not sanction or talk about them. There were no medals or commendations, not even any records kept, for the kind of work he had done, but he had been there, done his work, and watched friends and enemies die in every inhumane, ugly, loathsome, unspeakable way human beings can leave this earth.

  Hatcher had never seen the monument before, had never wanted to see it. But now, looking down through the rain, he was awed by its simple eloquence. It stirred in him, for the first time, the thought that he might have returned to the World with the same scars, the same guilt and confusion, as everybody else who fought in Nam. In that particular operation he had been labeled a mercenary, and mercenaries do not share glory, do not march in parades or have holidays named after them. For them there is only winning or losing — or more simply defined — living or dying.

  But here there was no politics, no arguing the endless, unresolved yeas and nays of that faraway war; there was simply an open grave and the good-bye list of a conflict that probably would be nothing more than a footnote in history books a hundred years hence — a paragraph without resolution. History deals fleetingly with events it cannot explain.

  He would never have recognized the old warrior had it not been for the four stars on his shoulder. Buffalo Bill Cody was still ramrod-straight, but ten years and the worms gnawing at his insides had devoured his body, leaving behind a craggy, hollow-eyed sliver of a man with pain written in every crevice of his face. The tailored trench coat that accentuated his bony frame was a further reminder that even legends are mortal.

  But a legend he was. While other military big shots were destroyed by the scandal of Nam, Cody had emerged with his reputation unscathed. A hero and a soldier’s general who somehow maintained a sense of dignity in the middle of chaos, Cody had become the acceptable military figure of the Vietnam war. Shy, almost self-deprecating, he avoided the spotlight and was admired by left, right and center, an ordinary man who had sacrificed a son to the c
onflict and who seemed to bring a sense of sanity t an otherwise totally insane endeavor. He was like the nation’s favorite uncle, over there watching out for the kids. Now he stood, between a hunched-over man in combat fatigues and a woman with a teenage boy, looking at the list. Nobody paid any attention to him. The place was like that. It made commoners of everyone.

  ‘He looks a hundred and ten,’ Hatcher croaked.

  ‘He might as well be,’ Sloan answered. ‘He’ll be lucky if he lasts six months.’

  ‘Do we have to stand out here in the rain?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘He’ll be through in a minute. The ritual never changes.’

  Hatcher huddled down deeper in his raincoat, watched the general, and inwardly marveled at Sloan’s remarkable ability at the big con. Yesterday Hatcher had considered killing him. Today Hatcher was standing in the rain, seven hundred miles from home, actually considering doing a job he didn’t need, didn’t want and didn’t believe in. A hundred years ago, thought Hatcher, Sloan would have been hawking elixirs from the back of a wagon or selling shares in the Brooklyn Bridge. Now he sold dirty tricks with fictions of adventure and patriotism, seducing wide-eyed young men and women into the shadow wars, to become assassins, saboteurs, gunrunners, second-story men, safe crackers, even mercenaries, all for the glory of flag and country. Hatcher had met Sloan in the time of his innocence and had bought the lie.

  The general finished his ritual and started back toward the street. Hatcher and Sloan watched Buffalo Bill slowly mount the steps, leaning heavily on a cane but avoiding the help of his assistant, a young major who had West Point inscribed in every move.

  ‘He doesn’t know anything about the money,’ Sloan said, half under his breath. ‘That’s between you and me.’

  ‘Does he know anything about me?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he approves?’

  ‘He trusts my judgement.’

  Hatcher chuckled. ‘How long has he known you?’

  The general’s arrival ended the exchange. Up close, he looked even sicker than from a distance. His color was gray, and his eyes were watery and lifeless and had lost the fire that had once touched even his photographs with electricity. But he still stood erect, and if he was in pain, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Glad you made it, Harry,’ he said and then turned to Hatcher. ‘You must be Christian Hatcher. It’s a pleasure meeting you.’ He switched his cane to his left hand and offered Hatcher a bony but hearty handshake.

  ‘My pleasure, General,’ Hatcher said.

  ‘You served well in the Far East,’ Cody said. ‘Sloan kept me up on you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The old warrior seemed shocked when he heard Hatcher’s ruined voice. ‘Let’s get out of the rain shall we?’ he said, quickly covering his surprise. His aide held the rear door open and they got in the limousine. Hatcher sat in the jump seat, facing Sloan and Cody. The old man shuddered from the effects of the cold and rain, and the aide wrapped a blanket around his legs.

  ‘Thanks, Jerry,’ Cody said, and the aide closed the door, leaving the three men alone in the backseat.

  ‘Don’t have enough meat left on these old bones to stave off the cold,’ Cody said with embarrassment, then hurried on: ‘Well, sir, Colonel Sloan tells me he’s filled you in on our problem.’

  Hatcher nodded.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Hatcher said, ‘Our best bet is the Thai, Wol Pot. If he’s telling the truth and Murph is alive, I can find him.’

  ‘You sound pretty positive,’ said Cody.

  ‘I qualified it — if your son’s alive.’

  The general nodded. ‘And what do your instincts tell you about that?’

  Hatcher shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. The files are pretty bleak.’

  ‘Yes, not much to go on. Sorry.’

  ‘There may be a few leads in there, Hatcher said. ‘You understand the need for discretion,’ Cody said, and it was a statement rather than a question. Hatcher nodded again. ‘Also,’ he went on, ‘there is some urgency in the matter.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hatcher said.

  ‘You two were pretty close at the academy, as I recall.’ Hatcher nodded again. ‘We were on the boxing team together. He graduated a year ahead of me.’ He paused for a moment, and added, ‘He was okay, General. A stand-up guy.’

  ‘Good. I feel a little more comfortable knowing you knew him — and liked him.’

  ‘You and I met once before,’ Hatcher whispered suddenly, ‘at Murph’s wedding.’

  The general peered hard at Hatcher, but there was no recognition in his bleak stare. ‘That was a long time ago. I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘Hell, mine isn’t anything to write home about, either.’ The general looked at Sloan for a moment, then back at Hatcher. ‘May I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘Sure,’ Hatcher said.

  ‘Why did you accept this mission?’

  Hatcher wasn’t sure how to answer. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘A friend of mine once asked me if I was a patriot. At the time I said I wasn’t sure. Now maybe I can find out.’

  ‘There’s nothing patriotic about this job,’ the general said forlornly.

  ‘I’d like to think there is,’ Hatcher said.

  Cody smiled — a fey, faraway memory of a smile tinged with sadness. ‘That’s a kind thing to say, Mr. Hatcher. Thank you.’

  The old general focused his watery eyes on Hatcher and stared hard at the tall man for several seconds to make sure he phrased his next question properly. ‘I understand you left the brigade and returned to the private sector,’ the general said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Too bad,’ he said. ‘You were a good soldier, Hatcher.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Mind telling me why you quit?’

  Sloan cast a sideways glance at Hatcher, but the tall man ignored it.

  ‘I was losing my edge, General,’ Hatcher lied.

  Cody stared at him for several seconds.

  ‘Well, let’s hope you have it back,’ Cody finally said with a wry smile.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cody turned to Sloan. ‘Looks like you found us a good man, Harry — as usual.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Sloan said, obviously pleased. ‘Then we’re on?’

  Buffalo Bill Cody looked at Hatcher and repeated the question, ‘Well, sir, are we on?’

  Hatcher nodded. ‘We’re on,’ his tortured voice answered.

  FRAGMENTS

  The place was like no other museum in the world. It was called MARS, an acronym for the Museum and Archaeological Regional Storage Facility, and it was in a plain one-story building forty miles south of Washington in a small village in Maryland. It took Hatcher an hour and a half to drive down there in his rented Chevy.

  The curator was a young man, perhaps forty, although it was hard to tell, and he was jacketed in blue, like an intern. Sandy-haired, bearded and soft-spoken, he was a man whose task was reflected in an obvious sadness of spirit, for there was about the place a sense of longing and hurt and disquietude. He handed Hatcher a pair of white cotton gloves.

  ‘We wear these to prevent any further deterioration of the articles,’ he told Hatcher, pointing vaguely in the direction of a plastic bag that held two small identical seashells attached to a simple note: ‘I love you, Charley.’

  ‘They’re cataloged by position, the panel nearest where they were left,’ he said, leading Hatcher down a long row of gray metal floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  Many of those who came to the Vietnam wall seemed compelled by heart or conscience to put something down, to leave a piece of themselves behind. These oddities of the heart, like relics of a history yet t be written, were gathered up each day and carried by rangers of the Park Service to the warehouse, where they were sorted, cataloged and stored. Like the fragments of the shattered lives it recorded, the collection was disparate: heartbreaking, humoro
us, touching, and determined entirely by emotion

  — by the love of a child for the father she never knew, the anguish of a lonely parent, by a lover left alone at night, and the guilt of the buddy who survived. Frustration, sorrow, pride, anger, all were here, in a plain storage room on uniform shelves of gray metal. Here was the pain of the living.

  The pieces lay encased in plastic bags, and unexplained. Baseballs. Maps. Flags. Many, many flags, the most inspiring — and abused — symbol of the war. Hatcher passed one and saw the note scribbled across a white stripe: ‘From Kenny, the son-in-law you never met.’

  Notes (‘My friends, I pray that our children will never have to go to war but if they do, I pray they will go with all the courage and dignity that you did’). Letters, some still sealed. Poems (‘To my father, killed two months before I was born’).

  Toy airplane models, helmets, military patches, medals, high school dance programs and college yearbooks, C rations, combat boots, a roll of GI toilet paper, a six-pack of Miller’s, a copper POW-MIA bracelet dated 1973, photographs of automobiles and homes, children never seen, fathers never known. Fragments.

  ‘Were you in Nam?’ Hatcher asked, following the ranger down the rows of memorabilia.

  ‘Yep,’ came the answer with a finality that precluded further questions.

  It was easy to find specific articles because of the simple code they had devised to catalog these small treasures left behind by relatives, lovers and friends. The man stopped, leaned forward and checked a code number.

  ‘This is his row. It would be in here, if there’s anything,’ he said and moved away to leave Hatcher to his investigation. On the shelf was a worn and dirty teddy bear and beside it a Louisville Slugger with a crack in it and a photograph of a cocky-looking teenage couple standing beside a bright-red vintage Thunderbird. There was a withered stem of a corsage with a white ribbon still attached and a wedding ring sewn to the ribbon of a Purple Heart.

  Then he found two notes.